The Traitor's Daughter (51 page)

“The proof is clear. These documents were discovered tacked to the underside of a desk drawer in your study.” The lieutenant flourished his mysterious packet. “I trust you recognize them.”

“No, I don’t recognize them. What’s that you’ve got there? Let me see it.”

“No need. You already know what I’m holding. The names, the dates, the selection of targets, the plans, the records of payments and purchases—a complete portrait of your resistance activities.”

“This is madness,” Vinz declared in all sincerity. Indeed, a dream-like sense of unreality was taking hold of him, as it had upon the night of the Belandor House raid. “I know of no papers. They aren’t mine.”

“Two or three mention you by name, although the majority employ the code name ‘Nullity.’ Sound familiar, Magnifico?”

“No, it doesn’t! This is fantastic and absurd. Lieutenant, you went straight to my study and came up with those documents, whatever they are, in a matter of minutes. That was no accident. They’re cheats, they’re fakes! And you know it. You or your men planted them there to incriminate me.”

“And why should we want to do that, Magnifico? What have we to gain? No, accusing the men of the Watch won’t help you. Don’t worry, though. You’ll have the chance, in fact you’ll be encouraged to tell your story, complete in every detail, to the interrogators at the Witch.”

The Witch
. Not the Clouds Watch Station. They meant to drag him off to a real prison, for serious offenders, who not infrequently progressed from the Witch straight to the gibbet or the block. Vinz’s sense of unreality intensified. But here was Sanzi coming toward him with a set of very real manacles. He felt the touch of the cold iron at his wrists, and the alarm boiled up inside him, impelling him to send the Taerleezi guard staggering with a sudden shove.

“We’ll put a stop to this nonsense here and now,” Vinz declared with a desperate air of authority. “Lieutenant, I’ll see those documents that you claim to have discovered in my study. I’ll expose them as the forgeries that they are. I demand to see them.” He took a step toward the officer, but Sanzi was back with the manacles and now he was angry. When Vinz again attempted resistance, Sanzi hit him; a short, sharp blow to the midriff that doubled him over. Before he could straighten or even draw breath, the irons closed on his wrists.

“Leave him alone!”

He heard Vinzille’s voice, clear and precociously commanding, and his terror expanded. The boy would get himself hurt or killed if he tried to interfere. Vinz managed with difficulty to stand upright. He wanted to warn Vinzille, to silence him for his own sake, but Sanzi’s punch seemed to have shocked his system; he could barely catch his breath, much less speak. But there was nothing wrong with his eyes, and he raised them in time to see Sonnetia’s white-knuckled grip tighten on her son’s shoulder and to see her mouth the words,
That’s enough!

Vinzille’s independence was increasing with each passing day, but his mother had not yet lost all control over him. He looked at her, drew a deeply wrathful breath, and fell silent. Sonnetia’s glance shifted to her husband. Vinz met her eyes and—as always—found himself absolutely unable to guess what was going on behind them. Her thoughts, her sensations, and emotions—apart from her obvious love for her son—remained closed to him. He did not even know whether she truly supported him or not; whether she desired his safety and freedom, or whether she would enjoy ridding herself of him once and for all.

It seemed to him at that moment that she was no true wife at all and never had been. She was little more than a stranger inhabiting his house. And the frustration and hopeless longing, the disappointment and resentment of decades welled up in a great, hot surge, restoring his voice but not his judgment. The suspicions of recent weeks were burning in his mind, fueled by the terror of the moment, and that heat consumed all normal restraint, freeing the unspeakable to fly from his lips.

“Have you a hand in this, madam? Did you plant the papers in my study, or was it done by that maidservant of yours who carries the messages between you and Aureste Belandor?”

Sonnetia’s eyes widened in astonished incredulity, convincingly portrayed. Vinzille’s expression conveyed bewilderment, no doubt genuine, and the sight pricked Vinz’s confused conscience. He shouldn’t have attacked the boy’s mother, it wasn’t right or fair; unless, of course, his accusations were true and he could prove their truth beyond question, right here, right now. And probably he could prove it, if only he could examine those papers that the Taerleezis had so very quickly and easily discovered; those papers surely bearing some revealing mark of origin.

“Let me see them.” Vinz turned back to the lieutenant. Stretching forth his manacled hands, he advanced. “If they’re evidence against me, I have the right.”

“You have the right to answer all questions that are put to you,” the lieutenant advised him. “Halt.”

The command did not register. The packet in the officer’s hand filled Vinz’s vision. Deaf to all warnings, he pushed on toward it until a moderate blow from Jio’s truncheon clipped the side of his head. He did not entirely lose consciousness then, but the world went dim and distant. He thought he heard a faraway babble of voices, he thought he glimpsed tall figures gliding through grey fog, but he could not sort them out. There was something wrong with his sense of balance. He could not have remained upright but for the support of strong hands. They were moving him along at breathtaking speed, and he had no idea where they were taking him, but somehow he knew that he did not want to go. Resistance was out of the question, however.

Presently the world darkened, the air hardened, he felt the cold breath of winter upon his face, and after that his memory lapsed.

* * *

For some moments after they had taken Vinz away, Sonnetia and Vinzille remained seated at the dining room table, motionless as if paralyzed, until Vinzille collected himself so far as to demand, “What are we going to do?”

