The Ruined City Page 17

  The work on her wardrobe proceeded apace. Cutting and assembly were finished, fittings and alterations concluded, and the final finicking details of applied ornamentation were all but done. The big wooden chest in her room was now filled to overflowing with beautiful new garments.

  It would be hard to leave them all behind. Impossible, in fact, for there were some with which she could not bear to part. The dark blue dress with the scarlet trim, for example. The sweeping woolen cloak. The silk chemises and embroidered stockings. The violet gown with its dramatic underskirt of black brocade.

  And there was no reason to lose them all. It wasn’t as if they were Uncle Nalio’s gifts to her; they all came, only a bit indirectly, from Aureste. So she assured herself upon the quiet early-morning occasion that she spent stuffing a purloined pillow case with as many garments as it would hold. The jewelry came last and received special treatment. The little store of modest but good pieces—garnets, pearls, opals, and one fine ruby, set in gold—all went into a small pouch strung on a silken cord worn around her neck and tucked inside her bodice.

  Then it was done, her rudimentary preparations completed. She wrapped herself in the fine new cloak, slipped her hands into the handsome new gloves, picked up the bulging sack, and marched out of the room.

  It was just past dawn, but the servants were already about their business. One or two watched curiously as the magnifico’s daughter went by, but none ventured to address her. Quietly, but without any effort at concealment, she made her way out of the house, then crossed the yard to the gate, which was locked and guarded. She spoke a commanding word to the sentry, who bestowed a startled glance upon her, but did not hesitate to obey. She went through, and the gate clanged shut behind her.

  The air was dark and laced with smoke, but she could see well enough. She made her way along Summit Street at a steady, unhurried pace that she knew she could maintain for hours. Not so very long ago, the distance she intended to travel on foot would have seemed daunting; now, the prospect was hardly worthy of note. No more than an hour and a quarter or so of walking should bring her to her destination.

  The Lancet Inn, near the Avorno Hospital, he had said. He would be staying there until he located his sister. Of course, he might easily have found her by this time. Falaste and Celisse might well have departed Vitrisi days ago. And if so?

  Then she would take lodgings somewhere in the city. The sale of her jewelry would purchase room and board for weeks or months to come. There she would live quietly incognita, but she would keep her eyes and ears open. Eventually she would hear news of the Magnifico Belandor’s return to Vitrisi. With Aureste reinstated and Uncle Nalio effectively neutralized, she would be free to present herself once more at Belandor House, where she would swiftly persuade her father to grant his word never to send her away again.

  All of this was possible and attainable. She would carry it through if necessary, but hoped profoundly that the need would not arise. With every fiber, she longed to find Falaste Rione still in residence at the Lancet Inn.

  The descent from the Clouds was an easy stroll downhill, and the subsequent hike through various neighborhoods of Vitrisi not nearly as bad as she had feared. Any number of workmen or loiterers whistled and chirruped at her as she passed, but she ignored them all, and nobody actually accosted her. Perhaps that apparent restraint simply reflected the current prevailing fear of physical contact with potentially infectious strangers.

  She passed many buildings marked with the red X, and twice her progress was impeded by palisades of raw new wood, slashed with scarlet paint, marking the boundaries of quarantined neighborhoods. To her relief, she encountered none of the wandering dead. Only once she passed a swollen corpse, unequivocally down and supine in the gutter, its choicest bits the subject of dispute among a flock of Scarlet Gluttons. Averting her eyes, she quickened her pace.

  Street after street, with the smoky atmosphere heavy in her lungs, caustic in her watering eyes. Many of the pedestrians that she passed had elected to shield their faces with protective gear of varying levels of quality, ranging from cheap tallowed rags, to oilcloth vizards with gauzy eye-flaps, all the way up to costly full-face leather masks equipped with herb-stuffed nasal projections and eyeholes glazed with ground glass lenses.

  They looked as if they were on their way to some nightmare masquerade.

  The morning was well advanced and the streets grimly alive by the time she approached the Avorno Hospital. The austere old structure, built in the last century to house lunatics, idiots, moribund paupers, and the victims of assorted epidemics, normally stood with its door wide open in mute declaration of its charitable function. But today the door was shut. The cobbled pavement before the entrance was littered with the recumbent bodies of the sick and the dying. From time to time a desperate outcry arose, which drew no response from within. Presumably the hospital was full to bursting.

  She did not venture to ask directions, but a little searching soon brought her to the Lancet Inn. It stood in a small side street, very near the hospital, as he had described. The inn itself was old and eccentric, with emphatic gables, curious bulbous rooflights, and a brass knocker in the shape of a winged rodent. The place was modest but well maintained, and under ordinary circumstances might even have seemed inviting. She went in.

  The proprietress—in keeping with her surroundings, elderly and tidy—eyed the newcomer with instant suspicion, and understandably so. A woman—young, handsome, smartly dressed—gadding about on her own invited but one conclusion. Nevertheless, a possibly solvent customer.

  “Yes, madam?” The old lady succeeded in keeping her tone civil.

