The Wanderers

Home > Other > The Wanderers > Page 25
The Wanderers Page 25

by Paula Brandon


  “No, I’m no thief.”

  “Don’t sound so down-your-nose about it,” Fraxi advised.

  “A sharp slider needs the sense of it,” Verth observed.

  “Crossed the wrong customer, then?” Odilline persisted.

  “No.” Jianna felt the color warm her face. “Nothing like that.”

  “What, then? Spill it.”

  “Well—” Jianna thought quickly. Refusal would antagonize the other, whose affable mood could evaporate in a dangerous instant. Moreover, there was no particular reason not to answer; her confession had already been signed. “I got caught trying to help a condemned prisoner escape.”

  “Did you now?” Odilline emitted a low whistle. “A prim little thing like you—who’d have thought? It was for your man, I expect.”

  Jianna nodded.

  “Always the same. You were playing a fool’s game, girl—nobody escapes the Witch.”

  “I had a plan. I thought it could work. It very nearly did work. If only—”

  “Just so. If only. So now you’re boxed along with ’im. And he’s for it, you say?”

  Jianna nodded miserably.

  “When?”

  “I don’t know. He was tried and condemned weeks ago, but he’s still here.”

  “He’s got something they want, then. Or else he’s got friends.”

  “Lots of friends. But I suspect that he’s still alive because the people in charge here find him useful.”

  “For what, might I ask?”

  “He’s a brilliant physician who’s treated and saved many plague victims. And now we know that the plague is here.”

  “Pah, we’ve known that for weeks,” Fraxi interjected.

  “Don’t tell me,” Odilline admonished. “Don’t say you’re talking about Sfirriu’s pet doc?” Her listener appeared uncomprehending, and she added, “It’s been going around that Sfirriu—that’s the prison governor, it is—that he’s got some kind of tame doc who’s almost like a magician. Saves his magic for the big shots, of course—the rest of us can lay down and rot. Is that your man?”

  “It could be. If so, you’re wrong to think that he saves his magic for the big shots. He’d want to treat everybody—that is, if he’s given any say in the matter. His name is Falaste Rione. Have you heard that name?”

  “Who hasn’t? Killed Uffrigo the Viper. Good for him, I say.”

  “No he didn’t. It was his crazy sister. Falaste didn’t have anything to do with it.”

  “But the Taers don’t see it that way.”

  “They’re wrong!”

  “No point in yowling, won’t do no good. So you’re saying that the Viper’s assassin—all right, the fine and honest brother of the Viper’s assassin—and Sfirriu’s pet doc are one in the same body? Who also happens to be your man?”

  “It seems likely.”

  “Well, this is getting good as your tale of Prince Vazian. So it wasn’t just some nobody you were trying to bust out, it was a prize champer. When do you go up?”

  “Next court session.”

  “They got a good case against you?”

  “I signed a confession.”

  “They put on the hard squeeze, eh?”

  “No need. They caught me in the act, trying to smuggle him out in women’s dress. There were many witnesses, no point in denial, and no point in withholding confession.”

  “Well, that was stupid. You should know, you never put your mark to a confession, leastways not if you can help it. Witnesses? Tchah!” Odilline spat. “You say they’re lying, say they’re dreaming, or just plain wrong, say somebody bought ’em, say they’re your enemies trying to bring you down—say anything. But don’t sign no confession!”

  “Well, it’s a little late now.”

  “Girl, you botched it, and now you’re in the sewer.”

  “I know. No good thinking about it. I only wish that I could speak to Falaste just once more and tell him—” Tell him how much I love him, she thought, but concluded aloud, “Tell him that I’m sorry we failed him.”

  “He’s the one who should be good and sorry,” Odilline decreed. “He’s the one who went and got himself boxed, and now he’s dragged you down along with himself. I say it’s all his fault, the bum-faced dumbscum.”

  “No, I’d say it was all his sister’s fault.”

  “She here?”

  “She’s dead.”

  “Good.”

  “I know I’ll never see him again.” Jianna’s eyes stung, and she blinked the tears back. “But he’s right here in this building, and I think all the time about sending him a message. Is there any way of doing that? Could a guard somehow be persuaded to cooperate?”

