The Traitor's Daughter (23 page)

“Stop. Take a deep breath,” he advised.

His voice was low-pitched and possessed of a singularly soothing quality. Her breathing eased at the mere sound of it, and she followed his instructions without thought.

“And another.”

Again she obeyed.

“Good. Now calm yourself, there’s nothing more to fear. You’ve been found and you are safe. First we’ll tend to your injured ankle, and then we’ll see about returning you to your friends and family.”

So compelling and reassuring was his voice, so gentle his manner, that it took her a moment to notice that he had simply disregarded her attempted explanation. And why wouldn’t he? Her own voice echoed in her mind:
 … abducted, held prisoner … sure to be hunting me … the dog … horrible plans for me …
It all sounded absurd, a fever dream or the outcry of a hysteric. If she wanted him to believe her, she had better control herself, moderate her language and her tone.

“Thank you. I am very eager to return to my family,” she returned quietly. “My father is in Vitrisi. Will you please escort me back to him?”

“That is hardly practical.”

“It isn’t? Why not?” Jianna was nonplussed. Perhaps his voice had misled her, for he spoke with the accent of an educated Vitrisian and she had unconsciously classified him at the first sound of it. She was a lady of Vitrisi in distress; as a gentleman of her city, he should stand ready to assist her by any and all means within his power.

“Vitrisi is days distant, and I am wanted here.”

“But what am I to do? I tell you I must go home to my father! He can protect me from those criminals. Do you not understand?” Her voice was rising again, despite her efforts to control it. “I’m in danger, they’re hunting me, they’re depraved lunatics with a grudge against my father, and I need your help!”

“You shall have that,” he assured her. “Let us see first to your ankle and proceed from there. Come, seat yourself.”

Once again his low, unhurried voice exerted a curiously calming effect, and without argument she sat down on a rock and waited a moment while he tethered his horse, then extracted a small leather pouch from one of the saddlebags. This done, he knelt before her and paused courteously. “With your permission.”

He was a stranger and they were alone in the wild, but somehow she did not hesitate a moment to draw her skirts back a few inches, exposing her foot and swollen ankle to view. His brows rose at sight of her delicate, waterlogged shoe. He removed it and set it aside. Then he took her ankle in both of his hands and still, such was the power of his voice and manner, she was not frightened or offended in the least. His touch was warm, light, and sure. Exploratory pressure here and there produced only the mildest of twinges. A brief examination sufficed to satisfy him.

“You’ve strained your ankle,” he told her. “No doubt it’s painful, but the injury is minor. A few days of rest should effect a cure, although I’d recommend favoring the ankle for another month or so thereafter. In the meantime—” The leather pouch yielded a roll of spotlessly clean bandages. One of these he wound around her ankle and fastened with a small metal clasp, his movements so deft and precise that the operation was painlessly completed within seconds. He slipped the shoe back onto her foot and stood.

“I’ve never seen anything quite like that before.” Jianna studied her well-wrapped joint in wonder. The bandage was fashioned of some subtly lustrous fabric that seemed to offer support without bulk or binding.

“That is my own invention. It’s made of silk for lightness and strength, knitted for elasticity.”

“You can knit silk?”

“Not personally,” he admitted with a slight smile that transformed his face, lighting up the grey-blue eyes. She saw then that he was considerably younger than she had at first supposed. The gravity of his expression had misled her, but he was probably no more than seven or eight years her senior.

“Surely you must be a physician?”

“I am.”

“But how fortunate for me. Whom shall I thank?”

“I’m called Falaste.”

“That’s a Vitrisian name. And you speak with the accent of the city, too. You are a long way from home, Dr. Falaste.”

“The city isn’t my home. I am of Vitrisian descent, but I don’t live there.”

“Orezzia, then?”

“I’m nomadic. My practice carries me throughout the range of the Alzira Hills.”

“Couldn’t your patients spare you for just a few days while you conduct me back to my father’s house? You’ve done me a great favor, and my father will be eager to reward you.”

“You’ll not be starting any long journeys before that ankle of yours has had a chance to mend,” he informed her. “A week’s rest and then you should be fit to travel. Fortunately, you’re not far from comfortable shelter. Only a few miles from here stands a stronghouse whose owners can certainly be persuaded to take you in.”

