The Ruined City Page 3

  “But tonight, your sister opened my eyes. She spoke of bringing Yvenza here, and we both know what that would mean. You quickly shot arrows into that idea and I was relieved for a matter of seconds, until I realized that it doesn’t matter that Yvenza isn’t actually here. She’s alive out there, she still has a voice, and she’s certain to use it. She’ll tell the world what you did for me, and she’ll make it sound like a crime—your crime rather than her own—and people will believe her. I don’t know how long it will take, but sooner or later the word will make its way to this camp. Even if the camp moves, the news will find it, one day. That’s ruin for both of us.”

  “Yes. I’ve been wondering lately how much time we have left.” His voice was unruffled as always.

  “You never spoke of it. You meant to spare me the worry?”

  “No need to speak of it. I knew that you’d see it for yourself, all too soon.”

  “It took me long enough. But now I know, and we both see that we can’t stay here. It’s time to go, time for you to take me back home to Vitrisi. Please, Falaste—I want to go home.”

  “I know. And so you shall, but we can’t leave quite yet. Some of the boys are still too sick. They rely on us, there’s no one else.”

  We, he had said. Us. It was music, but even so—

  “Yvenza,” she objected.

  “No immediate threat, I believe. You don’t know her as I do. The magnifica does not strike carelessly or at random. She’ll wait for a strategic moment, and she’ll want to be present, if possible, to witness the results.”

  “What a disaster that woman is!”

  “Not entirely. But she can be very hard, and my betrayal has angered her deeply.”

  “You did nothing wrong, you only offered help where it was much needed. She’s the criminal.”

  “The magnifica is unlikely to view the situation in that light,” he replied drily. “I think it safe to assume at this point that I’ve supplanted you as the chief object of her wrath—a distinction I’d happily forgo.”

  “You may not need to.” The words popped out of their own volition. Jianna was aware of some confused impulse to console him. He stood silently awaiting enlightenment, and there was no choice but to continue. “There’s something that you don’t know. Remember when Trox came with the news of Ironheart’s destruction, and he spoke of a Faerlonnish presence among the Taerleezis? He even mentioned stories of a Faerlonnish commander. And I’ve heard those same stories repeated several times since then.”

  “So have I, but I haven’t placed much faith in them.”

  “You should, though. They’re true.” Unconsciously she lowered her voice. “It was my father.”

  “Where have you heard this?”

  “Nowhere. Nobody had to tell me. I knew.”

  “How?”

  “Because I know my father. Throughout the days I spent at Ironheart, I always knew that he’d come for me. I was surprised and worried that it took him as long as it did, but I never doubted his will, and I was right. He was late, but he finally came. And he made them sorry.”

  “I know that was what you longed for night and day, but how likely is it? To begin with, how could he have known where to look for you?”

  “He’d have found me, somehow. Perhaps Uncle Innesq helped. Uncle Innesq has the knack, you know.”

  “I’ve heard something to that effect. But even so—Ironheart was assaulted by Taerleezi troops, very well armed, even equipped with artillery. No Faerlonnishman could gain access to such resources—not even the Magnifico Belandor.”

  “He’d have found a way. Once he’s set his course, nothing stops him. Perhaps he needed to spend a lot of money, but he’d have done that—for me.”

  “That last I believe.”

  “So you see, Yvenza will be so busy hating my father, and my father’s daughter, that she won’t have that much hatred left to spend on you. Unless I underestimate her supply.”

  “I reserve judgment. Still, if you’re right, one detail of the account is clarified. We’ve heard that Onartino and Trecchio were tortured. If so, what information was sought? The Taerleezis had little to gain, but Aureste Belandor would have demanded the whereabouts of his daughter. There’s an explanation.”

  “But not the right one. My father would never countenance the use of torture, not even upon such a pig as Onartino. He’s a good man; it’s not in him to do it.” There was no answer, and Jianna was impelled to insist, “If it actually happened at all—and we don’t really know that it did—then the Taerleezis were responsible. We’ve both seen their handiwork. I tell you, my father had nothing to do with it.”

