Some strong instinct of self-preservation seemed to guard Chesubbo. As his colleagues advanced, his eyes opened and faint intelligence stirred in their depths. He pushed himself away from the wall and stood up more or less straight. His mouth sucked air and tightened. His jaw hardened, and his head lifted. He maintained an approximately correct posture for the time it took the guards to pass him by and disappear down the nearest stairway. Then he slumped back against the wall and let himself slide down to the floor, where he sat, heavy head propped against the wall, eyes shut.
Good old Chesubbo.
Turning away, she sped along the corridor. Very soon she encountered Smokehead, loitering beside a barred window. He shot her a questioning glance.
Go. Jianna silently mouthed the word, and nodded. Smokehead hurried back toward Number 16. Jianna paused and looked about her. There was no sign of Gyppix, which was all to the good. According to the plan, Gyppix should by this time be safely clear of the building. Around her rose the somber stone walls; more stone underfoot, iron bars, dim atmosphere, and numberless locked doors. The doors were of solid wooden construction, each equipped with a sliding panel at the floor level; some with additional panels at eye level; all of them closed. Presumably, prisoners languished behind those doors; many of them, like Falaste, condemned under Taerleezi law, and now counting out their final hours. She shivered as if seized with a chill. There was nothing she could do for them, nothing.
She wanted to be out of this place. She wanted freedom from the sight and sound and smell of it.
But she waited, loitering near a window as Smokehead had loitered, eyes blind to the scene in the courtyard below, until the internal sense of dramatic pacing told her that sufficient time had elapsed, whereupon she returned to Number 16, which she approached in hand-wringing distress.
“Oh, Master Chesubbo!” Jianna appeared to teeter on the brink of panic. “I can’t find my second cousin, and I don’t know what’s become of her. Has she come back here? Is Lettzia Rione in there with Cousin Falaste?”
“Who … knows?” Chesubbo’s reply was barely intelligible.
But it was the reply she wanted. Jianna entered the cell, and the door closed.
Smokehead sat at the table. He had resumed reading aloud, his performance polished and plausibly feminine as ever. Songbird and Dagger sat upon the cot, listening. Rione stood beside the window, the crease between his eyes deeper than ever.
Jianna lifted her hand, and Smokehead fell silent.
“Now,” she directed.
Instantly Songbird jumped to her feet and peeled off her outer skirt, revealing a second skirt of identical color and cut beneath. Sliding a square knot of thread loose, she pulled a long line of wide basting out of the hem, freeing several additional inches of length, then handed the altered garment to Rione, who accepted the offering bemusedly. At the same time, Dagger stood and unfastened three buttons along the side seam of his own skirt, opening a wide, very deep pocket, from which he withdrew a battered doublet, similar to that worn by Gyppix, together with a pair of gloves. He handed the doublet and gloves to Rione.
Jianna carried a pouch at her waist, invisible beneath her cloak. From the pouch she drew a tightly folded bundle of felt and a folded square of patterned fabric. The felt swiftly expanded into a soft, wide-brimmed hat, resembling Gyppix’s. The fabric opened into a kerchief, identical to Gyppix’s. She handed both items to Rione, noting with uneasiness his reluctance to accept them.
He made no move to don the feminine disguise.
“You’ll want to tie the kerchief across your face, right up under your eyes, as high as you can,” she told him. “It will hide those unladylike whiskers.”
And still he stood there doing nothing, until Jianna, desperate, muttered between her teeth, “Falaste. Please.”
The verbal prod worked. Very slowly he yielded, drawing the long drawstring skirt over his breeches, discarding his jacket in favor of the old doublet, tying the kerchief in place, clapping the hat down on his head, brim drooping low, and finally pulling on the gloves.
Jianna inspected him critically. Rione and Gyppix were not far apart in height and breadth. Attired in loose, concealing garb, they presented not dissimilar figures. His beard was completely concealed. A few straying strands of unshorn hair falling over his brow fostered the illusion of long, feminine tresses, bundled up out of sight beneath the hat. Upon casual inspection, he could easily have passed for Gyppix’s shabby, eccentric sister, muffled up against the plague. In happier days, the sight of Rione so attired would have roused her mirth; now there was nothing remotely amusing about it.