  “Dr. Falaste Rione, please,” Jianna requested, then watched with interest as the other’s face creased in a grimace of disapproval, apparently contracting to half its former size.

  “Up the stairs to the second story, door’s on the left. Dr. Rione is quite the gentleman—he has taken a room of his own,” the proprietress confided, adding with a perceptible touch of significance, “You won’t be disturbed.”

  “Is he in now?”

  “Oh, I could hardly say. ’Tisn’t my place to pry. My guests know that I never meddle, no matter what they do. Just so long as they pay their reckoning and don’t bring the Taers down on me.”

  “Then I’ll go on up, if I may.”

  “Suit yourself. ’Tisn’t my affair. I never pry.”

  Jianna ascended a steep and narrow, old-fashioned stairway that smelled of lemon oil polish. Her heart was beating quickly as she climbed, just as it had throbbed with anticipation days earlier, as she had made her way along Summit Street toward her beloved Belandor House, whose reality had scarcely fulfilled her dreams.

  Quite likely, he wouldn’t be there at all. She would have to wait, probably until he returned in the evening. No, she wouldn’t sit around waiting, she’d use the time to find someone willing to buy her jewelry, and perhaps the violet gown as well. She really had no place to wear it. Decidedly, it was best to focus on practical matters.

  Four arched doors opened upon the second-story landing. The one on the left would be his, but there hardly seemed any point in knocking, for she already knew that he would not be there. Her heart was truly racing now.

  Her hand moved of its own accord to deliver a weak tap, easily missed or ignored. A quick footfall within, and the door opened.

  And there he was, lean and pale-faced, regarding her in plain surprise, and her mind froze. For a moment she could think of nothing to say, and stood staring at him.

  But her eyes must have been more eloquent than she knew, for he took one look and inquired at once, “What’s wrong?”

  “May I come in?” She found her voice.

  He nodded and moved aside. She stepped into the room, and he shut the door.

  “I didn’t think we’d ever see each other again.” She had no sense of her surroundings. Her eyes never left his face. For the first time she fully realized how much she had missed seeing it.


  “Neither did I.”

  “Have you found Celisse?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Do you think she knows that you’re looking for her?”

  “Why are you here, Jianna? What’s happened?”

  “My uncle Nalio has happened. He’s in charge of Belandor House during my father’s absence, and he’s decided to pack me off to Orezzia for a speedy marriage.”

  “That’s what you were traveling toward at the time you were abducted, was it not?”

  She nodded without enthusiasm.

  “And the match was arranged by your father?”

  Another nod.

  “Your uncle seeks to fulfill the Magnifico Belandor’s wishes. What could be more reasonable and responsible?”

  “Reason and responsibility have nothing to do with it! And I don’t think my father’s wishes have much to do with it, either. Uncle just wants to trade me off for the Magnifico Tribari’s pet artists and artisans to work on restoring Belandor House. That, and he wants to put me in my place—he’s wanted to for a long time, I suspect. But he’s not going to get away with it. I’m no heifer to be bartered at market, particularly not by the likes of Uncle Nalio. I won’t go to Orezzia.”

  “Stop and think. Is it wise to reject the plans made on your behalf by a father whom you trust, just for the satisfaction of defying your uncle?”

  “That isn’t it. My uncle doesn’t matter. I just don’t want to go.”

  “You were willing enough once, and not so long ago.”

  “It seems long ago. Anyway, things have changed. I’ve changed. I’ve come to realize that Vitrisi is where I belong. When my father returns, I’ll tell him so, and he’ll listen to me—he always listens. I know I can make him understand, once I have a chance to talk to him.”

  “I see. When your father returns. And what do you propose to do in the meantime?”

  “Well, that’s why I’ve come to you. I thought I might be your assistant Noro Penzia again, for as long as you’re here in the city. I could help you look for your sister, or help if you treat any sick people, or …” Her voice dried up. His eyes were boring into her, and she was all at once acutely self-conscious, uncomfortable, and filled with not unwelcome suspense.

  “No,” he said.

  “What?” She was not certain she had heard him correctly.

  “Go back home. Now.” His tone was abrupt, his expression chill, his resemblance to his sister more pronounced than ever before.

  “Are you cross for some reason? You sound vexed.”

  “Do I?”

  “What have I done?”

  “You’ve really no inkling how thoroughly you’ve disrupted my life, have you?”

  “Why yes, I have. I know that I’m responsible for turning Yvenza against you, and for endangering your friendship with the Ghosts, and I’ve already told you how sorry I am, and how grateful for all that you’ve done—”

  “I’m not speaking of those things that I chose voluntarily. But I never chose to become so used to your company that the world and everything in it seems flat and stale when you are gone. I didn’t expect that, but I was growing accustomed, and might have succeeded in banishing you from my thoughts, had you not come strolling back in, blithely ready to resume our connection for a few days, or whatever period best suits your purpose.”

  “I—I thought you might be happy to see me.”

