The Ruined City Page 2

  Reaching his study, Aureste shut himself therein and commenced a tigerish pacing. His eyes, shadowed with sleeplessness and heavily bloodshot, reflected reddish glints. The accumulated fury, fear, and frustration of recent days burned along every nerve. A leisurely vivisection of Vinz Corvestri offered some hope of relief, but this solace was denied him. For now.

  For now, he would seek distraction in labor. Seating himself at the plain, small table that now served as his desk, he attempted to fix his attention upon the catalog of domestic damages compiled by his brother Nalio.

  Nalio had been so proud of his precious lists, and not without reason. Beyond doubt, the youngest Belandor brother displayed a true talent for minutely detailed clerical work. Such painstaking skills were needed in the world and deserved their credit. Accordingly, Aureste strove to apply himself, but the endless review of ruination failed to hold his attention.

  Two faces filled his mind’s eye—the only two that mattered. Innesq’s, lately so alive with purpose, but now blue-white and empty—perhaps forever. Beside it Jianna’s, so nearly found, but now lost again—perhaps forever. The rage with which he habitually deflected fear and grief threatened eruption then, and he focused it all where it belonged—upon the soft-bellied form of Vinz Corvestri. With whom he was now required to cobble some sort of truce.

  It was absurd. Corvestri was marked for death by slow torture. No truce was possible, now or ever.

  But Innesq had insisted. Make peace … Or all is lost, he had declared, leaving little room for argument. Well, should he ever emerge, faculties intact, from this latest coma, then his wishes would be granted. Until that time Vinz Corvestri remained imprisoned, preferably in the darkest, coldest, rankest dungeon that the Witch had to offer. His miserable life was safe for the present. In the event of Innesq Belandor’s death, however, Vinz Corvestri’s stay of execution lapsed. Nor would his arcane skills save him, precious though they might be to the world and everyone in it. There would be no trial, no judicial delays and nonsense. Corvestri would die at length, in the manner of Onartino Belandor. And this time, Aureste would relish the spectacle.

  The prospect was less consoling than he expected. Innesq’s gasping whisper haunted him. Adepts must gather. Work together as one … We need them. The voice was not to be excluded, but might be disregarded, superseded by other matters. Aureste bent a blind gaze on the paperwork before him. In his imagination, he walked the Alzira Hills in search of Jianna. She was alive. He forced himself to believe it. He could see her face, he could almost hear her voice. She was out there. Somewhere.

  “We must put an end to the Governor Anzi Uffrigo,” observed Celisse Rione calmly, as if stating the obvious, and her listeners eyed her in silence. “The Viper should have been removed years ago. We’ve been remiss, and it’s time to correct our error.”

  Jianna wondered if the others shared her own amazement. Her gaze swept the circle of individuals seated on the logs positioned about one of the various small cookfires dotting the Ghostly encampment. Beside her sat Falaste Rione, his face visible to her in profile, his expression, if any, impossible to gauge. Next to him, was Trox Venezzu—youthful, scruffy, with a bowl of stew in his lap, his spoon suddenly stilled on its way to his mouth. Similarly motionless and watchful sat all of the others, with the exception of Poli Orso, leader of this rustic branch of the Faerlonnish resistance force, and master of the camp. Orso, an elder of the group at age thirty-two, was short and stocky of build, with a broad face, blunt features, unhurried countrified speech, and an expression of bovine serenity suggesting untroubled digestion. Anyone meeting him for the first time might have taken him for a slow-witted yokel. It had taken Jianna but a very brief term of residence, however, to recognize the respect that Poli Orso commanded among his followers, and to note the sharp intelligence lurking behind the dull façade.

  Orso swallowed a mouthful of stew without haste, then replied tranquilly, “Not real, my girl. Fancies. Just like it was the last time you pushed for it.”

  “Things have changed,” Celisse returned.

  “Have they, now?”

  “You know it. You know what the Taers did at Ironheart. The guilt lies with Uffrigo. His crimes can’t go unpunished forever. It will destroy Faerlonnish spirit.”

