The Ruined City

by Brandon, Paula

  The potent combination of her words, her youth and good looks, her musical voice, and a certain studied simplicity of manner affected many listeners. Jianna heard a couple of muted sobs nearby, while a restless rustling swept the crowd.

  Perhaps fearing an outbreak of popular protest or demonstration, the guards hurried the prisoner to the tower. There her wrists were attached to the top wheel, her ankles to the bottom. A blindfold was offered and politely refused. Her face remained exposed to general view. Her expression of calm certitude never altered. The executioner plied his levers. The wheels of the torsion tower turned, and Anzi Uffrigo’s assassin died.

  It was done. Celisse Rione was gone. Jianna stood motionless, stunned by the speed and finality of it. The prolonged agony of death by torsion was proverbial. It was a known fact that a skilled executioner could draw it out for hours. But Celisse’s slender body had broken within seconds and her sufferings had been of the briefest duration. The authorities had clearly neglected an opportunity to exact vengeance upon the murderess of the Taerleezi governor and self-proclaimed enemy of Taerleezi authority. Strange. Whose decision, and what was the reason?

  Her mind was in no fit state to address such issues.

  They took Celisse’s body down from the tower, deposited it in the waiting wooden box, and carried the box from the scaffold. The governor of the Witch, his attendant, and the guards with their burden vanished back into the prison, and the heavy door closed with a conclusive thunk.

  The crowd was quiet, its mood somber and unsure. Jianna waited, eyes closed behind her mask, ears attuned to the sounds she expected—the door opening again, a responsive stirring among the spectators as the guards and officials reemerged with a second condemned prisoner in hand.

  The seconds passed. All that reached her ears was the neutral buzz of low-voiced conversation. Nothing happened. At last she opened her eyes again to direct an inquiry to her nearest neighbor.

  “What about the other one—her brother? What about Falaste Rione?”

  A wordless shrug was the sole reply.

  Confusion possessed her, but there was also the slightest brightening of hope for a miracle, hope tenuous as the first glow along the edge of tinder fragments kindled in a downpour.

  “The brother?” she whispered.

  No reply. No information. No further activity. Jianna pressed her hands to her temples.

  Another indeterminate passage of time, and she became aware that the crowd was thinning around her. The immediate pressure diminished, the sense of personal space increased, the air seemed to clear—and the prison door remained shut. She drew a deep breath and strove for mental clarity.

  They were not executing Falaste Rione today. Of course, he might already be dead.

  There was room to breathe, room to move. The citizens were flowing from the courtyard. She allowed herself to drift on the human current, and she was back out on the street again. She let her feet carry her where they would. Her mind gradually thawed. Thoughts began to form.

  The thoughts touching upon Celisse Rione’s last moments, she pushed away. So young. So dead. Celisse had chosen her own path, destroying her brother along with herself. She did not want to think about Celisse.

  But Falaste—alive or dead? Sick or well? Scheduled for execution another day?

  Nobody knew. Oh, not literally. The governor of the Witch knew. So did a few officials, some guards, a turnkey or two. But for all practical purposes, from her immediate perspective, nobody knew.

  Not entirely true.

  Her mind seemed to be coming back to life. Almost she felt it tingling inside her skull.

  The Ghosts always know everything about everything.

  What of it? She knew nothing of the city Ghosts, nor they of her.

  Think again.

  She had met a Vitrisian Ghost once, not so very long ago. With any luck, he would remember her face.

  In an instant it was whole in her mind, as vivid as if it had happened yesterday. The incongruously happy afternoon that she had spent with Falaste, combing the city for his homicidal sister. His decision to enlist the aid of the Ghosts. The cloak-and-dagger method of communication. “… Last night I placed a copper inside the crack in the base of Duke Dalbo Strenvivi’s statue in the Strenvivi Gardens. That copper signifies my request for an afternoon meeting …” She remembered it all.

