The Ruined City (27 page)

“No slavery,” said Aazaargh.

“Death, then.” Celisse nodded her approval. “You are right. But what if there is another choice? You must understand that the ranks of the oppressed include humans as well as Sishmindris. All Faerlonnishmen, native to this island, presently suffer the tyranny of the Taerleezi invader. I will own that we have not suffered as your kind has suffered, yet we have known much of grief and injustice. The wiser among us have profited by the lesson. We have come to see that Sishmindris and Faerlonnishmen share a common enemy—the
Taerleezis. We have all suffered at Taerleezi hands, we all have cause to hate them, and our hatred of the foreigners should unite us.”

“Men. Taerleezi. Faerlonnish. All the same.” Aazaargh allowed his lower jaw to gape hugely, then shut it with a snap, evidently an expressive gesture among his kind. “All bad.”

“In the past, yes. But matters have changed. Now the interests of Sishmindris and Faerlonnishmen have joined. It is for the good of all that we work together to overcome our Taerleezi enemies, to terrify and confuse them. And there is one man among them who is notable both for greatness and wickedness—I speak of their leader, the Governor Uffrigo. When this man dies, his subjects will wonder and tremble. Their fear will weaken them. This Governor Uffrigo must fall. Let your kind and mine join forces to destroy him.”

“And then? Faerlonnishmen rule, Sishmindris whipped.”

“No longer. Join with Faerlonnishmen to drive the Taerleezis from our land, and your deeds will not be forgotten. The best of Faerlonnishmen know something of honor. We pay our debts.”

“Freedom.”

“I cannot in all honesty make so great a promise. But I can and do swear to you that humans of conscience will begin working to free you, and we shall never cease until that aim is accomplished. Among us, your freedom will be held as sacred as our own. Now, will you help us?”

There followed a brief, unintelligible colloquy among the Sishmindris, and then Aazaargh addressed the human visitor. “Yes. We join, and the big Taerleezi dies.”

It was midday, and a blanched sun shone directly overhead. The light descended through a fretwork of branches no longer winter-bare, but knobbed with the first growth of early spring. Small green shoots were beginning to appear, and the old, faded mosses were taking on a brighter tinge of color. The world hinted at renewed plenty, but as yet the promise remained unfulfilled.

Along a narrow footpath snaking its way down out of the Alzira Hills advanced a solitary figure. Although he was still young, his steps were halting, and he required the support of a staff. His garments were ragged and filthy, his hair unshorn and tangled. A wide hat, its brim pulled low, partially hid the one-eyed ruin of Onartino Belandor’s face.

He must have been hungry, for he paused often to pluck new growth from the low-hanging branches, or from the brambles tangling alongside the trail. These leaves and stems he chewed at some length, but invariably spat forth without swallowing. Several times he paused and knelt laboriously to finger the damp soil in search of edible roots or fungi, but found none. Only once he uncovered a coil of worms beneath a rock, and these he devoured, but his hunger remained unsatisfied.

On along the path he hobbled, lone eye shifting dully to and fro, until the breeze delivered a recognizable scent. He halted. The nostrils in his shattered nose flared and his big chest expanded as he drew a breath to the depths of his lungs. Stepping from the path, he forced his way through thorny undergrowth until, several yards distant, he found the source of the smell.

Beneath a bush lay a trap, evidently forgotten. The metal was red-brown with rust, and the contents—an adult meecher of ordinary size—odorously decomposing. The animal’s corpse was riddled with maggots, but this hardly deterred Onartino. Despite their injuries his hands retained considerable strength, and he pried the jaws of the trap apart with ease, then tore the corpse of the meecher limb from limb. His brows contracted as he ate. Presumably the flavor of the meat failed to please him, but the pace of his chewing and swallowing never slackened until the meecher had been consumed down to the last scrap of remotely edible tissue.

He cracked the bones and sucked them dry, then set his staff against the ground and lifted himself to his feet. For a moment he stood as if uncertain, his eye traveling the surrounding wilderness without comprehension, then memory revived and he appeared to remember where he was, and where he wanted to go, and what he wanted to do. He made his slow but unerring way back to the footpath, which he followed downhill for a long time and a long way, until at last he limped from the woods out onto the VitrOrezzi Bond.

He rested for a while at the side of the road—he had no idea how long, for time held no meaning—then resumed his progress toward Vitrisi. The featureless hours passed. He took no notice of his surroundings—the rutted road, the trees, hills and pastures, or even the smoky cloud hovering above the city ahead. He seemed unaware of the occasional vehicle or rider that he encountered, and fellow travelers cultivated a corresponding blindness to his existence. The human eye encountering his face by chance was apt to turn away promptly.

Despite his resistance to physical suffering, he was not immune. As time wore on, his slow pace slackened and his limp worsened, but he did not pause until he came upon a large cart standing at the side of the road. The cart was loaded with burlap sacks of root vegetables. A donkey stood between the shafts. The driver was nowhere in evidence. Presumably he had retired to relieve himself, and would soon return.

Onartino studied the vehicle. His eye blinked. He hobbled forward, tossed his staff in, and then—slowly, with much effort—climbed into the cart. Once ensconced, he bolted a couple of raw potatoes, and burrowed down among the sacks, burying his large bulk as best he could. His refuge was chilly, lumpy, and hard. Various parts of his body ached and protested. The odors of soil and potatoes swamped his senses. There was nothing he could do about any of it. He shut his eye and slept.

