“Friendship, you call it? Do you even know the meaning of the word? Have you a single friend in all the world? Have you ever had one? I don’t think so, for you are a villain, and decent folk want no part of you. Your friendship with my mother is only the hunger of a wolf for its prey. You’ll bring her nothing but misery—in your heart, you know this, even if you’ll never own it aloud. But I tell you, I won’t let you harm her. I’ll do whatever I must to keep my mother safe.”
“Ah, now that was quite a rant. I think I’ve already mentioned how impressed I am by your flair for drama. Before you go rushing off to seek a career upon the stage, however, I advise you to consider this. You have, as head of House Corvestri, forbidden me to touch so much as the tip of your mother’s little finger. I think it only fair, not to mention enjoyable, to inform you that I mean to touch a good deal more than that. Upon our return to Vitrisi, I will pay my formal addresses to the Lady Sonnetia. I’m hopeful that she’ll look upon my suit with favor.”
“Are you completely mad?” Vinzille’s sheer incredulity seemed for a moment to supersede even anger. “You murdered her husband.”
“Yes, and that’s only the first of the many services that I expect to perform for her.”
“You are vile. There are no words for you.”
“I can think of one. You might accustom yourself to calling me ‘Papa.’ ”
Vinzille stared at him in taut silence. Had Aureste encountered such an expression upon the face of an adult enemy, it would have given him pause. But this was only a resentful child, in want of discipline; or so he told himself. Nevertheless, his own anger was rising, his visceral hatred of the youth perhaps capable of destroying his hopes, and thus some inner demon prompted him to produce a harsh crackle of taunting laughter.
Even then, Vinzille refused to react. He simply stood there, motionless, white-lipped, a curious light in his wide eyes. Aureste was conscious of an urge to crack that annoying self-possession. But further verbal sparring with the thirteen-year-old was pointless, and surely beneath him. Lips set in a contemptuous curve, he turned and strolled away. As he went, he contemplated a basic guiding principle of future existence. Temptation notwithstanding, he must take particular care never to torment or injure young Vinzille Corvestri in the presence of Sonnetia.
The night wore on, and all the travelers but one slept soundly within the usual encircling zone of arcane protection. Vinzille Corvestri was wide awake, perhaps more awake than he had ever been in all his life. Now, casting a last quick glance upon his unconscious companions, he rose from his place and strode from the camp.
The night was exceptionally dark—moonless, starless, and heavy with mist. But Vinzille perceived his surroundings clearly, as if the noon sun shone overhead. The powder he had swallowed minutes earlier, in anticipation of arcane activity, had heightened his senses to preternatural levels. He could discern the individual drops of moisture clinging to each blade of grass underfoot. He could make out the forms of the insects crawling along the branches of trees, even catch the glint of bulging eyes. He heard the nearly soundless beat of a night bird’s wings, the rustle of a snake slithering through the weeds, the ordinarily inaudible squeaks of a hunting bat. He felt the weight of the atmosphere upon his flesh. And he caught a wealth of odors riding the night breeze: soil and water, animal and plant life, and even the individual scents of his sleeping companions. He found it possible, at that moment, to isolate and identify each, but his attention fixed upon one alone. One scent, one body, one target—Aureste Belandor. One vicious, detestable criminal, soon to be dispatched from the world. Tonight, the Great Kneeser would die.
It was not difficult for an accomplished adept to kill by arcane means. Vinzille himself had possessed the ability for the past year or more, but prior to his father’s death, it had not seemed likely that he would ever actually make use of it—at least not against a fellow human being. But then, Aureste Belandor was something less than human—he was a parasite, a disease. In any case, there was little choice. Belandor had murdered Vinz Corvestri, threatened the honor of the Magnifica Sonnetia, and mortally insulted the current Magnifico Corvestri. As a devoted son, as a nobleman of Faerlonne, and as head of a famous House, Vinzille Corvestri was honor-bound to act.
