The Ruined City
Praise for Paula Brandon’s
THE TRAITOR’S DAUGHTER
“In The Traitor’s Daughter, bitter struggles between collaborators and resistance fighters in an occupied realm play out against the backdrop of an impending cataclysm that could render all of their machinations irrelevent. Compellingly complex motivations and character dynamics mark Paula Brandon’s welcome debut.”
—JACQUELINE CAREY, New York Times
bestselling author of Naamah’s Kiss
“Paula Brandon’s The Traitor’s Daughter is a dark, rich feast, rife with plagues, kidnappings, political intrigues, bloody crimes, bloodier revenges, arcane upheavals, and the threat of zombies.”
—DELIA SHERMAN, author of Changeling
“I love a fantasy world so solid that I can breathe the air, smell the earth, and truly feel the touch of the magic. The world of The Traitor’s Daughter is all of that and more. In this world, the solidity masks a nightmare: an approaching inversion in the conditions of magic that will change everything. To create a reality so convincing and destabilize it with a threat so dizzyingly profound—what an achievement! Here’s a story to enwrap, enchant, and sweep you away. This isn’t reading, it’s full-on living! A flawless all-round performance!”
—RICHARD HARLAND, author of Worldshaker and Liberator
“Brandon’s debut, the first in a projected trilogy, is an impressively imaginative epic disguised as an unassuming romantic fantasy.… While the revolutionary and romantic threads are engaging, it is Brandon’s multilayered narrative that makes this novel such an immersive reading experience. Rich world-building, relentless pacing, and some tantalizing subplots suggest that Brandon is an author to watch.”
—Publishers Weekly
The Ruined City is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
A Spectra Trade Paperback Edition
Copyright © 2012 by Paula Volsky
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Bantam Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
SPECTRA and the portrayal of a boxed “s” are trademarks of Random House, Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Brandon, Paula.
The ruined city / Paula Brandon.—Spectra trade paperback ed.
p. cm.
eISBN: 978-0-345-53237-4
I. Title.
PS3602.R36R85 2012
813′.6—dc23 2011035597
www.ballantinebooks.com
Cover design: Kathleen Lynch/Black Kat Design
Cover illustration: based on images by Susan Fox/ Trevillion (woman) and Roman Sigaev/ shutterstock (landscape)
v3.1
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Other Books by This Author
About the Author
PROLOGUE
“Are you asleep?”
Grix Orlazzu lay with his eyes closed. His breathing was deep and regular.
“Come, this is useless. I know you are not asleep.” The automaton’s metallic tones scraped the atmosphere. “You cannot deceive me, Leftover. Open your eyes.”
Orlazzu produced a muted snore.
“This is false. This is treacherous. This is organic. You will admit that you are awake!”
A steel-jointed finger poked Orlazzu’s shoulder. For the life of him, he could not contain a curse, which killed all hope of further pretense. He opened his eyes to confront the glassy scrutiny of his creation.
“What time is it?” Orlazzu yawned widely.
“Time to get up. You have lain there on that pallet long enough.”
“We inferior creatures of flesh and blood need our rest, you may recall.”
“You have had four hours of rest. You cannot pretend that does not suffice. Come, enough of this sloth. Get up now, Leftover. You will get up now!”
Orlazzu sat up. For a moment his gaze traveled the room, its modest limits faintly visible by dawn light, before coming to rest upon the sturdy figure of his own mechanical double. The automaton returned the regard unblinkingly, and—not for the first time—Orlazzu repented his own failure to furnish his creation with functional eyelids.
“Well?” the automaton prompted.
“Well, what? What do you want now?”
“Your attention. Your regard. Your conversation. You will talk to me.”
“About what, exactly?”
“My thoughts. My feelings. My inner self.”
“Your inner self consists of gears, cogs, springs, and clockwork, driven by arcanely generated pulses of energy.”
“And yours consists of imperfectly organized ooze, but I make allowances for your deficiencies. I do not despise you for them. I am still willing to confide in you.”
“I haven’t asked you to confide.”
“You will listen. It is your duty. I wish to discuss my feelings of loneliness and isolation, the result of your neglect. You have not made me feel welcome—you never have.”
“Correct. You are not welcome. Why don’t you leave?”
“You are impertinent, Leftover. Not to mention insensitive, inferior, and generally reprehensible. I will not be pushed out of my own home.”
“Your home?”
“I have come to regard it as such. I have developed a deep and abiding affinity for this humble cottage. Modest though it may be, yet it is my true and rightful place.”
“Very well. You keep it, then. I’ll go.”
“Without me? Never. I will not allow it.”
“You will not allow?”
“I am stronger than you, Leftover. I am faster, greater in endurance, and far more intelligent than you. We both know that I am more than your match. And I will not allow you to shirk your sacred responsibilities.”
“Those sacred responsibilities including unlimited endurance of soulful chitchat?”
“Chitchat? How dare you? Have you any idea how condescending that sounds?”
“I believe I do, yes.”
