The Ruined City Page 26

  Vinz stretched himself out upon a pallet furnished with clean linen, thick blankets, and a feather pillow. It was nearly as comfortable as his own much larger bed in the master suite of Corvestri Mansion, but sleep eluded him. The tent’s second pallet remained empty, and his mind roamed in search of its rightful tenant. Sleeping in the carriage, almost certainly, but what if she had sought warmth and refuge elsewhere? Beneath some other canvas roof? Aureste’s?

  She had gone to him for help, not long ago. She had not turned to kin or to friends for assistance in securing her husband’s release from prison. She had run straight to Aureste Belandor.

  And it had been a sound choice. The Magnifico Belandor had exerted his influence, receiving ample recompense in the form of the Magnifico Corvestri’s arcane services. It had been a simple, straightforward exchange of favors.

  There were other men of wealth and power that she might have approached. But she had chosen Aureste Belandor.

  Nonsense. Unjust suspicions of a faithful wife. She was in the carriage, or perhaps she was watching over Vinzille’s sickbed. No, probably not the latter, for Vinzille—granted a small tent to himself for the first time, and glorying in the novelty of private territory—would brook no maternal cosseting. He would not want her hovering over him, and Sonnetia would respect his wishes.

  The night chilled around him, despite the good blankets, and Vinz remained wakeful, restless thoughts divided between wife and son. Sonnetia had exaggerated, of course. The boy could not be as sick as all that. It was some commonplace disorder, nothing more. But sleep did not come, and the ugly fancies cavorted in his head.

  Around midnight, he rose from his pallet. Wrapping himself in a heavy cloak, he stepped out of the tent into an exceptionally clear night. For once, the mists were nearly absent. The moon, approaching fullness, was circular but for a slightly flattened section of its rim. The stars all but shouted.

  A few yards apart from his parents’ spacious shelter stood Vinzille’s tent. Small, hardly enough space to accommodate anything more than an adolescent boy’s bedding, with a low entrance designed for crawling, or at least stooping. He went in, letting the canvas flap fall shut behind him.

  A small compartment sewn into the lining of the cloak contained an ovoid tablet, which he drew forth and swallowed. The effects were almost immediate, and his mind opened like a rose in the sun that was the Source. There was no light within the cramped enclosure, but his surroundings were perfectly visible, down to the fine detail of loose thread at the edge of a patch in the canvas ceiling.

  Vinzille lay sleeping, his slumber restless and uneasy, but profound. His father’s entrance had failed to wake him. Vinz knelt to examine the boy. For a few moments he simply observed with his enhanced vision, then laid a careful hand across his son’s brow. Vinzille stirred and mumbled, but slept on. His flesh was dry and hot; feverish, beyond doubt. Mundane or arcane?

  Vinz directed his perceptions through the point of dermal contact deep into the boy’s sleeping consciousness and beyond, into the realm of dream, emotion, instinct, reflex. He looked, and comprehended at a glance. Sonnetia had been right—by sheer chance, no doubt, as she was no qualified judge, but her guess had been a good one. Vinzille’s first defenses had been breached, probably in some unguarded moment; he was still too young to avoid all such lapses. The penetration was superficial as yet, but would deepen if left unattended.

  For now, treatment remained sure and simple. Vinz exerted his arcane self for the first time in days, with enjoyment and without remorse. It was, as Sonnetia had justly observed, a legitimate and necessary expenditure of power. When all was done, his sense of satisfaction easily outweighed the inevitable exhaustion. He looked down at his son, sunk in peaceful and healing sleep. Vinzille’s color was good, his breathing easy and even, his fever gone. A light arcane shield guarded the integrity of his being, and he would shortly receive additional instruction in the essentials of self-protection. For the moment, all was well.

  Retiring in silence, Vinz returned to his own tent, where he sought and found peaceful and healing sleep of his own.

  In the morning he emerged to discover Vinzille already up, dressed, in high spirits, and busy devouring a breakfast whose vastness suited the appetite of a healthy thirteen-year-old boy. The Magnifica Sonnetia was there as well, collected and perfectly groomed as always, despite a night’s doubtless uncomfortable repose in the Corvestri carriage.