  “So now you’re talking for the whole population, eh?”

  “Our friends, the allies of the resistance, were slaughtered without mercy.” Celisse ignored the other’s barb. “Torture was employed. The stronghouse was destroyed, and I’m told that the Magnifica Yvenza was forced to witness the murder of her two sons, then driven out of doors to shift for herself in the wild. The magnifica is one of the greatest and most generous allies that we have ever known. She’s true to our cause, she has shared all her resources and offered our wounded the protection of her stronghouse for years. Now she’s been violated and despoiled. Our debt to her is great, and it’s time to pay. The magnifica must be avenged and supported; she’s owed no less. I suggest that we send word to her, offering her refuge and a home among us.” Turning confidently to her sibling, she observed, “Brother, I know you will agree. And surely you must serve as emissary to Yvenza Belandor. She’ll listen to you.”

  Jianna’s amazement sharpened to alarm. Potential disaster had materialized out of nowhere. One moment she had been peaceably spooning her stew, imagining herself secure; the next, she confronted utter ruin. Yvenza Belandor’s arrival would instantaneously blast the persona of “Noro Penzia” out of existence. Falaste Rione’s female assistant of vague origins would stand revealed as Jianna Belandor, daughter of the notorious Magnifico Aureste. Perhaps she would be lucky and they would only hold her for ransom. More likely they would kill her, and ship her remains home to Vitrisi in a bucket. Beyond question, Yvenza would urge them to it. She’d demand Falaste’s blood as well; certainly she hated him now. She would see to it that every Ghost within sound of her voice learned that Falaste Rione had chosen to betray his great benefactress for the sake of Aureste Belandor’s daughter. She would contrive to suggest that he had conspired with the Taerleezis, somehow personally engineering the downfall of Ironheart. She would limn him as a traitor in league with the enemies of Faerlonne, and by the time she finished, the Ghosts would be ready to rend their erstwhile beloved physician limb from limb.

  Jianna felt the color drain from her cheeks—an alteration camouflaged by the shade of early evening, and the ruddy glow of the cookfire. She kept her face and hands still, but could not control the instinctive jump of her eyes back to Rione’s profile.

  Nothing revealing there; not the slightest hint of discomfort or guilt. His manner was easy, the soothing quality of his voice particularly apparent as he replied, “It’s a generous thought that does you credit, sister, but the magnifica will never consent. She’d view the offer as charity, which she’d die rather than accept. She might even take offense. You know this. You know her.”

  “I do.” Celisse reflected briefly, then replied, “I’ll grant your point. She won’t live with us, now or ever. But the other thing’s a different matter. She’ll want justice, in pursuit of which she’ll accept our support gladly. And this you know.”

  “Ironheart is gone, along with the Taerleezi force that destroyed it. For the moment at least, the true culprits stand beyond reach of justice.”

  “The true culprit is the Taerleezi governor,” Celisse informed him. “Not the easiest target in the world, but scarcely beyond reach. It is simply a matter of planning and preparation.”

  The words and sentiments were so much at variance with her girlish appearance that Jianna’s wonder deepened.

  “You hold one man personally responsible for all Taerleezi crimes?” Rione inquired politely.

  “I’m not that simple. But he is foremost among the Taerleezis, the most visible, the embodiment of their authority. His destruction carries symbolic weight. It will demonstrate their vulnerability, and for that reason, among many others, it must be accomplished. It shall be accomplished. Our
cause demands this.”

  Jianna regarded the siblings in turn. The facial similarity between the two of them was striking, and they shared certain traits of mind and character as well. Intelligence, obviously. Resolve, great energy, dedication, selflessness. But their differences were equally pronounced. Celisse possessed a certain icy inflexibility of will most unlike her brother’s open-mindedness. It was also becoming apparent that she owned something else that he lacked—ruthlessness.

