The room was one of those comparatively modest chambers that would formerly have been assigned to visitors of no great importance—obscure kinsmen, insignificant officials, or perhaps an exceptionally celebrated artist. Once upon a time, it would have struck her as insultingly humble. Now, following her term of residence among the Ghosts, the chamber with its polished wooden furnishings, finely carved stone mantel, good carpet underfoot, curtains and bed hangings of colorful crewelwork, seemed miraculously luxurious. It was not home, however. Not a single personal belonging marked the space as her own. In fact, she had never before crossed this particular threshold. Only once, during the course of a long-ago childhood ramble through the far reaches of Belandor House, she had come to this place, opened the door, stuck her head in, spied nothing remotely interesting, closed the door and gone away, never to return until now.
Jianna’s eyes stung. It would all be better when her father and Uncle Innesq came back. Then everything would be right again.
I wish I’d stayed with Falaste! The thought flashed and instantly his face filled her mind: pale, fine, scholarly features—blue-grey eyes that saw everything—mobile lips that silently expressed so much—stubborn chin—and it seemed that all she wanted most in the world was to be with him again. But Falaste hadn’t invited her to stay. Quite the contrary. He had delivered her to Belandor House like a parcel, then ridden away without hesitation and without a backward glance.
A couple of tears slid down her cheeks, and she wiped them impatiently. Falaste was gone and she had resumed her real life. The transition was unsettling, but she would accustom herself soon enough, and it was certainly all for the best.
Her eyes traveled the handsome, foreign chamber and found their way to the very small bundle of her personal belongings lying on the bed, where Ini had left it. Of course the Sishmindri had offered to unpack for her, but she had refused—her reluctance stemming from a curious sense of something that took her a moment to recognize as embarrassment. Her possessions were so meager, so shabby and makeshift that she was actually ashamed to let them be seen, even by a Sishmindri. Curious to find herself so aware of Sishmindri regard. Certainly her recent experiences had altered her in ways that she herself had yet to recognize.
She seated herself on the edge of the bed. (Soft. Lavender-scented. Richly patterned coverlet.) Another hour remained before dinner. In past years, she would have spent the time changing her clothes, selecting jewelry and ribbons, allowing a maid to arrange her hair. None of those options now existed. Certainly no luxury items reposed among her belongings these days. She unknotted the little cloth bundle, opened it, and surveyed the contents. One change of linen, one pair of knitted stockings, a roll of rags worn thin with repeated washings, a wooden comb, a wooden spoon, a twig with several lengths of thread wound about it, and a single, precious bone needle. Also a knob of brown soap, and a sliver of horn, pointed at both ends, serving as toothpick and nail pick. Not much there to work with.
Rising, she crossed to the washstand, above which hung a mirror—a small one by Belandor standards, but nicely framed in gilded carving, and once again astonishingly elegant by her recent standards of comparison. Studying her own reflection critically, she decided that Nalio’s description of her appearance as “weary, disheveled, and travel-stained,” had been insulting and only partially correct. So far as she could tell, she did not look particularly weary. Her hair and clothing were decently ordered. She was worse than travel-stained, however. She was filmed from head to foot with smoke-deposited soot. There was even a dark smudge of the stuff branding one cheek. No wonder the guard at the gate had failed to recognize her as the magnifico’s daughter.
Removing her outer cloak, she uncovered a dress still reasonably clean, but mended and patched dozens of times, its once rich fabric threadbare and faded. No help for it; she owned no other.
The washstand offered a pitcher of fresh water, basin, lemon-scented soap, and lush towels. She cleaned herself as best she could, then combed her hair and plaited its dark length into a single thick braid, secured at the end with a length of twine. Once upon a time she had adorned her hair with exquisitely bejeweled and enameled combs. These days—twine.
There was a discreet knock at the door.
“Come,” said Jianna, and Ini entered.
“Dinner now,” announced the Sishmindri. “Master Nalio waits for you.”
“I am ready. I’ll find him—where?” Odd to be asking such a question, as if she were a stranger here.
“Eating place. Not real.”
