When a third smoking remnant dragged itself from the pyre, the courage of the witnesses failed and nearly all fled the scene. Only a handful of the coolest ascended to the rim of the excavation and there remained to watch at a safe remove.
For a time, the three undead stumbled about in apparent aimlessness, their steps wavering and uncertain. But soon their mastery of their bodies increased and their movements acquired assurance. When they could walk without faltering, the three turned as one and made for the path. Though their pace lagged, their aspect was oddly purposeful.
The alarm of the spectators deepened. Laying hands on the limestone fragments strewn throughout the vicinity, several citizens commenced a bombardment. Rocks rained down on the undead, briefly retarding their progress. One sizable chunk struck the head of the grey-haired woman, smashing her to the ground. For a moment she lay as if truly dead at last. Then her skinny arms lifted to shove the rock aside, and she rose to her full height. Her skull had been crushed, reducing most of her head and all of her face to pulp, but these injuries hardly impaired her. Her eyes were gone, but she seemed to experience no difficulty in finding her way, as she followed in the wake of her smoldering companions.
At this, the nerve of the lingering citizens broke, and all retreated. The undead appeared unconscious of human activity. Silent, unhurried, inscrutable, the three of them made their unopposed way up the path. Upon reaching the summit, they paused at the edge of the pit as if in voiceless conference. For long moments they stood motionless as mundane corpses. Then, ruled by shared or simultaneous impulse, they resumed walking. They were headed east, toward the heart of the teeming Spidery. Their pace was steady and their intent, if any, a mystery.
Vinz Corvestri did not understand how it came about, and deliverance took him quite by surprise. When his cell door squealed open and the guards marched in to unlock his fetters and present him with a set of fresh garments that he dimly recognized as his own, he knew that he was not about to face another routine interrogation. His first thought was that they had come to drag him off to execution, and he went limp with fear. But the law, even Taerleezi law, granted him a trial of some sort, and there had been none. Not that it would have been anything more than an empty formality at best, but it would at least have given him time to prepare, time to assume a dignified demeanor.
No room for dignity now, not with hands shaking so badly that he could hardly manage the fastenings of his own clothes. He dressed himself at last, under the guards’ unblinking regard. Then they were trundling him out of the cell, along the corridor, up the short flight of stairs, at the top of which they steered him left; not right toward the interrogation chamber that he knew, but left. Toward the scaffold? His steps faltered then, and he might have fallen had not the grip of the guards held him upright.
“Don’t look so green, Magnifico,” one of them advised with undisguised amusement. “You’re the lucky one today.”
Lucky one? What did the ruffian mean by that? Not trusting his own voice, Vinz raised his brows in mute and miserable inquiry.
“You’re going home,” the guard informed him.
Home. The pang that shot through him was almost painful. For an instant wild hope flamed, before he realized that they were mocking him, and then a rush of desperate anger restored his courage. He replied with an obscenity that set both guards roaring with laughter.
“He don’t believe it,” one of them observed.
“Would you believe it?” countered the other.
“Nah, but then, I don’t have big friends.”
“Choice friends. Don’t it make your mouth water?”
What are you talking about? Vinz wanted to shout at them. He controlled the urge, and finally they came to a place that he remembered. It was a chamber of moderate size, its walls lined with shelves loaded with ledgers, its central space occupied by a big desk, a chair, and a manifestly indifferent individual. Here he had been conducted upon the evening of his arrival, here his name and the date of his arrest had been entered into one of the ledgers by this same bored Taerleezi, who had then consigned him to a cell, whose number had also been entered. And now the process seemed to be reversing itself.
“Name?” the officer inquired without interest.
Vinz furnished the required information, and the other jotted it down neatly. Several perfunctory questions followed until the prisoner, unable to contain his bewilderment, finally blurted out, “What does this mean?”
“Don’t you understand?” The officer appeared mildly surprised. “You’re being released.”
“No, no I don’t understand. What of the charges against me?”
The officer consulted one of his notebooks without haste, then reported, “Dropped.”
“Dropped? How? Why?”