  Vinz drew his wife aside. Yesterday evening’s anger had vanished, he noted. The dappled greenish eyes were cool and gracious again, bolstering his general pleasant sense of restored order. He thought her expression somewhat uncharacteristic—he might best have described it as impersonal—but that could have been his imagination.

  “You see, Magnifica,” he invited. “Our son is quite well again.”

  She acknowledged the apparent truth of this observation.

  “He recovered naturally and swiftly, just as I predicted.”

  She inclined her head.

  “And I trust this lesson will teach you at last to place full trust in your husband’s wisdom.”

  THIRTEEN

  A new lodging house, a different neighborhood. This one was called The Bellflower, and it was decent enough, with its well-swept entry, its polished brass lanterns, and its steep roof of grey-pink slate. The room Jianna took was likewise decent, situated at the quiet rear of the building, with an incongruously cheerful patchwork quilt on the bed and a generous washstand. All appeared reasonably clean, with the exception of the windows, which were grimed with soot. These days, this last reflected no discredit upon the management.

  She scarcely noted her surroundings. Her fellow residents did not exist. A single need filled her; she thirsted feverishly for news of Falaste. In order to get it, she was obliged to assume an appearance of sociability quite at odds with her natural inclination at this time. Right now every instinct bade her seek the privacy and comparative safety of her newly rented room. She wanted to shut the door and hide in there, in the bed or under it, seeing and communicating with nobody. Instead she ventured forth every day in hooded cloak and vizard, walking the smoke-smudged, plague-smitten avenues in search of information; fact, theory, rumor, gossip—anything. She became the instant friend of the shopkeepers, the pushcart vendors, the local marketwomen, the runners, and the cripples. She soon came to know the apprentices, the beggars, a few Deadpickers, and even one Taerleezi guard, who offered smiling tidbits and flattery in clear hope of a sweet return.

  For a while there was little to glean. The Governor Anzi Uffrigo had been assassinated by a knife-wielding young woman, supported by a brace of big Sishmindris. Both Sishmindris had died on the spot. One of the governor’s servants had wounded the human killer, who had fled to the Lancet Inn, where she had been tracked and captured along with an accomplice. So much was known by all. But who was she? Had the two acted on their own, or were they part of a larger conspiracy? Were there to be further arrests? Would the two be tried separately, or jointly? Would they be tried at all, or simply executed out of hand? And most important, what sort of reprisals would be visited upon the city by Uffrigo’s acting successor, the Deputy Governor Hecti Gorza, a Taerleezi official of dingy reputation?

  There was much conjecture, but little by way of solid fact. As the days passed, however, certain statements were repeated with a frequency and consistency suggestive of truth. The name of the murderess was Celisse Rione, but little was known of her life. Apparently she was not a resident of Vitrisi. Her accomplice was her own brother Falaste Rione, a young physician of growing repute, known to the denizens of the Avorno Hospital. The siblings were currently held in the Witch, each in solitary confinement. Although they were to be tried jointly, no communication between the two was permitted. The content of Falaste Rione’s statement remained unknown, but it was generally believed that his sister Celisse had already confessed to the crime. Confessed willingly—indeed, proudly. It was said, however, that she refused to incrimin
ate her brother—or perhaps, to share credit with him—steadfastly maintaining his complete innocence.

  This particular rumor offered a certain measure of hope. Celisse Rione was a rabid Faerlonnish patriot, eager to boast of her exploits. If her brother shared her fanaticism, he would proclaim his own involvement to the skies. Evidently he did no such thing, and his sister, the known murderess, absolved him of all complicity. Perhaps her statement would carry some weight with the Taerleezi judge—or judges—or whoever would actually preside over this case. Who would preside?

  Nobody knew, as yet. More to the point, nobody seemed to think that it mattered much. Public interest and speculation seemed to center upon the probable forms of torture employed in the interrogation of the two prisoners; the specific method of their (possibly public) execution; and the larger issue of Taerleezi reprisals.

