The Ruined City Page 15

  She did not understand what he had in mind, but he needed to be put in his place, and she replied very gently, “Surely it is my father’s place to do so, upon his return.”

  “Surely. But who can say when that will be? My brother’s absence may continue for weeks—months—years. During that period, whatever its duration, it is my bounden duty to act as head of the household.”

  She wanted to argue, but there was nothing to say. He was right.

  “It is even possible,” Nalio mused, “that neither of my brothers will return at all. I do not wish to alarm you, niece, but the world is often harsh and cruel. It is wise to consider all possibilities, one of which is that the burden I have assumed will be mine to bear for life.”

  Burden—you canting hypocrite! You’d like nothing better.

  Perhaps her thoughts showed in her eyes, for Nalio’s narrow face suffused, and he tilted his head back to look down his nose at her. “I will—will—will do my duty,” he proclaimed. “And be assured that you—you—you will do yours.”

  “And what might that be?”

  “When I have decided, I will—will—will let you know!”

  “I see. As far as that goes, I believe I’ll wait upon my father’s will.” Pushing her chair back from the table, Jianna stood up.

  “Sit down this instant. This conversation is not over.”

  “Uncle, I bid you good evening.” Head high, Jianna marched from the room. His voice was hammering at her back, but she did not stop.

  Vitrisi lay well behind them. For long, monotonous hours, the Belandor carriage and its satellites traveled north along the Nor’wilders Way over rolling, mist-smudged terrain marked by little more than the occasional small farmhouse rising amid empty fields. The sky was colorless and the land correspondingly drab, but the stark, wintry countryside offered one signal advantage. Here, far from the busy pyres of the city, the air was blessedly free of smoke.

  Clean air notwithstanding, the scene was dull, and the Magnifico Aureste soon lost all interest. Drawing forth a list compiled by Nalio, supposedly describing each and every weapon carried by the Belandor party, down to the last miniature palm-bodkin—he lost himself in practical issues of distribution.

  Innesq Belandor did not share his brother’s boredom. The hours passed, and his eyes never strayed from the passing landscape. Judging by the smile of almost child-like wonder and pleasure lighting his face, the sight of the world beyond Belandor House—beyond Vitrisi itself—was unlikely to pall within the near future. When night came and they halted to make camp, Innesq’s interest did not wane. The sight of the servants pitching the tents clearly fascinated him. The care and feeding of the horses, the preparation of the evening meal, even the digging of a communal latrine seemed to hold him spellbound. When the heat rising from the cookfire punched an incorporeal fist into the mists hovering about the campsite and Innesq lost track of all else, Aureste gave up vying for his brother’s attention. At some point Innesq would surely return to reality, but for now he was conversationally useless.

  In the morning the journey resumed, and it was a repeat in almost every particular of the previous day’s travel. So, too, were the following three days, but after that, the character of the land altered. Curves sharpened to angles, the grade of the road grew steeper, and the fields gave way to virgin moorland. The road itself—faint, narrow, ill defined—seemed more concept than reality. Progress slowed, and the carriage lumbered laboriously over land beginning to manifest hints of springtime mud.

  The particularly teeth-rattling navigation of a stony stretch one sunless afternoon led Aureste to question his brother.

  “With your great gift, would it not be a simple matter for you to—how shall I put it—facilitate progress?”

  “Grant the horses the power of flight, perhaps?” Innesq inquired. “Or better yet, devise some means of compressing the next several days’ time into the space of a single hour?”

  “Either would do nicely, but my imagination isn’t quite that fertile. I wondered only if you might not contrive to smooth the road a bit.”

  “Ah. That I might, but I will not.”

  “You could shorten our journey by days.”

  “The cost is too high. Remember, each and every arcane exercise exacts its price in strength and vital energy. These commodities replenish themselves, but time is needed. The task that I and my colleagues face demands the highest talents and skills of all. I cannot afford to spend my resources upon such serviceable feats as the smoothing of roads, kindling of fires upon damp wood, or renewing the freshness of spoiled food. For now, I must play the miser. You understand me?”