“Lack of evidence, it says. No case.”
“But—I’d been told there was strong evidence. Written evidence. I was never allowed to see it, but—”
“No evidence. If it ever existed, it’s gone now.”
“Gone where? How?”
“Who knows? Mislaid, pinched, or accidentally discarded, maybe. Looks like you’re one lucky little Faerlonnishman with some good friends out there, eh?”
Good friends? The Taerleezi seemed to imply that somebody had exerted some sort of influence on his behalf. It must have been Lousewort and his allies of the resistance. Somehow they had broken in and stolen the incriminating documents. He would not have believed them capable of penetrating the Witch itself, but they must have succeeded, for who else could it have been? Unless, by some unlikely chance, the “accidental” loss of the evidence really had been an accident.
The formalities were swiftly completed, whereupon Vinz was conducted from the building, across the grim walled courtyard, to a small side gate through which he was neatly ejected. The gate banged shut behind him.
It was morning, but hardly seemed so, for the air was very dark with fog and smoke, cold and harsh with winter’s chill. The glow of the rooflights overhead scarcely reached ground level. The streets were wakeful, but still relatively quiet. Lanterns glowed behind a few shuttered windows. The wagon vendors were setting out their wares, but the customers were not yet much in evidence. A beggar asleep in a nearby doorway had not yet been chased from his refuge, and the night’s ice on the nearest public trough had yet to be broken.
Vinz gazed about, still mystified, and stunned by the suddenness of it all. He breathed free air and enjoyed free movement for the first time in—how long? He did not know. The days and nights had blurred in the bowels of the Witch. The actual number did not matter; his term had seemed endless. But it was over now, and he found himself at a loss. Where to go, what to do, now that he could go anywhere, do anything?
Home, certainly. But Corvestri Mansion stood halfway across the city, and he—a titled magnifico, head of a House of the Six—had no money to hire so much as a donkey to carry him. The master of House Corvestri would have to walk.
He turned north toward the Clouds, to encounter a blessedly familiar object: his own mildly battered carriage, emblazoned with the Corvestri arms, drawn by a pair of respectable bays. And there in the box sat his own slightly untidy coachman, waiting to carry him home. Foolish tears scalded his eyes at the sight. He dashed them away and approached. The coachman greeted him with appropriate respect, the first he had received in too long. The door opened. He climbed in and seated himself beside his wife.
He made no attempt to kiss or embrace her. He had not bathed or shaved in days. No doubt he was repulsive, despite the clean clothing, and he did not wish to disgust her. Probably this was a wise choice, for she herself never offered to touch him, but welcomed him with courtesy as soft, cool, and impenetrable as the fog.
The carriage moved off amid grinding rumbles. Vinz studied his wife at length. He had not viewed her by morning light in a long time, and the present cold grey illumination revealed the slight sharpening of her features, and the dwindling luminosity of her fine skin. It would
be easy, so easy, for an arcanist and magnifico of Vitrisi to find a younger, fresher female, glowing with gratitude and admiration. Someone to appreciate him, someone to see him as he deserved to be seen.
He scarcely found himself tempted. There was only one woman whose opinion mattered.
He asked her for news of Corvestri Mansion, and she answered at length. Some minutes passed before he could bring himself to voice the questions of greatest significance. But at last he asked about Vinzille, and learned that the boy did not yet know of his father’s release. She had not told him, Sonnetia explained quietly, for fear of disappointing his expectations in the event of … mishap.
So she had not been quite certain of his liberation. The question hung in the air. He could no longer delay asking it.
“How was my release obtained, madam?” Vinz inquired.
She told him, and her answer exceeded his worst imaginings. The Corvestri carriage clattered on through the streets of Vitrisi, and Vinz learned that his wife had sued for assistance to none other than the Magnifico Aureste Belandor. Apparently she had marched straight into Belandor House, confronted the beast in his lair, and somehow obtained a promise of aid; by what persuasive means, Vinz did not dare to consider. She had not known exactly how the Magnifico Aureste would deliver her husband, but she had never doubted for one moment that he would find a way.