“You’re not speaking of Ironheart?” she cried.

“Ah, you know it?”

“Yes, I know it! That’s the place. Those are the people. That’s where they took me and held me prisoner. In a locked closet in the cellar! And threatened me and set the giant dog on me! There’s a family of monsters living there and if they recapture me, there’s no telling what they’ll do!” Her voice had risen again, but for the moment she could not master it. “I’m not exaggerating. They’re highwaymen and murderers. They killed my aunt, my maid, and the guards. There’s nothing they won’t dare!”

He pressed his hand lightly to her brow for a moment then withdrew it, remarking, “You do not seem feverish, but perhaps your ordeal has—”

“I’m not feverish, and there’s nothing wrong with my mind! And I’m not lying to you!”

“I don’t suggest that you lie. But you’ve been injured and frightened. Under such circumstances a little confusion is often present, and misinterpretation is possible.”

“I’m not misinterpreting my dead aunt and maid! I’m not misinterpreting my own abduction, or the threats and blows I’ve received! Above all I’m not misinterpreting the ruin that I face if they lay hands on me again!” She managed to get her voice back down again, concluding on a calmer note, “Dr. Falaste, you must believe that everything I’ve told you is true.”

For a moment he studied her, his clear eyes seeming to plumb the depths of her mind. At last he suggested, “Let’s consider, then. You are a young woman—scarcely more than a girl, really—very well spoken despite your agitation, bedraggled but elegantly clothed, unmistakably of good background and probably high family. At your stage of life, you can hardly have acquired mortal enemies. And yet you accuse the residents of Ironheart—I know them, by the way—of the worst imaginable crimes. These people can’t quite be considered exemplary, granted, but they’re not lunatics and I assume you’ve committed no unpardonable offense against them. What possible reason could they have, then, to use you with the cruelty you describe?”

“My father,” she returned at once. “They hate my father bitterly. They imagine that he’s wronged them, they hold him responsible for all their misfortunes, and they mean to strike at him through me.”

“Indeed. You’ve a dramatic turn of phrase.”

“I am not making this up!”

“And who is this father of yours that stirs up such commotion?”

“My father is the Magnifico Aureste Belandor, of Vitrisi. I am Jianna Belandor.”

He did not change expression, but it seemed to her that his eyes darkened at the sound of the name.

“I hope,” he observed slowly, “that this is fantasy or theater. You allow a lively imagination free rein, perhaps?”

“I do not. And I’m not delirious, either. I am Jianna Belandor, daughter of the Magnifico Aureste. Why are you looking at me like that? I hope you’re not another of those bigots filled with prejudice against my father?”

“Maidenlady, I fear that you’ll find an entire world populated with just such bigots.”

“Then ignorance is everywhere, and it’s so unjust. My father is a fine man, a kind and warm and generous man. The world doesn’t know him.”

“Possibly the world knows him better than you realize. But I will confess, his daughter’s loyalty speaks well for the magnifico.”

“You’re beginning to believe what I tell you, then?”

“I’d prefer not to believe, but you are persuasive, and your story possesses its own logic. If you are truly Aureste Belandor’s daughter, then the treatment you claim to have received at Ironheart becomes understandable. It is possible.”

“It’s more than possible, it’s fact,” Jianna declared. “You say that you know those people. If so, then you must have a good idea what they’re capable of doing to me. My life is over if you don’t help me to get away from them. Please, please, take me back to Vitrisi!” She gazed up at him with enormous pleading eyes. His face was still, but instinct told her that she was making progress.

“There are other considerations,” he observed at last.

His objection, whatever it might be, could surely be overcome. Jianna looked up at him. Her lip quivered and her eyes filled with tears, which she made no effort to suppress. She did not let a sound escape her, but stood bravely and piteously silent, tears coursing down her cheeks. This tactic almost never failed to conquer her father.

And it seemed that Dr. Falaste was similarly susceptible, for his face softened and he looked young again, if somewhat troubled.

“Maidenlady—” he attempted.

