The Ruined City (25 page)

Sonnetia laughed, the sound of it dancing among the stones, and for a moment the composed, formal Magnifica Corvestri gave way to the vibrant Sonnetia Steffa that he had known so many years ago.

“Simple and plainspoken.” She shook her head, still smiling. “Oh, Aureste, there will never be another like you.”

“No doubt all to the good.” He had a sense that the moment was almost enchanted. For this one instant, time had slipped, and she was herself again, her real self, the Sonnetia to whom he had once upon a time revealed his heart and all that was in it—well, nearly all. He had never been one to ignore opportunity, and therefore asked, “What are the bothersome thoughts that you came here to collect?” There was no immediate answer, and he pressed on, “Are you troubled by the rigors and discomforts of travel? Or was it the quarrel between the guards, and the meting out of justice?”

“Justice? Say punishment.”

“Very well, punishment. You question the necessity?”

“I question the brutality. It isn’t necessary to punish disobedient servants so harshly. It’s been my own experience that gentler treatment is more effective.”

“At home, I daresay. Among soft and civilized surroundings, soft and civilized behavior is appropriate.”

“And you imply that it is not so here.”

“I more than imply, I state openly—it is not so here. That is an unhappy truth. Out here in the wilderness, so far from human aid, our safety depends upon our vigilance, readiness, and efficiency, which can be maintained only by means of discipline. The rules must be clear; they must be enforced consistently and impartially. Each man in our party must understand that disobedience inevitably leads to punishment. Once they accept and believe in this principle, they will govern themselves accordingly. Thereafter, excessive harshness is not often required.”

“And it is upon this basis, I presume, that you fault the Magnifico Corvestri for his refusal to order a man whipped like an animal?”

“Fault the magnifico?” Aureste’s eyes widened in apparent astonishment. “Have I spoken a single word against him?”

“Not aloud, perhaps. But the look in your eyes—the twist of your lips, the angle of your jaw, the set of your shoulders—these things shout to the world.”

“Perhaps the world’s powers of observation and interpretation are somewhat less acute than your own, madam.”

“And perhaps not. You do no service to this expedition in slighting one of its leaders.”

“I agree. Nor would I dream of offering disrespect or discourtesy to the Magnifico Corvestri,” he declared, avoiding the direct attack that would have sent her flying to her husband’s defense.

She studied his face. “Ah, yes. The non-expression.” She nodded. “I remember it well.”

“You seem to doubt me, madam. How shall I demonstrate my good faith? Will a display of conspicuous candor convince you? You shall have it, then. I’ll confess that you’re correct in believing me opposed to the Magnifico Corvestri’s decision, but not for the reason that you may suppose. I take no pleasure
in the sufferings of our servants. Yet the magnifico’s failure to administer clearly warranted punishment may be seen as a form of falsehood. He has broken his word.”

“What, you mean the warning that fighting among the guards earns corporal discipline? He simply elected not to carry out a threat, that is all.”

“You know better.”

“You cannot pretend to view mercy as a moral lapse.”

“I can when the harm it does outweighs the good. How shall we fare if the men who serve us come to see that our word means nothing? If our promises of punishment are meaningless, then may not our promises of reward prove equally empty? In which case, why should they trust us, follow us, or submit to our authority? What is there beyond the certainty of reward and impartially applied punishment to rule them? And it is this very certainty that your husband’s action has compromised. It was a grave error. But don’t fear that I shall voice my complaint aloud to anyone other than yourself. I wouldn’t sow dissension between our two households—there is enough of that already.”

“I hope for all our sakes that you mean that.”

“With all my heart.” It was not precisely a lie, for he intended no major sowing prior to the expedition’s conclusion.

“As for the rest, you are mistaken,” she informed him. “Chop logic as you will, you cannot convince me that it is ever wrong to spare a man a whipping.”

