They halted at one of those innumerable doors, and then, right there in the hallway, subjected her to a search; an indescribably offensive invasion of privacy, yet conducted so swiftly and brusquely, with such an air of detached professionalism, that she was able to endure it without protest. Discovering neither weapons nor contraband, they unlocked the door, pushed her through, closed and relocked it behind her.
She stood in a small, dim, compartment. Stone walls. No windows. No illumination save a few weak rays of light entering by way of the small square of grillwork in the door. No furniture, other than a bucket. Puddles on the floor, very bad smells.
She was not alone. There was one other occupant. She beheld a slight figure, wrapped in a long cloak; caught the fleeting play of low light on brown-gold curls. Songbird.
“Oh, so they got you, too.” Songbird shook her head in disappointment. “How beastly. I so much hoped that you had got away. And your friend, the doctor fellow?”
“Recaptured.”
“So vexing! And after all our brilliant work. I am so unhappy! What about the others—Gyppix, and the boys?”
“I can’t swear to it, but I think they’re all safe.”
“Well, that is something, anyway. But I must say, it hasn’t gone at all as I hoped.”
“No.”
“What will happen next? To us, I mean.”
“I don’t know.” Jianna’s reply was technically truthful. She did not precisely know, but she could take an educated guess. The immediate future almost certainly offered interrogation, trial, condemnation, and death. Falaste’s execution had been mysteriously postponed for weeks—she still did not know why. There seemed little reason, however, to expect that she and her accomplice would enjoy the same courtesy. But there was no point in communicating any of this to Songbird.
“D’you think things will be—uncomfortable?”
Oh, maybe just a trifle. Aloud, she replied, “I don’t want to frighten you, but it’s best to face facts. We’re both in serious trouble.”
“Pooh, I am not afraid.”
“I admire your spirit. But Songbird, don’t try to be too brave. When you’re questioned, don’t defy or deliberately provoke the Taerleezis. You can tell them what you know, so long as you furnish no true names. It can’t matter now.”
“Why, how sweet. You are quite like a big sister to me.”
“I feel a sense of responsibility. The plan was mine, and it failed. You’re here in this place now because of me.”
“I think it was a perfectly lovely plan, and it would have worked splendidly, but for that ghastly scarecrow who accosted you in the courtyard. Such a creature he was!”
“You’ve got your tenses right. The guards killed him.”
“Just what he deserved! But truly, my dear Strenviva, you mustn’t distress yourself on my account. I joined in the plan because I wished to, and given the chance, I’d do it again! And I don’t fear those Taerleezi clodhoppers. They’ll not harm me. Papa would not allow it. Neither would Auntie.”
“Can Papa or Auntie do anything to prevent it?”
“Oh, to be sure. Papa is quite important, you know—head of all our House. When he speaks, people pay attention.”
“No doubt.” I had an important papa, too. Where is he now?
“And then there’s Auntie. Rather a black sheep, with certain Taerleezi … friendships. Quite shameful, really. But it means that people pay attention to her, too, and I’m her favorite niece. She’ll never let me come to grief.”
“I hope you’re right, but there’s an immediate problem. These guards and jailers won’t let you send messages to your family. There’s no way for you to tell Papa and Auntie where you are.”
“Ah, but it is already done, or soon will be. If I am not home by Fifth Tolling, then my maid has been ordered to tell Papa to send someone here to look for me.”
“Papa won’t mind?”
“He will be cross, perhaps. But he’ll pardon me, he always does.”
“I see. Well then, you may be rescued, after all. I hope so.” Mingled gladness and envy filled Jianna. “Leaving the emergency orders for your maid was a fine idea.”
“You did not think to do the same with your own?”
“I don’t have a maid.”
“Really?” Songbird opened her eyes wide. “But I should have thought—I mean, well, you just seem the sort of person who would have one.”
“I did, once upon a time. A very good girl of my own age. But she was killed—murdered, in fact.”
“No, you don’t mean it! Who would do such a thing—some jealous lover?”
“The scarecrow in the courtyard, actually. It’s a long story.”