  Jianna could scarcely bear to listen. When the merchants or the beggars spoke of torture, sickening images glowed in her mind. Worse than terror, however, was ignorance. Above all things, she needed to know what was happening to him. Perhaps, after all, the world was not altogether devoid of miracles. Perhaps a Faerlonnishman might receive a fair trial. An innocent man might even prevail. It was not impossible. He would have his sister’s testimony to support him. Maybe a few of those numberless patients owing him their lives would step up to vouch for him. And then—the thought was roseate as the dawn—she herself might even testify for him. Stand before the Taerleezi tribunal, tell them that Falaste Rione had come to Vitrisi in order to save the governor’s life, and make them believe it.

  No. The dry and dismal voice of reason intervened. Worse than useless, she would do more harm than good. Everyone took her for the doctor’s harlot. They would dismiss her testimony, and simply arrest her as another member of some imaginary conspiracy.

  But then, perhaps he didn’t really need her help or anyone else’s. He had his own resources—his intelligence, his calm and forthright manner, his exceptional voice, his face, his eyes. No judge could listen to him speak, and fail to believe. Or so Jianna strove to convince herself.

  Too soon it became clear that her local inquiries were yielding little of reliable worth. Her neighbors were no better informed than she, but perhaps another section of town might offer richer gleanings. The trial, whenever it was held, was certain to take place somewhere within the Cityheart. The servants, guards, attendants, functionaries, and officials living and working within the old palace complex might have seen or overheard things, picked up scraps here and there. Yes, the Cityheart was surely the font of knowledge, and there she must go.

  The Bellflower stood in what had once been a fairly prosperous section of Vitrisi, not more than half an hour’s walk from her destination. She set forth in the early morning, before the sun had cleared the rooftops. The winding streets still lay drowned in shadow, and the smoke scratched at her eyes, but nevertheless the atmosphere was perceptibly vernal. As she walked, the air lightened, while the city woke and came to life around her. The masked citizens emerged from their shelters to resume their masked business. Hooded and gloved vendors hawked their wares, cocooned pedestrians hurried upon their nameless errands, rag-shrouded beggars importuned from the shelter of deep doorways and alleys. The Scarlet Gluttons foraged voraciously, and the Deadpickers did likewise. Once, Jianna came upon a trio of the faceless workers methodically toting the previous night’s yield of corpses from the depths of some private dwelling marked with the familiar red X. As she watched, they tossed two stiff bodies into their cart, went back inside, came out with one more, then took their unhurried leave.

  She never so much as flinched. Such sights had become commonplace. Of course, it might have been different had any of the corpses displayed a desire to climb out of the cart. Even now, she could not look upon the Wanderers unmoved.

  This morning she was not obliged to do so. On she trudged at the steady pace that she could maintain for hours if necessary, and never once encountered a walking corpse, although she glimpsed a couple of reasonable facsimiles. For it was regarded as a gesture of stylish bravado among a certain perverse element of Vitrisi’s youth to coat face and hands with grey-white chalk powder, to smudge charcoal shadows about the eyes, and to assume the stiff-jointed, lurching gait of a newly risen corpse. “Perambulationists,” these wags called themselves. Their shambling jaunts were known as “promenades,” and nothing gave them greater pleasure than to pass themselves off as genuine Wanderers. Their sense of fun quite eluded Jianna’s understanding.

  This morning, the streets she traveled were blessedly free of Wanderers and Perambulationists alike. The swirl of activity appeared ordinary by recent standards, but the sting in her nostrils and eyes told her that the concentration of smoke in the atmosphere was more than ordinary. The flavor of this particular smoke seemed anomalous, and there was something peculiar in the motion of the air. Then, quite abruptly, she found her way blocked by a tall, new-looking wooden barrier extending across the entire width of the street. Armed Taerleezi guards flanked the gate in the wall. She passed through without difficulty. On the other side, the city streets ceased to exist.