  “Celisse, stop and consider consequences,” Rione advised. “Should the Taerleezi governor fall prey to a homegrown assassin, Faerlonne will suffer vicious reprisals. I don’t know how many of our people will die, nor yet how many more will lose all they own, to end destitute and facing starvation. Uffrigo is a swine, but the cost of his slaughter outweighs the value.”

  “Not so.” Celisse’s voice was crystalline music, her face sculpted in marble. “It is something that must be done, and no price is too high. Those who lose their property or their lives are martyrs to the cause of Faerlonnish freedom, and their sacrifice will never be forgotten. True patriots will pay the price gladly. Those who hold back, grudging the cost of liberty, are no friends or patriots, but creatures of the enemy, whose loss we need not mourn. Here there can be no argument.”

  “There can be plenty,” Rione countered. “Difficult though it may be for you to believe, trust me when I tell you that a host of very good Faerlonnishmen would rather see their families safe than see the Governor Uffrigo dead.”

  “Good Faerlonnishmen place Faerlonne first. Fortunately for all of us, the decision doesn’t belong to you.”

  “But I might have a word or two to say about it.” Poli Orso reentered the conversation. “You paying attention, Celisse? Or have you grown too important to waste time listening?”

  “I’m listening,” Celisse returned expressionlessly.

  “Then you should hearken to your brother, he’s talking good sense. We’d all of us like to see the last of the Viper, but now’s no time to make the move. Too many of our own folk would pay too dear for it. Patience. Our chance will come, never fear. Until that day, there’s other matters to keep us busy.”

  “What other matters?” Celisse did not quite sneer. “We’ve sat idle in this glade for weeks. There have been no ventures, no accomplishments, no progress. This inactivity amounts to failure. It’s a disgrace to us all.”

  “It’s no disgrace that half our company’s taken sick with the hot heaves.”

  “The sickness is falling off now. My brother will soon conquer it altogether.”

  “I hope so, but his work’s not done yet. Use your head, girl. You want to stage a raid on the nearest Taer tax collector, with every other of our lads stopping along the way to spew? That what you want?”

  “What I want,” Celisse stated with chill clarity, “is to serve the cause of Faerlonnish freedom by any and all available means. What I do not want is to see that cause undermined by the weakness and timidity of irresolute men.”

  Jianna caught her breath. There was no discernible limit to this young woman’s effrontery.

  And it seemed that even Poli Orso’s apparent placidity had its breaking point, for his eyebrows drew together into an uncharacteristic frown, and his voice was unwontedly sharp as he warned, “Enough of that. I’ll not have morale ruined by a green girl with big ideas, a big mouth, and little common sense.”

  “I am no green girl, as all here well know. I’ve fought and more than earned my right to be heard.” Celisse almost appeared pitying. “And I’m sorry that the truth offends you, Poli Orso. Perhaps if you were true to the cause, honest with yourself and with others, then you could hear the truth without flinching.”

  “Your truth is filtered through cheesecloth dyed the color of your own choosing.” Orso shook his head. “And you don’t even know it. But know this. You’re a good girl with a brave heart, and everybody sees it. But that gives you no right to run folk down, stir things up, make trouble where nobody needs it. You’re doing more harm than good. If it’s so bad here, then maybe you’d best be off on your own, where you can have everything your own way.”

  “And if I should choose to leave,” Celisse returned deliberately, “how many of our group would elect to follow me?”

  “Why not ask ’em?” Orso invited. “Take a vote, if you’re minded. The answer might teach you a good lesson.”

  “One of us would learn. But don’t worry, Poli Orso—I won’t weaken our force by splitting it. For now, I merely state a clear and indisputable fact—that it has become necessary to eliminate the Governor Uffrigo. I trust you will consider it.” Straight-spined and ice-faced, she departed the firelit circle.

  A low hum of uneasy conversation arose in her wake.

  “Where’s she going?” Jianna whispered.

  Rione shrugged.

  “Is she in trouble now?”

  “No.”

  “She can talk to the commander that way? Without punishment?”

  “The Ghost Army hardly maintains traditional military discipline,” he replied in a low tone meant for her ears alone.

