The Ruined City Read online

  Wrong. She was not cool, far from it. And she was not unreachable.

  Aureste Belandor could reach her. Now and always.

  He had known it all along. Pain stabbed him.

  The images in the bowl were shaking and fuzzing oddly. The faces were blurring, loosening, fading, vanishing.

  Gone.

  Vinz Corvestri blinked. He sat alone in a darkened carriage, with a bowl of clear fluid balanced on his knees. His pulse raced, his face burned, his breath came in gasps. There were no faces, no pictures, nothing to see. For a moment he was bewildered, and then he understood. He had let it slip. For the first time in many years, he had allowed emotion to shatter his concentration, and his connection to the Source had broken. He had thought himself far beyond such juvenile lapses, but he had been wrong.

  He was too old and too accomplished to fall prey to such weakness.

  It was chilly and secret inside the carriage. His hands were unsteady and the fluid in the bowl was sloshing. The pictures were gone, and for now he could not call them back. He was alone and essentially blind. The tears were scalding his nearly useless eyes.

  He hurled the bowl away and heard it smash against the opposing wall. Moisture sprayed, and there was a tiny hiss as the leather upholstery yielded to the onslaught. He heard and smelled, but scarcely noticed. Fiery images burned in his brain. It was only the confirmation of ancient fears, but the certainty possessed hideous novelty.

  She had not as yet betrayed him—not in the obvious sense. So much he was willing to believe. But her mind and heart had turned elsewhere.

  No. They had always been elsewhere.

  Vinz became aware that the tears were streaming down his cheeks. Thank Fortune for the lowered shades, thank all good luck that nobody could see. For this one moment, he was less than a man.

  And if so, whose fault was it? Certainly not his own. He had followed the rules, always tried to do all that was right. Others could not claim as much. Aureste Belandor could not.

  It was unfair and unjust. The good man—the faithful husband and provider—deserved reward. The interloper deserved the reverse.

  The world would only laugh, but there was no point in blaming the world. There was a better target.

  Aureste Belandor. Everything had been well, up until the time that despicable kneeser had intruded. Without him, all might be well again.

  Without him. It was a beautiful thought, a precious thought. Vinz hugged it close, and a kind of peace descended upon him.

  Throughout the day, the Nor’wilders Way seemed to fade in and out of being. For a few hundred yards at a stretch, the faint track barely marking the hills would be visible. Then it would disappear, only to resume its marginal existence somewhere farther on. In the midafternoon the road vanished once and for all.

  From his vantage point on horseback near the front of the party, the Magnifico Aureste surveyed the prospect. Before him rolled a stretch of small but emphatic hills, the sharp descents and ascents littered with rock and prickled with the knee-high, stout wooden stalks of slumbering meecherhaven, mingled with bushy querria poised upon the brink of spring’s explosive awakening. The road was gone, and he sensed finality in its departure. There was no possibility of drawing the carriages and larger wagons over such terrain. He himself had made provisions for this inevitability. Had the others the wit to do the same?

  He ordered a halt and was obeyed by all. Without pausing to answer questions or to quash arguments, he rode back to the Belandor carriage, to find Innesq’s pale face framed in the window.

  “The road has ended,” Aureste announced. “The carriages and larger wagons are henceforth useless. You’ll proceed in the sedan chair, as soon as the lads get it assembled. Our supplies will be transferred to pack animals, which means that some of the servants will be walking. We’ll slow somewhat, but we’ll do well enough. But I wonder if the Corvestri group and the Taerleezis are adequately prepared. If they’ve dragged along more than their horses and mules can carry, then we’ll be bogged down here for hours while they argue over what’s to be left behind. I haven’t the patience.”

  “You never did,” Innesq agreed. “Take heart, the trouble may be less vexing than you imagine. Allow me a moment.” Turning from the window, he conferred in low tones with the passenger seated beside him.

