The Traitor's Daughter (43 page)

“And what is this General Order Fourteen, Lieutenant?”

The lieutenant nodded to one of his followers, who handed Vinz a fresh broadside densely covered with small print and bearing a representation of the governor’s seal. Vinz’s brow creased.

“I’ll save you the trouble of reading all that,” the lieutenant offered. “It’s a set of new regulations designed to ensure public safety. In the first place, it sets a curfew on every Faerlonnishman within the city limits. Any Faerlonnish national found walking the streets after ten o’clock at night will be subject to arrest and fine. Orderly good citizens are abed by that hour anyway, so there should be no complaint.”

“Is there a curfew on Taerleezis, too, or is it just us?” Vinzille demanded, ignoring his father’s quelling glance.

“The curfew applies to Faerlonnish-owned Sishmindris as well,” the lieutenant continued serenely. “Sishmindris caught roaming after hours are subject to confiscation by the authorities. The head of every Faerlonnish household is required to produce a list naming every dweller beneath his roof, including family members, guests, tenants, servants, and Sishmindris. This list will be submitted to the nearest Watch station within the next twenty-four hours.”

“Don’t you want the names of our dogs, cats, and pet birds as well?” Vinzille inquired.

“Every human servant abroad upon the streets at any hour of the day or evening shall be clothed in the livery of his household, or else bear an armband marked with the family crest or the surname of his employer. Every Sishmindri will be tagged, branded, tattooed, or otherwise furnished with an identifying mark. Any Sishmindri lacking such a mark is subject to confiscation by the authorities.”

“All of this is just an excuse to fatten your Taerleezi pockets,” Vinzille accused.

“Hush, son,” his father warned.

“Faerlonnish nationals shall carry their documents of identification with them at all times. Failure to comply with this regulation will result in arrest and fine.

“And finally,” the lieutenant concluded, “Faerlonnish nationals are henceforth forbidden to bear arms of any description.”

This was too much even for Vinz’s practiced composure. “But you would leave us defenseless,” he remonstrated. “What of our right to protect ourselves and our homes?”

“A stout staff or walking stick is not to be regarded as a weapon,” the lieutenant observed.

“Inadequate. The cutthroats and footpads will rule Vitrisi.”

“They already do.” Vinzille cast a meaningful eye upon the Taerleezi intruders.

“If you are truly concerned for your safety,” the lieutenant suggested, “you might always consider hiring a good set of Taerleezi guards, who are, of course, exempt from the arms-bearing restriction. Their rates are a little high, but under the circumstances you may find the investment worthwhile. Magnifico, you have now been properly informed of the new regulations. I trust you understand what is required of you and will comply.” So saying, he turned on his heel and departed, trailed by his broadside-bearing minions.

Vinzille waited until they were alone before expressing himself. “Stinking Taerleezi vomit. They shouldn’t be allowed to get away with it. Father, I’ve made a decision. I want to join the resistance.”

Vinz stared at him, speechless.

* * *

Time was out of joint. She had waited there forever and would continue to wait there forever, somewhere outside of time. But at length a low murmur of masculine voices, just barely audible through the heavy oaken door, told Jianna that the waiting was over. Her husband had arrived.

She heard a bark of muffled laughter, and the voice was unfamiliar, probably the guard’s. Would that guard remain on duty, salacious ear no doubt pressed to the door? If so, he would hear the thud of the blow, perhaps a groan, the sound of a heavy body hitting the floor. He would investigate, raise the alarm, ruin everything … But no. Even Onartino would not relish an audience on his wedding night. Moreover, he would not for one moment doubt his own ability to control his slender slip of a bride without assistance. Surely he would send the guard away. She listened intently, but caught no tap of retreating footsteps. There was a pause, the small scrape of the latch, and the door began to open. She lifted the poker, both hands locked on the shaft, and held her breath.

One chance, now, that’s all you get, now, do it right, now, smashthatbastard’sheadinnownowNOW!

As he stepped into the room, she swung the poker with all her strength, recognized the pale profile and middling slim stature too late to arrest the blow, and did her belated best to divert it. He glanced up to behold the descending iron, jumped aside, and the stroke missed him by a hair.

