Before they were done, another grinding tremor quaked the ground. The scaffold heaved dizzily, and then, with a groan of tortured timber, it broke. Several of the supporting beams snapped, and the sections of wooden platform above them gave way. Certain portions of flooring remained precariously level, but probably not for long. Guards, executioner, presiding official, and clerk were either flung from the bucking platform, or fell when it collapsed. Screams of pain issuing from the wooden wreckage were lost in the howl of the wind. Only two individuals remained atop what was left of the scaffold; the two firmly strapped to stoutly braced upright posts.
Jianna’s post had lost much of its verticality, and now slanted at a sharp angle, tilting her backward to stare up into the violent sky. So far as she knew, she was unhurt. She turned her head, straining for sight of Rione’s face, but the heavy timber to which he was fastened blocked her view. She called out to him, and could not hear her own voice.
They had not finished strapping her before the scaffold had gone down. Her left arm remained free. She used it now to unbuckle the straps, one after another, as quickly as she could. The last one fell away. She ran to Rione and looked up into his face. His eyes were open and aware. A little blood spotted his face. Probably some flying bit of glass or rubble had struck him. Her hands shook, making her clumsy as she worked at his straps. The remnants of the scaffold shuddered beneath her, making her clumsier than ever. As soon as one of his arms was free, he began to help.
The buckles opened, the straps parted. He stepped away from the post and extended his hand. She took it.
Come. His lips formed the soundless syllable. They made their way to the shaky edge of the scaffold, and climbed down onto less-than-solid ground.
A large form rose up to block their way. One of the guards remained active and zealous.
“Here, you.” An instant’s lull in the roar of the wind afforded audibility. “Stay where you are.”
Rione hit him, a straight right to the jaw that sent the guard sprawling.
Together they fled from the scaffold, making their way across the Witch courtyard; not so fleetly as Jianna would have wished, for the force of the wind impeded every step, the ground quivered, and more than once she would have fallen, but for his supporting arm.
They passed through the gateway and out into the empty street. It seemed that every living creature in Vitrisi had gone into hiding; a good example to follow. But where should two fugitive criminals find refuge?
“Belandor House!” Jianna yelled, suppressing her doubts. Uncle Nalio would have to admit her. He could not decently turn his own niece away. Could he?
“Too far!” Rione yelled in reply. “Closer!”
Was he saying that he knew of some refuge near at hand? Or did he mean that they must search for one? No matter. Together they would win through.
She followed unquestioningly as he led her through a tight knot of dark little streets that she did not know, with the wind sometimes whipping them along from behind, sometimes buffeting them laterally to drive them off course, sometimes shoving them against walls, archways, and railings. The ground shivered again, and both of them fell, Jianna scraping the palms of her hands. The buildings nearby groaned in protest. One sizable storage shed buckled, roof caving in with a conclusive crash. They stood up and pushed on.
Jianna walked with one hand lifted to shield her eyes and face against flying debris. She could peer between her fingers to catch brief, indistinct glimpses of the world, but doubted her own vision when she spied a human figure approaching. She had thought the streets clear of living beings. And perhaps she was not mistaken in this, for the stranger drew nigh and revealed itself as a Wanderer—female, newly deceased, and in excellent repair, with a calm white face of eerie beauty, and long, unbound hair whipping in the wind.
The Wanderer seemed somehow unlike others of her kind. Her gait was erratic, slow steps alternating with brief surges of energy, while her hands jerked eccentric gestures. And then, as Jianna watched in fascination, the undead woman sank to her knees, and thence to the ground, where she lay supine, wide-eyed and motionless, apparently quite dead at last.
Why? What?
Jianna was hardly aware that she had halted to observe. The pressure of Rione’s hand on her arm set her in motion again. The streets seemed to coil like serpents, and she had no idea where she was. At length they halted before a two-story edifice that might have been a commercial establishment, or a dwelling, or a combination of both. The building was solidly constructed of stone, with a slate roof, front door strapped in iron, and heavy window shutters, presently closed. A faint gleam of light showed through the shutters. A sign that had hung on a bracket above the door now lay on the ground, flung down by the wind. Jianna squinted through her fingers and made out the words: MORNITA’S MOVABLES.
