The Traitor's Daughter (30 page)

No response, no evidence of comprehension.

“I am going to change your dressings,” Rione announced, and his patient whimpered. “No, I won’t hurt you. Calm yourself.”

The whimpering intensified. The wreck writhed.

“Grezziu, you are among friends. You’ll swallow a draught,” Rione promised.

The noise subsided. The wreck lay still.

Rione poured a small quantity of a dark syrup into an earthenware cup. “Lift him up,” he commanded.

Jianna stiffened. She did not want to touch the wreck—did not want to see him, hear him, or exist in the same universe with him—but there was no escape. Mastering vast repugnance, she bent, slipped an arm under the bandaged shoulders, and raised him. He was limp, deadweight, but surprisingly easy to move; perhaps his lack of arms accounted for it. His odor was both rank and wrong, suggestive of decay, despite all his physician’s efforts. Jianna’s gorge rose, and she turned a retch into a cough.

Grezziu began to scream, his cries deafening within the confines of the infirmary. Jianna started and almost dropped him. Her alarmed eyes sought the doctor’s.

“Try to hold him still,” Rione directed.

She did try, but the task was nearly impossible. What was left of Grezziu’s body pitched and bucked wildly. His head thrashed from side to side.

“Hush. It’s all right. Hush, please,” she soothed vainly. The bucking and thrashing continued. Out of the corner of her eye, she noted several patients watching.

“Sit on him, sweetheart,” one of the spectators advised helpfully.

“Choke ’im down,” another added.

She did neither. Grabbing Grezziu’s head with both hands, she held on tightly while Rione tipped the contents of his cup into the open, squalling mouth. Grezziu’s struggles gradually subsided. He breathed a gurgling sigh and lay still.

Jianna drew back, and Rione set to work on the sleeping patient’s bandages. She held herself rigidly still as the facial dressings came off. There was no particular reason for her to observe the holes that marked the site of Grezziu’s missing nose. Nobody required her assistance at that moment, but somehow it would have seemed an act of cowardice to turn her eyes away. Likewise she willed herself to watch as the stumps of the amputated limbs were uncovered one by one, bathed, and bound with fresh linen strips. When the abbreviated remnants of Grezziu’s genitalia were exposed to view, however, her equanimity broke.

Abruptly she rose and retreated to the far end of the room, where a partially open window admitted a current of fresh air. There she stood breathing deeply until her qualms subsided and her roiling stomach calmed itself. At length she grew aware that the infirmary window offered a grand view of the surrounding countryside. Probably the place had once served as a watchtower; from its summit she looked out over miles of forested hills. Jianna strained her eyes. Perhaps if she stared hard enough, tried hard enough, she might catch a glimpse of Vitrisi. Ridiculous, of course. The city was too far away; she couldn’t possibly see it from this place. The road, then, or a path through the woods—anything that might point the way home.

“You are ill, maidenlady?”

She turned at the sound of his voice to find Rione standing behind her. He would be angry, of course. She should not have walked away without permission. He probably wanted her to collect bloody bandages or chase down fugitive maggots.

But he did not look angry, only concerned, and perhaps a little tired. He had been working steadily since the break of day, working far harder than she, never pausing until now. Moreover—it dawned upon her for the first time—he had kept her busy, but consistently spared her the worst of labors. He had not, for example, commanded her to bathe Grezziu’s stumps; he had done it himself. All things considered, he had treated her with remarkable consideration.

“I’m well enough,” she told him. “I just wanted air.”

“Then step outside for a few minutes.”

Kind. He was obviously kind, and the idea that she had dismissed days earlier jumped back into her mind: Perhaps he might be prevailed upon to help her. He assisted those in need, and she certainly qualified. She needed to enlist his sympathies, somehow.

“I’ll stay,” she returned firmly. “Just give me another moment.”

“Take all the time you please. You deserve it.”

“The Lady Yvenza wouldn’t agree.”

“Ah, the magnifica doesn’t know how well you’ve been doing. Astonishingly well, in fact.”

“Why astonishing?” she asked, absurdly pleased. Praise from a man of Rione’s talents meant something.

“You’ve no experience, no training, and some of the sights you’ve witnessed in this place must be hard for you to bear.”