She spoke with apparent assurance, but Aureste easily caught the underlying uncertainty. Concealing his satisfaction, he returned, “Than I’ll abandon the attempt. It’s no place for a debate, in any case. Come, Magnifica, it’s almost dark. Will you not return to the camp with me?”

She nodded, and they departed. It was not quite dark, but the world was veiled in shade, and therefore both of them quite overlooked the presence of Vinz Corvestri, who crouched behind a nearby boulder, listening intently to every word.

“Young. Medium stature, slender build. Light complexion, dark hair, grey-blue eyes. In fact, she looks a good deal like me,” Falaste Rione repeated for at least the hundredth time. “Plainly dressed but well spoken, and resolute of manner. Her name is Celisse Rione.”

“Haven’t seen her,” the keeper of the Black Sheep Inn declared.

“She’s in the city, she’ll need lodgings. If she should come to this place, would you let her know that her brother is looking for her? I’m to be found at the Lancet Inn, in Cistern Street, near the Avorno Hospital. Will you tell her?”

The innkeeper shrugged. Falaste and Jianna exited the Black Sheep Inn.

“You should’ve offered a reward,” Jianna opined. “Then that fellow would have come to life.”

“You may be right, but I don’t know how much good it would do. The fact is, it’s all but impossible to locate Celisse if she doesn’t want to be found. I truly believed that she’d seek me out as soon as she learned of my presence in Vitrisi. She must know by now, but she remains hidden. I didn’t expect it.”

“Well, you can’t be certain that she
does
know.”

“Not certain, but it’s more than likely. I’ve dropped my name at inns, cookshops, and market stalls all over town. By this time she must have heard that I’m here, and she knows where to find me, but chooses to remain hidden. Despite all our differences, we’ve always been close, and never before has she sought to avoid me. This is something new and disturbing.”

Everything about that fanatical witch is disturbing
, thought Jianna.
She doesn’t deserve such a brother; he’s too good for her
. Silently taking his hand, she gave an encouraging squeeze, and received the same in return. Her heartbeat quickened magically. She looked into his face, with its fine, well-formed features, its intelligence and humor, and wanted very much to
kiss him again. Perhaps it was unmaidenly, immodest, or even immoral, but she could not help herself.

Her mind winged back to that first morning kiss. Hours had passed since then, but the sensations lingered. She could still feel the warmth flooding her veins, the excitement firing her nerves. And the joy—the glorious sense of rightness, potent as a magical draught—that too was with her yet.

There had been few words.
“… Not fair to you
 …
,”
he had muttered, and she had replied,
“I want to be here.”
Then another kiss that had set the world spinning, and another. She had wanted it to go on forever, but he had released her and stepped back. The broken contact had felt like an amputation.

“Come, we’re going out,”
he had decreed.

“Not now
—
later!”

“Believe me, maidenlady, it had best be now.”
He had smiled, but his face had been flushed, and his breathing quick.

And so they had removed themselves from the privacy of his room, venturing forth to resume the hunt for the missing would-be assassin. And while they searched, she had thought of little beyond his lips and arms.

Did he share her feelings? Or was he too occupied with thoughts of his troublemaking sister to think about kissing?

“When you look at me like that, the thoughts fly straight out of my head,” he told her. “You’ve no idea how distracting it is.”

Oh, good!
“Then I’ll try always to look at you like that,” she promised helpfully.

“Don’t. You’ll turn me into a shambling idiot, and deprive the world of a perfectly serviceable physician.”

“Never. But can’t the world allow the serviceable physician a little time to enjoy life, now and again?”

“Only a bright spirit like yours could think of enjoying life now, with the city disintegrating all around us. Someday, though. Someday for both of us, I promise.”

“Oh, that’s a promise I’ll hold you to. In the meantime,
though, where do we go? More inns and cookshops? Bathhouse?”

“Pointless, I fear. It’s plain that Celisse is ignoring my invitation. She won’t come to me, so I must hunt the harder for her. I can’t do that without help, and I believe I know where to find it.”