He wished that he could have challenged Aureste Belandor to a duel; that the two of them could have fought it out as equals, with conventional weapons. But this was not possible. The criminal Aureste was old, but still notably proficient with sword and dagger. Vinzille was young and lithe, but not an exceptionally skilled fighter. He had devoted his time and energy to the practice of arts that he and his parents had deemed the more valuable. And now, despite his youthful speed and agility, he could scarcely hope to best Aureste in a fair contest. More to the point, he would never be granted the opportunity. Should he offer a traditional challenge, as one magnifico to another, he would not be taken seriously. He would be dismissed as a troublesome, ridiculous child.
He would have to employ arcane power. There was no practical alternative. He had given the actual nature of the lethal instrument some thought, and had decided to create an incorporeal Hand—subtle enough to penetrate the defenses surrounding the camp, dexterous enough to win past the mundane barriers of flesh and bone, clever enough to find its way to the heart beating within the chest of the sleeping Aureste, strong enough to grasp and crush that heart. It would be a very swift death. Aureste might suffer an instant’s pain and terror—in truth, he deserved far worse. There might be just enough time for him to realize that the end was upon him, and then it would be over.
And afterward—Vinzille did not mean to deny his deed, as if he were guilty or ashamed. He would tell them all exactly what he had wrought, and then they could do as they pleased with him.
But what would that be? What would his fellow travelers and colleagues choose to do with the son who sought justice for his father’s death, the son who protected his mother, the magnifico upholding the honor of his House? As Ojem Pridisso had pointed out, there were no legitimate tribunals or magistrates out here in the middle of nowhere; no authority fit to pass judgment and sentence. Beyond that, he was an arcanist, one of the precious remaining four. Should they punish him in any way that lost them the use of his arcane abilities, then the mission was doomed beyond hope. Aureste Belandor was entirely dispensable; Vinzille Corvestri was not.
Vinzille pushed this last thought from him. It was cynical and ignoble, more worthy of the man he meant to kill than of the man he wished to be. He would do what had to be done, and accept the consequences; that was all.
Accordingly, he set to work, and found his task unwontedly difficult. His mind was powerful and well disciplined, despite his youth. Usually he attained the requisite level of intense concentration with relative ease. Tonight, however, it was different. Tonight the distractions were exceptional, and all but impossible to ignore.
He was about to kill another human being, and to do it by stealth, while his enemy slept. True, that enemy was altogether despicable, and richly deserving of punishment. The world stood to benefit by his removal. Still, he was a man, unsuspecting and unprepared. And it seemed to Vinzille that the murder—no, the execution—of Aureste Belandor would be a turning point in his own life, an action whose repercussions would haunt him forever; that would, in fact, alter the shape and color of his entire future. The potential nature of the alteration frightened him.
His concentration flagged, and the Source retreated.
He feared shadows, and that fear was crippling him. He sensed the imminence of profound change, yes, but wasn’t growth itself a form of change? Perhaps he simply confronted the transition from adolescence to manhood.
He thought of the happy hours spent in the workroom with the father murdered by Aureste. There he had learned the art and skill of intense mental focus. He remembered those lessons now.
Breathing deeply and evenly, Vinzille took a moment to compose himself. When his mind was calm again, and very clear, he
resumed his efforts, focused his will with precision, and this time found success. His intellect touched the Source, knew splendor, and the power filled him to the brim. He was fully master of himself, and almost effortlessly drove his intellect through the contortions that bridged the gap between supranormalcy and the physical world.
It was done, and he looked upon his creation, hovering in midair before him. There was the immaterial Hand, as subtle, dexterous, clever, and strong as he had intended. Its appearance, however, did not match his expectations. He had envisioned a member essentially similar to his own—well formed and beautifully proportioned, albeit larger, stronger, more mature in aspect. The Hand before him was quite different—a fleshless, skeletal claw, with curved talons tipping elongated, bony fingers, severely distorted of knuckle; the whole apparently compounded of dingy smoke and vapor.
A qualm of misgiving assailed Vinzille’s concentration. He rejected the distraction, forcing himself to regard the Hand with calm detachment. Its dreadful aspect was meaningless. A complex coalescence of the epiatmosphere, the Hand possessed no true or fixed physical attributes. The image that he now beheld was largely the product of his own mental architecture. It had no objective reality, and another observer might see something quite different. And it would take the vision of a trained adept to discern the Hand at all; an unschooled eye would miss it altogether.