  “Oh, certainly. Certainly.” Aureste’s attention returned to weaponry, and the scenery flowed by.

  In the time that followed, Innesq maintained his resolution. When they reached Boundary Water and crossed by way of a bridge so ancient and rotten that the timbers groaned and split beneath the weight of the carriage, he offered no arcane assistance, despite his obvious sympathy for the nervousness of the horses. When one of a supply wagon’s wheels sank in mud, he did not help. And when mutual accusations of theft exploded between a couple of the guards, and it lay within his power to locate the missing article of contention, he uttered not a single potent syllable.

  To Aureste, it smacked of artistic affectation. His brother’s powers seemed inexhaustible, and he perceived no great need of exaggerated economy. Inwardly he chafed at avoidable delays, but deferred as always to Innesq in all matters arcane.

  They pressed north, and the way further darkened when they reached a region of tree-clad slopes. Here the road narrowed, worming a constricted path among the pines, whose tall forms blocked much of the tired light. At times the shade lay so thick and heavy that it became necessary to light the carriage lanterns at midday. Despite the dimness and difficulties, no serious mishap occurred, which was fortunate, for there were no locals to whom they could have turned for assistance—no villages, roadside inns, not so much as an isolated woodsman’s hut. The region through which they passed seemed uninhabited; presumably the soggy hills offered little hope of profit to men.

  Therefore, on the gloomy grey morning that they spied a sizable party on the road ahead, the sight was startling.

  “Is it—?” Innesq Belandor inquired of his brother.

  Leaning out the carriage window and applying a spyglass to his eye, Aureste surveyed the scene. Through the fog he descried colored pennants decorating and identifying the vehicles ahead.

  “Black and plum,” he reported, drawing back inside and setting the spyglass aside. “Corvestri.”

  “Ah, we have caught up with Vinz.” Innesq’s pleasure was innocent and unfeigned. “Excellent.”

  “I don’t see anything particularly excellent about it.” Aureste scowled, once again annoyed by his brother’s casually cordial use of their enemy’s given name. “I suppose it was inevitable.”

  “It was, and I trust you’ll keep your choleric humor to yourself when we meet my colleague.”

  “Your colleague. May I remind you—”

  “No need.”

  “Very well. Be at ease, then. I’ll contain my urge to gut your esteemed colleague like a fish when we finally come face-to-face—which won’t happen, I trust, before we reach our destination.”

  “That will be some days or weeks hence.”

  “In view of your refusal to speed our journey.”

  “Now that we have overtaken the Corvestri party, surely you do not mean to travel separately?”

  “I do.”

  “Aureste, you are allowing your spleen to rule your good judgment. We and our allies should combine forces. That is best for all.”

  “ ‘Allies.’ Applied thus, almost as irritating a term as ‘colleague.’ For the sake of our own comfort and safety, we shall maintain distance between ourselves and the Corvestri creatures for as long as it’s practical to do so.”

  “It is not ‘practical’ at all. Despite all differences, surely
you must see the benefits of—”

  “Enough, brother. I safeguard the interests of our House, and you must accept my decisions, as I accept yours in matters arcane.”

  “You safeguard nothing, you merely express hostility. But I see that you are resolved, and I will not waste time trying to change that obstinate mind.”

  “Ah, such large tolerance. Mark me, you’ll soon see that I’m right.”

  EIGHT

  Jianna found the next few days distinctly enjoyable, and with reason: They were almost entirely given over to the replenishment of her wardrobe. A small squadron of dressmakers and seamstresses descended upon what was left of Belandor House, and with them they brought lengths and bolts of wondrous fabrics. Measurements were taken, needs and requirements discussed, Uncle Nalio’s approval secured, orders placed, and the work began.