  Odilline, Fraxi, and Verth loosed resounding guffaws.

  “Persuaded? Well, let me see. Depends on what you’ve got to work with,” Odilline responded, when she could speak again. “I suppose you’ve got no money or trinkets on you, nothing like that?”

  You should know. Jianna shook her head mutely.

  “You’ve got a good enough shape. You might make some use of it.”

  “No.”

  “Heh. I thought not. Well, even if you had the coin, it probably wouldn’t do you no good, because to pull something like that off, you’ve really got to know the ropes, and you know nothing. Now, I could get it done anytime I like, since I have the knack, but you, why, you’re helpless as a little child.”

  Jianna had no answer. Frustration gnawed at her vitals.

  “So I’ve decided to take pity, and lend you a hand,” Odilline continued. “I’m going to see to it that you get a message to your man, numbskull though he be.”

  Jianna stared at her, amazed.

  Fraxi and Verth evidently shared her sensations. Verth’s jaw dropped, and Fraxi burst out, “What for?”

  “Fun,” Odilline explained. “Like a game, or a story, to liven things up. Like the Lady Jez Meleefia smuggling notes to Vazian when the Irwhisps had him locked up in the Forlorn Keep.”

  “Lady Jez Meleefia wasn’t about to have her rations cut if she got found out,” Fraxi observed.

  “I’m not so interested in listening to sour chatter, girls,” Odilline remarked mildly, and her two underlings subsided at once.

  “Can you really do it?” Jianna whispered.

  “You should have noticed by this time that Odilline can do whatever she wants around here.”

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “I’ll tell you what it is, Burlap. I feel sorry for you, and that’s the truth of it. You’re such a green little thing, limed for the sake of a man and, most like, soon to be dancing on air. It don’t cost me to do you a good turn, and the price isn’t so high.”

  “Price?” Out of the corner of her eye, Jianna noted the brightening of Verth’s and Fraxi’s faces.

  “Whatever you write, you’ll read out clear to me and the girls—every word. And if your man writes anything back to you, you read it out, just like it’s written.”

  Jianna’s hesitation was minimal. “Very well,” she acquiesced, concealing her reluctance, “I promise. Every word. But why would you want to hear them?”

  “I just said. Fun. Like a story. Better than Vazian, because it’s real. So figure out what you want to say to Doctor Dumbscum, and I’ll see that your note’s delivered.”

  FOURTEEN

  Around midmorning they found themselves walking a long defile of curious formation; V-shaped, with high walls of striated stone angling sharply up from a narrow floor. The walls were banded in shades of russet, rose, ocher, and oxblood, splotched here and there with patches of black-green vegetation. The ground was soft with new grasses and slowcreeper, these growths temporarily obscured by the short span of smooth pathway forever renewing itself beneath the wheels of Innesq Belandor’s chair. The air was mild, still, and subtly tinged with the fragrance of wild herbs. The structure of the defile seemed to offer a natural welcome to the persistent mists of the isles. The heavy vapors gathered and thickened alo
ng the floor of the valley, softening the surrounding crags, veiling the sky, blurring edges, shrouding and subduing the world. And yet the atmosphere was neither dark nor gloomy.

  Aureste drew a cool breath of fog deep into his lungs, and a pleasant sense of relaxation stole along his veins. He blinked. His vision seemed to play tricks. He could swear that he glimpsed the hint of a faint glow suffusing the atmosphere. He narrowed his eyes and paid attention. No mistake. The surrounding mists shone with their own quiet, pearly luminescence.

  “What’s that?” Aureste bent a little to speak discreetly into the ear of his brother, whose chair he wheeled. “Do you see that?”

  “I do,” Innesq returned, habitual tranquillity undisturbed. “Well, what is it?”

  “An anomaly, to be sure. At such a time as this, and in such a place, not surprising.”

  “Could you be a little more specific?”

  “Not without investigation, at some cost of energy. But the Source stands upon the verge of great change, and doubtless pulses to erratic rhythms.”

  “Resulting in this peculiar effect, you mean. Is it dangerous?”