“Falaste.” She stared at him and wondered if she could be dreaming or mad. She was shaking uncontrollably, and her eyes were flooded with tears. “Falaste. Oh, Falaste.”

“Ah, Jianna. I know you.” He drew the poker gently from her grasp and set it aside. “I should have expected this.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I’ve come to take you away.”

“Away from him? Away from Ironheart?” He nodded and her heart lurched as if she had been reprieved from execution, even while she wondered yet if she were dreaming. “But you said—”

“Never mind what I said. Come, we haven’t much time. Hurry.”

“Wait, wait, what about the guard?”

“Gone.”

“You didn’t kill him?” she whispered.

“Hardly. I advised him to go downstairs to the party for some ale and food. I told him I’d stand guard in his place until he returned. I told him to take his time.”

“He believed that?”

“Why shouldn’t he? Ennzu’s known me since we were both children, and I’ve never lied to him before.”

She fancied that she caught a note of something like bitterness in his tone, but there was no time to think about it, for he was already exiting the bedroom, motioning her with a jerk of the head to follow, and she obeyed without hesitation.

A little lamplight spilled through the half-open door, faintly illuminating the room beyond. They crossed it and passed through another doorway into blackness. Night had fallen. No light filtered in from the outside; in any case, many of the rooms on this floor were windowless. Jianna clutched her companion’s arm.

“Candle? Lantern?” she whispered.

“No need.” His voice was similarly muted. “I know the way.”

And he did. She’d thought that she had learned to navigate Ironheart’s second-story warren of nested chambers, closets, cabinets, and cubicles, but in the dark she immediately lost her bearings. Not so Falaste Rione. He had grown up in this place and knew every cranny. Moving confidently as if gifted with arcane vision, he led her through the maze, pausing only occasionally to run his fingertips along a wall, a floorboard, a doorjamb whose shape and texture seemed to inform him. Jianna followed, placing herself in his care as fully and willingly as she had done upon the afternoon of their first meeting. Only once he paused at length, suddenly kneeling in the dark and obliging her to release her hold on his arm. She heard a scuffling, a scrape, and then his voice.

“Here, take this.”

She extended her hands blindly and felt a soft bundle thrust into them. “What is this?”

“Woolen cloak. It’s cold outside.”

Outside
. He was taking her out of Ironheart.

“Thank you.” Her voice was unsteady. “You’ve left things waiting here for us? You’ve been planning this?”

“I haven’t been planning anything, before the last hour. At least, I don’t think I’ve been planning anything.”

What happened? Why did you change your mind? What about all that loyalty to Yvenza?
The questions boiling in her brain remained unspoken.

In the dark she shook out the woolen folds and wrapped herself in the cloak. He took her hand and led her on until they passed through another doorway, and she felt a current of fresh air on her face, and then she could dimly see again. A deep, unglazed window admitted the night breeze and a suspicion of moonlight. By that faint glow she discerned an arched opening in the wall before her. She knew where she was, now. That window looked out over the courtyard. That archway opened upon a narrow flight of stairs leading down to the ground-floor gallery. She could see Rione well enough to make out the bulge of the pack slung over his back and to see that he now gripped something dark in his right hand—a piece of luggage?
His medical bag
. Of course. His most precious possession, by far.

She no longer needed guidance, but she did not let go of his hand, whose steady warm pressure was wonderfully reassuring. Her eyes and ears strained for the sight or sound of some wandering servant or sentry, but there was none; presumably they were gathered at that monstrous travesty of a wedding celebration. But not all of them; Yvenza would never have left Ironheart wholly unguarded. Rione could not possibly smuggle her out without encountering somebody, and then what?

Down the stairs they stole hand in hand, and at the bottom Rione halted.

“Stay here,” he commanded, his voice so low that she barely caught the words.

She could see him fairly well—evidently a lantern or candle burned somewhere along the ground-floor gallery—and therefore knew that her own voiceless nod would be visible to him. He placed his bag on the floor with care, then stripped the pack from his back and set it down. Casually unencumbered, he stepped out into the gallery, and for a few moments Jianna listened to his leisurely confident footsteps heading straight for Ironheart’s big front door. She did not need to look in order to know that a sentry would be standing watch there, and sure enough, the voices soon came echoing to her hiding place.

