The Traitor's Daughter (50 page)

“He’s been like that for days, now—laid out exactly as the Sishmindris left him.” For some reason Nalio was whispering. “He hasn’t moved so much as a fingertip. It is my theory that he’s suffered an injury to the brain—perhaps an apoplexy—and he is now completely paralyzed. I think—”

“Leave us,” Aureste commanded absently.

“If I’m right, then the removal of a sizable portion of his skull, resulting in the relief of intracranial pressure, might—”

“You may go, Nalio.”

“Very well. Very well.” Nalio’s face flushed. Spine very erect, he took a step toward the door, then stopped and turned back. “You make it clear that I am not wanted. Before you dismiss me, however, there is one thing you should know. In your absence, and with Innesq asleep these past few days, I have been in charge here. I’ve supervised the staff, reorganized the living arrangements to shift us all over to the north wing, dealt with tradespeople and mechanicals, begun work on the search through the ruins, the discovery and interment of the bodies. I’ve listed property lost, property damaged, property saved—it’s a very thorough list. I’ve accepted estimates from various laborers for removal and cleaning services. I’ve compiled a short list of worthy architects, one of whom might be selected to repair and rebuild the house. In short, I’ve assumed the duties of head of the household. And I’ve performed those duties well, Aureste. Very well indeed; ask anyone. I am not without ability, you know. I think you should be aware of that.”

“I am.” Aureste frowned, feeling himself distracted as if by the pertinacious buzzing of a fly. “Be assured that I value you according to your merits, brother. Now pray leave us.”

Only partially mollified, Nalio nodded and exited, shutting the door behind him with pointed emphasis.

He was alone with Innesq. Approaching the bedside, Aureste stood looking down at his brother. The face—a sickly and haggard version of his own—had never been so still, so uninhabited. Innesq wasn’t there.

But perhaps he could be summoned back. If determination and singleness of mind were enough to serve the purpose, he
would
be recalled to life.

“Innesq. Wake up. Hear me. Wake.” He did not raise his voice, but invested it with all the quiet force that he could muster. Bending slightly, he clasped his brother’s warm hand—his own was icy—straightened, and spoke again. “Come back. You are needed here. We cannot do without you. Do you hear? You are needed. Wake.”

Innesq slept on. For the next twenty minutes, Aureste stood holding his brother’s hand. Sometimes he repeated his exhortations; much of the time he was silent. Gradually the warmth of his brother’s limp hand infused his own. But Innesq never woke, never even stirred.

At length, Aureste laid Innesq’s hand down, turned from the bed, and walked out of the room. Grief and an intolerable sense of helplessness would slice like internal daggers if he gave way to them and he therefore transmuted the unwelcome visitants to anger. And it helped greatly. The surging red energy reinvigorated him, renewed his courage and along with it his resolve to avenge himself upon the authors of this attack on his home. The skulking fanatics of the resistance maintained a craven anonymity, but one of the invaders—the vilest of them, the one who had brought them past the arcane safeguards, Innesq’s attacker—had been identified. Vinz Corvestri.

Vinz Corvestri would pay dearly. And his connection to Sonnetia—his offense and his protection alike, for the past twenty-five years—would not preserve him now.

A nearby door stood ajar. Aureste looked in and saw a bedchamber, a lamp burning within, coals glowing on the grate, the bed made up, a smoke-dimmed portrait of Unexia Belandor hanging on the wall. Evidently Nalio had chosen this undamaged room to settle in following the destruction of his own apartment. He was welcome to it. Aureste’s eyes flew to the one object of interest that the room contained: a small writing desk in the corner, its surface laden with perfectly arranged stacks of ledgers, account books, and documents. Here Nalio must sit to compose those lists, those very thorough lists, of which he was so proud. Here, too, would be found all manner of writing materials.

Aureste strode to the desk and seated himself. Seeing no blank paper, he selected an empty page from the nearest ledger and tore it from the book. There was no dearth of pens and ink. Dipping a quill, he began to write; very quickly and decisively, with never a hesitation or a blotted line. The denunciation of Vinz Corvestri as both a patron and an active member of the Faerlonnish resistance movement almost seemed to write itself. The exercise was pleasurable as well as productive. It was almost with a sense of regret that he concluded with the suggestion that an investigation of Corvestri Mansion—and most particularly of the desk in the master’s study—would almost certainly uncover clear evidence of the Magnifico Corvestri’s guilt. This letter he left unsigned. He sealed it with red wax that bore no identifying imprint, then left Nalio’s bedchamber to search the halls for some servant to bear the message to the Clouds Watch Station, there to slide it through the slot in the door under cover of darkness.

