The Traitor's Daughter (26 page)

“Go back,” one of them called out. “Back into quarantine.”

Pausing midway down the ladder to regard the speaker, the girl replied in clear and very reasonable tones, “Things keep fading in and out, back there. And then you can’t hear or see good. It’s get out or fade out.”

Aureste could see her face more clearly now. She appeared less crazed than hugely obstinate, her eyes slitted, her jaw set in boundless determination. She displayed no sign of confusion or illness. After a moment, she resumed her descent.

“Forbidden to leave quarantine,” a guard expostulated. “Go back! You understand me? Go back!”

She neither replied nor obeyed. Down the ladder she backed methodically, while citizens in the street, attracted in numbers by the novelty, yelled frantic warnings, all of them ignored. A command was issued and one of the guards advanced bearing the infamous Taerleezi Toothpick: a pike of exceptional length, designed to maintain suitable distance between executioner and potentially contagious victim. A final warning went unheeded and, amid the shouts of the spectators, the Toothpick plunged into the would-be escapee’s back. She fell from the ladder, dead before she hit the stones of the street.

Aureste winced. Her generic similarity to his daughter inspired that response, but in fact his sympathies were hardly engaged. She had been suicidally stupid, or perhaps just suicidal. If the latter, then her plan had succeeded and all had concluded in accordance with her wishes.

A sizable contingent of citizens lacked the magnifico’s consoling philosophy. As the guards tossed an oiled pall over their victim’s body, the cries of protest intensified. When a smoldering splint attached to the end of the Taerleezi Toothpick was used to set the pall alight, the cries gave way to howls of wrath. The blaze mounted, the flames jumped, and the emotions of the spectators did likewise. The guards were only following standard procedure; a purifying bath of flame was believed to render a possibly plague-ridden corpse relatively safe for handling and prompt removal. The fire benefited all, but the citizens cared nothing for public safety; something in the spectacle of a young woman’s slaughter and instant immolation seemed to have driven them beyond reason.

The furious outcry swelled and somebody threw a stone that grazed a Taerleezi brow, drawing blood. A pelting rain of rocks and refuse followed. The outnumbered guards drew forth their truncheons, ordinarily effective in subduing unruly Vitrisians—but not today. The citizens snarled and stood their ground. For once it was the guards who gave way, the small band of them retreating in tolerably good order. They were heading for the nearest Watch station. Within minutes they would return with reinforcements, but for now, remarkably, the day belonged to the Faerlonnish.

The elated citizens, their energies now unfocused, milled in aimless excitement until the arms blazoned on the Belandor carriage drew notice. The lone passenger was recognized and the familiar yelping cry arose:
Kneeser
.

A flying rock hit the carriage with a thump. And another. Yet another, better aimed, whizzed in through the window to miss Aureste’s head by a hair. A quiet curse escaped him. He rapped the roof sharply, signaling the driver to depart. Goatsgraze Street allowed no room to turn the big carriage about, and therefore the driver whipped his team left toward the mouth of some nameless alley. The chorus of vituperation broke as citizens scurried to clear the path. Only one of them, a bold and acrobatic zealot, dared to fling himself upon the vehicle as it passed, thrusting head and upper body in through the window.

Aureste gazed into a swarthy young face ablaze with hostile excitement. Abuse foamed from its mouth. Almost before he recognized his own intention, he had drawn the dagger from his belt and slashed the face deeply from forehead to jaw. He had not lifted the dagger against another human being in years, but he had lost none of his skill.

The intruder howled and clapped a hand to his eye. Blood welled between the fingers. A vigorous shove thrust him from the window. The Belandor carriage rumbled on unhindered, pursued only by the imprecations of the witnesses.

His route was circuitous, and he did not reach Renuvi’s Row before late afternoon. A quick reconnaissance informed him that two of the five taverns he sought were closed, their clientele doubtless reduced by the pestilence ravaging the area. A third was open for business but deserted save for an inert sprinkling of sodden inebriates. The last two were open and comparatively lively, but the patrons ran largely to aging tipplers and flush mariners disinclined to accept perilous employment. Aureste Belandor labored and haggled at length but his quarry resisted all blandishments and at the end of the day he had secured no more than three remotely acceptable recruits.

* * *

The mists lay heavy on the northern hills. In the late afternoon, at that time of year, the daylight was already beginning to fail. The landmarks were shrouded, the peaks and skyline obliterated, the trail all but invisible. The ground underfoot was damp and yielding. From time to time, it trembled.

A lone traveler making his way on foot along the slopes heard the growl of subterranean thunder. The ground shook beneath his feet, throwing him to his knees. And as he crouched there, the shuddering world altered impossibly. The ground beneath him lost its solidity, even its reality. He did not sink in swamp or quicksand, but lost himself in the insubstantiality of a dream. A cry escaped him and his voice—immensely distant—seemed to echo through a limitless void. The surrounding mists clenched; the faint light filtering through them bent and warped, split and jumped, confounding vision. And behind those mists, or within them, resided a huge Awareness.

Terrified, he threw himself full length, clutching at the grasses beneath him—the rocks—the ground—fingers scrabbling in search of solidity that no longer existed. In an instant the world had become an alien realm wherein he had no place. Here he was lost, helpless, and deeply unwelcome.