  In the dimness of the carriage interior, Aureste descried a pale patch that had to be the girl Nissi. In the opposite seat, a coalescence of shadows marked the presence of the Magnifica Yvenza, who was about to lose the comfort of wheeled transportation. Innesq would insist on furnishing the hag with a mount, though. Well, the meanest donkey available was what she would receive; Aureste would enjoy that small satisfaction at least.

  “So be it, then.” Innesq turned back to the window. “Brother, the arcanists among us must address this situation. We shall do what we can to preserve the utility of the wheeled vehicles.”

  “You surprise me. I had thought your talents too valuable to waste upon such mundane matters as the smoothing of roads, kindling of fires upon damp wood, and so forth. Or so I’ve been given to understand.”

  “Conservation of arcane resources is important, but so, too, is the wise use of time. The changes all about us go forward apace—surely you have sensed them. We had best proceed to our destination as quickly as may be, and necessity justifies the use of power. Perhaps it is not such a bad thing—this will be our first real attempt to join our powers and work as one. We shall learn how we six fare together.”

  Six. So Innesq regarded Corvestri’s half-grown whelp as an arcanist worthy of inclusion. Interesting.

  A servant transferred Innesq to the wheeled chair. Nissi slipped like trickling water from the carriage. She wrapped her small hand in a twist of Innesq’s loose cloak. Together the two of them made their way over the rocky ground to a clear, flat space where the arcanists were gathering.

  Aureste followed, staying close enough to see everything, yet maintaining a considerate distance. Others were doing the same. Not far away he saw the Magnifica Sonnetia, her fine brows bent in a thoughtful frown, but he couldn’t let his gaze rest on her lest he lose all track of the matter at hand. The Dowager Magnifica Yvenza was likewise present and attentive; best by far to ignore her presence. She was, after all, nothing more than a pathetic remnant, ruined and powerless. Save for her hold upon the girl Nissi, the old woman was dust.

  Why could he not quite believe that?

  All six of them were converging, without obvious benefit of verbal or written exchange. Either instinct or else some silent summons had drawn them. When the group was complete, Ojem Pridisso spoke with authority.

  “All of us here already know what has to be done, so there’s no need to waste time in talking. Now I want you to form a circle, and be sure that the youngsters alternate with seasoned hands. Corvestri, you keep your son beside you. Belandor, you’ll stay next to Miss Nissi.”

  His colleagues meekly obeyed.

  The vertical crease between Aureste’s brows deepened. Pridisso’s lordly tone was galling, and the coarse Taerleezi accent underscored the offense. He was taking charge as if he fancied himself commander-in-chief of the expedition. He was actually issuing orders to an adult male member of House Belandor.

  Aureste took a deep breath, preparatory to loosing verbal acid, met his brother’s eyes, and held his tongue. Innesq’s expression was serene and subtly amused, his message clear. He neither needed nor wanted a defender.

  They formed the circle, as instructed. Aureste scanned the sextet; six highly individual members, bearing little resemblance to one another in form, feature, personality, manner, or any other readily observable attribute. Could such disparate beings truly merge their minds and talents? Could they, in fact, perform at all out here in the wild, with the chill breeze sweeping through to rattle the woody stalks of meecherhaven, and an audience of the curious looking on? Why, Innesq liked to shut himself away in his workroom for days at a time, just to avoid observation and distra
ction. On the other hand, Innesq could exclude the world and everything in it from his consciousness, when necessary. Such intense focus of concentration was an essential skill of the arcanist, and all six of them would possess it to varying degrees.

  Pridisso’s voice was hammering again.

  “Now, this is by way of being a trial go, an experiment, so we’ll proceed without benefit of artificial enhancement or stimulation, if you please. And friends, let’s have no complaints about that. Without the powders and pills to cloud the issue, we’ll all get a clearer sense of one another, and I’ll see a truer picture of the raw material I have to work with here. Our task is an easy one, so let’s to it. Upon my signal.”

  Aureste contained his disgust.

