The Traitor's Daughter (27 page)

There was a long silence during which Nissi’s eyes sought the motionless canine form and remained there. At last, she ventured in the smallest of whispers, “But. I. Can.”

“You will not.” Yvenza’s eyes and voice went steely. “You haven’t the right. Do you understand me?”

The pale head bobbed. The pale eyes remained downcast.

“The talent resides in House Belandor. So it has always been. But you are not a true Belandor, not the product of any union recognized by law. You have no right to the name, the wealth, the power, or the talent. Your use of the arcane skills is presumptuous. It is impertinent.”

“It is natural to me.” Nissi’s response was barely audible.

“And an insult to me. A reminder of something best forgotten. I do not suffer insults tamely, girl. You ought to know that by now.” No response was forthcoming, and Yvenza pressed on. “You will respect my wishes. You will abstain from all practice of the art so long as you reside beneath my roof. You will give me your word on this.”

Nissi replied with a seemingly unconscious, almost invisible shake of the head.

“In charity I have sheltered and fed you throughout the years. In return I am entitled at the very least to your respect and obedience. Should I fail to receive my due, I can’t be faulted for turning you out to fend for yourself. How far, I wonder, would your talents carry you on your own in the cold world? Would you like to find out?”

Another tiny, voiceless negative.

“Then you will renounce the arcane art and its practice. I want your promise.”

A couple of large tears spilled from Nissi’s eyes.

“I don’t hear you,” Yvenza observed.

“Roof.” The syllable seemed to fight its way past huge barriers.

“What?”

“Beneath your roof. Promise.”

“I hope you aren’t trying to be clever.” The implied threat seemed almost an afterthought. Yvenza’s attention had returned to the boarhound. Grumper lay limp and inert as ever. His mistress laid a hand upon him. “Are you still here?” she asked in a softened voice that few human listeners ever heard. “Grumper, lad?”

“No,” Nissi said. “I felt him leave a moment ago. He is gone now.”

“So I’ve known for the past half hour.” Yvenza straightened. “That girl will smart for it.”

“With … black eyebrows.”

“Aureste’s daughter, yes. When they bring her back, I’ll hamstring her. That should discourage future excursions.”

“She … likes cheese.”

“Does she? Perhaps I’ll ram three or four pounds of Westmarch Blue down her throat.”

“She did not hit Grumper.”

“What did you say?”

“She did not hit him.”

“How do you know?”

Nissi studied the dead dog in silence.

“Look at me.”

Nissi’s lower lip quivered. Her small hands began to shake. Her ordeal was cut short by arrival of a servant bearing the news of Master Onartino’s return, accompanied by Falaste Rione, with the kneeser’s daughter in tow.

* * *

The rain ended well before they reached Ironheart, but Jianna remained soaked to the skin and chilled to the bone. The chill deepened as she beheld the stronghouse rising in all its solidity before her. Once again the urge to flee swept through her and she eyed the reins, wondering if she might snatch them from the doctor’s hand. But even as she watched, his grasp tightened, almost as if he felt or read her thought. The inexorable progress continued, bearing her to the side gate in the outer wall, through the gate and into the courtyard, across the courtyard and around the house to the front entrance, before which they halted.

There had to be something she could do. Impossible that she, the daughter of Aureste Belandor, could sit there so passive, so acquiescent.

The doctor helped her down from the horse. At least she did not have to suffer Onartino’s touch. Falaste’s assistance in climbing the low stone steps to the front door was actually welcome. Then they were through and she was back inside Ironheart, in the grim entry hall that was always dim even on the brightest of days, which this day conspicuously was not. And there was Yvenza advancing to meet them.

She had attempted escape. The boarhound was dead. There would be consequences, possibly horrific. Jianna’s innards knotted, and she wondered if criminals facing death by torsion felt the same. The criminals were comparatively fortunate, however; they were not obliged to face Yvenza Belandor’s wrath.

But Yvenza did not appear wrathful; quite the contrary, in fact. She was smiling as she approached, her eyes filled with hitherto unrevealed light and warmth. Never before had Jianna seen this woman display such natural maternal affection, nor dreamed that it was there at all. Then she saw that Yvenza was not looking at her son, had barely noticed his presence. Her radiant regard was fixed on the doctor.