“Not—oh, you mean a makeshift dining room, set up after the fire?”
Ini blinked his golden eyes affirmatively.
“Lead me there, please.” Strange, not to know the way. But the strangeness would wear off quickly, she told herself.
Ini bowed and departed, with Jianna at his side. He brought her along the corridor, down a flight of stairs, and then a few yards down another corridor to an arched doorway through which he ushered her with a graceless gesture. She paid him little heed, but the question shot across her mind, What goes on in that hairless head of his? Another peculiar mental twitch, and she could hardly account for it, but everything seemed awry just now.
The “eating place” looked to be a converted council or audience chamber, all but untouched by the fire, save for a few cracked windows. A good-sized table had been set up, and Uncle Nalio sat regally at its head, in her father’s place; a sight that set her teeth on edge. Of course, as acting head of the household he had every right to be there. In any case, it hardly mattered, for there was nobody present to admire his new grandeur. He sat alone at an empty, oddly sterile board. The usual gathering of visiting friends, kinsmen, and business associates had vanished. Presumably all had departed in hopes of avoiding contagion, but where in the world would they find refuge? Across the sea, perhaps? Is that what it would eventually come to for everyone?
Nalio glanced at her as she walked in, his lips assumed an astringent pucker, and she was at once acutely conscious of her patched dress, scuffed shoes, and the twine in her hair. Ridiculous to fret over such trifles, but the expression in his eyes left her no choice. Averting her gaze, she headed for the chair at the foot of the table, the one farthest away from him.
“Not there, niece. I do not wish to shout the length of the chamber at you. Seat yourself here, beside me.” It was a command.
Once again she swallowed an acid retort. His lordly tone was altogether ridiculous. Really, it was laughable, unworthy of her anger. Best to humor the little emperor, for now. She seated herself in the chair that he had specified.
Nalio was inspecting her openly and at leisure, at length observing, “We must remedy your appearance as best we can, without delay. You are a Belandor, and your present state ill becomes the dignity of our House. The loftiness of our standards expresses itself in our external aspect. This is a lesson that you must learn, niece.”
“Yes, Uncle Nalio.” Oh, you pedantic, pretentious little pipsqueak.
“We shall summon a dressmaker to replenish your wardrobe. You will also require a lady’s maid of responsible character, adequate experience, and suitable years to serve as your personal attendant and chaperone.”
What, you mean to sic some aging watchdog on me? We’ll see. On the other hand, the promise of the dressmaker and the new wardrobe was exciting. Pretty clothes again, at long last. Perhaps looking like herself once more would help her to feel like herself, the Maidenlady Jianna Belandor, as opposed to some uneasy alien, belonging nowhere.
“I’ll need someone who can do my hair.” The smile directed at her uncle was suitably appreciative.
“That is not an unreasonable criterion.” Nalio visibly relaxed and expanded. The interview was going well. “I am willing to allow this.”
Allow. The arrival of the soup spared Jianna the necessity of reply. Just as well. No sense at all in picking a quarrel. The soup bowl and underplate were of fine, translucent porcelain, elaborately painted. T
he spoon was silver, heavy but gracefully designed. These were only the ordinary implements that she had used and taken for granted throughout her life, but she had never before noticed how beautiful and luxurious they were. Indeed, everything at Belandor House was beautiful, or had been so before the fire. And would be again, she silently promised.
The soup was rich and subtly seasoned, its flavor enlivened with floating herbs and petals. Whatever damage Belandor House had suffered in the recent past, its kitchen evidently functioned unimpaired. Jianna breathed an inaudible sigh. She had almost forgotten that such food existed.
Shellfish in wine sauce followed the soup. Then, breast of chicken garnished with half a dozen different species of mushrooms. There was newly baked white bread, fresh butter, a terrine of assorted vegetables, tiny preserved game bird eggs, salad of mixed greens, cream-filled pastries, and astounding hothouse fruits that tasted of summer. It was only an ordinary dinner by Belandor House standards, and it was magnificent beyond description. Jianna feasted, her enjoyment dampened only by Uncle Nalio’s objectionable presence. He was eyeing her severely as she ate. The uncompanionable silence stretched, but at last he addressed her.