  His silence continued and, for the first time, she felt doubt gnawing at her heart. Before she could analyze the unfamiliar sensation, he answered, rather slowly, as if choosing his words with care.

  “You’re right, we don’t know exactly what happened. We hear these stories at second hand, and they’re bound to contain distortion. Let’s consider instead the matter at hand. We agree that it won’t be safe for the two of us to remain in this place for very much longer.”

  “You’ve lost the friendship of Yvenza because of me, and now I’m about to compromise your position among the Ghosts as well. You’ve saved my life, and I repay you by destroying yours. How you must wish you’d never met me!”

  “Stop driveling, woman. My decisions were entirely my own, and I regret none of them.”

  “You don’t? Really?”

  “I’ll take you back to Vitrisi,” he changed the subject calmly. “All the way to Belandor House itself.”

  “Oh, Falaste, thank you! I can hardly believe it! When can we go? Tomorrow morning? Early!”

  “Slow down a little,” he advised, and she could hear the smile in his voice. “Remember the sick lads. Let’s give them a few more days. We can afford it, and they need it. When the contagion is fully contained, we’ll go, I promise.”

  He had promised, and his word was gold. She was going home. The hope and happiness that filled her were almost frightening. Foolish tears prickled her eyes.

  “A few more days,” she agreed, and swallowed hard. But her gain represented his great loss, and he must surely feel it. Still driven by the urge to console or encourage him, she observed, “And you know, when we reach the city and my father hears all that you’ve done for me, he’s going to be vastly indebted. He’ll want to—” Reward you, were the words that popped into her head, but they struck the wrong note, turning her rescuer into a servant or hireling. “He’ll want to demonstrate his gratitude. I do hope you’ll allow him to do something for you. Really, he could do a great deal.” He could offer you a permanent position at Belandor House, she elaborated mentally. And he will, I promise.

  His reply astounded her.

  “I won’t meet the Magnifico Belandor.”

  “What? But of course you’ll meet him. You must.”

  “That isn’t possible.”

  “But he’ll want you to,” observed Jianna, as if this settled the matter. “And I want you to.”

  “No.”

  “I don’t understand. Why will you not?”

  “To seek out such a man as Aureste Belandor—to be received into his home, to exchange courtesies and pleasantries with him—would damage my standing in the eyes of the resistance beyond hope of recovery. Once I’m perceived as the magnifico’s friend, guest, satellite, call it what you will—then their trust in me is destroyed, and that is something I don’t wish to sacrifice.”

  “What kind of real trust is destroyed as easily as that?” Jianna demanded, scowling. “Are you saying that you can’t exchange a single word with my father, can’t even step over the threshold of our home, without fear of contamination?”

  “Know that I don’t mean to pain or offend you. But your father is a great enemy of the Faerlonnish resistance—”

  “He isn’t, he cares nothing at all about it! He just wants a pleasant, happy, comfortable life for himself and his family. Is that so wicked
?”

  “Depends on what he’s willing to do to secure it, but that’s a discussion for another day. For now, only understand this—when I leave you in Vitrisi, I must return to the Ghosts armed with some hope of finding a welcome among them.”

  “Leave—” It came like a sudden slap. Surprised and unnerved, she floundered in search of sound objection. “But I thought you just agreed that you can’t stay here.”

  “You can’t stay here, and we must see to your safety. But I can still make my peace, and I mean to do so.”

  “Can you, though? Will these paragons of moral purity pardon your crime of assisting Aureste Belandor’s daughter?”

  “I believe so. I’m of some use to them,” he returned equably. “At least I hope so, for it’s more than the plight of the Ghosts that draws me back. I must keep an eye on my young sister.”

  “You sound worried.”

  “You heard her just now. When she holds a strong conviction, it fills her completely, leaving room for nothing else. At such times, she knows no limit or restraint. There’s nothing in the world that she wouldn’t risk or sacrifice for the sake of her beliefs.”

  “But you said just now that there’s little she can do.”