  Jianna reveled in it all, but two aspects of the endeavor piqued her curiosity: conspicuous luxury, and remarkable dispatch. She was to receive a lavish assortment of gowns, two of them formal, gold-laced, and fit for the grandest occasion. There were petticoats of stiff brocade, chemises, lace-edged undergarments of linen, lawn, and silk. There was a silk-lined woolen cloak of sweeping amplitude. Hoods, scarves, ribbons, gloves, shoes … everything.

  Given Nalio Belandor’s intense concern with appearances, it was only to be expected that he would clothe his niece as befit a member of his House. Even so, the liberality he now displayed was surprising, particularly in view of the huge cost of Belandor House’s restoration. Who, after all, would see all the fine new clothes, particularly the elaborate formal gowns? She expected to live quietly at home until her father returned, at which time she would inform him of her decision to remain in Vitrisi. During that interval, while the city writhed in the grip of the plague, she was hardly apt to receive either callers or invitations. What need of sartorial splendor?

  Redundancy notwithstanding, the beauty of the new garments was irresistible. Such slippery, slithery, jewel-hued silks; such stiffly gold-crusted brocades; such deep, delicious, densely piled velvets! She could hardly keep her eyes or her hands off them. And within the space of mere days, there was plenty to handle, and to wear, owing to the unusual speed of manufacture. The little seamstresses were lodged in one of the north wing’s humbler cubbies, where half a dozen of them shared a washstand and slept on pallets scattered about the floor; for Uncle Nalio’s generosity did not extend to the hirelings. They worked in shifts, night and day, and the big wooden chest in Jianna’s appointed chamber was filling by the hour.

  Under the present circumstances, what could she do with it all? And what could account for Uncle Nalio’s insistence upon such super-swift labor?

  Uncle Nalio wasn’t so bad, really. A bit annoying, of course. A bit fussy, priggish, petty, and absolutely crammed with self-importance, these days. But well intentioned, conscientious, diligent, devoted to Belandor interests in general, and to the rebuilding of Belandor House in particular. He brimmed with remodeling plans, most of which she listened to at dinner, for Nalio was firm in his conviction that the proprieties must be observed, even in the most trying of times. And the proprieties demanded evening meals as stately as circumstance allowed, attended by all family members in residence. But now there were only the two of them.

  How odd it was. In past years, most meals had been served in the family’s private dining room—a smaller and more intimate space than the cavernous banqueting hall. At dinnertime the room had usually been crowded with immediate family members, more or less distant kinsmen, and visitors of varying rank. The Magnifico Aureste had always sat at the head of the table, with his two brothers immediately below him. Except when supplanted by a visitor of superior status, Jianna had come next, always seated next to Uncle Innesq. Then, to her left, and also directly opposite, usually sat attractive young people, clearly chosen with her pleasure in mind—clever, polished, stylish young people with whom she could trade news, jokes, and gossip; with whom she could, upon certain occasions, even engage in a little very decorous flirtation. In the midst of such conversational plenty, she had never needed to exchange anything beyond basic civilities with tiresome Uncle Nalio, and she certainly hadn’t cared to. But now there was nobody else.

  Initially she had regarded the prospect of conversation with him as an exercise in endurance, but she soon discovered how very easy—indeed, restful—it truly was. Any question concerning the repair of the house was enough to set his mouth in motion for the next quarter hour. The facts and figures came gushing out of him in torrents, and she could keep her wide eyes fixed on his face and her lips curved in an encouraging smile, while allowing her mind to wander along its own path. That path usually carried her to Falaste Rione.

  Where was he now, and what was he doing? Had he tracked down his incendiary sister and dragged her back to the Alzira Hills, or was he still hunting? Was he safe and well? Recollections of his face filled her imagination: Falaste materializing out of the rain upon their first meeting; Falaste, working in the Ironheart infirmary; Falaste, sitting beside her in the sleet, with his cloak draped over the two of them. His smile, his eyes. Dozens of images glowed in quick succession, and such was their power that she would often lose track of Uncle Nalio’s discourse. Then his purse-lipped silence and affronted scowl would alert her to her error, and she would manufacture another question to set him talking again, freeing her to return to her memories.