Rione plied the iron knocker. Moments later, a light flashed for a moment at the peephole above the knocker, then went dark. The door opened, and a tall, powerfully built woman confronted them.
Even in the uncertain light, the heavy features and grizzled hair were unmistakable.
“Gyppix!” Jianna exclaimed.
“Falaste, lad? And Strenviva?” Gyppix’s square face was round-eyed. “I thought—I mean, I’d heard—Are you two real?”
“Real, and in trouble,” Rione told her. “We need a place.”
“You’ve got one. Come in.”
“You must understand, Mornita. This could be dangerous for you. They may be hunting us.”
“Hunting you in the middle of all that?” Her gesture encompassed gale and quakes. “Don’t be daft. Anyway, you think I care? We both know I owe you more than I can ever repay.”
“You owe nothing.”
“Don’t argue, boy. Just do as you’re told and come in out of the storm.”
TWENTY
They did not set foot out of doors again for the next three days.
Gyppix—or Mornita, as she was more generally known—owned a workshop wherein she built and sold a variety of plain, sturdy wooden chairs, tables, bedsteads, and coffers. She lived alone above the workshop in a two-room apartment. She insisted upon furnishing Jianna with an extra cot in her own bedchamber, while Rione had the other room to himself.
In the most immediate sense, it was bliss just to be indoors, out of reach of the wind, in a warm space sheltered by a roof and walls resistant to seismic tremors. Beyond that, it was bliss infinitely greater and deeper, relief inexpressible, to be out of prison, beyond reach of the executioner’s blade; alive, whole, and free.
It was only around midday, but Jianna was tired to death. She sought her borrowed cot, fell asleep within seconds, and slept the rest of the day away, while Rione and Mornita sat downstairs in the workshop, listening to the gale howling through the streets.
She woke in the early evening. The monstrous wind had died; Vitrisi lay quiet. She sat up, senses questing. She caught no hint of quake or shudder; that, too, seemed to be over. Rising from bed, she went downstairs, where there was bread, cheese, hot soup, tea, and conversation conducted in normal speaking tones. And after that, more sleep.
By the next day, however, happy though she was, uneasiness was already setting in. What were she and Falaste to do with themselves? They were criminals and fugitives. If recognized, they would promptly return to prison and the scaffold. Should they flee Vitrisi? And if so, where would they go? Another city-state? Or back to the wilds of the Alzira Hills and the camp of the Ghosts? How would they travel, or even obtain food? They were destitute, and in rags. She had even lost her cloak. But for Mornita’s offerings of soap and kettles of warm water, they would have been prison-filthy, as well.
Mornita’s generosity was extraordinary. Certainly she was motivated by some particular sense of obligation to and admiration of Falaste Rione, and these sentiments appeared to extend to Jianna, whom she persisted in addressing as “Strenviva.” Generosity notwithstanding, her means were far from limitless, and they could not continue eating her
food and occupying her space; certainly not without contributing something in return. Before the day was out, Jianna was trying to make herself useful; scouring pots and pans, scrubbing linens, offering assistance with meal preparation. All very well, but really not enough. No, she and Falaste needed a plan.
But Rione already had plans of his own. The city about him had suffered multiple wounds. Buildings had toppled, debris had scattered, knife-edged slivers had flown on the wind, fires had bloomed; all this, in addition to the recent ravages of the plague. Throughout Vitrisi, the sick and the injured cried out for medical care. He had lost his precious bag, and with it his prized instruments, his powders and fluids, his silk-knit bandages, all his supplies. But he still had his knowledge, experience, and talent. With these, much might be done.
He also had, as Jianna did not hesitate to remind him, a more-than-capable assistant.