“Gad, Strenviva, but you do have an interesting life! Ever so much more exciting than mine! Someday, when the time is right, you must tell me all of it.”
“Gladly.” Someday.
“And in the meantime—oh, I’ve such an excellent idea! As soon as I am liberated from this dreadful prison, I shall take the place of the maid that you don’t have, and I shall carry the word to your people, who will then surely arrange your release. Just tell me where to go.”
“It’s a kind and generous thought, but—”
“No arguments, now. I’ll not be denied, my mind is quite made up! Where shall I go?”
“Well—” Jianna’s mind worked rapidly. She hardly shared Songbird’s optimism. But what if the miracle should come to pass, and the girl’s presumably wealthy and influential family succeeded in procuring her release? In that case, perhaps it would actually become possible for Songbird to carry a plea for help to Belandor House. The father willing to stand the universe on end to protect her wasn’t there, but she still had kin, whom she would not compromise by an admission of her true name. “Then if you can and will, please go to Belandor House—”
“Oh, Belandor House! Are you—”
“And ask for Master Nalio Belandor. Tell him that—that the girl who went missing is in prison, in trouble, and in need of his help. I’d be much in your debt if you’d deliver that message.”
“Be certain that I will. Trust me, the thing is as good as done!”
Songbird’s animated assurances broke off as the door of the cell opened, and the gloom lightened. A guard stood on the threshold.
Jianna willed herself to stand upright and meet the flat gaze squarely.
For a long moment he stood there, regarding both prisoners, then finally pointed at Songbird and commanded, “You. Move.”
Not I, not yet. Jianna was genuinely ashamed of her own deep thrill of relief.
“Move where?” Songbird demanded.
“Out. Now.”
“Ah. Am I to be set free? Has Papa sent someone for me?”
Neither confirming nor denying, the guard jerked a peremptory finger.
“Hmmf. You might answer, at least. Oh, very well, I’m coming.” Songbird turned to Jianna. “Smile, my dear Strenviva. One day soon, when this unpleasantness is over, we shall sit together in a garden, sip herbal infusion, and exchange our histories—I mean, the real ones.”
“Yes.” Jianna managed a creditable smile. “I look forward to that day.”
Songbird exited the cell, closely attended by the guard. The heavy door crashed shut.
The silence stretched, and the shadows pressed. She tried not to imagine what might be happening to Songbird, but her thoughts defied restraint, and the mental images glared. Terror—brutality—worse …
Presently they would bring Songbird back—perhaps battered and in pain, perhaps even unconscious—in no fit state to talk. And in any case, there would be no time for questions; for as soon as they had done with Songbird, it would be Jianna Belandor’s turn.
But the miserable minutes dragged by, and Songbird did not reappear. It seemed like hours, but time was deceptive in such a place. Were they still questioning her? Had they removed her to another cell? Had they killed her?
These questions were destined to go unanswered, f
or Songbird never returned.
The passage of time was impossible to gauge, but it must have been considerable, for her back had started to ache with standing. There were no furnishings in the cell, not so much as a pile of straw, and she preferred to avoid contact with the wet, filthy walls and floor. But when the aches waxed irksome, she reluctantly leaned against the wall and, not long thereafter, allowed herself to slide down into a squatting position. Reeking water puddled everywhere. Carefully, she bundled up her long skirts and cloak to hold them clear of the floor.
She tried not to think of Songbird. She tried not to think of Rione. She tried not to think at all.
And then without warning, the waiting ended. The door opened, and the guard was back.
“You. Move,” he commanded.
She stood up and walked out of the cell. The guard took hold of her arm, and so filled with dread and perturbation was she that the contact barely registered. Along the corridor he steered her, only a little distance, then into another room. This one was small, not much larger than the space she had just quitted, but otherwise dissimilar. It was well lighted, with a window, and a couple of lamps. The walls were whitewashed, the floor dry and well swept. There was furniture—a plain wooden table, a couple of chairs, a stool. A man in uniform sat at the table. He was skinny and etiolated, with enormous blue eyes set in a calm waxen face. The surface before him was piled with papers and writing paraphernalia. Beside him sat a second man, pug-nosed and bored-looking, also in uniform.