  She halted. Her amazed glance swept a charred and tumbled wilderness, and it was as if she were coming home to a fire-blasted Belandor House all over again. Every building between the wooden barricade behind her and the Cityheart complex before her had been leveled—torn down, burned down, or blown up. The small avenues and byways winding about the Plaza of Proclamation had vanished, along with scores of wooden, stone, and brick structures; houses and tenements, inns and taverns, merchants’ stalls, workshops and warehouses—everything. All that remained were countless mounds of rubble and ash. Some of the blackened heaps bulked wide and tall, yet the entire area seemed startlingly open and exposed, almost naked, compared with what it had been but days earlier.

  For a moment or two she did not understand, and stood puzzling over the cause. Seismic quakes? Arcane mishap? Accidental fire? Intentional fire, kindled to control the spread of the plague? Then comprehension dawned, and it was only a matter of seeking confirmation.

  There was no dearth of potential informants. Everywhere she looked, the laborers were burying ash in trenches, chopping or sawing burned joists and rafters into fragments of manageable size, sorting salvageable masonry, and hauling rubbish away in carts and wheelbarrows. It was just the same work carried out by Sishmindris among the ruins of Belandor House, but here the toilers were uniformly human; even the carts were drawn by men, women, and children. Taerleezi troops supervised the project, and Jianna noted without surprise that sluggish or ineffectual workers were disciplined smartly.

  There were plenty of citizens observing the scene, and she turned to the nearest, a being whose shape, features, age, and gender vanished beneath a hooded cloak, gloves, and full-face mask with mesh eye-guards.

  “What?” asked Jianna concisely.

  “What d’you think, twit?” came the counter query, in a woman’s voice laced with the Vitrisi street accent.

  “Revenge for Uffrigo?”

  “Never. Perish the thought. This here is all pure city improvement. It’s for the good of everyone, you see.”

  “No. I don’t see.”

  “Well, it’s like this. Following the good Governor Uffrigo’s murder—may his spirit enjoy the peace that it deserves—our Taerleezi shepherds decided to establish a Clean Zone surrounding their Cityheart. For everyone’s protection, this Zone had to be spanking clean as a boiled skull. Naturally this meant doing away with every single building within the sacred precinct—those building just weren’t clean. Now, you might want to ask what all this would mean to the folk living or working in those condemned houses, but that would be a silly question. You don’t imagine that our Taerleezis haven’t given this matter plenty of thought, do you? Well, they have thought about it, and their solution shows off all their wisdom and benevolence. They’ve offered any and all able-bodied homeless citizens gainful employment, cleaning up the mess left her
e after the fires—clearing the land, dragging the rubble away, scraping up all those burned bodies, and so forth. Anyone willing to work gets food—crusts and grease soup once a day—and shelter. Right over there.” The flick of a gloved finger directed her listener’s attention to a nearby stand of large dust-colored tents, suggestive of canvas barracks. “Who could ask for anything more?”

  “And what happens when the work here is finished?”

  “Well, then they starve, I guess. Unless the Taerleezis take pity, and start up a new work program. Maybe another Clean Zone, in another part of town. That should do the trick.”

  Jianna had no answer. For a little while she stood watching the destitute Faerlonnish workers, many of them inadequately clothed against the cold. The majority lacked protective masks, and the faces she glimpsed were uniformly grey with ash and exhaustion, pinched, drained, and hopeless. The Taerleezi overseers were not above bullying and beating the conspicuously underproductive, without regard for age or sex. Not far away, one of them was kicking the ribs of a prostrate malingerer who could not have been above ten or eleven years of age.

  As she looked on, she grew conscious of new emotions—disgust, indignation, helpless rage, together with a current of poisonous, oddly delicious nectar that she identified as hatred. Curious. She had lived among the Ghosts of the resistance, tended their wounded, listened to their conversation, and gradually absorbed some of their convictions. She had come to resent the foreign occupation of Faerlonne, as she had never resented it while living beneath her father’s roof. But she had never actually hated the Taerleezis until now.