“Resistance people here in Vitrisi?” Jianna guessed.

“You’re a little too sharp, Noro Penzia. Yes, that’s right, and please don’t ask for specifics. I’ve a distance to walk. Shall I see you back to the Lancet before I set off?”

“No, thank you. Widow Meegri will give me the fish eye.” Widow Meegri was the elderly, tidy, and wordlessly disapproving proprietress of the Lancet Inn.

“Pay no attention. She gives everyone the fish eye.”

“She thinks I’m some sort of—I can’t say what.”

“What she really thinks is that you’re a customer willing and able to pay for a room to yourself. That’s uncommon, you know. I’ve indulged myself on this occasion in hope of easing the way for Celisse to approach me, but privacy is a luxury usually reserved for the wealthy. Speaking of which, are you able to pay, or do you need help?”

“Oh, I’ve means,” she returned vaguely, and felt the color flood her face. Eager to change the subject, she continued, “It’s a pleasant enough chamber, but I’m not minded to sit alone in it for the rest of the day. I’ll come with you, wherever you’re going. Where
are
you going?”

“To Cutter Lane in the East Cross. I know someone there.”

“Someone?”

“A very good fellow.”

“Ghost?”

“Of the urban variety.”

“Does he have a name? Oh, I forgot—I’m not supposed to ask for specifics.”

“In this case, I honestly can’t answer. I assume he has a name—people generally do—but I don’t know it. I have only his alias.”

“You know where he lives, though.”

“No idea whatever.”

“You know where he works?”

“Haven’t a clue. Don’t know the man’s trade, or even if he has one.”

“Then how’ll he be found? Do we go to Cutter Lane and loiter there, hoping that your Ghost will appear to us?”

“That’s what it amounts to. 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. We make our way to The Cask in Cutter Lane, take a table, and wait for the phantom to materialize.”

“And if he doesn’t oblige?”

“Then I return tomorrow and try again.”

“This doesn’t strike me as particularly efficient.”

“I’ve often voiced that very same complaint. So far, however, the Ghosts have failed to initiate reforms.”

They set off together for Cutter Lane. It was a long walk, and the way was dreary, carrying them along murky, smoky streets wherein the ponderous mists were oddly tinged with diurnal lamplight. They passed many a doorway marked with the red X, and once they saw a Deadpickers’ cart, heaped with cargo, rumbling on toward the Pits. Most of the pedestrians out on the street wore some sort of protective mask. Identities were lost, and human voices were muted. But Jianna scarcely noticed the ugly or even frightening sights and sounds. He had taken her hand, and they were talking as they went—talking ceaselessly about anything and everything, as if the two of them would never run out of words. She could hardly have described that conversation, it was so lengthy and rich, and it swooped so freely from topic to topic. But she knew that it was full of confidences, confessions, laughter, and dreams. And she knew without stopping to think about it that she had never in her life been so happy as she was that afternoon, walking through a suffocated, plague-racked city hand in hand with Falaste Rione.

Had she been on her own, she would have needed to ask directions. But Rione knew the way, so they walked and talked without pause until they came at last to Cutter Lane—an obscure back street in a nondescript section of the city; neither wealthy nor poor, handsome nor ugly, pleasant nor any more repellent than the times demanded. And there at the top of the lane stood The Cask, an undistinguished wineshop of no discernible character.

They went in and took a small table at the rear. Jianna scanned the room discreetly; moderate size, plain furnishings, waxed plank flooring, reasonably clean, dimly lit. She somehow had the sense that The Cask was always dim, even on the brightest of days, and always had been so. The patrons, in their own way, were equally dim; a knot of unobtrusively idle tipplers at one table, a couple of decently neat apprentices, a lone greybeard nursing his glass of wine, a few anonymously respectable tradesmen, and a trio of elderly women seated together and giggling over their gossip as if they imagined themselves young.