  “Little in terms of disrupting the camp or splitting the force, for the boys won’t follow her. But she could take it into her head to attempt something on her own.”

  “Attempt what? She’s only a young woman, without rank or noble kin, money or influence. What could she do on her own?”

  “Destroy herself, I fear. I’m her older brother and her only family. It’s my task to offer such guidance and protection as she can be persuaded to accept.”

  “I suspect she doesn’t accept a great deal of either.”

  “You are right. But she does pay me the courtesy of listening, and sometimes she can be swayed, or simply calmed. She needs my influence now, I believe, and so my sojourn in Vitrisi will be brief.”

  Perhaps, thought Jianna.

  “In the meantime,” Rione mused, “I can only hope that nothing will happen to touch off one of her explosions.”

  It was high noon, but the streets of Vitrisi were dim and discolored, veiled in winter fog laced with heavy smoke. The smoke and the meaty odors that it carried were pervasive these days, masking the ordinary scents of the city, overwhelming the salt tang of the sea. Swelling the dark breath of the great funeral pyres that burned night and day was the smoke of innumerable incense burners and herbal fires employed to ward off the pestilence. The utility of these secondary blazes remained unproven, but their contribution to the general atmosphere was undeniable. Everywhere, the sharp prophylactic perfumes mingled uncomfortably with the airborne remnants of the dead.

  The pungent miasma infiltrated every cranny and crevice of the city, from the twisted narrow lanes of the Spidery, to the respectably sedate parks and courtyards of the center, to the elevated mansions of the august Clouds, and then went even farther, pushing beyond the warehouses and taverns of the waterfront, out into the harbor to shroud the colossal figure of the Searcher, obscuring his bronze features and dimming the light of his great lantern. All Vitrisians, both human and other, seemed to bend beneath the atmosphere, whose weight and sad density lent them the insubstantiality of ghosts. Sound was likewise smothered beneath the charcoal pall. The rumble of wheels and the clop of hooves on cobbles, the sigh of the sea breezes, the tolling of bells, the clank of hammers on anvils, the crackle of fires great and small, the screeching of gulls and Scarlet Gluttons, the barking of dogs, and above all, the vocal babble of humanity—all was suppressed in volume and oddly remote. The air was harsh and cold, but riddled with unexpected pockets and puffs of warmth, carried from the insatiable pyres.

  There was no escape from the smoke. Respecting neither power nor privilege, it pressed its weight against the walls and windows of the Cityheart itself, seeping in through invisible breaches to claim the stronghold of the Taerleezi conquerors as its own. The adjoining Plaza of Proclamation and its tributary avenues were likewise swathed in grey, their inhabitants veiled in deep anonymity.

  And therefore, the eccentricity of two dim wavering figures initially went unnoticed. They were similar in size, shape, and slightly hunchbacked posture. Their skulls were flat and hairless, their golden eyes prominent, their air sacs flaccid. Both were identically liveried in purple velvet heavily embellished with gold, these colors identifying them as property of the Governor Anzi Uffrigo’s household.

  The two Sishmindris were making their way across the plaza toward the Cityheart, their owner’s residence. A commonplace sight; many liveried amphibians traversed the area at all hours of the day and night. This particular pair, however, were distinguished by their curiously unsteady gait. Both wobbled and staggered for all the world like drunken human beings. But they were not drunk. It had never been necessary to pass a law officially forbidding Sishmindris the pleasures of wine; no power in the world would induce the creatures to swallow alcohol.

  On they pressed, stumbling, now clinging to one another for mutual support, great eyes vacant and seemingly blind. And still they attracted little attention, for the human world was frequently unseeing, until one of them faltered and fell. For a moment he lay motionless, then his limbs began to twitch and jerk, his head thrashed from side to side, and a spray of blue-green froth bubbled upon his lipless mouth. At sight of this, his companion raised a croaking outcry, easily recognizable even to those unfamiliar with the amphibian tongue as an expression of distress, and the interested citizens began to gather.

  “Rabies,” opined an onlooker.

  “Or worse,” came the ominous reply.