  “You thought nothing, you simply acted, primarily to spite your uncle. But you’ll think now, and you’ll think about this—I am not your useful tool, to be taken up or set aside at your convenience. You do not walk into my life, wreak havoc, walk away without a backward glance—then turn up a second time, cheerily prepared to repeat the entire sequence.”

  He did not shout, but he was unmistakably angry, something she had never before glimpsed. An almost perverse desire to see more of what lay behind his habitual composure seized her, and she fired back, “You’re the one who walked away without a backward glance! That day at the gate of Belandor House, you left, and didn’t look back once.”

  “Do you imagine that was easy?”

  “It certainly appeared so.”

  “For such a clever girl, you are sometimes unbelievably obtuse.”

  “I’m not obtuse! Don’t you call me names. If I don’t understand you, it’s because you’re making no sense. You’re in a perfectly foul temper, and I don’t know why you’re angry, or what you think I’ve done, or what you want of me.”

  “This.” Pulling her close, he kissed her.

  Surprise, excitement, and wild happiness burst inside her. In the midst of it, two realizations touched her dazzled intellect. One, that this was what she had wanted from the moment she had crossed his threshold. The other—that for the first time since reaching Vitrisi, she finally felt that she had come home.

  NINE

  The union of the Belandor and Corvestri parties was sound in theory, but sometimes problematic in execution. Not that the behavior of the principals involved—the family members on each side—was less than irreproachable. Punctilious courtesy reigned. Between Innesq Belandor and the three Corvestris, the courtesy was tinged with a genuine warmth that seemed to deepen from day to day. The Magnifico Aureste neither received nor expected similar cordiality. His infrequent exchanges with the Magnifica Sonnetia Corvestri were decorous and distant. Her son Vinzille was doubtless hostile, but scrupulously polite. As for the so-called leader of the clan—the Magnifico Vinz—he and Aureste scarcely acknowledged one another’s existence. Beyond a few obligatory, rigidly correct formalities, the two of them had not exchanged a word, and in fact almost never came face-to-face.

  This avoidance was not mutual, for Aureste never troubled to alter his course in the slightest. But Vinz always faded from view at first glimpse of his old enemy, generally seeking refuge in his closed carriage. The wretch was clearly afraid. On the face of it, this seemed unlikely. Vinz Corvestri, after all, was the seasoned arcanist whose skills should have imparted every advantage. But the Magnifico Aureste’s instincts had always been preternaturally receptive to the slightest whiff of fear or weakness, and he knew beyond question that Vinz Corvestri dreaded the sight of him. The situation offered much by way of potential entertainment, and it was only the fear of his brother’s disapproval that prevented Aureste from seeking out and subtly terrorizing Vinz on a daily basis.

  He resisted the temptation, and the members of the two enemy Houses traveled on in uneasy peace. But the same could not be said of their guards and attendants, whose minds did not appear to embrace the concept of tolerance. Trouble flared continually between the Belandor and Corvestri servants—at the brooks and streams where they paused to water the horses, replenish empty skins and bottles, wash linen; at the cookfires; among the tussocks and the swaths of scrub vegetation, where they gathered fuel; and above all, at the games of dice and cards that they played in the evening.

  There tempers boiled, and complaints often expanded into accusations, insults, thence fisticuffs. And on one unpleasantly memorable occasion, a knife fight erupted between a Belandor guard and his Corvestri counterpart. The combatants were quickly separated, and the resulting bloodshed minor, but thereafter certain commands were issued to the servants of both households. There was to be no fighting, with or without weapons, under any circumstances. Personal insults or threats, conveyed verbally or by means of gestures or pantomime, were prohibited. And finally, there was to be no gambling. Games and competitions of various sorts were permissible, but there were to be no wagers placed.

  Inevitably there was grumbling, but open complaint ceased following the announcement that the slightest infraction of any new edict would be punished by a thrashing of the utmost severity.

  The next two days passed free of incident. The following evening, however, around sunset, when the tents were being pitched and the campfires kindled, a blast of profanity followed by a howling exchange of insults signaled an end to the brief détente.

  The source of the
uproar was discovered in the lee of a tall rock, behind which a pair of guards—one from each household—had retired to play at dice. The game had not gone well, and mutual accusations of cheating and questionable ancestry had escalated swiftly. The guards had come to blows, and the Corvestri man, finding himself disadvantaged, had snatched up a stone and beaten his opponent with it. The Belandor victim—dazed, badly bruised, and bleeding—would probably have died had the fight not been forcibly halted.

  It was a clear case of insubordination. When the two culprits were haled before their respective masters, the Magnifico Aureste did not hesitate to order his erring servant stripped and whipped. It behooved his counterpart to issue a similar command. His eyes shifted to Vinz Corvestri.

  Vinz sat in clench-jawed silence. The ruddy sunset air was cool, but his brow was damp with sweat. He looked miserable and perhaps ill. Seconds passed, and he said nothing.

  Aureste grew tired of waiting. Orders quivered at the tip of his tongue, and he contained them with difficulty. It was neither his place nor his right to command the punishment of a Corvestri attendant, but punishment was essential, lest discipline and morale suffer.