  “I do not believe that we confront any immediate threat to life or health, but I would counsel caution.”

  “Good advice, but how do you suggest that we implement it? Don’t look, don’t listen, don’t breathe the vapor in? Go back the way we came, choose another route and avoid it altogether?”

  “We should lose much time, and time may be starting to run short.”

  There would be no shortage of time if you and the others had flung those unruly Sishmindris from the summit of the Quivers when you had the chance. Aureste kept the thought to himself.

  “In dealing with the arcane, the key to self-defense resides in mental fortification. I have taught you certain techniques, and I hope that you will use them.”

  “I will. But those techniques of yours only go so far.”

  “I know.”

  The day advanced, and danger never materialized. Aureste watched the mists. Their flickering luminescence became more pronounced, while remaining at all times soft in tone and pleasing to the eye. They were, in fact, rather beautiful. He walked within them experiencing neither pain, nor weakness, nor qualm of mental confusion. Quite the contrary; a sense of distinct well-being possessed him. His mind was limber, his spirits lively. The nature of the mists remained a puzzle, but clearly they were doing him no harm.

  Sonnetia appeared similarly untroubled. He glanced at her often as they went, as was his habit, and saw her studying the lucent vapors with the air of wondering, pleased interest generally accorded remarkable natural phenomena. She was not terrified, broken, or unnerved by anything they had witnessed throughout the journey. She was intrepid and resolved as ever—even still capable of finding enjoyment in the new and unfamiliar. Admiration filled his mind, and found its way to his eyes.

  Evidently sensing his regard, she turned to him and smiled—a spontaneous smile filled with a natural warmth that quickened his heart. For a moment their eyes held, and it was like a tonic. He knew in that instant that the mistakes of the past would be set aside, that his life could and would resume its rightful course. It was late, but not too late, and the future shone with promise. Then the light in her eyes vanished, the smile faded, her gaze slid away, and he followed it straight to Vinzille, who in turn bent a look of brooding disapproval upon her.

  Vinzille, again. Always Vinzille, with his tight lips and accusing eyes, always there between the two of them, always spoiling things … Aureste’s elation gave way to anger startling in its intensity. He wanted the boy gone, expunged from the world and from her thoughts, even from her memory. Rage filled him to the brim, and for some minutes thereafter he strove to control and conceal it. Poor policy to reveal his own urge to slaughter the thirteen-year-old. Even Innesq might find it difficult to condone.

  At length he mastered his emotion to such an extent that he could wonder at its power. The sensations had swept through him as if freed of all ordinary restraint. He might have likened it to the freedom of inebriation, which he had not experienced in years; or perhaps madness, which he had never experienced at all. He wondered then whether the glow of the mists could possibly have influenced his mood. If so, he knew how to resist. “The key to self-defense resides in mental fortification,” Innesq had told him. Very well, he would fortify himself.

  Still, his blood raced and his hands yearned for a weapon. He let his eyes return to Sonnetia, saw that her gaze anchored yet upon Vinzille, and his anger flared anew. Casting a quick look about, to verify that the two of them walked well to the rear of the group, somewhat apart from the others, he leaned toward her and spoke in a low voice.

  “Tell me, do you never tire of subordinating yourself to the whims of a juvenile tyrant?”

  The moment the words left his mouth, he regretted them. He must have been mad to address such a question to a devoted mother. At best, she would be affronted; at worst, seriously offended. Perhaps he had just now blasted their newly rediscovered connection with one supremely ill-considered remark. And yet the words had slipped out unchecked, as if the normal barriers of judgment and discretion had been quietly disabled.

  Meeting his gaze straightly, Sonnetia replied without hesitation. “Often. Sometimes I’d like to smack him. But I daren’t, you see. He’s already so angry, I might lose him forever.” Her eyes widened, as if she had found herself ambushed by her own frankness.

  Good riddance. It took all the determination at his command to hold the words in. He did it only by thinking of his own child, and the devastating impact of her disappearance.

  “He has no reason to be angry at you,” Aureste observed, and forcibly repressed the conclusion: The little brute’s discovered his power to make you miserable, and he’s enjoying it in full.