“Some of them,” she admitted. “I’m not squeamish, but that poor man Grezziu—”

“Man? He’s no more than a boy. He’s all of fourteen.”

“That young? How horrible! Oh, if only they’d known that!”

“They? The Taerleezis, you mean?”

She nodded.

“Do you imagine it would have made any difference?”

“Why—why, yes, of course it would. They’re not savages.”

“Aren’t they?”

“They’re perfectly civil folk, most of them, with decent enough manners, if something coarse. Some of them like music, and play very well. I know, because I’ve met them. I’ve even sat at table with them. I …” Her voice trailed off. He was observing her thoughtfully, and all at once she found herself confused and oddly mortified.

“You’ve dined with Taerleezi guests in your father’s house?” Rione prompted, quite gently.

She nodded again and her sense of inexplicable shame deepened, which was ridiculous. She had nothing to be ashamed of, nothing to apologize for, and neither did her father, no matter what the world had to say about him. Aureste Belandor was capable of accepting and adapting to life’s realities. If the envious resented him for that, so much the worse for them.

Thus internally fortified, she was able to meet the doctor’s eyes and answer with an appearance of assurance, “The Taerleezis aren’t monsters, they’re just people, not that much different from ourselves.”

“I don’t dispute that,” Rione conceded drily. “Were our positions and opportunities reversed, we Faerlonnish would no doubt prove as cruel and tyrannical as our present overlords. But that has nothing to do with present reality. You’ve been sheltered, maidenlady, but you’re no child, and you should understand that the Taerleezis you’ve dined with in Vitrisi are perfectly capable of chopping countless boys like Grezziu into hash. Oh, they wouldn’t do it themselves, it’s true. They are too civil and musical for that. But they issue the orders that cause it to be done.”

“Well, a lot of these bad things wouldn’t happen at all if only some people would settle down and stop making so much trouble. Stop burning buildings and attacking Taerleezi patrols and assassinating tax collectors and so forth. When they break the peace, they should expect consequences, shouldn’t they?”

“Settle down and stop making so much trouble. There’s something to that, I suppose. We Faerlonnish need only accept Taerleezi occupation and domination. Accept the confiscation of our lands and homes, the theft of our belongings. Accept the killing taxes and financial penalties that reduce us to beggary and starvation. Accept the punitive laws that rob us of all rights, safety, and freedom. Accept the insolence and contempt that strip us of dignity and self-respect. Accept all of this without a murmur of protest, and perhaps our appreciative conquerors will refrain from butchery. Have I correctly stated your position, maidenlady?”

He did not speak angrily or accusingly. His face was clear, voice low and soothing as ever, but Jianna felt like a pinned insect. It wasn’t fair, he was surely exaggerating and twisting the facts, but she hardly knew how to refute him. For a moment or two she cast about for a reply and finally settled on a weak one. “I think it’s only common sense to make the best of things that can’t be helped.”

“Oppression is a thing that can’t be helped, then?”

“The Taerleezis won the war. It happened long ago, and there’s nothing much to be done about it now.”

“The Ghosts believe otherwise.”

“The Ghosts stir up trouble, they get themselves killed or worse, and what good does it do? Nothing changes.”

“Ah, this is sad. You’re too young to give way to such despair.”

“Despair?” she echoed, astonished. “What despair? I’ve always been happy. Until I was brought here, of course.”

“Despair is an absence of hope, is it not?”

“I haven’t given up; I hope for all sorts of things. I hope for good health, good fortune, and happiness for myself and the people I care about. But those hopes will never be realized unless I find my way back home and so, above all else, I hope to return to Vitrisi.” She watched his face closely for a sign of sympathetic response.

“Your ambitions are lively but personal. They don’t embrace the welfare of your country or countrymen. You’ve been raised to regard such larger hopes as unrealistic, but there are many among us not sharing your pessimism.”

Jianna stirred uncomfortably. She wanted to argue, to insist that she was not at all pessimistic, that she had been blessed with a cheerful disposition. But she could hardly afford to contradict and possibly alienate him. Moreover, she found herself oddly prey to doubt. Like her father, she had always dismissed Faerlonnish resistance as a foolish lost cause. But what if she—and he—had underestimated the will and persistence of their countrymen? Aureste Belandor rarely miscalculated, but even he was capable of occasional error.