“Falaste, lad. Welcome home.” She extended both hands, which he took in his own, pressed lightly, and released.

“Magnifica.” He addressed her with a mixture of warmth and deep respect.

“How long shall we have you here with us?”

“Several days at the very least.”

“The more the better. You are needed. They’re clamoring for you in the infirmary. No one else will do.”

“Any new admissions?”

“Three within the past two weeks. Our Ghostly friends grow reckless and unlucky.”

“Through anger, I think. I’ll look in on them at once.”

“No, you won’t. Not before you’ve eaten and rested.”

“Magnifica, that can wait.”

“Ah, Falaste, that foolish large heart will be your ruin, one day.”

There was something in Yvenza’s expression, her smile and her eyes, that struck Jianna as extraordinarily familiar, something that she had seen countless times. Familiarity notwithstanding, it took her a moment to place the memory. The look in Yvenza’s eyes as they rested upon the doctor was just the same expression that shone in her father’s eyes when he looked at
her
. A pang shot through her then, but even as she watched, Yvenza’s eyes shifted from Falaste to her biological son, and changed.

“Well, boy,” the matriarch observed with a congratulatory air, “I see you’ve recovered the little runaway bride. Good work.”

“Too easy,” replied Onartino.

“Perhaps next time she’ll offer more of a challenge.”

“I doubt it.”

“I suspect you underestimate your sweet soul mate here. Does he not, girl?” Doubling her fist, Yvenza struck suddenly and strongly.

Taken off guard, Jianna made no move to block or evade the blow, which stretched her full length on the floor. Shocked and dizzy, she sat up slowly, cradling her jaw.

“That’s for Grumper,” Yvenza informed her.

“Magnifica!” the doctor remonstrated. He took a step forward as if to intervene.

“You stay where you are,
Falaste, lad
,” Onartino advised. Turning to his mother, he suggested, “Grumper deserves more. He was worth ten of her.”

“No doubt. And he was worth ten of you into the bargain, so hold your tongue,” she returned, then met Jianna’s eyes and commanded, “Get up.”

If she got up, Yvenza would probably hit her again. If she cowered on the floor, she would look craven. Before she had reached a decision, the doctor spoke again.

“Magnifica, you should know that this maidenlady has been injured. She’s twisted her ankle and can scarcely walk.”

“That’s convenient. Maybe I needn’t hamstring her after all. Perhaps a good whipping and a few days without food will do.”

“You should also know”—Jianna ventured to enter the discussion—“that I did not beat your dog.”

“Indeed.” Yvenza considered. “In that case, how did you get away from him?”

In her eagerness to proclaim her innocence, she had failed to anticipate that inevitable question. Jianna felt her face flush. Her imagination churned uselessly. No remotely convincing lie or evasion suggested itself, and at last she replied, “I won’t tell you that.”

“I urge you to reconsider.” Yvenza kicked her in the stomach.

Jianna gasped and doubled, clutching herself. When her distressed breathing eased, Yvenza repeated the question. “How did you get away from him?”

Jianna stared at the floor.

“That first kick was scarcely a nudge. The next one takes out your front teeth,” Yvenza remarked conversationally. “A pity to spoil such pretty pearly whites, but I’ll force myself.”

“She’s mine, I’ll handle it. With a good leather strap,” Onartino offered.

“Shut up, boy.”

“Maidenlady,” the doctor appealed, and his voice owned the power to draw her eyes from the floor to his face. “It is best by far to answer the magnifica’s questions and to tell her the truth. For your own sake, believe this.”

She did believe it. Yvenza would not kill her at present, but the woman was certainly willing and able to inflict serious injury. And what good would it do to escape and return to Belandor House, maimed for life? In such circumstances as these, Aureste Belandor would surely counsel compliance or at least the appearance thereof. Tossing the hair back from her face, Jianna shifted her gaze to Yvenza’s eyes and answered coldly, “Very well. I drugged the dog with a sleeping potion.”

“Kalkriole?”

“Yes.”

“How did you get him to drink it?”

“I gave him doctored food pellets.”

“ ‘She … likes cheese.’ ” Yvenza nodded to herself. “And then, when he was helpless, you picked up a rock and beat him to death.”