It was shockingly hideous, yet an extension of himself. He did not wish to see it, and could not look away. Well, as soon as it had performed its sole function, it could be returned to comfortable nonexistence. Best to send it about its business without delay.
But Vinzille found himself prey to a curious paralysis. He stood there motionless, staring at the Hand. Beneath the strong restraints he had imposed upon all emotions and sensations capable of disrupting his concentration, he was conscious of something that could be identified as revulsion.
He willed himself to act. Before he had overcome his paralysis, however, the unforeseen and unthinkable occurred. A human voice pushed through the mental barriers to break upon his consciousness.
“No. Please.” The voice was tiny, little more than a whisper, and it spoke behind him.
Vinzille’s mind quaked. He started almost spasmodically, and his focus shattered. The skeletal Hand flickered once or twice, then winked out of being. A faint epiatmospheric hiss accompanied its disappearance. He shuddered, gasped, and spun to face the intruder.
With his heightened senses, it was easy to see her—a small, slight, fragile figure, topped with moonspun hair. He had no idea how long Nissi had been standing there, but one thing was certain—with her remarkable perceptions, she would have spied the Hand before it disappeared, and known it for what it was. Alarmed confusion boiled up inside him. He did not know whether to plead with her, or threaten; lie to her, or offer a bribe. He did none of these things, but stood in thunderstruck silence.
“Please,” Nissi repeated.
“I was practicing.” Vinzille found his voice. “I couldn’t sleep, so I was practicing a new technique. You remember what Master Innesq was telling us about—”
“You must not,” she said.
His lies died in his throat. It was impossible to lie to those lambent eyes of hers. But surely she could not know what he had been doing; her talents, marked though they were, did not include clairvoyance. “What do you mean?” he inquired, with an unconvincing air of puzzlement.
“You must not kill.”
She did know. Somehow, she saw the truth. There was no point in denial, and it was a relief to abandon pretense.
“It’s a matter of honor,” Vinzille told her.
She stared at him.
“He’s evil, and a danger to us all.”
She said nothing.
“He murdered my father, and because of that, our mission may fail. He means my mother ill. Everyone will be better off when he’s gone.”
“Not everyone.”
“You’re thinking of Master Innesq.”
“He will be unhappy.”
“He has another brother.”
No reply.
“I don’t wish to grieve him. But there’s my House—honor—my mother must be protected.”
“Master Innesq will … pine.”
“He’ll be all right.”
“His heart will ache. The pain will darken his thoughts. Perhaps his spirit will grow too heavy to catch the Source.”
“You mean that grief could weaken his arcane powers? No. He’s strong, he’s skilled. He’ll carry on.”
No reply, and Vinzille’s unruly thoughts jumped in all directions. She was telling him that the destruction of Aureste Belandor could indirectly deprive the party of yet another arcanist’s skills, but was it true? He wanted to disbelieve, but she spoke with astonishing certitude. And she wasn’t finished.
“You will be unhappy, too,” Nissi informed him.
“Not for doing the right thing.”
“Always. You will never forget. Your art will be poisoned and joyless … forever.”
“You can’t know that,” Vinzille replied without conviction. Somehow he believed deeply that she did know. “And I am honor-bound to defend my House.”
“You must not kill.” With that, she left him, gliding off silent as a plague-wraith.
Vinzille was alone again. His senses remained heightened. He could still see, hear, and smell the minutiae of the nocturnal world. Should he wish, he could find his way back to the Source, and create another Hand to send against Aureste Belandor. There was nothing to stop him. But the quiet minutes passed, while he stood lost in troubled thought.
At last, the unnatural acuity of his vision abated, and the darkness pressed in upon him. Stumbling over the uneven ground, he made his way back to the camp, resumed his place, and rolled himself up in his blanket, but lay wide awake far into the night.
Early in the misty morning, as the group prepared to resume travel, Nissi approached the Magnifica Yvenza and paused before her like a white moth coming to rest.