  The arcanists fell silent. Very quickly, their faces emptied and their bodies stilled. Presumably they continued to breathe, but that small motion was invisible. To all appearances, they had petrified. Aureste studied his brother’s face, and uneasiness snaked through him. Innesq resembled a corpse. That marble visage, those eyes so wide and unseeing, did not belong to the living world.

  The cold seconds ticked by, and his uneasiness deepened. He had never seen Innesq look like that, and he knew to his marrow that it was wrong. Did others share his conviction? He chanced a glance at Sonnetia, who stood a few yards from him, attention wholly fixed on her son’s immobile face. He saw anxiety in her eyes.

  No movement. No sound other than the wind chattering the meecherhaven. No visible sign of life among the arcanists. And nothing at all happening, so far as he could see, but he knew better than to trust in appearances.

  He let his eyes travel from living statue to statue, and saw then that a change of sorts had occurred. In some manner that defied definition, the six faces had assumed a look of kinship. The similarity certainly did not reside in form or feature, nor in expression, for expression was absent. Yet somehow the six resembled one another as unmistakably as he and Innesq shared a family likeness. He could hardly account for it.

  They began to speak—or sing—or chant; he could not decide upon the appropriate verb. The voices rose and fell in perfect unison, merging almost indistinguishably, save for one anomaly that his ear caught from time to time—variation in the pitch of young Vinzille Corvestri’s voice, which was in the process of change. Would that uncontrollable element disrupt the whole endeavor? The question floating about the periphery of his mind was answered almost at once, for the six voices reached a crescendo, and the world began to alter.

  The nature of the transformation was not immediately apparent to the waking mind or senses, but something was happening to the land. It seemed to be rearranging itself in some inexplicable way. Even as he strained intellect and senses in an effort to understand, another change occurred.

  He felt it first as a kind of pressure upon his mind—the touch of something incorporeal, yet identifiable as an entity; something vast and ancient. It was intelligent, and Its will was limitless.

  Aureste drew in his breath sharply. His hands flew to his temples as if to contain or capture the intruder, but It was inside him and unreachable. An uncharacteristic sense of powerlessness filled him, coupled with terror sharper than any he had known since childhood. For an instant he actually sensed himself teetering on the verge of panic.

  He would not suffer it. He was Aureste Belandor, and it was not for him to give way. He took a moment to compose himself, and then, again master of himself, he could fix his attention upon the invader, survey It and discover Its weaknesses.

  There were no obvious points of vulnerability. Closer study was indicated.

  He willed himself to serenity, much as he imagined that his brother might have done. Once thoroughly calm, he was free to observe.

  The hands at his temples were shaking. He steadied them, but the flesh inside the leather gloves was freezing cold. Perhaps he was not quite as calm as he had imagined, yet he succeeded in catching another hint of Its nature.

  Purposeful. Inexorable. Profoundly alien. Its passions—if any—were unfathomable; although he caught an echo of something like curiosity. He suspected that the joint arcane endeavor had drawn Its attention, but this was uncertain. One intention reached him clearly, however. It wished to absorb him utterly unto Itself, to annihilate his individual identity while sparing him physical death.

  The concept was deeply repugnant, and he rejected it violently. In so doing, he expelled the intruder, reclaiming full ownership of his mind.

  The Magnifico Aureste was himself again. He was breathing hard and drenched in sweat, despite the coolness of the air. He had no idea how much time had passed. The horse beneath him was grazing the first small shoots of new vegetation. The circle of arcanists had broken. Its members, pale and drained, were drifting off, their task presumably completed. Before them lay an expanse of clear and navigable dirt roadway, extending some twenty feet or so.

  Twenty feet? Aureste blinked. What was the good of that? But then, Innesq had participated in the project, and he knew his brother. If Innesq had chosen to invest time and precious energy in the creation of the twenty viable feet, then there had to be good reason.

  He could not puzzle it out now. He was a little dizzy, his thoughts unusually blurred and slow. He would consider the matter later, when he had recovered from the effects of his first confrontation with the Overmind.

