The Traitor's Daughter (19 page)

Orders
. As if she were speaking to a kitchen maid.

Jianna refused to react, allowing herself only the neutral query, “Anything more?”

“Yes. Here.” Yvenza handed her the stick. “Stir. Often.”

The stick was too flimsy to serve as a weapon.

“You might try breaking off a jagged end and going for the eyes,” Yvenza offered pleasantly.

Jianna repressed a guilty start. Evidently her face had given her away again. “I couldn’t do anything so vicious and pointless,” she murmured, keeping her own too-revealing eyes earnestly downcast. “I know I can’t escape this stronghouse.”

“But it would entertain me to watch you try. I trust you won’t deprive me of that pleasure.” Yvenza exited, trailed by Grumper.

“And it would entertain me to see you brought to Vitrisi in chains,” Jianna answered, alone in the stillroom with no one to hear. And she would see it, she would see that woman and her detestable brood handed over to the Taerleezi authorities for trial and execution. Soon.

In the meantime there was stirring, straining, and funneling. Jianna hurried competently through the work. When she had finished, she took up the stoppered earthenware jug, stepped toward the door, and hesitated. Her eyes traveled the surrounding shelves, skimming flasks and casks, lingering on handwritten labels. Most of the names were unfamiliar. Nothing useful there, or at least nothing that she knew how to use.

She went out into the kitchen, and Yvenza was not there. A pock-faced potboy toiled at a washtub. He sneaked a quick glance at her, then looked away. Ignoring him, she surveyed the kitchen table, upon which half a dozen big loaves of new bread stood cooling. Beside them, a bowl of pears.
Food
. Setting the jug aside, she grabbed a loaf, ripped off a chunk, and wolfed it down. And another. As hunger subsided, she became aware that the potboy was staring. Well, he could goggle all he liked, but if he dared to interfere, she would dig new craters in that pocky face of his.

The potboy attempted no interference, merely stood watching openmouthed as she seized a pear and tore into it. The fruit was green and granular, but she devoured three pears in quick succession before the pace of her chewing slowed. Only then did she pause to consider consequences. She had disobeyed Yvenza. There could be disciplinary action.

A queasy little qualm rippled through her, and she was instantly furious with herself. These homespun criminals would not intimidate her. She was her father’s daughter. Squaring her shoulders, she took up the jug and marched off in search of Yvenza. As she went her eyes ranged, taking in the ground-floor fenestration, completely unguarded and completely useless. The stronghouse architecture of Ironheart dictated narrow, deep windows armored in iron grillwork. No exit there.

On she went, and now she knew where she was, back in the front ground-floor gallery. Ironheart was not so difficult to learn. It wasn’t nearly the size of Belandor House. Even so, she had to ask directions that sent her up to the second story with its tiny chambers and its puzzling absence of corridors; through the warren to the northern corner of the building, where a cramped old stairway wound its narrow way up to a square room at the top of a tower. The deep slits piercing all four walls suggested defensive intention, but the place was currently serving another function.

Infirmary
, Jianna realized.

The room was furnished with cots and pallets, four of them occupied. A quartet of bandaged young men lay there and she eyed them with interest, for it was the first time to her knowledge that she had ever come face-to-face with authentic Ghosts of the resistance. They did not meet her expectations, which involved hulking hirsute ruffians of burningly fanatical demeanor. These lads appeared neither crazed nor vicious. They looked quite ordinary, surprisingly young, even appealing in a sad and sickly sort of way. One of them was white and still, either asleep or comatose. One tossed and muttered in the throes of delirium. Two were awake and aware, their faces pinched with pain. Yvenza was present as well, on her knees beside a cot, feeding soup to one of the wakeful tenants. She turned as Jianna entered and rose to her full height.

Yes, I already know you’re bigger than I
. Jianna met the other’s eyes straightly.

“Give me the kalkriole. You take over feeding.”

Take over feeding?
Jianna stared. This woman expected her to come within smelling distance of an ailing male stranger, an outlaw Ghost no less, dangerous, possibly diseased, probably dirty—and feed him? With her own hands?

“Now,” Yvenza commanded.

No help for it. Approaching with reluctance, she handed the jug to Yvenza, received a soup bowl in exchange, and knelt beside the cot, too close to the criminal invalid, far closer than she wanted to be. Yes, he
was
dirty, her eyes and nose registered. Grubby, smelly, and unkempt, with a sandy stubble of beard prickling his chin.