Thereafter, their days were full. Rione did not seem to fear recognition or recapture. Apart from concealing his true name, he made no effort to disguise himself. Very soon, Jianna came to share his confidence. The city was too disordered, and the authorities too distracted, to spend time searching for the condemned vanished into the storm. They were not that important.
There was no end of work for an accomplished physician—he had but to venture out of doors to find too many patients. Everywhere, the sick, the wounded, and the maimed suffered. Falaste Rione set broken bones with cleverly fashioned makeshift splints, and bandages made of torn linens and garments. He stitched wounds with ordinary sewing thread and needles boiled at length in water of questionable purity; and while the boiling procedure smacked of superstition to Jianna, she did not criticize. He soothed burns with unguents concocted of ingredients at hand, cooled fevers with wrappings soaked in water and spirits, and sometimes amputated rotting limbs with the tools immediately available.
In all of this Jianna assisted, finding it right and natural to be Noro Penzia once again. Amid all the pain and sickness, however, she noted one striking omission. Nowhere in their travels did they encounter a single case of the plague. Apparently the plague had deserted Vitrisi. As the days passed, and their endeavors carried them farther afield, she acquired more information. On the day of the great wind and the tremors, countless plague victims had suddenly recovered. Again and again, she heard the same stories and descriptions. The gale—the shaking of the ground—the abrupt descent of the dying into deep slumber, from which they awoke fever-free, clear in mind, and on the mend. All over the city, it had been the same.
The retreat of the plague also coincided with the cessation of all Wandering. Again, the multiple accounts arising everywhere were nearly identical. Upon the day of the natural convulsions, every Wanderer walking the streets had lain down and stayed down. At a single stroke, the undead had become the merely dead. The task of their removal was daunting, but not unwelcome. In most cases, identification was impossible. Nameless corpses were disappearing into mass graves every day. And all surviving Perambulationists found themselves obliged to devise new forms of entertainment.
Along with the Wanderers had gone the Pockets. Those expanding realms of impossibility had faded out of existence, simultaneously, as the evidence indicated. Oddly enough, there were some individuals who seemed to regret their passing. In the vicinity of the Strenvivi Gardens, it was not unusual to overhear allusions to “Blind Panic,” “Ultimate Tantrum,” and “Little Red Crazy,” expressed in tones of fond nostalgia. An astonishing number of citizens now proclaimed themselves former Plungers. These intrepid adventurers could be found in countless taverns, weaving colorful tales of wonder for the price of a drink.
Falaste Rione worked wherever he was needed, and the need was everywhere. He demanded no recompense for his services, but his patients often pressed payment upon him. Within days, he had amassed enough to contribute substantially to Mornita’s household expenses. It would not be long, in fact, before he would have enough to afford lodgings elsewhere, but Mornita would not hear of it.
“Stay here for a while longer and save your diostres, lad,” she advised. “You and Strenviva will have good use for ’em soon enough, I doubt not.”
The influx of cash was satisfying, but more welcome by far to Rione was the gift received from one of his patients, the elderly widow of a physician, who presented him with a complete set of surgical instruments. The instruments were old, in need of cleaning and sharpening, but of excellent quality. There was even a leather bag in which to carry them.
“I’m myself again,” he observed, hefting the bag.
To Jianna, the life she was leading was starting to seem easy and agreeable. She was comfortable with Mornita, and felt welcome at Mornita’s Movables. The work she performed as Rione’s assistant, in all corners of the stricken city, was fulfilling. Her former fears of recapture and a return to prison appeared groundless; these days, the Taerleezi presence in Vitrisi was distinctly subdued. But she was not content.
She hardly dared acknowledge the source of the trouble. She was spending her days at Falaste’s side, sharing his work and enjoying his company. In the evenings they dined together at Mornita’s table, and after supper sometimes sat and talked for hours on end. Only a very short time ago, such a life would have seemed a dream of golden happiness. Now it was not enough. She wanted more. She wanted, in fact, to share his life in every way—as a wife as well as an assistant.