The return of the driver failed to wake him, and he slumbered on as the wagon resumed motion. Hours and distance passed. He remained unconscious and hidden from view when the vehicle paused at the city gate and its driver submitted to the obligatory examination. Nobody troubled to investigate the cargo. Cart, driver, and insensible stowaway passed into Vitrisi and now the wooden wheels bumped over cobbled streets.

They halted again at a market square not far from the city gate. The driver dismounted, came around to the rear of the cart, and grabbed the nearest sack. Onartino awoke and sat up slowly. The driver cursed in amazement and backed away. Apparently oblivious, Onartino climbed out of the cart.

Affronted, the driver cursed with increased vigor, and the illicit passenger finally noticed his existence. The single bloodshot eye found him, studied him expressionlessly, and the driver fell silent.

Onartino surveyed his surroundings without apparent comprehension. He spoke two words.

“Belandor House.”

Verbal resources exhausted for the nonce, he took his leave.

The Nor’wilders Way had shrunk to the width of a country lane, and would no doubt soon diminish in status from road to path, destined to dwindle out of existence in the midst of the wild. The Belandor carriage’s days of utility were numbered,
and even the continuing viability of the supply wagons lay open to question.

The Magnifico Aureste surveyed the prospect without misgiving. The sedan chair riding in pieces atop the carriage could be assembled and readied within minutes to accommodate Innesq. He himself was prepared at any time to transfer to horseback. The contents of the wagons could be shifted swiftly to the backs of the horses and servants. The demise of the Nor’wilders Way presented no insurmountable obstacle.

Of more immediate concern was the threat offered by predatory countryfolk. Presumably refugees from small settlements ravaged by the plague, they roamed the hills in hungry gangs, and they must have been desperate. Nothing short of starvation could account for their suicidal willingness to attack a large, well-armed, well-guarded caravan. But attack they did, and not infrequently.

It seemed to happen most often at sunrise or sunset, when the savory odors drifting from the cookfires must have driven the starving wretches to madness. Had they approached openly and simply requested nourishment, they might not have fared badly. Innesq Belandor would never have ignored the pleas of the hungry, nor would Sonnetia Corvestri. Disinclined to rely upon the generosity of the great, however, they opted for combat, thus idiotically categorizing themselves as legitimate prey to the Magnifico Aureste, whose past experiences qualified him to command the expedition’s collective defenses.

Aureste was not particularly interested. The rustic marauders offered no real challenge—or almost none, if one discounted the dawn peppering of ill-made arrows that had claimed the life of a guard some days earlier. The requisite increase in vigilance had been effected, thus rendering repetition of the insult all but impossible. Thereafter, attempted incursions had amounted to little more than occasional insectile dartings too puny and insignificant to hold the magnifico’s attention.

His interest revived, however, when the expedition was modestly but decidedly intercepted.

They had paused around midday to rest the horses. The air was clear, and pale sunlight washed an expanse of rolling countryside tinged here and there with traces of springtime color; irregular patches of green groundrambler, groves of fonachia tipped with pinkish silver, the occasional bright burst of goldstar, the first hesitant sigh of dusky sorrows-breath. The scene breathed life and hope, never so much as hinting at the huge hidden presence of the plague.

The Magnifico Aureste was engaged in colloquy with a couple of the guards when some nameless sense of anomaly gripped him, and he glanced back over his shoulder to spy a pair of strangers approaching on foot. Women, both plainly dressed. One tall and strapping; the other much shorter and slighter, unmistakably youthful, with very light, almost white hair.

Females—no threat. Evidently poor and humble—no importance, no interest. Nonentities. Why then did his jaw tighten and the alarm bells peal inside his head? Whence the sense of impending doom?

Turning from the guards, he watched the women, and the source of his uneasiness soon revealed itself. She drew near, and he recognized her. Yvenza Belandor—alive, well, and
here
. Part of his mind marveled. Anger vied with grudging admiration, while some compartment of comprehension told him that he should have expected it. Of course she would pursue him as long as a whisper of strength and life remained in her, for that was her nature. But the thirst for vengeance seemed to have affected her judgment if not her reason. What else could explain a direct and unconcealed advance upon the armed camp of her enemy? Did she expect to bully her way past the sentries?

He saw a guard accost her. There was an exchange of some sort, and Yvenza’s brusque gesture encompassed her companion. Unbelievably, the guard inclined his head in apparent respect
and permitted them to pass. The women followed his pointing finger straight toward the Belandor carriage, which stood idle at the side of the road.

For a moment Aureste wondered, then comprehended. Of course. The younger woman with the light hair—she must be the gifted girl of whom Innesq had spoken; the so-called kinswoman of questionable pedigree and unquestionable talent, one of the valuable arcanists upon whom the success of the endeavor depended. He studied the slight little figure and searched his memory. When he had taken Ironheart, she must have been there. The resident population of the stronghouse had not been large, and he must have glimpsed her at some time or other, but she had left no imprint upon his customarily reliable memory. Well, if she possessed genuine arcane ability, then she surely knew how to make herself inconspicuous when necessary. She had done so, and succeeded in escaping his notice altogether.

Curious to think of such power and potential inhabiting so frail a vessel. And disquieting to see so priceless a commodity controlled by Yvenza Belandor. No telling what Yvenza would do with it—but she would think of something.