“Well, niece. You have enjoyed ample opportunity to refresh yourself and compose your thoughts. I trust you are now prepared to render a full explanation of your prolonged absence and silence.”
“Very well, Uncle.” She suppressed her annoyed reaction to his magisterial manner. His demand was entirely reasonable, in fact inevitable. Aureste himself would have framed the same request—but he would have stated it differently.
“It began about halfway between Vitrisi and Orezzia,” Jianna commenced. “Our carriage was attacked by marauders.”
“The carriage was discovered within days, along with the dead bodies of its passengers, driver, and guards. Everyone was there except you, niece. Only you had vanished.”
“They abducted me.”
“So your father surmised. We could not fathom the absence of a ransom demand, however.”
“They didn’t mean to hold me for ransom. Their intentions were far worse.”
She launched into a full description of the events following her capture by the outlaw Belandor clan. She spoke of Ironheart, its inhabitants, their hideous matrimonial schemes, and their connection to the Ghosts of the resistance. She spoke of the cruel treatment, the blows and threats she had received, and the menial work she had performed. She spoke of serving as assistant to Dr. Falaste Rione, an honorable physician and resistance sympathizer, whose father had once held the position of house doctor to the Magnifico Onarto Belandor. She described her rescue, the escape from Ironheart, the flight to the Ghosts’ campsite, where Rione’s medical skills were much needed, and whence no written communication had been possible. She described the ugly epidemic assailing the Ghosts, spoke much of Dr. Falaste Rione’s talent and dedication, told of the doctor’s ultimate success, after which he had finally been free to escort her back to Vitrisi and home.
Everything she related was entirely true, but some facts she deliberately omitted. She divulged nothing of Ghostly identities, hierarchies, plans, habits, resources, or whereabouts. She certainly made no mention of Dr. Falaste Rione’s dangerous sister. Nor did she breathe a word of her own marriage to Onartino Belandor. She could hardly have brought herself to speak of it to her father, much less Uncle Nalio, and her sense of mortification was absurd, for she had nothing to be ashamed of. The so-called marriage had been a twisted travesty. It hadn’t even been legitimate—not really—and of course, it had meant nothing at all. She had escaped unstained; she was the Maidenlady Jianna still. So she assured herself. Yet nothing could banish her rush of horror at the thought that—for the space of a day or two, between the wedding and his death—she had been Onartino’s wife, and his property.
Nalio was pestering her with questions. He wanted details and specifics, particularly those relating to this Dr. Falaste Rione, with whom she had spent so much time. Who was this Rione person? What was his background, his credentials? Had he treated her with the respect due a member of House Belandor? He was clearly no gentleman, else he would have escorted her home to Belandor House and transferred her safely into the keeping of the acting head of the household.
“He did escort me home.” Jianna strove for patience. “He just didn’t come inside.”
“I trust you made it clear to the fellow that he deserved a reward for his services?”
She felt the angry blood rush to her cheeks. “I think he was pressed for time,” she returned obliquely.
“But how very extraordinary.”
“Yes.” She deliberately misinterpreted. “He is extraordinary.” Oh, to pry him loose from this topic! She did not want to speak of Falaste Rione to Uncle Nalio, or to anyone else, for that matter. Somehow even the most commonplace, casual queries seemed invasive. Determined to change the subject, she plied her uncle with questions of her own, to which he replied at length. She verified, not to her surprise, that her father had been off upon some nameless jaunt at the time of the attack upon Belandor House. Of course. Aureste had at that time been launching his own assault upon Ironheart, of which Nalio appeared to know little or nothing. Hardly surprising—Aureste was not wont to confide in his youngest brother. Nalio knew only that Aureste had returned from that mysterious excursion frustrated, black-tempered, and distracted. He had undeniably applied himself to the healing of Belandor House, yet somehow, sometimes, his mind had seemed elsewhere. Nalio did not know why.
But Jianna did.