It ended as abruptly as it had begun. The quivering ceased, the moment passed, and normal physicality resumed. For some minutes thereafter, he lay where he had fallen, body pressed hard to the chill, familiar ground, hands twined deep in the dead grasses. His emotions were manifold, but they did not include confusion. He knew what had happened, and why.

Bearded face pale, forehead sweat-dewed, he climbed to his feet and resumed his interrupted trek, nerves braced against a repetition.

On through the silent mists he trudged, the moist air darkening about him as he went, and now his path ascended sharply. Another tiny quake shook the hills, this one so minor that he kept his footing. A quarter hour of arduous climbing brought him to a broad flat shelf abutting a sheer perpendicular wall of granite. The path continued on through a narrow cleft in the wall, but the way was guarded. A pair of adult Sishmindri males stood there for all the world like human sentries. Both were fully mature and powerfully built, their brow ridges all but invisible, their skulls flat behind the bulging golden eyes. Their demeanor was singular: neither fearful nor servile. More surprising yet—they were armed, after a fashion. Faerlonnish law in every city forbade Sishmindris the use of weapons upon pain of death to the amphibian and heavy fine to the owner. But these two bore great clubs reinforced with spikes of chipped stone. Astonished, the traveler halted. Human and Sishmindris regarded each other.

He had no idea how long the mutual inspection continued. The huge amphibian eyes told him nothing. At last he ventured to speak.

“Greetings,” he offered in the guttural Sishmindri tongue.

The golden eyes did not blink, but the air sacs fluttered, a sure sign of surprise. Not often did the Sishmindris hear their own language upon human lips. After a moment, one of the guards, if such they were, replied briefly, “Forbidden.”

“I come in friendship,” declared the traveler, with more courtesy than he would have shown any human blocking his path. “I seek the summit of the Quivers.”

“Forbidden,” the amphibian repeated.

“Why?”

“Ground of virtue,” the other explained. “Ground of power.”

“Yes, I know. That is what I seek.”

“Not here. Forbidden. Ours.”

“Yours?”

“Ours. Our people, our place. Our ground.”

The traveler’s astonishment deepened. Never had he encountered the like. Sishmindris did not claim ownership of territory, any more than frogs claimed ownership of a pond, so far as he knew. But then, he had never conversed with frogs.

“I do not challenge your claim,” he returned. “I want only a small space for shelter.”

“No. No men. Ground of virtue, sacred ground of power. Ours.” The amphibian speaker lifted his club and puffed his sacs. “You go.”

The traveler considered. The arcane technique at his command could undoubtedly win his way past the sentries. But the exercise would be lengthy, taxing, and certain to leave him depleted. He might ascend to the summit, there to set up residence upon a site richly infused with the energy of the Source; the Sishmindris could hardly stop him. But thereafter he would be their enemy. Their claim to ownership of the land was so hopelessly absurd and clearly doomed that it engaged his sympathies. Had humans barred his path, he would not have hesitated to deal with them as need dictated, but the amphibians were another matter.

“And what do you do,” he inquired on impulse, “when the world becomes unreal?”

“Wait, and trust in ground of virtue. Our ground.”

“I shall seek elsewhere, then,” the traveler declared. “There are other possibilities.” And so there were, provided the arcanists of the Veiled Isles remembered the ancient cleansing procedures.

“You go. Go.”

“Farewell. Good fortune to you and your people.”

Once again the amphibian air sacs fluttered in amazement and the hitherto silent member of the guardian pair now spoke up to inquire, “What is your name?”

“I am called Grix Orlazzu.”

“Seek in the north, Grix Orlazzu. There are realms of virtue within the Wraithlands. Go north.”

“I will do so. Good-bye.” So saying, Grix Orlazzu took his leave. The mists swallowed him at once.

NINE

The boarhound lay motionless on the floor of his mistress’ bedroom. His eyes were closed, his body limp. A threadbare blanket had been spread beneath him; no other covering softened the bare boards. A few feet away a generous blaze crackled on the grate, another rare concession to comfort in that ascetic space. The dog’s external wounds had been bathed and dressed. A bowl of chopped meat sat inches from his nose, but the aroma did not wake him. Nor did the sound of his mistress’ voice, although she called his name often.

Yvenza Belandor sat cross-legged on the floor beside the injured hound. She wore her usual plain dark gown, and her marbled hair was twisted into its usual knot. But her expression, comprising grief and anger, was uncharacteristic. Beside her knelt Nissi, colorless and insubstantial as fog, her face expressing nothing beyond trepidation.

“Please,” Nissi whispered. “Please, Magnifica.”

“No.” Yvenza’s eyes did not stray from the still canine form.

“Only today.”

“No.” Yvenza stretched forth a hand to scratch lightly behind the dog’s ear. Grumper never stirred.

“Please. Please let me.”

“I said no. Don’t try my patience. In any case, it’s too late. He’s done.”

“No.” Nissi bent low and pressed her cheek to Grumper’s skull. She remained so for some seconds, eyes shut and hands pressing the dog’s muzzle, then sat up to announce almost inaudibly, “He is still here.”

“Your fancy.”

“His time is almost gone. The connection is like the ghost of a cobweb. But there is still something.”

“If so, my voice will bring him back.”

“He has strayed too far to hear. But he will hear me and perhaps he will come. If you let me call through the spaces that are not.”

“You won’t. I give you no leave.” The other stared at her with enormous eyes, and Yvenza added sharply, “Don’t speak of this again. The arcane ways are not for you.”