“Not bad,” she decided aloud. “In this dim place, good enough.”
She feared that he would argue—certainly the eyes visible above the kerchief were troubled—but he remained silent. Perhaps he was starting to let himself hope.
One last detail. She moved to the cot. Privileged prisoner Falaste Rione enjoyed the luxury of an extra blanket—threadbare and moth-eaten, but far more than the average inmate received. Quickly rolling the thin mat on which he slept into a sausage shape, eked out with a blanket and his discarded jacket, she pulled the second blanket over all, creating the rough effect of a long figure stretched out under the cover.
Done. And she had wondered at length where and how she would find the courage to utter the ultimate command, but the moment had arrived, and it was easy; as fast and inevitable as the last piece of a jigsaw puzzle.
“Let’s go,” said Jianna. She chanced a glance at Rione, but he had disappeared into his disguise, face muffled, eyes lost under the shade of the wide, low hat.
Songbird ventured a tentative knock on the door.
There was no response.
If he’s fallen asleep now, thought Jianna.
Another knock, more insistent, and the door opened. Chesubbo peered at them, his eyes vastly dilated of pupil.
“We’re leaving now,” Jianna declared. “Cousin Falaste has fallen asleep. We’ll leave him to his peace.”
Chesubbo’s eyes slowly made their way to the cot. Five apparently feminine figures impeded his view, but he glimpsed what seemed to be the prisoner’s recumbent form. He yawned, nodded, and turned away. The five of them filed out of the cell. Chesubbo shut the door, fumbled with the bolt for a moment, and succeeded in pushing it home.
“There’s no need to show us out, Master Chesubbo,” Jianna suggested considerately. “We remember the way, and truly, we’d not trouble you further.”
He favored her with a dubious squint, then stared off along the East Gallery. She could all but hear the slow clank of his mental gears. He really ought to escort the weepy, poetry-reading female visitors back to the exit, but it was such a long way, and he was so extraordinarily tired.
“Thank you, and good-bye, sir,” she told him firmly. “Come, ladies.”
Off they marched along the East Gallery, two women and two quasi women closely bunched about Rione, as if inadvertently shielding him from view. Jianna cast a quick backward glance as they went. Chesubbo was frowning in dissatisfaction. He took a step toward them, as if intending to follow, and her heart fluttered. Should the guard insist upon escorting the group back to the entry, the plan wasn’t actually compromised, but the risk of discovery increased.
Even as she watched, Chesubbo opened his mouth, presumably to call them back. The call, if such it was, turned into a cavernous yawn. The guard slumped back against the wall, and let his eyes close. Jianna walked on, and did not look back again.
She remembered the way back perfectly. So did the others, as far as she could judge by the assurance of the their pace, but she did not venture to ask aloud. There was no conversation. In silence they traversed the seemingly endless East Gallery, descended a short flight of stairs, and continued on along a corridor, moving as swiftly as they dared, while avoiding the appearance of obvious haste.
Twice during the trek, they encountered guards. The first, a gangling youngster, who stood aside politely to let
the women pass him on the stairway. The second meeting—a couple of big bruisers supporting between them the lax body of a very battered prisoner. They took no notice of the visitors.
The way was endless. They would walk those sorrowful halls of stone forever.
But no. Before them loomed an iron-barred gate, and visible through the bars was the prison vestibule. They halted.
“Please, sir, we’re leaving now,” Jianna entreated the guard posted there. “You remember us, don’t you?”
“Aye. Who could forget the five honeykitties?” returned the guard, with a wink. His eyes found Rione, and lingered. “But I’ll say it’s funny—I could’ve sworn that I let the big strapper out of here, not long ago.”
Rione shook his head.
“Must have been somebody else,” Jianna flipped an airy gesture. “Lots of visitors come and go, don’t they?”