Your faith in him is touching. Vinz suppressed the sarcasm with difficulty. The thought of his wife alone in the presence of Aureste Belandor jabbed like a scorpion’s sting. He did his best to push the image away, for he needed to listen. She was still talking, and he soon received the answer to the most sinister of unspoken questions: the nature and extent of Aureste’s price.
She had pledged her husband’s arcane skills in payment for his freedom. Vinz was now obliged to present himself at Belandor House, this very day, there to effect the awakening of the mysteriously comatose Innesq Belandor.
Well. It might have been worse. The task lay within his power, probably. But still—he wondered whether Sonnetia or Aureste appreciated the irony of the situation. Surely neither recognized him as the author of Innesq Belandor’s misfortunes. Or perhaps—the disturbing thought came unbidden—Aureste simply found it expedient to grant his enemy a temporary reprieve.
In due course they reached Corvestri Mansion, where his reunion with his son banished all other considerations, for a time. And then for a hot bath, and a big hot meal, and after that luxurious hours of dreamless sleep upon a soft mattress; the first sound sleep he had enjoyed in many a day.
He woke in the late afternoon. He lay in his generous bed, in his comfortably warm chamber. The linens were fresh, the blankets dense, and a respectable heap of coals glowed on the grate. He himself was clean, well fed, safe at home, and free. For a few drowsy moments, Vinz luxuriated in the unaccustomed sense of well-being. Something gnawed at the edges of his satisfaction, however, some recollection that he wanted to exclude.
It ate its way into his conscious mind all too quickly. His present contentment came at a price, and payment had now fallen due. He was expected to present himself at Belandor House, there to revive Innesq Belandor, this very day.
As a matter of debt and honor, the thing could scarcely be postponed, much less denied. Accordingly he forced himself from the bed, dressed without assistance, then rang to order the carriage, only to learn that the vehicle stood ready and waiting at the door, by order of the magnifica.
At times her efficiency was almost too commendable.
A small, bitter draught fortified him against the impending arcane exertion. It had been weeks since he had last tasted such a preparation, and its effects were potent. A pleasurable current swept his mind and body, while his internal vision sharpened a hundredfold. His spirits lifted. He almost felt like himself again.
With a firm step, he made his way to the waiting carriage. He took his seat, the door latch clicked, the driver’s whip snapped, and he was on his way.
There was no real need to use the carriage. Corvestri Mansion and Belandor House stood within brief walking distance of one another. But the Magnifico Corvestri could hardly come trudging up his detested neighbor’s drive on foot. Dignity—indeed, self-respect—demanded some suitable display of status. And so he was carried the short distance that he had walked secretly and alone the night of the assault upon Belandor House.
The memories of that night came back to him now, despite his efforts to evade them; the sights, sounds, and smells, the heat of the fire, his own terror and sickness. Disturbing, repellent memories. The last thing he wanted was a return to the scene of that nightmare, yet here he was, rushing toward it like some helpless swimmer caught in a current and heading straight for the rocks—an image too sadly emblematic of his entire life.
The journey was brief. The gracefully fashioned steel gates guarding Belandor property swung wide, and the Corvestri carriage clattered on toward the house. Vinz knew what to expect. He had heard and compared a dozen accounts of the fire damage. Even so, he had never seen for himself, and the image of Belandor House as it had always been—tall, imposing, magnificent—still held sway in his mind. He found himself curiously shocked to confront the reality of a blackened ruin. His first disbelieving impression was that of utter devastation. The tower crowning the central section had collapsed, and the roofless south wing looked worse yet. Great heaps of debris, some shrouded in oiled tarpaulins, rose here and there like exotic burial mounds. Surely Belandor House was ruined beyond hope of repair. Curiously mingled satisfaction and shame filled him.
The carriage followed the curve of the sooty drive, past the boarded-up wreck of the main entrance, to the north wing of the building, where it halted before a doorway seemingly free of damage. The north wing as a whole stood essentially intact, its visible wounds confined to broken windows, shattered rooflights, and dark smoke stains. He disembarked, advanced, passed a sentry unchallenged, and was admitted by a Sishmindri faultlessly liveried in the Belandor slate and silver. Evidently the family continued to maintain itself in some semblance of state.