  She stopped dead, fully aware of her surroundings for the first time since she had wandered out of the prison courtyard. She stood in Biso’s Gate, a quiet little lane not far from her lodgings. She had unconsciously been making her way back to The Bellflower, the only refuge she knew. She looked about her. To the left rose an old livery stable, closed and boarded long ago. Several dwellings were similarly boarded at door and window, and one of them flaunted the red X. The denizens went about their business, identities lost behind full-face masks equipped with herb-stuffed nasal projections. Not long ago, such a scene would have struck her as fantastic. Now it was commonplace.

  Her own mask featured no beak, but offered a pair of gauze eyepieces that she now tweaked into position. Thus fortified, she turned her newly purposeful steps north, toward the Strenvivi Gardens.

  She had not seen the Strenvivi Gardens in nearly a year. She had last visited in late spring, when the flowering trees had shone at the height of their glory. She had come there with her father, and together they had admired the blossoms, fed seeds to the swans, and wandered the white gravel paths, chatting and laughing together. And the presence of four Belandor bodyguards assigned to block the approach of hostile, critical, importunate, or murderous strangers had not struck her as strange at that time. It was all that she had ever known.

  The recollection of her father did not stab with the force of earlier days; her mind and heart were filled with Falaste and his plight. One thing had not changed, however. She still tried to imagine what Aureste Belandor would advise, what Aureste would choose in similar circumstances. She could guess what he would say, what he might do now, and she was doing it.

  The Strenvivi Gardens had changed considerably since her last visit. The once beautifully manicured grounds were unkempt and almost colorless. The white gravel formerly lining the paths had sunk into the mud. The pond had been drained, and there was not a swan in sight.

  But Duke Dalbo Strenvivi’s equestrian statue had not altered. There was Dalbo in his usual place, he and his horse caught in cast bronze forever. There sat Dalbo in all his conquering magnificence; his incomparably arrogant pose, his wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command a testament to the genius of the sculptor.

  The statue was perfect, but its dark green marble base had not fared so well. The stone was webbed with cracks, most of them hairline, a few larger, and one gaping a fingerwidth.

  That had to be the one. She cast a quick glance around her. Nobody was watching. In fact, there was hardly a soul in sight. Evidently the gardens had declined in popularity. She slipped a copper coin into the crack, then stood up and took her leave of melancholy, neglected Strenvivi Gardens.

  And after that there was nothing left but to wait for the time to pass. The coin she had left communicated a request for an afternoon meeting, and it was already nearly midday. There could be no response before tomorrow afternoon at the earliest, and it might take considerably longer than that. Or the request might be ignored altogether.

  No. Aureste’s daughter would not let them ignore her.

  She forced herself to enter the first cookshop that she saw. Food was the last thing in the world that she wanted, but information was another matter, and perhaps there was some to be had.

  The place was small and lively, well patronized at this time of the day. She seated herself at the long common board and ordered a mug of warm orange-water. The faces around her were bare, so she removed her own mask. Her orange-water arrived. She sipped without tasting, and listened.

  The Rione execution was unquestionably the topic of the hour, and there was no dearth of talk. A couple of individuals pr
esent had actually witnessed the event, and they furnished detailed descriptions sugared with praise of the Little Faerlonnish Lioness. Her courage had been sublime, her last words a clarion call to her countrymen. Her youth, her beauty, her patriotism, her greatness of heart … inspirational.

  Jianna waited, but no one spoke of Falaste Rione, and at last she ventured a question:

  “But what of her brother—was he not condemned as well?”

  The brother hadn’t been there, the experts informed her. His name hadn’t been mentioned, there was no death warrant. He seemed to have been overlooked.

  But how? Why? Had his sentence been commuted, or his execution simply postponed?

  Nobody had the faintest idea.

  Jianna paid her reckoning and left. Returning to The Bellflower, she immured herself within her room and waited for the hours to pass. They did so at their own unhurried pace. Around twilight, she forced herself to consume a light meal of cold items from the basket of provisions that hung on the hook in the low ceiling, safely out of reach of the mice. She wanted nothing, but needed to maintain her strength, for tomorrow she would walk some distance.