“Then, when he was helpless, I ran for the woods.” Jianna arose with care. Her jaw and her midsection ached; her ankle throbbed. “If you won’t credit me with common decency, at least credit me with common sense. When I had the chance to get away, and every second counted, do you really think that I’d have tarried to beat an unconscious dog? Within a few yards of the household sentry, whose attention might easily have been caught by the sound of the blows? I’m not that stupid. As for the escape attempt itself, you can punish me if you will, but you can scarcely blame me. If you were in my position, Yvenza Belandor, you’d have done exactly the same.”

They were all staring at her and Jianna wondered if she would be struck to the floor again or worse. At last, Yvenza inquired, with a certain sinister mildness, “And if you did not kill Grumper yourself, then whom do you accuse?”

Your murderous brute of a son, most likely
. Jianna’s eyes jumped to Onartino’s face, which was empty and blank as unused paper.
He probably lost his filthy temper
. Aloud she replied, “I wasn’t there, I didn’t see. I accuse no one.”

“Not directly, at any rate.” For a glittering instant Yvenza’s eyes shifted to Onartino. He sustained the scrutiny unmoved, and her attention returned to Jianna. “Let us give you the benefit of the doubt and assume that you tell the truth. Indeed, I suspect that you do. There remains the matter of your flight. The attempted desertion of your own betrothed, my poor devoted son. Did you mean to break his sensitive heart? We must see to it that such an act of cruelty is never repeated. My own thoughts lean toward your permanent disablement. Would that do the trick, I wonder? What do you think, niece?”

My father will tear the flesh off your bones if you hurt me
. The threat rose automatically to her lips, but she held it in, for Aureste Belandor’s name, a formidable charm throughout her life, held no power here.

“Look at those eyes,” Yvenza suggested with a smile. “Her father’s eyes, to the life. Notice the fire there. She’d burn me to cinders with those eyes—if only she could. In the interest of self-preservation, we’d best extinguish that blaze.”

“Don’t do anything to make her ugly, or I won’t have her,” Onartino warned.

“You’ll have her with her face turned inside out, if you’re told to,” Yvenza informed him. “But now that you mention it, I perceive the difficulty. You are required to sire an heir upon this girl, and it wouldn’t do to demand performance beyond your capabilities, my son. Very well, we shall not mar her beauty—today, at any rate. How best to damp a fire, then?” Yvenza affected to ponder. “Water usually serves. Yes. Our little runaway shall spend the next week cooling her heels in the subcellar, where the water on the floor rarely exceeds an inch in depth, except when the cesspit overflows.”

“I’m not afraid of your subcellar.” Jianna lifted her chin. She knew that she ought to hold her tongue, but could not. “As for the cesspit, I feel that I’ve been living in one since the day I was brought here.”

“Take care, maidenlady.” Yvenza’s face was unreadable. “I find myself in danger of coming to like you.” She turned to her son. “Onartino, ring for someone to take her down below. And don’t let me hear you offer to do it yourself.”

“Magnifica, this won’t do.” The doctor spoke up with great courtesy and great firmness. “The maidenlady has been injured, soaked, and chilled. She must not suffer further abuse.”

“Did you say ‘must not’ to me, Falaste?” Yvenza inquired gently.

“I speak as a physician. I trust you don’t mean to kill her?”

“Correct.”

“Then keep her out of that death trap of a subcellar or she’ll take a fever within hours. Be certain of that.”

“You seem much concerned for her welfare. Do you know who and what she is?”

“I do.”

“Then you must also know that she won’t escape punishment.”

“Allow me to offer a suggestion. Punish her by setting her to work in the infirmary for the next week. I can use the assistance.”

“Nonsense. That is a holiday.”

“I don’t speak of ladling soup and rolling bandages. She would do the real work—emptying bedpans, mopping up the vomit, changing soiled dressings, bathing infected wounds—all of it. For a gently reared young woman, that will be punishment indeed. And it would be of great help to me.”

“If it’s help you need or want, then you’re welcome to borrow the servant of your choice. Any or all of them will prove more useful to you than this reluctant princess here. She’ll take her lessons in the subcellar, and if she should happen to contract an ague, it will serve to drive the point home.”

“Magnifica, indulge me,” the doctor persisted. “I ask you in the name of my loyalty to grant me this personal favor.”