He stood once again within Belandor House, in a gallery hung with smoke-sullied paintings. Light filtered in through cracked, dimmed windows. Almost unbelievable that he should find himself here again.
“I announce you, Magnifico.” The Sishmindri bowed and retired.
Announce him? To whom? Was he about to confront Aureste Belandor, in the flesh? Despite the fortifying draught, uneasiness stirred his innards. And it was ridiculous, really, when every possible victory and advantage lay on his own side. He, after all, possessed trained arcane talent, a priceless commodity for whose sake his enemies had been forced to secure his release from prison. He was the husband of Sonnetia Steffa and the father of Sonnetia’s son. He was the master of a great mansion—a bit shabby these days, but infinitely superior to the maimed remains of Belandor House. By most reasonable standards of comparison between the two Faerlonnish magnificos, Vinz Corvestri emerged as the clear victor.
But still, he did not want to face Aureste, who somehow wielded an undeserved power to intimidate. And what if his host insisted upon witnessing the arcane procedures? The thought of those pitchy malevolent Belandor eyes boring into him was intolerable. Despite all his skill and experience, he would never be able to perform under such circumstances. He might insist upon his need for privacy, but what if Aureste refused to comply?
As it happened, his concerns were groundless. Footsteps tapped, and he turned to face a dark-clad figure descending the stair. Not Aureste—too short, too rickety, face and hair too thin, but a Belandor unmistakably, with the family eyes and facial structure on a meager scale. This was the youngest brother, Nalio, perennially lost in the shadow of his siblings. And the unremittingly black garb? Vinz remembered hearing that the junior Belandor brother’s wife had died during the attack—killed by fire or sword, it wasn’t clear which. Presumably her husband mourned her. Guilt flickered about the edges of Vinz’s mind. In a way, this was almo
st worse than facing Aureste.
“Magnifico, I bid you welcome,” Nalio Belandor intoned, civilly but without warmth, much as he might be expected to greet the hereditary enemy of his House. His enunciation was excessively precise, his voice nasal and unimpressive as the rest of him. Clearly he suspected nothing of the visitor’s involvement in the ruin of his home and the murder of his wife.
“I thank you.” Vinz’s assurance returned with a rush. He could deal with this person. His back straightened and his chin came up. He dared to speak with a hint of condescension. “I am informed that Master Innesq Belandor’s plight is desperate. No mundane method suffices to restore him.”
“That is so, Magnifico.”
“Conduct me to him.”
“This way.”
Up the stairs and along a corridor to a chamber furnished with a big carven bed wherein reposed a very still figure.
“Leave me alone with him,” Vinz commanded.
Nalio Belandor stared at him. Doubt and distrust narrowed the big eyes in the thin face. Vinz returned the gaze serenely.
“As you wish.” Nalio inclined his head and compressed his lips. Evidently he had been instructed to defer to the visitor—upon this occasion, at least. “Should you require assistance of any kind, do—do—do not hesitate to ring.”
“I thank you.” Vinz waited. After a moment, the other turned and exited with obvious reluctance. The door clapped shut.
Approaching the bed, Vinz stared down into the waxen face of Innesq Belandor. Very like his older brother, Aureste, although inspection revealed the differences. Pity that it wasn’t Aureste lying helpless in that bed. Pity that the stroke aimed at the magnifico had missed its target and caught a harmless innocent.
Harmless? Hardly. Here was an arcanist of dangerous talent, his abilities perhaps exceeding Vinz’s own. And innocent? He was a Belandor, and they were all made of the same stuff. His resemblance to Aureste was scarcely coincidental. Even so, Vinz could not quite still the pangs of conscience. He had never heard anything but good report of Innesq Belandor. Moreover, he could not seem to forget the expression in Innesq’s eyes at the moment the two of them had faced each other on the night of the attack—that look of calm, fearless comprehension. He could see it now.
The Ruined City Page 6