“Not that many. Say, now, maybe we’d better see—”
“The assistant underappointee?” Jianna supplied helpfully. “I remember that he told you to permit us free exit, but if you aren’t sure, and if he won’t mind being interrupted again, I suppose we must call him.”
“Oh—hang it.” The guard wavered, and decided. “No need, he was clear enough. It’s all on him.”
He unlocked the iron gate, opened it, and the five of them passed through.
The gate clanged shut behind them, and the sound reverberated through her mind and body.
Before them spread the big vestibule, heavily populated with civilians and guards. She felt, or imagined, the pressure of universal attention. Surely, someone would challenge them.
They crossed the vestibule, and there was no challenge. The double doors gaped before them, and they passed through. Jianna felt the vernal air upon her face.
He’s out of the building.
Rione was walking a little behind her. The urge to turn her head and look back at him was almost overwhelming, but she resisted it. An almost superstitious sense of caution prohibited the slightest action likely to direct cosmic attention to the fact of his existence. There would be ample opportunity to feast her eyes, soon enough.
Down the steps and across the courtyard at a steady but carefully unhurried clip. The place was moderately crowded, yet a group of five women was large enough to draw some notice. Best to split up, as quickly as possible; as soon as they were through the gates and out of the prison courtyard. She would speed Rione straight back to her lodgings. There he would receive a change of clothing, new hat, new full-face mask. And then he would be effectively invisible, and safe, entirely safe.
Straight ahead, the gate stood wide open. In her mind, they were already through it and into the public street beyond. So intent on this purpose was she that she failed to note a hitherto motionless figure, back pressed to the wall as if seeking oneness with the stones, detach itself and move to intercept her path. She became aware too late of a shadow, a rank odor, a looming presence. A hand large and inexorable as Fate descended upon her shoulder, halting her in midstride. She turned with a gasp to stare up into a ruined face.
“Mine,” said Onartino Belandor.
Jianna froze. For a moment she could neither move nor speak. Even her mind seemed paralyzed. There were no coherent thoughts, only a formless hope that she had wandered into a nightmare to encounter some substanceless apparition.
But the grip upon her shoulder was real enough.
She could not tear her eyes from what was left of his face; so horrifically altered, and yet so much the same. His one remaining eye, the color of blood-streaked slush, now surrounded with livid scar tissue, still stared out at her, expressing nothing at all.
Her predicament did not go unnoticed.
Behind her, she heard a hiss of sharply indrawn breath. Falaste. He had recognized the transformed Onartino, no Wanderer, but presumably risen from the dead.
Little Songbird, not easily intimidated, stepped forward to request, with an air of reproof, “Pray, sir, unhand my cousin. We are respectable women, and must not be used so.”
By no sign did he acknowledge her existence. His eye remained fixed on Jianna. “Wife,” he said, voice flat as his gaze. “Mine.”
“You’ve got it wrong,” Dagger declared in squeaky feminine tones. “Now bugger off, you ugly old loon!”
The shrill epithets attracted attention. A few denizens of the courtyard drifted near to watch.
“Come.” Onartino’s grip tightened painfully.
Jianna stiffened. Her mind stirred to a semblance of life. Continuation of this scene would draw catastrophic public attention to the group and the condemned prisoner at its center. It had to end, immediately.
“Very well,” she heard her own voice, calm and submissive, as if from a distance. “I will.” And he had her fast; he owned her again, according to his legal rights. Once again he could do whatever he wanted to her. His one-handed grip jumped from her shoulder to the back of her neck, and the pressure forced her head down, training her eyes on the ground.
She was prepared to follow him; for the moment, at least. She was not prepared for intervention.
“Let her go.” Falaste Rione’s voice was pitched so low that its gender remained indeterminate. He took a step forward. “Take your hand off her now, and leave us in peace.”
“Mine.” The monocular gaze shifted to the speaker’s shrouded face, and thrust straight through the kerchief. Recognition dawned. “You.”
“Let her go.” Rione’s hand closed on Onartino’s wrist and twisted.
Jianna found herself free.