“New girl. Fetching.” He inspected her appreciatively. “What’s your name, honey lips?”

Insolent lout. Wordlessly she extended a spoonful of soup.

“Shy one, eh?” He gulped the soup. “Don’t be afraid. It’s all right, I’m friendly.”

Far too friendly. Glowering, she offered another spoonful.

“Come, you can tell me your name, can’t you? Or d’you want me to guess? Let me see—is it Netta? Zeev? Kitzi?”

She kept her eyes down and her lips compressed.

“Ho, this beauty is a mute. Maybe not such a bad thing. Most girls talk too much.”

He was the one talking too much.

“All right, sweet Silence, if you won’t give me words, at least give me soup. Let’s have it.”

She offered the spoon and as he leaned forward he grasped her wrist, ostensibly to steady it, although there was no need. The unwelcome, unnecessary contact took her by surprise. She started and dropped the spoon. The hand holding the bowl jerked, sloshing soup across the bed and its occupant. A sharp curse escaped him.

Yvenza turned at the sound of it. “What are you yowling about?” she inquired.

“This sullen slattern of yours is trying to drown me,” the invalid complained. “Or maybe starve me.”

Outraged, Jianna cast about for a suitably crushing retort.

“She’s new,” Yvenza observed with amusement. “A little awkwardness is only to be expected. I’ve no doubt that she’ll strive hard to improve herself.”

Jianna felt the angry color mount uncontrollably to her cheeks.

“In the meantime, do we all wallow in spilled soup?” the Ghost demanded. “Is there no able body about? Where’s Rione? He knows what he’s doing.”

“Off in the hills, tending to your comrades. He’ll be back within a few days.”

“It can’t be too soon.”

“I agree.”

Their discourse mystified Jianna. Rione? The name was unfamiliar. One of the servants? She would have assumed so, but for a certain fleeting alteration in the quality of Yvenza’s voice. There was something present for an instant—approval? Satisfaction? Esteem? And in that moment as well, a change in expression, a brief softening or corrosion of the customary iron.

“Because Rione has got a kind of native wit about him,” the Ghost expanded. “Like he was almost born knowing just what to do and how to do it. It’s something just there in him.”

“You have the good sense to see it.” Yvenza nodded.

Still that indefinable note in her voice. Respect?

“And if it isn’t there to begin with, chances are it never will be,” the Ghost continued. “Like this one.” He jerked a thumb at Jianna. “Born clumsy, that’s clear, and nothing will change nature, I always say. Born a clumsy calf, grows into a clumsy cow, clumsy from start to finish—”

“That’s enough!” Jianna finally found her voice. “You hairy, smelly, lying piece of garbage, how dare you blame me for an accident that you caused all by yourself?”

“So she
can
talk,” the Ghost approved.

“Yes, I can talk and, unlike you, I can tell the truth. You made me spill the soup because you couldn’t keep your hands to yourself.”

“What? Me? Have you forgotten that you’re talking to an invalid?”

“Nothing would’ve happened if you hadn’t been pawing me.”

“Girl’s confused,” opined the Ghost.

“I am not. Are you going to deny that you grabbed my wrist?”

“Grabbed? You say
grabbed?
The smallest touch, meant only in kindness, and you dare say
grabbed?
I can’t believe my ears. Aren’t you ashamed, girl?”

She considered dumping the remainder of the soup over his head. Before she had made up her mind, Yvenza reentered the discussion.

“Even the smallest touch, meant only in kindness, can be a tricky business,” she observed drily. “Our little neophyte here is promised to Onartino. I’d consider that, my lad.”

“Promised? You mean—”

“I mean that my son plans to marry this girl at the first opportunity. She’ll be his wife and my daughter.”

“I didn’t know, lady.” The Ghost appeared to dwindle in size. “No offense meant, I vow and swear.”

“If I thought otherwise, I’d take appropriate action,” Yvenza assured him serenely. “So, too, no doubt, would Onartino. My boy is touchingly devoted to his betrothed. Their mutual affection is a rare treasure, an example and an inspiration to us all.”

“A treasure.” The Ghost nodded vigorously. “I can respect that. I hope the young lady took no offense, for none was meant.”