“Well, Neequo. Seems you drew the short straw this evening. Stuck here alone at the door, while every other man in the place is busy putting away all the ale he can drink.” Rione’s voice, impossibly easy, untroubled, normal.

“Falaste, lad.” The guard’s voice, genial and sociable, evidently addressing a friend. “You’re right, I’m the saltcod tonight. What are you doing here?”

“I’ve come to do you a good turn. Seems that the magnifica has taken pity on you.”

“That doesn’t sound like our lady.”

“Well, I asked her.”

“Asked her what?”

“If you couldn’t leave your post for some food, drink, and Gwetto’s fiddling. I’ll stand in for you here.”

“She said yes to that?”

“She did. You’re in luck.” Rione’s delivery was a masterpiece of amiable insouciance.

“Well, I thank you, lad. That was a friendly thought. I’m much obliged.”

“Better go along while there’s still some of that ale left. Take as much time as you want, it’s all one to me. I’m in no hurry.”

“Much obliged. You can trust me to return the favor one day.”

I hope not
, Jianna thought. Neequo was already hurrying toward that ale, the swift clump of his footsteps approaching her hiding place, and she held her breath as he drew level with the stairwell entrance, pressing her back hard to the wall, hardly daring to blink. She might have spared herself the worry. As Neequo passed the archway, she glimpsed a big, broad figure, muffled in homespun and thatched with shaggy hair—she had often seen him about Ironheart, but never knew his name until this night—and then he was past, invisible again, footsteps receding.
So easy!
Presently the sound faded away and seconds later she heard a low whistle, unmistakably a signal from Rione.

Pausing only long enough to scoop up his belongings, she stepped forth into the gallery and saw him waiting beside the door in a pool of light cast by a small oil lamp.
You were brilliant!
Only the need for silence and secrecy stifled her voice.
You hoodwinked him completely, and you made it seem so easy!
She said nothing, but admiring enthusiasm lighted her eyes and her smile as she sped toward him. Then her smile vanished as she drew near enough to read his facial expression, which reflected neither triumph nor satisfaction. Quite the contrary, his demeanor was distinctly—
grim
, she thought.
Down in the mouth. Or maybe troubled in conscience?
Troubled enough to turn his back on her? It was not too late for him to march her straight back to the marriage chamber …

She went cold at the thought and, as she reached him, a wintry draft sweeping in under the door heightened the sensation. She noticed then that Rione was not properly dressed for the outdoors and she asked without thought, “Where’s your cloak?”

“On you.”

“Oh. But couldn’t you—”
have found someone else’s to take?
were the words that popped into her mind, but she held them in, recalling that he eccentrically viewed the servant population of Ironheart as a collection of individuals, even friends, from whom he did not wish to steal. Yes, he would very probably regard it as stealing. “Couldn’t you have found something?” she concluded feebly.

“No time.”

She wasn’t sure whether he meant that he’d had no time to secure an overgarment, or that there was no time now to discuss the matter. Pulling the door open, he stuck his head out, reconnoitered briefly, and slid through. Jianna followed, out the door,
out of Ironheart
, into the night that was cold but not unendurably so, partly thanks to Rione’s woolen cloak, partly due to her own excitement. What next? He was already moving left along the front of the building, and she supposed that he was heading for one of the small side gates in the outer wall, unguarded, if such was to be found.

It was not. As they rounded the angle of the stronghouse, Jianna caught an orange glow of light—fire or lamplight. Rione, a pace ahead of her, turned and halted her with a gesture. Jianna shrank back into the shadows, whence she watched with fatalistic fascination as he continued on toward the source of the light. Before the exit sat a sentry, very comfortably ensconced there, with a brazier of glowing coals beside him and a three-legged stool beneath him. The sentry was engaged in roasting something over the coals, rounded blobs wafting the aroma of onions. He seemed absorbed in his task, and wouldn’t it be feasible to sneak on past without drawing his notice?