“Well, what have you to say?” demanded Yvenza.
“I have … obeyed you.”
“How so?” Yvenza’s eyes narrowed.
“I have been a friend to Vinzille.”
THIRTEEN
Another night in prison, another rude awakening. Once again, Jianna was yanked from uneasy, insect-ridden slumber. Once again, there were alien hands on her, heavy weight pressing her down into the verminous straw. Her eyes flew open, and she stared up into the faces of Odilline, Fraxi, and Verth, who made not the slightest attempt to conceal their identities.
“Let go and get away from me!” Jianna commanded.
“Oh, now, is that any way to talk, Burlap?” Odilline shook her head in sorrow, orange frizz shifting to and fro. “Would you happen to have any hairpins on you? We forgot to check, last time.”
“No, I have no hairpins, and take your hands off me, right now!”
“I’m sure you won’t mind if we check.”
Odilline nodded to Verth, who patted, prodded, and ran her bitten fingernails through Jianna’s hair. Jianna struggled uselessly.
“Nothing,” Verth reported.
“Satisfied?” Jianna asked. “Now go away.”
“Big mouth,” Verth observed.
“It’ll get a lot bigger if you don’t leave me alone. I’ll scream, and the guard will come.”
“You’ll be dead before he gets here, bitch,” Fraxi squeaked. Producing a dagger-pointed sliver of glass, probably the fruit of a lucky day’s sifting, she pressed the makeshift weapon to Jianna’s neck. “What, no more smart words? Nothing to say to the obvious curtain, or whatever it was that you called me?”
Obnoxious cretin. Jianna resisted the impulse to offer correction. Her desperate eyes darted, but found only slumbering roommates; unconscious, unseeing, unhearing. Hypocrites! No doubt most of them lay there wide awake, ears straining to catch every word. She would find no help among them.
“What else?” Ve
rth demanded. “Shoes, maybe?”
“We never take the shoes, ’tisn’t right,” Odilline reproved. Her attention returned to Jianna. “Now, then, Burlap. You’ll remember that our talk the other day got busted in on. I’m thinking it’s time to finish it up. What was we gossiping about? Oh, aye, it comes back to me. I was explaining that me and my friends like to be treated with respect. I’m not sure that you heard me, though.”
“I heard you.” Jianna’s confusion and anger were giving way to fear. There were three of them, at least one of them armed, and they could do anything they wanted. They could slice her face to ribbons, or kill her, and nobody in this place would dare to interfere.
“But we want to make sure that you remember.” Odilline punctuated the remark with a blow.
Jianna struggled for breath.
“You got to learn manners.” Verth jabbed.
“Drink my piss, you curtain.” Fraxi poked with her glass sliver, drawing a drop of blood.
“Now, before we really set to work, you got any last words?” Odilline inquired. “Maybe you’d like to beg and plead a little. Or maybe you can dream up some good reason why we shouldn’t beat you silly, and leave you with your head stuck in the nearest bucket.”
“You’ve made your point—”
“You’ve barely felt the point.” Fraxi’s glass sliver drew another red drop.
“I’ll cooperate—”
“Oh, very good of you.”
“And so you’ve nothing to gain by hurting me.”
“You get the punishment you’ve asked for, and we get a little entertainment. This old place gets pretty dull,” Odilline confided. “Got anything else? I said it once, Burlap—you’re slow.”
She had been slow, Jianna realized. It had taken her all this time to realize that the orange-haired virago, whose force and vitality were reminiscent of a much-coarsened Yvenza Belandor, wanted to be bought off. But bought off with what? She had no money or valuables. They had already stolen clothing from her. She could scarcely offer food—she received barely enough to stave off starvation. There was no service or favor that she could perform. The medical knowledge and nursing skills that she had acquired as Noro Penzia were potentially valuable, but of no immediate use. She had nothing more in her head than recollections of the privileged life she had once enjoyed. Agreeable activity, society of family and friends, study and lessons … a great many lessons, comprising a wide variety of subjects, some of practical application, others designed for mental enrichment and pleasure.
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