Selecting a female Sishmindri, he sent her off about his business, and the knowledge that he had taken definite action at last greatly improved his spirits. The Taerleezi guards of the Watch would act swiftly upon such an accusation as he had sent them. Probably they would descend upon Corvestri Mansion within hours, and even the most cursory search would yield rich results, thanks to his own foresight and the corruptibility of Sonnetia Corvestri’s maid.

* * *

Evening in the Corvestri family’s private dining room, and life was good; normality once more reigned. Vinz Corvestri surveyed the scene with satisfaction. Candlelight gleaming upon fine china, silver, and crystal. An excellent meal; and the circumstance that gave substance and meaning to it all—his family reunited. Sonnetia was back in her rightful place, facing him across the table. She was gowned in the deepest shade of moss-green velvet, with heirloom emeralds glinting at her throat and wrists.

During the days of her incarceration, he had almost forgotten how beautiful she still was, particularly in the warm glow of the candles. And if she had been treating him with some coldness since her liberation—yes, marked coldness, no doubt about it—yet her courtesy and propriety remained perfectly intact; she gave him no legitimate cause for complaint, and probably never had. Right now, at this moment, he would never have dreamed of complaining, for she was smiling at Vinzille, laughing at some funny story of his. It was an expression never directed at her husband, but when he glimpsed it his breath caught, even after all these years, and he remembered why he had wanted so desperately to marry her.

And Vinzille was smiling, too, uncomplicatedly happy to have his mother back where she belonged. Since she had rejoined them, the boy had spoken no more of enlisting in the resistance, to his father’s deep relief. Vinz’s sole experience of true resistance activity had been more than enough for a lifetime, and the mere thought of his son’s involvement sent his innards into uproar.

No fear of that now, though. And no fear either, it seemed, that his own participation in the attack upon Belandor House would ever come to light. Had the authorities discovered any incriminating evidence, he would have been arrested and charged by this time. Clearly they had nothing. He had pulled it off.

Catching the eye of a hovering Sishmindri, Vinz shifted his glance to the empty glass on the table before him, and the amphibian refilled it at once. He sipped appreciatively. First-rate wine, full and complex. He felt as if he could drink an entire bottle of it without ever suffering a morning-after headache. Yes, things were right again.

Thus lulled, Vinz was unprepared for the entrance of the Taerleezi authorities. They marched into the dining room unannounced, no less than eight armed guards squared into a miniature phalanx, led by an officer of familiar aspect. It was a lieutenant—the same Taerleezi lieutenant from the Clouds Watch Station who had delivered the notification of the governor’s General Order Fourteen, a few days earlier. There had been no cause for alarm on that occasion, and there was no cause now or so Vinz assured himself.

“Magnifico Vinz Corvestri, you are hereby informed that the Vitrisi City Guard, acting on behalf of the Taerleezi Provisional Council, has authorized a search of these premises,” the lieutenant announced professionally. “We are to investigate the entire building and all of its contents, not excluding personal property. There is no area of the house, no chamber, closet, or container to which we do not demand access. If you, or the magnifica, or any member of your household possesses keys, you will hand them over to me at this time. Should we encounter locked doors, drawers, or boxes that we are unable to unlock, they will be broken open forcibly. Do you understand all this, Magnifico?”

“Clearly, Lieutenant.”

“Have you anything to declare at this time?”

“What should I have to declare, when I’ve no idea what you are looking for?” Vinz inquired earnestly. In truth he knew exactly what they would be looking for in the home of a Faerlonnish noble rumored to possess arcane ability. They would be looking for evidence of illegal arcane practice. The law prohibiting arcanism among the Faerlonnish was loosely enforced; indeed, it could hardly be otherwise. Nevertheless, conviction upon such a charge would impose a heavy fine, together with the confiscation of all demonstrably arcane materials, writings, supplies, and devices, much of it valuable and difficult to replace, and all of it intended for Vinzille.