Wrenching his wrist from Rione’s grasp, Onartino struck out powerfully. Rione dodged, but the driving fist clipped his jaw, sending him to the ground. The fall knocked the wide hat from his head. The kerchief covering his lower face slipped, revealing his bearded chin. The loose ring of spectators circling the group magically waxed in density, and an excited outcry arose.
A trio of interested prison guards approached.
At sight of the guards, Dagger and Smokehead picked up their skirts and fled. The sheer speed and agility with which they dodged and wove a path through the crowd were wonderful to behold. Nobody laid hands on them. In a matter of seconds, both boys reached the far end of the courtyard, flashed through the gate, and vanished into the street.
Not all were so fortunate.
As Jianna took a step forward toward the fallen Rione, Onartino seized her arm.
“Come,” he commanded.
In vain she struggled. She might as well have opposed the grip of a stone statue.
A slight form sprang to her side.
“Release her, you ruffian!” Songbird cried, and drove her well-manicured nails straight at his one eye.
Onartino raised his staff and knocked her arm aside. A second blow to the midsection doubled and dropped her. At no time did his hold on Jianna’s arm slacken.
Rione was back on his feet.
“Run!” she implored him.
Ignoring the advice, he slammed his fist into Onartino’s belly.
Onartino grunted, but did not let go.
Then the guards were there, and one of them, taking in Rione’s bearded face and feminine garb, observed, “It’s an escape.”
Instantly, they seized him. When he began to struggle, one touched a blade to his throat, and he ceased. They forced his arms behind his back and clapped manacles on his wrists.
Bitter tears streamed down Jianna’s face. They had failed, and he was doomed.
“The girls were in on it,” some helpful witness volunteered.
“Oho.” One of the guards nodded. Casting a doubtful glance up into Onartino’s mutilated visage, he said, “We’ll carry on from here.” There was no sign of comprehension, and, laying a proprietary hand on Jianna’s shoulder, he added, “We’ll take her.”
Onartino understood. He blinked his eye and replied, “Mine.”
“Under arrest. Ours.”
“Wife. Mine.”
“Don’t make trouble, fr
iend.” Grabbing Jianna’s elbow, he ordered her, “Come along.”
Her despairing eyes sought out Rione. One of the guards was already marching him back toward the building. Songbird was likewise in custody. It was over.
Onartino had not relinquished his hold. Frowning, the guard advised, “All right, back off.” Onartino did not move, and the guard gave him a business-like shove.
Onartino fell back a step; raised his staff, and brought it hissing down. The guard hopped aside, and the blow missed him by a hair. Raising a whistle hung on a cord about his neck, he blew a piercing blast, dropped the whistle, drew his blade, and lunged. Onartino stolidly parried with his staff, then rapped his attacker’s elbow. The guard yawped and let fall his short sword. Onartino raised his staff again, and the guard scrambled back out of reach. The grip on Jianna had not loosened.
A band of guards, swords in hand, burst from the Witch and came on at a run. In an instant Onartino was surrounded, but seemed not to recognize impossible odds. His face did not change. His exceptional strength and accomplished one-handed manipulation of the staff held them off.
Jianna struggled frantically. If she could tear herself loose while he busied himself with the guards—if she could break away while the guards were occupied with the deranged grotesque—she might yet escape the courtyard.
His grip was of granite, and her struggles were useless. Her arm was going numb.
A blow to the skull smashed a guard to the ground. At the same moment, Jianna wheeled, clenched her fist, and struck Onartino’s one eye with all her strength. He scowled, blinked, and shook his head.
Seizing the opportunity, a guard slipped in and plunged a blade into his back. Faint surprise transformed Onartino’s visage. A low gurgle escaped him. A flurry of blows followed, and blood stained his rags. Someone’s steel transfixed his throat, blood spurted, and Onartino Belandor sank slowly to his knees.
His grip on Jianna’s arm remained unbreakable. She fought ferociously, but failed to tear herself free. Even as the final blows pierced his body, and he tumbled full length, he held her fast. They had to prise his fingers off her, one by one. When it was done, they hurried her back into the Witch, which she reentered much altered in status, as a new widow and a new prisoner.
The Wanderers Page 15