Jianna replied with a distant nod, hardly noting him, for the allusion to Onartino had recalled her to the reality of her position in this household. Sometimes it was possible almost to forget for minutes or even longer at a time. Since the morning she had consented to wed Yvenza’s oldest son, her circumstances had altered, much for the better. She had been liberated from her cellar closet and given a modest room of her own near the top of Ironheart’s southwest turret. True, the chamber door was bolted from the outside every night from sundown until dawn. True, the two windows were barred. The furnishings were rudimentary, and cold drafts swept the bare floor. But the place offered an illusion of privacy. There she slept alone and unmolested. Occasionally she was even permitted to dine in blessed solitude. More often, however, she was obliged to take her meals with the family, as befit her new status.

The company of her captors was always distasteful, but at table she suffered no greater degree of abuse than they habitually inflicted upon one another. Beneath Yvenza’s watchful eye, no one attempted outright indecency. So long as she labored to the matriarch’s satisfaction, she was fed. She was permitted to bathe occasionally, unobserved so far as she knew, and she was allowed to wash out her own garments. Not that she had many. The boxes containing her massive, exquisite trousseau had been left with the carriage and carnage at the site of the attack. But she had been given a length of linen, needle, and thread with which to fashion a serviceable set of spare undergarments, and thus equipped she contrived to keep herself reasonably clean.

She was free to walk the corridors of Ironheart during the day, to venture out into the courtyard when she wanted fresh air, to converse with anyone willing to answer. All in all, not the worst species of captivity imaginable. At times she might almost have resigned herself to wait in patience for her father’s arrival at the head of a rescue party—save for the presence of Onartino.

The mere sight of him dried her mouth and roiled her stomach. With disgust and contempt, she assured herself. Not fear, never that, for she was Aureste’s daughter and she feared nobody; certainly not some hulking, ham-fisted backwoods bully.

A killer who likes to hurt women
.

Reeni’s blood drenched her imagination. The familiar dread and hatred stirred. She realized that her teeth were clenched, and deliberately she relaxed her jaw. She was safe from Onartino for the present, safe until such time as the East Reach Traveler arrived to perform a marriage ceremony, and that delay could last for weeks.

Or days. Maybe only hours
.

Long before the magistrate reached Ironheart, Jianna promised herself, she would be safe at home in her father’s house. But the days were passing and Aureste had not appeared. She never doubted for an instant that he would come for her. But of late the first suspicion had surfaced that he might come too late.

“She narcoleptic or something?” inquired the Ghost. “No disrespect intended.”

“I believe she has lost herself in visions of impending wedded bliss, as young women will,” Yvenza explained. Her voice sharpened to penetrate her captive’s unpleasant reverie. “Wake up, girl. Make yourself useful. Take the dirty dishes back to the kitchen. Return the kalkriole to the stillroom. Leave it on the table there. Then you’ll start an inventory of the household linens. You can write, can’t you? Check the linen presses, list the contents, and don’t forget to look in on the laundry. You understand me?” Without awaiting confirmation, she commanded, “Get to it.”

Jianna permitted herself one brief, defiant glare, then set to work, gathering dishes and spoons with the obedient efficiency of a trained servant. As she moved about, she noted that one of the wounded, awake when she had entered the room, was now deeply asleep. He had swallowed Yvenza’s kalkriole, and the soporific was evidently potent. Stepping to his bedside, she stared down into his sleeping face, then cast a surreptitious glance back over her shoulder. Nobody was watching her. Yvenza and the loquacious Ghost were still mutually engaged, still celebrating Rione, whoever that was … 
When everyone had given him up for dead, Rione managed to draw the venom out …
Physician? Apothecary? No matter. She bent and poked the sleeping man’s midriff sharply. There was no response. He slumbered on serenely. Yes, that kalkriole was powerful indeed. She eyed the stoppered jug with new respect and some speculation.

Scooping up the last of the empty soup bowls and adding it to her tray, Jianna departed the infirmary. She made her way down the narrow stairs to the second story, moved confidently through a communal dormitory that she remembered, through a connecting closet, into a dark storeroom with doorways punctuating each of its four walls, where her assurance flagged. She thought she recalled walking the length of this rectangular space on her way to the north tower, and therefore did so now, choosing the exit at the far end of the room. She went through into a cubby that she did not recognize and then into a tiny, bare place with a hole in the floor and the unmistakable stench of a latrine.