The Ruined City Page 35

  At last he could talk to her.

  She was bent over the washstand, her back to him. She had stripped down to her shift for the night, but had wrapped a blanket about herself for warmth or concealment. All he could see was a long curve of dark wool and a tumble of auburn hair.

  “Magnifica.” He cleared his throat.

  “Sir?” She turned to face him with her customary courtesy.

  “I trust you traveled comfortably today?”

  “As comfortably as a carriage allows.”

  “And you ate well? The provisions supplied by Master Zovaccio were adequately filling and nourishing?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “I hope so, inasmuch as those provisions came at a higher price than I ever dreamed. But perhaps you already know that.”

  “Magnifico?” Her expression was uncomprehending.

  “Perhaps you already know that the purchase price of the supplies was largely borne by Aureste Belandor.”

  “By Aureste? Are you certain? Where did you hear such a thing?”

  “Oh, it’s spoken of freely about the camp. I daresay I’m the last to know.”

  “Not quite the last. This is the first time I’ve heard of it.”

  “Is it? Is it indeed? That’s rather remarkable, madam, in view of the warm friendship you’ve cultivated with that man. Why, I’d have thought that the two of you tell each other everything.”

  “I don’t understand you. What has put such thoughts into your head?”

  “It’s common knowledge. That shouldn’t surprise you. You’ve not exactly striven for discretion.”

  “What need? True, I’ve spoken to Aureste Belandor from time to time since the journey began. Where’s the harm in that?”

  “Oh, no harm at all, certainly no harm, if you care nothing for your own reputation, or your marriage vows, or the honor of your House, or your son’s welfare.”

  “But this is fantastic. You aren’t seriously suggesting—”

  “I am suggesting that Aureste Belandor must have good reason to pay for the food that you eat. He’s not renowned for his altruism.”

  “Magnifico, listen to me. You distress yourself needlessly. I know nothing about the sale of provisions, but I know something of the Magnifico Aureste—”

  “A triumph of understatement.”

  “He may not be renowned for altruism, but he’s not incapable of generosity, and—if all of this is true—then I believe that his motives in this case are good. Still, if you’re unwilling to accept the favor, then you might offer to repay him. If that isn’t convenient here and now, then give him a note.”

  “Do you imagine that I’d place myself in debt to Aureste Belandor, of all men?”

  “By your own reckoning, you’re already in his debt.”

  “Not by my own will! It was done by stealth, without my knowledge or consent. The extent of your knowledge isn’t clear, but one thing is. That man would never have put forth such sums save in payment for what he has enjoyed, or what he expects to enjoy.”

  “You insult me.” Sonnetia’s face froze. “You insult me without justice or reason. And your suggestions are vile.”

  “If my words are vile, then how much the worse are your actions?”

  “I have never wronged you, never in all these years. You’ve no cause and no right to accuse me.”

  “No cause? I should like to believe that, but you stand compromised. Perhaps you are honest, but appearances suggest otherwise, to me and to others. You are my wife, and I’m still willing to trust in you, but the appearances must be altered. First and foremost, you are never to speak to Aureste Belandor again. You will not address another spoken or written word to him throughout the remainder of this journey. If he speaks to you, you will not answer. When we return to Vitrisi, the prohibition remains in effect. This course will display your virtue, and thereafter any tarnish darkening your reputation will be polished away by the hand of time. Now swear yourself to silence, and prove your constancy.”

  “I have nothing to prove.” Her voice was very low. She was staring at him, and her expression was singular. “The character of my entire life speaks for itself.”

  “Well, then.” Vinz hesitated. “Give me your assurance, then.”

  “First you forbid me to speak to Innesq Belandor, on pain of arcane enforcement. Now I am not permitted to speak to Aureste. What next, Magnifico? Shall I be forbidden communication with servants? Acquaintances? Friends? Family members?”

  “This is a hysterical exaggeration. My decision is based on sound reason. I expect your compliance.”

  “You shall not have it. Understand here and now that I will speak to anyone I choose, whenever or wherever I choose, and I will say whatever I choose. You do not rule my thoughts or my speech, you never have and never shall. And if you attempt to constrain me by arcane force, then we will see what our fellow travelers have to say about it.”

  It was incredible. She had never openly defied him before. He had thought her too well bred ever to do it. For a moment, Vinz found himself at a loss. He looked at her white, set face, and for the first time saw undisguised, unequivocal hostility there. And disdain? He did not know what to do, but one thing was clear—he must be strong.