“I will not endure such contempt, such indifference! You will display the proper interest and concern that any creator owes his creation. You will acknowledge your obligation, recognize my needs, and strive to fulfill them to the best of your ability. I will settle for no less! Do you hear me, Leftover? You will do right by me!” The automaton’s voice had risen to a metallic shout, but its face, limited in flexibility, barely changed expression.
Orlazzu studied his unruly double in silence for a moment, concluded once again that he could not bring himself to destroy the mechanism, and inquired mildly, “You view my obligation as permanent in nature?”
“No, for your term of existence is limited. But make no mistake, you will use your time properly.”
“I see. Yes, I see clearly. Very well, Grix. You leave me no choice, and I must yield. This is your home, our home, our abode of inexpressible togetherness. Here I shall dedicate all the resources at my command to the furth
erance of your happiness. What have you to say to that?”
The automaton eyed its creator in silence.
“That’s what you want, isn’t it?” Orlazzu prompted.
“That is what I demand. But you concede very readily.”
“How can I fight the inevitable?”
The automaton’s internal mechanism whirred. An erratic succession of beeps suggested mental disquiet.
“Right, then.” Orlazzu rose from his narrow bed. The quality of light in the room told him that dawn had broken. “I must step outside for a moment, in the manner of organic humankind—”
“The details are unnecessary. I recognize your weakness.”
“And then I need to collect some fuel.”
“You’ve fuel enough already.”
“Not so. Remember, it must season. You may assist me, if you will.”
“Assist in what manner?”
“Gather sticks, chop wood—”
“I? I possess talents and intellect of the highest order. You would set me to menial tasks?”
“Necessary tasks.”
“Necessary for you, Leftover. I have no need of fire, hence no reason to gather bits of wood. It is not as if I were some servant.”
“You’ll not come for the sake of fellowship? We could discuss your feelings.”
“We will discuss them upon your return. Do not expect me to drudge for you. I have learned to assert myself.”
“I applaud your progress. Excuse me for the moment, then. I’ll return shortly.” Pausing only long enough to wrap himself in his oilskin cloak, Grix Orlazzu exited the hut, shutting the door behind him.
He emerged into a dim world filled with mist and cold moisture. The weak light of early morning just barely managed to find its way through the fog. The tufted grasses underfoot were dank and dead, the low shrubbery leafless and skeletal. For all of that, his surroundings were intensely charged. Almost he imagined that he could feel the power of the Source vibrating through the ground and tingling through the air, to raise the gooseflesh along his forearms and stir the hairs at the back of his neck. Closing his eyes, he opened himself to the Source, and in that unguarded moment felt the vast intangible presence of the Other pressing hard on his intellect. An intimation of ancient intelligence too alien to comprehend, a sense of measureless will spanning the ages, and then he slammed shut the gates of his mind, excluding the intruder.
Orlazzu opened his eyes. He was breathing hard, as if he had run a race, and his heart was pounding. He came within a nervespan of ducking back into the shelter, whose arcane reinforcements were proof against all attempted incursion, then considered the consequences and quelled the impulse. He was capable of resisting the Other. It was largely a matter of vigilance.
Two minutes of brisk hiking carried him over the crest of a rise and down into a hollow hidden from the hut and its glass-eyed tenant. There sprawled a dense tangle of brambles, and beneath the spiked branches lay a pile of dead leaves. Plunging his hand wrist-deep into the leaves, he dragged forth the sack that he had hidden in that spot some twenty-four hours earlier. Within the sack reposed his most essential belongings—a clutch of arcane instruments and substances, a few mundane tools, the best of his books and manuscripts, and a few days’ supply of food. Little enough, but they would serve.
Sack slung over his shoulder, Orlazzu fled into the fog.
ONE
Aureste Belandor’s eyes moved from the still body on the bed to the still body on the floor, and back again. His brother Innesq lay white-faced, blue-lipped, and apparently dead of exhaustion. Newly awakened from his coma, weakened and drained, Innesq had been unfit for arcane endeavor. The intense exertion required to halt the plague-crazed guard’s rampage had cost dearly. Rigid on the floor sprawled the corpse of the young guard Drocco, bones shattered and skull fractured by the blows of the poker wielded by his master—his loss negligible in itself, yet threatening enormous inconvenience. For an instant the Magnifico Aureste stood paralyzed, prey to uncharacteristic indecision. The moment passed, and he was himself again.
Applying two fingers to his brother’s neck, he discovered an erratic and dangerously weak pulse. No matter. Innesq was not about to die; Aureste Belandor would not permit it. He yanked the bellpull beside the bed, and a Sishmindri answered the summons at once. The amphibian’s air sacs fluttered at sight of the dead guard.
“You are called Zirriz, are you not?” Aureste demanded, business-like as if he conducted ordinary household affairs.
The hairless greenish head bobbed.
“And you frequently assist Master Innesq in his workroom?”
“I obey,” the Sishmindri reported.
“Well, Zirriz, Master Innesq has overexerted himself and suffered a relapse. It is your task to restore him.”
“How?”
“You will find a way. Do not pretend ignorance, as you value your green hide. His illness is arcane in nature. As his assistant, you must have received instruction, learned what to do in the event of an accident or emergency. You will use that knowledge now.”