  As if in confirmation of unspoken collective fear, the fallen Sishmindri began to tug at the purple velvet garments that seemed to be suffocating him. Presently he managed to tear them away, exposing a dry-skinned, feverish body marked with distinctively tri-lobed dusky carbuncles; the signature of the plague.

  A gasping agitation stirred the circle of human witnesses, for this evidence offered absolute proof of a truth long suspected but never before verified—that the amphibian Sishmindris were susceptible to the human disease. They could contract the plague and presumably spread it. There was an instinctive shrinking withdrawal from the potential source of contagion.

  The glazed golden eyes of the standing Sishmindri roamed from face to frozen face as in search of aid. A fervent but unintelligible chain of syllables rasped out of him. He stretched forth a web-fingered hand, and the nearest humans backed away. Throwing back his flat-topped head, he loosed a delirious croak that rose to the level of a scream, then tottered and fell prone beside his companion. His body commenced to jerk.

  For a long moment the staring citizens stood frozen. Action was called for, but dangerous, and nobody ventured to approach. Soon, however, some pragmatic individual found a way. There was a speeding blur of activity, a couple of sounds better unheard, then a cheap taped hilt protruding from a heaving greenish chest. Some decisive individual blessed with good aim had thrown a knife. Within the space of as many seconds, another half-dozen knives followed, and three of them hit their targets. The wounds appeared mortal, but the plaguey amphibians refused to die.

  The supply of immediately available blades was exhausted, but there were other weapons to be had. The Plaza of Proclamation was kept indifferently clean, these days. Refuse and rubble lay strewn everywhere. Stones, brickbats, and broken bottles came readily to hand. In an instant, these missiles were pelting the Sishmindris.

  The flying rocks did their work, and the doleful outcry subsided to a feeble croaking, inaudible above the fierce shouts of the citizens. The uproar drew the attention of the guards stationed at the nearest Cityheart entrance, and a pair of them approached to investigate. Thrusting their way to the center of the human clump, they caught the gang of Faerlonnish nationals vandalizing the governor’s property, and drew their swords at once.

  “Clear off, you lot,” one of the Taerleezis bellowed, making himself
audible above the din. “Out of here, or face charges.”

  Vociferous protest followed, but the overlapping, sometimes incoherent attempts at justification fell on deaf ears. The Taerleezi guards saw only a pair of valuable Sishmindris, clothed in the livery of the governor’s household, fallen victim to senseless Faerlonnish violence. The wretched creatures—glistening with blue-green fluid, cut, bruised, swollen, and maimed almost beyond recognition—still stirred feebly, but appeared unsalvageable. Even as the disgusted guards looked on, a rock flew from the crowd to strike a greenish head. The Sishmindri quivered and went still.

  It was outright mutiny, and it had to be quelled. Turning to the nearest citizen, a stout and threadbare laborer, one of the guards dealt a sweeping backhanded blow to the face with the flat of his sword. The victim dropped to the pavement. He had not flung the most recent rock, but he was identifiable by his manifest poverty as Faerlonnish, and for the moment that was enough.

  Protest roared; stones and bottles flew at Sishmindris and Taerleezis alike. One of the soldiers went down, bleeding from a head wound, at sight of which his companion thrust steel through the nearest set of Faerlonnish vitals, whose owner was young and female. At that instant the gathering of outraged citizens coalesced into a mob. A dark roar thundered through the Plaza of Proclamation, and set the Cityheart windows to rattling. A boiling human tide overwhelmed the two Taerleezi guards, and the pent rage of decades found murderous release. Moments later the guards at the Cityheart entrance were likewise annihilated. Still seething, the tide flung itself against the heavy door, which was locked and barred.

  For some minutes longer they remained there, some screaming threats and imprecations at the Taerleezi governor immured within, some flinging rocks and refuse. It ended when a sizable squadron of helmeted Taerleezi soldiers rounded the edge of the Cityheart and marched into the Plaza of Proclamation. The wiser among the Faerlonnish rioters immediately retired. The foolishly heroic stood their ground.