Vinz thought quickly. The entrance to the passageway leading to his workroom was well concealed; it was not impossible that the Taers would overlook it. If they found their way to the workroom, however, he could claim that the chamber and its contents had been the property of his late father, who had practiced legally in the ante-prohibition days before the war; all of which was true. He could also maintain that he himself had never made illicit use of the workroom. They would not believe him, of course, but it might be successfully argued that legitimate inheritance of arcane equipment did not in itself constitute proof of illegal use. With any luck, he might even evade the fine. The Taers would carry off the arcane paraphernalia if they found it, and that would be a considerable misfortune, but not a killing blow.

“I’ll cooperate to the fullest, Lieutenant,” Vinz declared virtuously. “As for the keys, you won’t need them, for nothing here is locked, so far as I know. How should it be otherwise, when we have nothing to hide? Magnifica—” He caught his wife’s eye. “Have you any keys that should be handed over to the officer?”

“None.” Sonnetia’s tone was neutral, her face perfectly mask-like. Vinz’s regard shifted to his son, whose eyes were practically aflame with indignation.

Don’t let him say anything
, Vinz silently enjoined the forces of the universe.
Don’t let him annoy them
.

As if she heard the mute plea, or vibrated in natural sympathy, Sonnetia laid a light hand on her son’s arm. He turned to her, and she gave her head an almost imperceptible shake. Vinzille folded his arms and stared down into his lap.

“Proceed with your search, Lieutenant,” Vinz urged graciously. “If there’s anything we can do to assist, or if you’ve any questions, do not hesitate to ask.”

“We won’t hesitate,” the lieutenant replied with a note of barely suppressed sarcasm. Turning to his followers, he commanded, “Split into pairs, take upper, middle, and lower stories. You know what to look for. Sanzi, you’re with me, we’re for the study. Magnifico, you’ll have one of your people lead us to your study.”

“Certainly,” Vinz conceded, mystified and uneasy.

“Jio.” The lieutenant addressed the tallest and broadest of his men. “Stay here, see that no one leaves.”

Jio saluted. His comrades withdrew. The guard—a remarkably husky specimen, built like a warehouse—drew a chair up to the doorway and seated himself. From that vantage point he regarded the family unblinkingly.

Dinner resumed. The candlelight glowed as warmly as ever, the food and wine were excellent as ever, but Vinz’s appetite had flagged. In this he was not alone. His son’s adolescent voracity remained unimpaired, but Sonnetia sat still and very upright, eyes fixed on the plate before her. Conversation, so lively minutes earlier, had given way to comfortless silence. Vinz’s mind flew to the workroom and its valuable contents. Lost forever? His father’s extraordinary collection of scrolls, the Balhoriovny Separator, the antique instruments—the heirloom treasures meant for Vinzille—were these Taerleezi vultures about to carry them off? The suspense was acutely unpleasant. No matter, Vinz assured himself. It would end soon enough.

It did.

Only minutes later, far sooner than he expected, the lieutenant and Sanzi were back again. Jio rose at once from his chair. The lieutenant’s expression of satisfied expectation was disquieting. In his right hand he bore a packet of papers that Vinz did not recognize.

“Magnifico Vinz Corvestri, in the name of the Taerleezi Provisional Council, I place you under arrest,” the lieutenant announced with undisguised gusto. “Magnifico, prepare to accompany us.”

“What?” For a moment Vinz doubted his own perceptions. The thing made no sense. The invaders shouldn’t have located his workroom so quickly. And if somehow they had made a lucky hit, they hardly needed to arrest him on such a comparatively minor charge. “What for?”

“You are charged with arson, sabotage, subversion, and mass murder,” the lieutenant incredibly informed him. “We have uncovered evidence of your long-term involvement and participation in the crimes of the Faerlonnish terrorist gangs.”

Terrorist gangs
. The Taerleezi term for the Faerlonnish resistance fighters. The lieutenant was perfectly correct, but how could he be so certain? For so many years, Vinz had been so careful. What evidence could possibly exist?

“This is madness. I know nothing of terrorist gangs.” Vinz sought refuge in incomprehension. “There’s a misunderstanding here.”