She turned aside as if ashamed of her tears, but in reality offering him a good view of her pretty profile. She let her shoulders shake a little with silent suppressed sobs. Aureste could rarely resist silent suppressed sobs. She glimpsed the physician’s face out of the corner of her eye and saw uncertainty there. Good. In her imagination she approached the gates of Belandor House, with Dr. Falaste at her side. She would introduce the doctor to her father. Falaste would instantly perceive the magnifico’s essential goodness. Aureste in turn would immediately recognize the physician’s talent and intelligence. With the magnifico’s assistance, Falaste would remain in Vitrisi to establish a fashionable, highly profitable practice. He would be a frequent guest at Belandor House, and she would see much of him. There was something so agreeable in this mental exercise that her lips almost started to curve into a smile. She compressed them firmly and stole another glance at him.

He seemed lost in frowning cogitation, and she took the opportunity to study him: face long but not excessively so, complexion pale but not unhealthily so, straight features, stubborn chin, an indefinably scholarly look. Hair presently invisible beneath the rain hood. Medium stature. Probably slender in build, under that voluminous rain cloak. A fine, intelligent, and thoughtful face. Its owner was sure to help her.

Falaste’s head jerked slightly, as if he had reached a decision. Confidently Jianna awaited his reply.

“I’ll help you to shelter,” he told her.

“In Vitrisi,” she prompted, a little confused.

“No. That’s not possible. But I’ll bring you to some cottage or campsite, where you’ll find assistance and a place to rest safely until you’re fit to travel.”

“No, that isn’t what I want.” Her surprise equaled her disappointment. She had been quite certain, moments earlier, that he would succumb. “If you won’t take me back to the city, then at least bring me to some inn or posting house along the VitrOrezzi Bond.”

“The nearest is a good day and a half from here.”

“Well? Can you not spare the time to assist me?” She had not yet given up hope. Perhaps he could be shamed into compliance. “Are you not a gentleman?”

“Maidenlady, if you are truly Aureste Belandor’s daughter, be certain that I offend family, friends, and allies by offering you the smallest aid, even so much as a bandage for your ankle. Nevertheless, I will conduct you to the nearest cottage, where I’ll exert such influence as I own to gain you admittance.”

“Oh,” she exclaimed, “you might just as well throw a rope around my neck and drag me back to Ironheart behind your horse!”

“Good idea.” A flat new voice entered the discussion.

Jianna’s heart missed a beat. She wheeled to discover Onartino Belandor standing a few paces behind her. In the midst of the debate and the downpour, she had failed to notice his approach, and in that moment it seemed unbelievable that she had sensed nothing, because he was so extraordinarily large, looming there as huge and impervious as a rain-soaked colossus. The cold terror and hot hatred flared inside her and every nerve urged flight. She started to rise and the flash of pain from her ankle reminded her that she could barely walk, much less run. A rush of defeat and sick despair all but overwhelmed her. For a moment her eyes shut. Then she drew a deep breath, picked up her staff, and with its support stood up straight to face her hunter.

Onartino snapped his fingers sharply. “Heel,” he commanded.

Her eyes widened a little in disbelief. She did not stir.

“Not trained yet?” Onartino inquired. “We’ll fix that.” One of his pockets yielded a small rawhide quirt. He gave it a flick, and the braided lash answered with a pert pop. Educational aid in hand, he started for her.

This time, she sensed, he truly meant to hurt her, and there was nothing she could do to elude him or to hold him off. Without conscious volition, she threw a glance of anguished appeal into the eyes of Dr. Falaste. His response was all that could be desired.

Without apparent haste he stepped in front of her, blocking Onartino’s way. “Softly,” he suggested in pleasant tones.

“Keep out of it, Rione,” Onartino advised, finally acknowledging the other’s presence.

Rione?
The name was familiar. She had heard it spoken more than once, not long ago. At Ironheart? Yes. The memory clicked into place. Of course. Rione was that mysterious genius whose praises were sung in the infirmary. Why had he lied to her about his name? Or perhaps he hadn’t lied. Maybe
Falaste
was simply his given name. All of this shot through her mind in a fraction of a second.

“Glad to keep out of it,” Falaste or Rione or Falaste Rione returned in his uniquely calming voice, “so long as it’s understood that there will be no violence here.”