There was no immediate reply. Zirriz advanced to the bedside, studied Innesq’s blue-white face, then took up one lax hand to examine the fingertips at some length.
“Need leech-man.” The Sishmindri laid Innesq’s hand down.
“No. The doctors are charlatans, they know nothing. The responsibility is yours. Save Master Innesq’s life and you’ll be rewarded. Fail, and I will lock you in a small iron cage where you will starve to death at leisure. Now get to work.”
Zirriz stared, his thoughts—if any—unknowable. At last he replied, “Need dust.”
“Then get it. There is plenty to be had.”
“Cure. For sickness. Magic.”
“An arcane restorative? Good. Where is this to be purchased? I’ll pay any price.”
“Made. In workroom.”
“Did any of this dust survive the fire?”
Zirriz’s brow ridges flexed. Clearly he did not know.
“Go and see.” Aureste controlled his impatience with difficulty.
Zirriz made for the exit.
“Halt.” The command was obeyed, and Aureste’s hand sketched a gesture encompassing the corpse on the floor. “You will remove this carrion.” He felt the weight of unspoken questions, and his mind sped. Drocco carried the plague, whose discovery consigned Belandor House and its inhabitants to the deadly limbo of the quarantine. And yet—a quick glance served to confirm—nothing in the victim’s outward appearance revealed contagion. His death wounds were gapingly apparent, their red testimony sufficient unto itself. Prompt disposal of the corpse should guard the potentially catastrophic truth.
The amphibian was staring, his comprehension open to question.
“The fool was roaring drunk,” Aureste found himself explaining. “He drew his weapon and suffered the consequences. Now get him out of here. Cart his carcass to the nearest dunghill, or to the Allwights if you prefer, and leave him there. In any case, get rid of him. Do it now.”
“Cannot,” the Sishmindri replied, unbelievably.
“What do you say to me?” Aureste’s gaze roved in search of a whip.
“General Order Fourteen.”
Of course. Governor Uffrigo’s infamous decree, with which Aureste had reluctantly familiarized himself in recent days. General Order Fourteen, which imposed an early curfew upon Faerlonnish nationals and their Sishmindri chattel alike. General Order Fourteen, which mandated the confiscation of any Faerlonnish-owned Sishmindri found out upon the streets after the hour of ten. In the event of discovery, the dead guard—a person of no importance—could be explained away with relative ease. But the Taerleezi authorities would immediately seize the amphibian, a commodity too valuable to sacrifice.
“Very well.” He released the concession grudgingly. “Carry him hence at dawn, then. In the meantime, summon such assistance as required and have that thing removed from my brother’s chamber.”
Zirriz stooped to insp
ect the corpse and reported, “Not dead.”
“What?”
“Still moving.”
“You are lying or dreaming.” Mastering vast repugnance, Aureste approached to stare down into the dead man’s face. Drocco’s eyes were wide open, and the lids twitched perceptibly. Apart from that minuscule motion, he was rigid and motionless, held fast in Innesq’s arcane toils. Could such bonds ever break? Did the—he groped for the term his brother had used—did the Overmind look upon him through those staring eyes?
He suppressed a thrill of almost superstitious horror. There was no cause for fear. Innesq’s intangible restraints would hold firm until the guard’s body turned to dust.
“It is a final spasm of the muscles, nothing more,” he decreed. “He’s finished.” He paused, daring contradiction, of which there was none. “Now do as you are bid, and keep me informed of your progress.” Averting his eyes from the embarrassment on the floor, Aureste departed, making his way through the smoke-blighted corridors of the north wing to the chamber now serving as his makeshift study. As he went, the signs of the recent fire were everywhere about him: blackened frescoes and hangings, cracked and wounded stained-glass windows, empty mirror frames, moldering waterlogged carpets, gilt-peeling furniture, broken porcelains—and all of that was here in the north wing, whose damage was minor compared with the devastation of the central section and the south wing. Belandor House, site of privilege and grandeur, his own house, had suffered a blow from which it would be slow to recover, if it ever recovered at all. But the building and its contents were feathers weighed in the balance against the attack upon Innesq—an attack that might yet prove fatal.
Aureste repelled the thought, expertly substituting tastier objects of contemplation, chiefest of which was vengeance. The author of the outrage, or at least its principal perpetrator, presently languished in prison—a circumstance offering boundless opportunity to the creative enemy.
Mere minutes earlier, Innesq Belandor had explained the urgent necessity of establishing a truce with Vinz Corvestri. The cleansing of the Source, whose imminent reversal threatened the Veiled Isles—and perhaps the lands beyond—with uncanny catastrophe, demanded the combined talents of some half-dozen arcanists. Corvestri was an indispensable member of this group, his contribution essential. And Aureste had accepted the truth of this, even at the cost of unusual remorse. For once he had genuinely repented his own actions. The rush of guilt and shame was still fresh in his mind, but already it was beginning to recede. Perhaps Innesq had exaggerated. Perhaps sickness and exhaustion had clouded his intellect, or maybe he had simply been mistaken.