Were his feelings the same? Often she caught his eyes on her, and fancied that they were. But he said nothing, and soon her discontent gave way to doubt. Had he changed—or had she? Had she grown ugly or tedious? For the first time in weeks, she began to take pains with her appearance. Her sartorial resources were few, but she could and did contrive to keep herself clean and fresh; skin glowing, hair shining, fingernails immaculate, garments spotless and well mended.
It made no difference. Falaste appeared immune. Certainly he acted the part of a close and devoted friend. There could be no doubting his true affection, but she saw no sign of anything more. And the messages that had passed between them in prison—those words that she so treasured—might just as well never have been written.
But he hadn’t changed, somehow she was certain. Perhaps some misplaced sense of class distinction kept him from speaking his mind. It might be that he unselfishly hesitated to deprive her of the rank and wealth to which she had been born. If so, a little judicious reassurance might accomplish much.
She could go further than mere reassurance, she realized. She could seize the initiative and propose marriage to him. It was a startling, almost bizarre notion. A woman—a maidenlady born of a great House—well, technically a widow, but still a maidenlady—propose to a man of humble birth? It would be so forward, so unseemly, so unfeminine.
But did a maidenlady who had survived Ironheart, roamed the Alzira Hills with the Ghosts, confronted Wanderers in Vitrisi, endured imprisonment, trial, and condemnation, only to escape execution by a hair—did such a maidenlady care greatly for propriety?
Yes, in a way. Not that she minded what people might think of her. Nor would she think any the less of herself, for daring to flout convention. And yet she did not wish to pursue Falaste—beg him to marry her, perhaps argue and push to overcome his misgivings. If he loved and wanted her, then she shouldn’t have to plead and persuade—he should be eager to declare himself. And after all they had experienced together, if he failed to realize that fortune and noble rank meant little to her, then the man she loved was a thoroughgoing dolt.
No, she wouldn’t propose to him. But neither pride nor custom precluded recourse to certain more traditional means of encouragement.
And so, on a lush and balmy moonlit evening, she besought him to join her for a cup of wine in the garden behind Mornita’s Movables. It was only a tiny scrap of a place, hemmed in on all sides by neighboring buildings. But the walls were richly draped in living greenery, the bushes were fat with glossy dark leaves, and a set of faithfully tended flower beds flaunted exuberant blooms. At
the center of the space stood one of Mornita’s small, solidly constructed tables, flanked by short benches. Here, Jianna and Rione seated themselves. She had already set out an earthenware vessel and a pair of thick-walled cups. Now she filled the cups with wine, and handed one to him.
“To a happy and hopeful future,” she suggested softly.
They touched cups and drank. Rione’s brows rose in surprised appreciation. “Far better than our usual,” he observed. “But the money you’ve earned as my assistant was to be for your own use—not for treating me to expensive wine.”
“That was the best use I could think of,” she told him. “And remember, I’m treating myself as well.”
For a time they sat sipping their wine and chatting of everyday matters; the gossip in the marketplaces, the resurgence of the Scarlet Gluttons, the vaporous emanations from the glasswalled pit uncovered at the bottom of Greep Narrow. Jianna scarcely noted the course of the conversation. The words were unimportant, but the sound of his voice—that low, quiet, enveloping voice—filled her mind. Presently deeming the moment ripe, she suggested a short stroll to view the flowers by moonlight. He assented readily, and they rose. As he stepped around the table, she took his arm, and every nerve in her body thrilled. She stole a glance at his face. It appeared untroubled, even unaware; but instinct told her that he was as acutely attuned to her nearness as she was to his.
The flowers that she ostensibly wished to observe were worthy of attention. Some of them had furled themselves snugly for the night, but others spread petals broad and pale as moth wings under the moon. The sight was lovely, but more potent by far was the fragrance: a deep, spicy sweetness infusing itself all through her. She drew it down into her lungs, and her head swam. She hardly knew or cared that the flow of words had ceased. Silence vibrated between the two of them.
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