  FIFTEEN

  The view from the tower window, ordinarily drab, had lately taken on a morbid fascination. Hands hard on the iron bars, Falaste Rione gazed down at the prison courtyard, where the workmen were busy assembling the torsion tower. The wooden scaffold had been completed early in the day. For hours since then, the workers under the supervision of the executioner had been struggling with the big wooden uprights that supported the famous twin wheels, studded with wrist and ankle fetters, and geared to rotate in opposite directions. They must have been strangers to the task, for they were slow and uncertain. But they would surely succeed in the end.

  It would have been better not to watch, but he found it impossible to look away. In any case, there was little else to see. His tiny cell contained a straw pallet, a bucket, and nothing more. Grim though his lodgings were, he qualified as one of the favored among the Witch’s inmates. His window admitted daylight and fresh air. The fresh air was often bitterly cold, but it swept away the worst of the stench. The window was an exceptional luxury.

  Down below in the courtyard, the workmen were complaining, and the executioner was yelling at them. Rione studied the man preparing to kill him—an ordinary individual of substantial build, bald patch on top, plainly dressed. Nothing about him to suggest the nature of his profession.

  A noise behind him pulled his attention from the courtyard. He turned to face the door, and his muscles tensed, for he knew what was coming. The wooden panel masking the square of iron grillwork in the door was about to slide away, and the faces were about to reappear at the little window. Even in these grim times, there were countless inquisitive idlers glad to pay the Witch turnkeys for the privilege of viewing the governor’s assassins at close range. Such commerce was officially prohibited, but the trade was far too lucrative to refuse. Thus Falaste Rione often found himself on display, not unlike a rump-faced hibiluk at the public zoo, before the zoo had closed.

  The unabashed openness with which the visitors simply gawked never failed to astonish him. Likewise remarkable—the commentary upon his appearance, manner, demeanor, intellect, and character, all uttered freely, as if the observers imagined him deaf, or bereft of understanding. Even more amazing was the impertinence of the questions directed to him through the grille. There was nothing in the world they hesitated to demand of him, from a personal account of the crime, to revelations of intimate habits and preferences, to a description of his reflections upon impending execution. Did he fear the proverbial pain of torsion? Would he walk to the tower tamely, or did he mean to struggle? Was he at all worried about soiling himself? His only recourse at such times was to turn away and gaze o
ut the window. When he did so, some of his visitors waxed resentful, while others whined reproaches.

  No doubt his sister, Celisse, an object of far greater interest than himself, received similar attention on a larger scale. Being Celisse, she might enjoy it.

  The square panel remained shut, but the whole door opened. A brace of large guards bulked on the threshold. He knew them both by name: Ori and Chesubbo. Both tough and professionally callous, but not such bad fellows. Why here now, though? It shot through his mind that his execution had been advanced by a couple of days, and they had come to take him to his death. But no, impossible, the tower wasn’t ready yet. Another interrogation—some sort of confession to sign? To what purpose?

  “Come on, then,” Ori commanded.

  “Move it, Doc.” Chesubbo clapped his hands sharply.

  “Where?”

  “You’ll see. Nothing to worry about.”

  He did worry, but there was no point in further query. Conducting him from his cell, they led him down a narrow staircase, along vaulted stone corridors into a section of the prison he had never seen before. His wrists were free of manacles. As they walked, the guards flanked him closely, but did not touch him; a favor that might almost have been interpreted as a mark of something like respect.

  Instinct told him that they were leading him toward the south face of the building. Presently they came to a heavy portal whose guard stepped aside at a word from Ori. They went through and Rione found himself in a narrow, covered walkway, with windows on both sides affording a view of walled gardens. Still bare and almost colorless at this time of year, but unquestionably real gardens, with a flagged path winding among sculpted flower beds, thoughtfully placed shrubs, trellises, and a few of the earliest phileefis glowing purple against the dark soil. Here? He had never expected to glimpse another garden in this lifetime. But there was no time to wonder or admire, for they were hurrying him along the walkway and through another door at its far end.