  Darkness fell and she sought her bed, but sleep eluded her. The image of Celisse Rione upon the torsion tower burned behind her closed lids. There was no quenching it. She sat up in bed, hugging her bent knees. Sleep was out of the question. She was wide awake and certain to remain so.

  Rising from bed, she slid her bare feet into a pair of soft leather slippers, part of her expensive cannibalized trousseau, and draped her cloak over her shift. She stepped to the fireplace, took up the poker, and coaxed the banked fire back to life. The warmth came at her, and the room lightened into view. She did not see it. Her mind was starting to work properly again, for the first time in days, and it was like the resurgence of the banked coal fire. The thoughts were crackling, the ideas popping. There were possibilities; there might even be hope. Celisse’s face receded. She worked her brain vigorously for hours, and felt the better for the mental exercise.

  Shortly before dawn she returned to bed, and this time drifted off to sleep. The delayed rest served her well. The clock in the nearest bell tower was striking the hour of ten when she finally awoke. The morning was well advanced, and that was all to the good. She ached to put the morning behind her.

  She washed and dressed, but never thought of food. Her mind stretched into the immediate future; a walk, and then perhaps a meeting. Or perhaps not, today. But there would be a meeting. She would insist.

  She set forth from The Bellflower, with the not-distant past strong and clear in her mind. She remembered the way to The Cask in Cutter Lane. She remembered the warmth of Falaste’s hand clasping hers. She remembered the talk, the laughter, the quiet music of his voice. She remembered it perfectly.

  It was easy to find her way back. She walked, time and distance passed, and then she was there again in that obscure back street of an ordinary neighborhood. How long since she had last been here? Weeks? Centuries? Minutes?

  At the top of Cutter Lane stood The Cask, an undistinguished wineshop of no discernible character. She went in, and it was just as she remembered, with its plain aspect, dim lighting, and equally dim patrons. Upon the occasion of her previous visit, she and Falaste had taken a small table at the rear. She seated herself at the same table now. She pushed back her hood and took off her mask.

  That day, the two of them had ordered soup. She ordered soup now, as if performing the ritual gestures of a magical ceremony. And then they had talked, and lost themselves in each other’s eyes, and spooned their soup, and waited.

  There was no one to talk to now. As for the soup, she could not swallow a mouthful. It was ordinary, perfectly decent bean soup, but the sight and smell revolted her. There was nothing to do but wait. She bowed her head to fix a sightless gaze on the tabletop. She sat motionless, while the schemes spun wildly in her head.

  She had no idea how long it was before a shadow glided across the table, and the air moved, and the chair opposite her was suddenly occupied. She looked up to meet intelligent eyes in a bland, utterly nondescript face that she had encountered once before.

  “It’s you. It worked. You’re here,” she blurted, amazed.

  “Maidenlady Noro Penzia.” Lousewort greeted her in his undistinguished, unclassifiable voice. “That copper might have been left by any of several people, but my money was on you.”

  “Thank you for coming.”

  “I’m glad to see you at liberty and in good health. Perhaps you’re in danger or want, though—it wouldn’t be surprising. Is that why you’ve asked for this meeting?”

  “I am in want—of information, above all things. You know that Celisse Rione was executed yesterday morning. Her brother Falaste Rione was not.” She waited for his infinitesimal nod, then moistened her dry lips and forced herself to voice the question whose answer might devastate her. “Do you know if he’s still alive?”

  “Yes. He’s alive in the Witch, and treated with exceptional favor, I’m told. Good food, extra blankets, candles, all that. And nary a beating.”

  Alive. The tears sprang to her eyes. She blinked them away and strove hard to keep her voice steady.

  “I don’t understand.” There was only the slightest quaver. “He was condemned along with his sister. What’s happened?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “But I thought that the—I mean, I thought that your people know everything.”