  The days were largely filled with fittings, which once upon a time would have been exciting, and even now had not lost all appeal. But often as she stood there draped in damask, with the seamstresses buzzing about her, she would think of the work she had performed as Falaste’s assistant, and suddenly the activity of the dressmakers and their human dummy seemed ridiculously trivial. Of course, their project was finite in nature. At the present rate, the new garments would be finished very soon, the workers would depart, and then—? What would she do with her time?

  In the past she had never known loneliness or boredom at Belandor House, where family and friends lived in a palace overlooking the most wonderful city in the world. Now family and friends were gone, the palace lay largely in ruin, and the wonderful city had turned into a smoke-shrouded plague boil. What was there here for her, now? Uncle Nalio’s company at dinner?

  Of course, the bad times were bound to pass. Father and Uncle Innesq would come home in due course. The epidemic would subside, the wandering corpses would lie down, the smoke would clear, Vitrisi would resume normality, and Belandor House would rise again in all its splendor. It was only a matter of time, and she had time—more time than she knew how to use.

  Perhaps she should take more interest in the repair of the house. It was an important matter of family concern, with which she, as an adult, ought to involve herself. True, Uncle Nalio possessed a rare conversational ability to drain all life from the most absorbing of topics, but she would listen for the ideas lurking behind his clouds of minutiae. At least, she would try.

  Armed with this laudable intention, she presented herself at the makeshift dinner table. She was wearing one of her new gowns—lightweight wool in a shade of deep sapphire, with neckline, wrists, and buttonholes bound in scarlet silk; a simple, beautifully cut, and becoming garment. There were dark blue shoes with rosettes, and a wide silk sash with fringed ends, wrapped tightly to display her small waist. The promised lady’s maid had not yet been engaged, and she had been obliged to arrange her own hair. With the aid of a mirror and a number of new silver pins, she had contrived a fairly creditable twist. When completed, the image that looked back at her from the glass had been reassuringly familiar. Finally, she was herself again.

  Uncle Nalio shared her opinion. When she walked into the dining room, he favored her with a smile of rare approval.

  “Niece, you are much improved, and once again recognizable as a person of quality. I should no longer suffer a particle of shame in presenting you to the world.”

  “Thank you, Uncle.” Jianna was proud of herse
lf. She had managed to reply without sarcasm, temptation notwithstanding. All it took was a little self-control.

  She seated herself at her usual place, on his left-hand side. Soup was served. For a time they ate in less than companionable silence, until Jianna compelled herself to inquire, “And have you chosen among the stonecutters yet, Uncle?”

  “It is a delicate decision,” he informed her, and proceeded to elaborate at length.

  She tried to pay attention, but it was not easy. Her thoughts would gravitate to the camp of the Ghosts, and all that she had experienced there. Still, she needed to listen, it really was her duty. What was he saying now?

  “But you do not wish to hear all of this,” observed Uncle Nalio. “No doubt it is tedious.”

  She had let it show. She had let her attention slip, her boredom reveal itself, and now she had insulted him; exactly what she wanted to avoid. Oh, bother. Now he would complain and reproach, his face would turn red, and she would have to curb her temper and her tongue.

  But Nalio did not look insulted or resentful. Quite the contrary, he was actually smiling at her with an aspect of roguish benevolence. The expression did not suit him. She hardly knew how to reply, but it didn’t matter, for he was still talking.

  “There are better things to fill a young woman’s mind—eh, niece?” He seemed to aspire to jocularity, but he conspicuously lacked aptitude. “Come, don’t stare as if you are stupid. Surely you divine my meaning?”

  “I must confess, I do not.”

  “The recent preparations, the care, the attention, and the inordinate expense—have they suggested nothing?”

  “They suggest your preference that your niece’s appearance reflect the greatness of our House.”

  “A juvenile oversimplification, of course. I could not expect you to grasp the subtleties and complexities, yet you have happened upon the essential point. Yes, niece, you will serve as a representative of House Belandor, now that you are about to venture forth into the world.”