Sonnetia looked at him. He was still so very young, yet distinctly no longer a child. Moreover, his intellect and his talents were uncommon. There was no point in trying to put him off with evasions or soothe him with implausibly optimistic lies. He was old enough and strong enough to bear the truth. She would answer his questions honestly, to the best of her knowledge.

“There’s nothing we can do, right now,” she told him. “The Taerleezis are still ransacking the house, and the search will probably continue for hours, perhaps all through the night. Until they’re done, they’ll not allow us or any of the servants or Sishmindris to leave the building. As soon as it’s permitted, we’ll contact the authorities, learn the exact nature of the charges against your father, find out if a trial date has been set, and then decide how we may best assist and defend him.”

“Don’t you think we could best assist him by calling in a doctor? Those Taerleezi scum hit him. He was bleeding.”

“I know. We’ll try.”

“They didn’t need to do that.”

“Of course they didn’t. But they probably wouldn’t have if he hadn’t fought them.”

“That was brave of him.”

“I’d call it a mistake,” Sonnetia replied levelly. “He lost his head and so he got hurt.”

Vinzille appeared taken aback by her coolness. He hesitated a moment and then asked, “Will they let us visit him?”

“I don’t know yet. That may depend on the charges.”

“Do you think it’s true?” Vinzille cast a quick look at the open doorway and lowered his voice. “Is he really a member of the resistance?”

Sonnetia paused the merest fraction of a second before replying, “He hasn’t confided in me, son.”

“Because if he is—if he fights for Faerlonne—then I’m very proud of him.”

“I know. Best keep that to yourself, though.”

“I will. I saw that he means to deny everything. He’s claiming that those papers they found are fakes. He even said something about you planting them in his study. That was all to throw the Taers off, wasn’t it?”

“It could have been.” It was the first less-than-truthful answer that she had given him. There was no doubt in her mind that her husband had accused her in earnest.

“And then when he said something about your maid carrying messages between you and that putrid kneeser Aureste Belandor”—Vinzille’s eyes were fixed very intently on his mother’s face—“that was more slop for the Taers, wasn’t it?”

“Perhaps. I can’t explain what was in your father’s mind. But one thing I can tell you with absolute certainty.” Sonnetia was back on the solid familiar ground of undiluted truth. “It was fantasy. There’s been no exchange of messages between Aureste Belandor and me. I’ve not traded a word with him in many years. There’s no communication at all.”

Her son nodded, and she saw that he believed her.

“We’re going to bring him back home, aren’t we?” the boy asked.

Sonnetia was silent.

SIXTEEN

A drop of partially frozen moisture hit Jianna’s cheek, and she brushed it away. Another followed, and another. “Sleet,” she announced.

“I’ve noticed,” Falaste Rione returned.

Her eyes roamed in search of shelter. She saw wet grey tree trunks rising on all sides, thin bare branches crisscrossing overhead, skeletal dead undergrowth, a moist dark trail slicked with soggy dead leaves—nothing that offered the smallest hope of refuge.

Her gaze came to rest on her companion. Falaste’s hair was flecked with ice, his face paler than its wont, the fading bruise on his cheek standing out in yellow-green relief. His lips were all but colorless. Throughout the course of the past three days he had never once complained, but doubtless he felt the cold—because of her. The good oilcloth cloak that she wore, with its deep hood to keep the rain off and its lining of heavy wool—that cloak was his sole warm outer garment. Had he not handed it over to her, he would have been comfortable enough. Of course, he had only done what any gentleman would do, but compunction smote her nevertheless, and she found herself suggesting once again, “We could share the cloak. Why don’t you take it for a while?”

He shook his head without troubling to repeat the usual refusal, and asked in turn, “You all right? Need a rest?”

He did not offer food, she noted. The bread and portable foodstuffs with which he had surreptitiously crammed his pockets before departing the wedding celebration had sustained them for days, but now the provisions must be giving out. She did not wish to burden him further, but could not forbear asking, “We’ve eaten everything?”

“Not quite. There’s still some dried fruit and nuts. Enough to meet our needs.”

The soothing power of his voice momentarily reassured her, but then he ceased speaking and her fears resurfaced at once. This elusive campsite that they sought—he had said that its location changed often. What if he couldn’t find it? What if they wandered through the cold and the wet until their supplies and strength were exhausted, without ever finding the Ghosts or any other source of aid? She slanted a sidelong glance at Falaste, whose demeanor was characteristically composed and purposeful. He had rescued her from Ironheart at the cost of the human ties that he deemed precious, and probably at the risk of his own life. He had guided and protected her, provided for her, suffered privation on her account, without ever uttering a word of reproach. He had proved himself beyond all question worthy of absolute trust—perhaps almost as worthy as Aureste himself—and she would trust him now.

“Why are you smiling?” asked Falaste.

“Oh,” she shrugged, “just happy to be away from Ironheart, thanks to you. And so relieved that nobody has managed to catch up with us.”

“Indeed.” He did not return her smile.

“What’s wrong?”

“You said it yourself. Nobody has managed to catch up with us. It’s too good to be true. Onartino is an accomplished tracker.”

“We’ve crossed rocky ground, waded through streams, obliterated our own footprints, and you even had us double back twice.”

“Yes. But Onartino is an
excellent
tracker.”