  “Not quite.” Lousewort offered a small smile that was bland but somehow sympathetic. “We know a little of what goes on in the Witch, but the Rione situation is as much a mystery to us as it is to you. At least for now. Maybe we’ll learn more, in time.”

  “Does Falaste have time?”

  Lousewort shrugged.

  “You and the others would do what you can for him, would you not?”

  “Gladly. He’s one of our best. What do you hope to do—send him a message, perhaps? This is something that might be arranged.”

  “My plan is a bit more ambitious. I mean to deliver him from the Witch.”

  “Really.” Lousewort’s brows rose. “You surprise me, indeed you do. Maidenlady, I admire your spirit and your devotion to our friend, but you must understand that the Witch is impregnable. The rescue of a prisoner is impossible.”

  “Tricky and dangerous, yes. Impossible, no. I’ve a plan.”

  “A plan. Of course. My dear young lady, if the matter were as simple as you seem to believe, do you think we wouldn’t have come up with a plan, long ago?”

  “Perhaps a fresh perspective was required. I’ve given it a good deal of thought, and I’ve devised a scheme that might work. I can’t carry it out alone, though. That’s why I’ve come to you. I need some people.”

  “People?”

  “A good forger, for one. Then, a few women. Or boys who could dress up as women—either would do. Finally, an apothecary who knows what he’s about. Could you get them for me?”

  “Why don’t I just pull ’em out of my hat? Maidenlady, I don’t wish to wound you, but this is madness. You must abandon these dreams and accept reality. There’s no plucking a prisoner from the Witch.”

  “No? Do you remember the last time I was here, Master Lousewort?” Leaning forward in her chair, Jianna eyed him intently. “We talked of Celisse Rione’s resolve to remove Anzi Uffrigo. And I spoke up then to say that it was impossible. She was just a young woman on her own, with little of wealth, rank, or resources. She’d never be able to come anywhere near him—I thought. You and Falaste just looked at one another. Those looks expressed your opinion of Celisse. Neither of you dismissed the possibility that she’d somehow overcome all obstacles to achieve her aim. And the two of you were right. She did it, she found a way. If Celisse could do it, then so can I. Understand me, Master Lousewort. With your help or without it, I will save Falaste Rione. I’ll find a way.”

  Lousewort studied her face. His own expression changed. At last he invited, “Tell me about t
his plan of yours.”

  Jianna complied.

  SEVENTEEN

  “What are you mumbling about?” Yvenza demanded, her tone peremptory yet hushed. In the opposite seat slumped Master Innesq Belandor, fast asleep. She preferred that he remain so. Master Innesq habitually employed waxen earplugs to exclude the world, and quiet conversation between his fellow carriage passengers would not disturb his slumber. Nevertheless, she kept her voice subdued.

  She might as well have spared herself the trouble. There was no sign of comprehension, much less intelligible response from Nissi. The girl sat beside Innesq, very close but not touching him. The pallid little face was slack, the colorless eyes huge and blind. A thin drone of meaningless noise dribbled from her lips.

  “What is this? What’s the matter with you?” Leaning forward in her seat, Yvenza snapped her fingers. This produced no result, so she took the small jaw in her hand and jerked it toward herself. Nothing registered in the eyes. Sounds incomprehensible and alien issued from the mouth.

  “Stop that. If you can’t speak sensibly, then hold your peace.”

  The girl murmured a few nearly inaudible words that Yvenza strained to capture. Again she might have spared herself the trouble, for Nissi spoke in some language never meant for human ear or tongue.

  “What do you hear? What do you see? When you are yourself again, you’ll tell me all of it.” No knowing when that might be. In the meantime Yvenza leaned back in her seat and stared out the window to watch the trackless hills flowing by. By all standards of normality, such terrain was unnavigable by carriage. The combined skills of the arcanists in the party, however, had eliminated that difficulty, at least for the present. The six of them had contrived to create a short stretch of smooth, level roadway that somehow remained positioned perpetually beneath the wheels of the party’s carriages and wagons. And very odd it was to witness the land resume its natural rugged contours in their wake. The sight never palled.