  “He doesn’t see it that way. He thinks my behavior and attitudes reprehensible. Perhaps he’s right.”

  “No he isn’t. You’ve done nothing wrong. You never have.”

  “Ah, but that isn’t true. I wasn’t a good wife. Vinzille was starting to see it.” She shook her head slightly, as if surprised or puzzled by the words escaping her own mouth.

  “Nonsense. You were perfect.”

  “Perfect as a painted image, and just about as warm.”

  Aureste said nothing. A point of exquisite pleasure glowed to life inside him.

  “I wasn’t generous, I wasn’t even really kind. I was correct and polite, nothing more. Vinzille saw it, even then, and I think was beginning to wonder. And now it’s far worse.”

  “Because of me, you mean?” He should have maintained sympathetic, diplomatic silence, but the question would not be contained.

  “He suspects the worst. He’s reproached and even accused me—”

  “He mustn’t. The boy wants discipline.”

  “Too late for that, he’s beyond it. I’ve tried to talk to him, but that just seems to worsen matters. Everything I say is wrong. He grows more distant and more hostile every day.”

  “I suppose that your conversations with me—innocent though they are—offend your son.”

  “Oh, they infuriate him.”

  “He has reason. Who can blame him?” Aureste heard himself respond. The words seemed to spring from some hidden inner recess whose existence he had scarcely suspected. What followed took him even more by surprise. “Perhaps it would be best, then, to maintain distance between us, to walk apart from each other at all times. Your son will have no further cause for complaint, and it will then be possible for you to make your peace with him.”

  Some lunacy must have seized him. These were not the words he had intended. He had meant to plead his own case eloquently, to encourage her, by every persuasion he knew, to resist her son’s bullying. An idiotically self-sacrificing suggestion had popped out instead.

  There was no taking it back.

  Sonnetia walked on in silence for a time. Her profile told him nothing. If she commanded him to withdraw, he
would have no choice but to obey; moreover, he would have brought it upon himself.

  She turned her head and answered at last. “I won’t be coerced, most certainly not by my own half-grown son,” Sonnetia declared. “From earliest childhood, Vinzille has known that he can’t rule me by means of tears, storms, raging, or sulking. He must understand that this hasn’t altered. I’ve already told him as much. I’ve made it clear that I’ll continue to conduct my friendships as I see fit, and he must recognize my right to do so. I’ll stand by this because it’s something that he must learn again, if he has forgotten.” She held Aureste’s eyes with her own. “Also, because it’s what I choose.”

  The day was suddenly bright, despite the heavy mists, and he was young again. But the gladness burgeoning within did not blot out his suspicion that the extreme openness of her sentiments was out of character, and he could not forbear inquiring, “Sonnetia, has it struck you that these bright mists all about us may possess the power to loosen our tongues?”

  Brows knit, Sonnetia nodded. “I’ve been wondering about that myself.”

  At midday they paused for rest beside a small, reed-fringed pool lying in a hollow at the bottom of the valley. Here the mists lay heavy with the weight of their moisture, and bright with the glow of their mysterious energy. The strength of the mistlight seemed to irradiate the waters of the pool. Lucent wavelets lapped reeds shrouded in gently glimmering fog.

  Aureste cared nothing for the scenery. At the first opportunity, he sought out his brother, delivered a judiciously edited account of his exchange with Sonnetia Corvestri, and expressed his uneasiness.

  “You are right,” Innesq concurred. “Here is cause for some concern.”

  Cause indeed, Aureste reflected, noting his brother’s sickly aspect. Innesq had endured all the hardships of the journey without breathing a word of complaint; without, in fact, ever abandoning his air of serene good humor. But this feat could only have been accomplished at some inner cost, expressing itself in terms of failing health. Already lean to the point of emaciation, Innesq had lost flesh, and now verged on transparency. His face was as grey-white as the fogs of the Veiled Isles; his great dark eyes, brilliant still, but deeply sunk in shadowy sockets. The thick hair, once so dark, had gone entirely to silver. Against the colorless hair, and the extreme pallor of the face, the Belandor brows, heavy and dark as ever, stood out in almost shocking contrast.

 

‹ Prev