She fired off more questions and quickly learned as much as Nalio knew of his brothers’ current expedition north, but it seemed that the verifiable facts were few. Innesq and others of his ilk were needed to scrub down the Source in some abstruse, unnatural manner that only arcanists could possibly understand. If they failed, egregiously unpleasant things would happen. But then, unpleasant things were already happening all over town. More and more Vitrisians were dying of the plague these days, but the dead refused to rest in peace; they had developed an unseemly fondness for aimless rambling. At least, it looked aimless, but who could really say? The dead themselves offered no insight, consistently refusing to answer all questions put to them.
The Wanderers, as they were often known, while displaying no violent tendencies, were nonetheless dangerous by reason of extreme contagiousness, combined with unwelcome sociability. Their taste for living company was so marked that a certain alarmist element of the population actually imagined the corpses engaged in an organized effort to spread the plague. This was nonsensical, in Nalio’s opinion. The unfortunate remnants retained just enough of memory and feeling to long for contact with what had once been their own kind; it was nothing more than a final twitch of human instinct. Of course, “human instinct” could hardly account for the similarly gregarious behavior of the Sishmindri revenants. In all likelihood, the poor dead beasts simply demonstrated their continuing need and desire for firm human leadership, but again, the foolish alarmist element had taken fright. The result? There were sections of Vitrisi wherein Sishmindris were being slaughtered on sight—an appalling waste, in Nalio’s opinion.
Uncle Innesq would find it appalling, too, thought Jianna. But not for the same reasons. And Father?
Rumor had it, Nalio confided, that certain presumably plague-crazed Sishmindris had turned feral, even going so far as to attack and kill their human overlords. Old wives’ tales, to be sure. All but impossible to imagine the quiet, placid creatures capable of such behavior. But if by chance the rumors actually contained a grain of truth—if murderous Sishmindris haunted the streets of Vitrisi—then the threat was negligible, for they would never set web-toed foot upon Belandor property.
Nobody and nothing could possibly break in—not while Nalio Belandor was in charge. In addition to all of his brother’s arcane safeguards—all of them reinstated and reinforced prior to Innesq’s departure—there were plenty of mundane protective measures in place as well. Newly hired gua
rds and sentries, formidably armed and stationed everywhere, indoors and out. Heavy locks of the most modern design, installed throughout the inhabited north wing. Hidden observation points. Cached weapons, secretly stored at key locations. An alarm system of bells and chimes. And then there were the fiendishly clever concealed pitfalls, designed to entrap and incapacitate intruders. He could not permit himself to enlarge upon that topic. The key element in the effectiveness of the pitfalls lay in secrecy. Suffice it to say, any would-be intruder was sure to encounter highly unwelcome … surprises, thanks to the vigilance and diligence of Nalio Belandor. In the past, security had been lax, and the results had been horrendous, but all of that had changed, under the stewardship of … Nalio.
To Jianna, it made little sense. It seemed that what was left of Belandor House had been transformed into some sort of a small fortress, not unlike Ironheart. Under the rule of Uncle Nalio, there were locks, bars, hidden pitfalls, innumerable regulations, and it was altogether unpleasant. There was no cause for real concern, however, for all of it was temporary. Aureste and Innesq would return within days, and then life would resume its accustomed aspect—at least, so far as possible within a largely ruined mansion overlooking a restive, fearful, angry, smoke-palled, plague-ridden, corpse-trodden city.
The meal was approaching its conclusion, and he was studying her with a thoughtful air that set alarm bells pealing inside her head.
“Is something amiss, Uncle?” she inquired, a shade too sweetly.
“All is adequately ordered,” he reassured her. “Your return introduces an unexpected element, but we shall alter the design accordingly.”
What in the world was he blathering about?
“I must decide what is to be done with you,” he explained, evidently noting her look of incomprehension.
“What do you mean—done with me?” She frowned, puzzled and uneasy. “I’ve come home, that’s all.”
“I must determine the course best serving the interests of House Belandor,” he announced, alight with noble resolution.
The Ruined City Page 14