“Do you believe—I mean
really
believe—that the Ghosts can actually drive the Taerleezis out of Faerlonne?” Jianna inquired, half in challenge, half in genuine curiosity.

“Perhaps that’s too much to expect at present. But I do believe—I mean
really
believe—that the resistance may chivvy the Taers into repealing the worst of the laws,” he replied with a slight smile.

“Well, that would be something, I suppose.” Frowning, she pondered and eventually grew conscious that he was studying her face. Her sense of not altogether unpleasant confusion expanded, and she felt the color warm her cheeks. Ridiculous. Holding fast to her dignity, she announced, “I’m ready to go back to work now. Is there anything more to be done for Grezziu?”

“Very little.” Rione’s smile disappeared. He lowered his voice. “I try to keep him as comfortable as possible, but there’s no hope for him. He’ll probably be gone within hours.”

Jianna wondered whether her sense of profound relief was inappropriate.

* * *

Another day passed and Grezziu quietly died. His remains were interred without ceremony in the small cemetery at the foot of Ironheart’s outer wall. The next day brought two new feverish patients—a brace of household servants, this time—whose care kept Jianna almost too busy for thought or worry for a while. Then one morning she awoke to a world dusted with frost. The air was cold, the last leaves were falling from the trees, and her sense of time’s passage reawakened to jab like a spur.

Her sojourn in the infirmary had proved demanding but not intolerable; certainly not as miserable as Yvenza had expected. The infirmary, in fact, had served as a kind of sanctuary, for here Onartino never willingly ventured, and here she was free of him. But the respite was temporary, and each passing day surely brought the East Reach Traveler and catastrophe closer. Each day also advanced upon the hour of Dr. Rione’s departure. Already he had extended his stay beyond his original intent, but he would not tarry much longer. And when he went, Ironheart would be lonely, loathsome, and unbearable as never before. There would be no more conversation, no more kindness, no more companionship—perhaps for the rest of her life.

Jianna contemplated her probable future, and the idea floating wraith-like at the edge of her mind finally coalesced. Since the wet afternoon of their first meeting, she had always hoped to enlist Rione’s assistance, and now she had decided exactly what form that assistance should take: When he departed Ironheart, he would take her with him.

He didn’t know it yet, perhaps he wasn’t even thinking about it. He would hesitate, no doubt. But Aureste Belandor’s daughter would overcome his reluctance. She would find a way.

She took to watching him, searching always for some sign of receptivity, some clue that the moment was ripe, but his face remained closed. He was kind, considerate, courteous—nothing more—and she needed something stronger to draw him to her and to conquer Yvenza’s influence.

It was curious and galling. Falaste Rione was intelligent, strong-willed, and independent, yet he manifested an incomprehensible loyalty to Yvenza. More than loyalty—an esteem, a deep respect, even affection that seemed almost filial. But he was not her son, her foster son, or even her distant blood kin—Jianna had satisfied herself upon this point days earlier. He was not a servant, although the servants in this place seemed to regard him as one of their own. He was not a tenant or a retainer of any description. He seemed to defy ordinary classification.

Whatever he might be, she would reclassify him. Quite apart from necessity, something in her wanted to claim him.

She continued to watch, but the perfect moment never arrived, and at length she resolved to create one. Her ankle was perfectly healed, but now she began to favor it, moving about the infirmary with a subtle, barely perceptible limp.

Rione noticed at once. “Trouble?” he inquired. “Ankle bothering you?”

“Nothing to speak of.” She smiled bravely.

“You’re in pain?”

“Really, it’s nothing.”

“Better let me have a look.”

“You’ve more important things to do.”

“Let me be the judge. When did it start aching?”

“Yesterday evening.”

“Any obvious reason? You didn’t try running or jumping, did you?”

“No, nothing like that. I—I fell down, that’s all.”

“Fell down? How did that happen?”

“Please, I don’t want to talk about it.” Her voice broke. She turned her face away.

“Maidenlady, are you crying?”