The guard conducted Jianna to the stool.
“Sit,” he said. She obeyed, and he withdrew to station himself before the door.
She found herself facing the table. The blue-eyed man was observing her, his expression unexpectedly mild. His colleague was not looking at her. His head was bent in a listening attitude, and he held a quill pen poised for action.
“Name?” Blue-eyes inquired, his tone quiet and surprisingly civil.
“Noro Penzia,” she replied firmly. The name “Belandor” would not pass her lips. House Belandor must not be linked to resistance activities. Even the Magnifico Aureste would be hard-pressed to deflect such accusations. And there were the others to consider—her two uncles, the various cousins and connections—all of them potential suspects and victims. No, her true name would die with her.
The pug-nosed man’s quill scratched over paper.
“Very good.” Blue-eyes nodded in approval. “And I am First Inquirer Lorcchi. Continue as you have begun, and we shall be good friends. You know why you are here?”
Jianna nodded.
“Excellent. Tell me.”
Jianna said nothing.
“Ah, you are shy. No matter, I’ll help. You are here because you and your gang attempted the removal of a notorious prisoner, one of the conspirators involved in the assassination of the Governor Anzi Uffrigo.”
“He’s no such thing. We attempted the removal of an innocent man, unjustly convicted. Dr. Falaste Rione is guilty of nothing more than practicing his physician’s profession, and binding the wounds of his lunatic sister. He’s done nothing wrong.”
“Ahem. That was a matter determined by the court. It doesn’t concern us now. I take it, then, that you don’t deny the charge?”
“Under the circumstances, I can’t very well deny it, can I?”
The pug-nosed assistant scribbled busily.
“That is the way I see it. I am glad to find you so rational and cooperative a young lady. Let us hope that you continue so. We’ll put it to the test by means of a simple question. Several individuals were involved in this plot. Will you supply the names of your confederates?”
“I can’t. I don’t know anyone’s real name.”
“Indeed? How do you explain that?”
“They’re all strangers to me. My meetings with them were arranged by someone else. I never learned their names, nor they mine.”
“Who was the ‘someone else’ so eager to furnish assistance?”
“I don’t know his name, either.” A lame answer, but what did it matter? She was a dead woman, and it made no difference what she said.
“Would it surprise you very much to know that I believe you?” asked the First Inquirer Lorcchi. “On the face of it, your story appears absurd, and yet the secrecy you describe is typical of the resistance, whose leaders exploit the patriotism of their youthful countrymen, use these youngsters to the fullest, and then abandon them when usefulness has ended, all the while keeping their poor dupes in ignorance.”
“I know nothing of the resistance,” Jianna countered, with apparent indifference. “My interest is in Dr. Rione alone.”
“You are his woman, of course.”
“I am his assistant.” Jianna’s chin came up. “I help treat the sick and wounded. I’m experienced in performing these tasks.”
“Most commendable.”
“Dr. Rione knew nothing of my plan to deliver him, by the way. In fact, once he saw what I’d come here for, he actually tried to discourage me. He wasn’t involved or responsible, and shouldn’t be held accountable in any way.”
“There seems to be a growing list of misdeeds for which Dr. Rione shouldn’t be held accountable in any way. But we digress. Let us return to the topic of your resistance connection. The anonymous philanthropist who arranged the meetings with your accomplices. Tell me about him.”
“I don’t know anything about him, not even his real name.”
“How did you address him?”
“He called himself ‘Blankpage,’ ” Jianna improvised. “And I had no reason to imagine that he had anything to do with the resistance.”
“How did you meet him?”
“I let it be known about the local marketplaces and cookshops that I was in need of a sharp-witted, likely fellow to help me with some tricky work. Someone pointed Blankpage out to me.”
“Someone?”
“One of the potboys in one of the cookshops. I think it might have been Blue Nini’s in Biso’s Gate. Yes, I think that’s where it was.”
“Would you recognize the potboy?”
“Oh—perhaps, I’m not certain. There are so many, and they all look alike, which is to say, not good. Anyway, I met Blankpage, and he found these other people to help me.”