  His smile warmed her more effectively than the fire, and there was no obvious reason for it. There was nothing so very extraordinary about his smile. It made her think of summer sunshine kindling life in a garden, but there was nothing remarkable in that. Nevertheless, she suspected that she would never tire of watching his expressions.

  “She won’t do anything—rash?” she inquired, less in true concern than in simple desire to hear more of his voice.

  “There’s little she can do. Orso spoke truly. These men won’t follow Celisse’s lead. She’s respected, but she’s young, female, and her zeal is accounted extreme, even among the Ghosts.”

  “She was right, though, when she said that you’ll soon put an end to the sickness. The Ghosts will be back about their business in a matter of days, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Some of them, yes.”

  “And they’ll want to change their campsite, won’t they? They’ve tarried in this place too long as it is. They’ll want to move?”

  “As soon as they’re fit to travel.”

  And then you can take me back to Vitrisi. She did not dare to speak the words aloud; it would somehow bring bad luck. He would take her back home—he had to. There was nobody else. She could hardly travel on her own through the Alzira Hills. Without a guide or protector, without money or a weapon, she would be picked off within hours if not minutes. Of the healthy and ambulatory Ghosts, none would take the time to escort her. She did not want any of them, anyway.

  As for Falaste Rione himself, since the afternoon of his arrival, his attention and energy had focused exclusively upon the care and treatment of his patients. He would never dream of leaving those in need, and that sense of duty was one of his many attributes that she admired. She even shared it, to a certain degree.

  Those sad invalids, with their fevers and chills, their agues, regurgitations, and bloody fluxes—not to mention their endless catalog of ordinary injuries and maladies, the fruit of their hardscrabble existence—they were surely to be pitied. And all of them were so appreciative of the care they received, so grateful for the smallest act of ordinary kindness. The thanks she had received for simply distributing dippers of water had brought the tears to her eyes more than once. No, she did not wish to abandon them, not so long as they truly needed her. More to the point, she did not wish to abandon Falaste Rione, so long as he needed her; or, honesty compelled her to admit to herself, so long as she was genuinely useful to him. Her indispensability was open to question, but her usefulness was indisputable.

  And so she had changed dressings and cleansed open sores, mopped vomit and emptied bedpans throughout the recent days and nights, temporarily banishing thoughts of home and family. But it would end soon, as she had known that it must, and now she could afford to let her mind fly back to Vitrisi, with all its vitality, color, and meaning. Belandor House. Home. Family. Father. His grief on her acco
unt must be terrible, but very soon she would be with him again; he’d see that she was safe and well.

  And then? Her expectations beyond the point of reunion were fuzzy, but they included living in Vitrisi for the rest of her life, and somehow or other Falaste Rione would be there too, perhaps as the Belandor family physician, like his father before him. Yes, that would do very well. But she would have to get him there first, and—given his devotion to the welfare of his patients—frustrating delays were inevitable, unless she could manufacture some compelling persuasion.

  And then, quite abruptly, an amorphous uneasiness hovering about the edges of her mind solidified, and she did not need to manufacture anything. It was real and too immediate for comfort.

  “I need to talk to you. Alone,” she told Rione quietly.

  He looked into her eyes and his brows rose. He nodded.

  Rising, she walked away from the fire and he followed, both oblivious to the knowing smiles of their companions. When they were out of earshot of the others, they halted, and she turned to face him. They had reached a small stand of trees at the edge of the campsite. She could discern Rione’s outline by starlight, but the night masked his face. The breeze carried the aroma of the Ghosts’ stew pots, but her appetite had died.

  “I’m worried,” Jianna announced without preamble. “You remember, the night we fled Ironheart, you told me that we’d be safe from pursuit among the Ghosts. So far as that goes, you were right. When the news came that Ironheart had been destroyed, Yvenza dispossessed, and Onartino and Trecchio killed, I felt safe. I fancied that neither of us had anything more to fear—as if Yvenza were as dead and silent as her two sons. I wasn’t thinking.