“Just like that? If Master Blankpage wasn’t working for the resistance, what reason could he have to exert himself on your behalf?”
“I paid him, naturally.”
“Naturally. But you’ve presented yourself as a simple physician’s assistant. The position isn’t lucrative, and Blankpage’s price must have been high. How did you obtain the funds?”
“Well, gold isn’t the only currency, is it?” She crooked a knowing smile.
“I see.” His answering smile was tinged with a certain sadness. “Call me a cynic if you will, but somehow I cannot seem to rid myself of the sorrowful sense, somewhere in the pit of my stomach, that you are less than entirely truthful. Now, tell me, why should my stomach feel that way?”
“Perhaps you swallowed something that disagreed with you.”
“Perhaps I disagree with something I can’t swallow. Now then, setting the elusive Master Blankpage aside for the moment, let us move on to the matter of the forged documents.” First Inquirer Lorrchi plucked a packet of papers from the table before him and displayed it briefly.
She hardly needed to look. Recognition was immediate. He held the false authorizations that had cleared the way to Falaste Rione’s cell.
“These documents are forgeries of the best quality,” Lorrchi observed, with appreciation. “No wonder they were accepted without question. Certainly they would have stood up to a far more rigorous inspection than they received. This work meets the highest standards of resistance craftsmanship. Tell me—where did you obtain them?”
“Would it surprise you very much to know that I produced them myself?”
“It would. I should be overcome with admiration, and more than eager to witness a display of your skill. Here we h
ave paper, ink, quills, all the materials you could want. Step up and show us how you did it.”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t. My wrist was injured during that scuffle in the courtyard. I’m in pain, and cannot hold a pen.”
“How distressing. Well, another day, perhaps. You may stay where you are, then, and our conversation will continue.”
The questioning resumed. It was probing, discomforting, and persistent, but neither terrifying nor violent. Jianna had expected far worse, and she attributed her captors’ restraint largely to the first inquirer’s acceptance of two basic principles—that her accomplices were indeed strangers to her, and that she possessed little if any useful knowledge of resistance activities. There was nothing of value to be had from her.
She lied, evaded, and dissembled to the best of her ability. Her few scraps of potentially significant information—a physical description of Lousewort, the fanciful means of communication with him, the meeting between Lousewort and the Sishmindris—these things she managed to keep to herself.
At length the First Inquirer Lorcchi leaned back from the table like a satiated diner.
“We have touched upon all essential points, I believe.” He favored her with a paternal smile. “You have proved every bit as truthful and forthcoming as I would expect of a young lady in such circumstances. There remains only the matter of your confession. Sign it, and our business is concluded.”
The assistant thrust forward a sheet of paper filled with writing, and a freshly dipped quill.
Rising from the stool, Jianna stepped forward and regarded the confession.
“Do you wish it read aloud to you?” Lorcchi asked.
“No.” She scanned the document swiftly. It consisted of a straightforward admission of complicity in the attempted escape of a condemned prisoner of the Taerleezi Protectorate. There was no reference to resistance activity, treason, or subversion—these things were unnecessary. The one charge of collusion in an escape attempt would suffice, under Taerleezi rule, to condemn a Faerlonnish national.
“What happens if I refuse to sign it?” asked Jianna.
“Well, then—your privileges are revoked, your accommodations are more unpleasant than need be, your sustenance, if any, is indescribable, and you will be troubled night and day by unpleasant characters in uniform demanding cooperation and capitulation. These people are certain to prove far less amiable of character than I. Perhaps you’ll be tremendously courageous and resist them all, to the bitter end—but really, to what reasonable purpose? You see, for you, it makes no difference. With your confession or without it, the case against you is overwhelming. There are scores of witnesses—people who saw you and can readily identify the striking, black-browed lady. There are forged documents, hoodwinked officials, a drugged and humiliated guard—in short, an avalanche of evidence. You would oblige us with a full admission of guilt, but we can easily do without it. This being so, and speaking as one not unsympathetic to your plight, I would counsel you to sign the document. Come, Penzia, be kind to yourself.”
The Wanderers Page 18