  “You’re my wife. Must I remind you of your duty? You’ll respect my authority.”

  “I respect legitimate authority when it is not abused.”

  “Oh, and you’ve grown so wise, you’ll judge when to obey and when to balk? You’ll be a proper wife—when it suits you?”

  “A proper wife isn’t to be mistaken for a beast of burden.”

  “This is absurd. I hope you won’t oblige me to resort to threats and coercion; such things lower us both. For the sake of your own good name, and the welfare of our son, I demand only your promise to break off all communication with Aureste Belandor, a notorious character. Now then, madam?”

  “ ‘For the welfare of our son’? Your tyranny clothes itself in hypocrisy. I’ve already told you, my thoughts and speech are my own. I’ll employ both as I see fit.”

  “I see that you are lost to decency and honor. But I’ll not allow you to smirch the name of House Corvestri. I want your promise of obedience here and now, else there will be no choice at all but to take steps. Yes, steps. I’ll do it, too. I’ll do what must be done to protect the family name. Do you understand me?”

  “Oh, yes. I understand you perfectly. I understand your doubts and your terrors. I am sorry for you, but my life is no longer hostage to your weakness. Those days are over. I am my own mistress.”

  “Or Aureste Belandor’s?”

  She did not trouble to answer, but regarded him with a faint, pitying smile. The smile was unendurable. He slapped her face.

  He had not intended to do it. His arm seemed to have moved of its own accord.

  Sonnetia pressed a hand to her reddening cheek. For a moment she stood staring at him with an incredulity that matched his own. Then, pausing only long enough to snatch up a satchel of her belongings, she made for the exit.

  “Where are you going?” Vinz asked.

  “To sleep in the carriage.”

  “Unnecessary. You are making too much of this.” I’m sorry! Forgive me! Don’t go! he wanted to plead. But his tongue seemed endowed with a perverse will of its own, just as his arm had been, a moment earlier, and the words refused to emerge.

  “I prefer it. I do not wish to sleep near you. I will never share a bed or sleeping quarters with you again.” With that, she was gone.

  Vinz sat on the edge of his cot, blindly regarding the canvas exit through which his wife had passed. For a time he seemed frozen, and felt nothing at all. Then the ice cracked and broke. She was not coming back. He recognized the significance of that brief but calamitous exchange, and misery filled him, but stronger than misery was rage. Not at Sonnetia, she was not to blame. He reserved his anger for the person truly responsible for all his woes.

  Aureste Belandor. Always.

  Perhaps s
he would bypass the carriage and go directly to him.

  Vinz was almost startled to discover the intensity of his own hatred. It was vast and consuming, ravening inside him like some great beast. He had always hated Aureste, but never before had the hatred owned him.

  He must find some outlet, else the hatred would eat him alive from the inside out. He considered. So often he had contemplated a world free of Aureste Belandor, and the thought had brought peace and joy. He had attempted to achieve that beautiful ambition upon one occasion, and failed through sheer mischance. It was time to try again.

  The Magnifico Aureste was no arcanist. He was not essential to the success of the expedition. They could all do quite well without him.

  It would be easy enough to remove him—any stout lad among the Corvestri guards could do the job. The trick would be to eliminate Aureste in such a manner that no suspicion could fall upon the Magnifico Vinz. Not Sonnetia’s suspicion, and certainly not Innesq’s. It must appear natural—an accident, perhaps, with nobody to blame. Any arcanism employed must go undetected by an entire gathering of accomplished arcanists. A challenge, to be sure, but not an impossibility.

  Vinz sat motionless and blind to his surroundings, while the dark thoughts swirled in his head.

  EIGHTEEN

  Grix Orlazzu came to an open, flat stretch of ground, and there he paused. The scene before him was indistinct, half lost in the perpetual mists of the northern Wraithlands. He could descry an expanse of hardy, drab ground cover interspersed with rocks and patches of bare dirt; a dim palisade of dark conifers edging the clearing; and beyond, the suggestion of lofty hills. Little enough to see, but it was not with his fallible eyes that he was likely to view reality.

  Drawing a deep breath, he closed his eyes and opened his mind. No stimulants or fortifications were required in this place; he had not needed them of late. The extrasensory perceptions poured in freely.

  Energy roared through the soil, the vegetation, the water, and the air. It sang through his brain and danced along his veins. His surroundings almost glowed with power, so intense that he could only conclude that the slow, immutable underground circuit had carried the Source to this very spot; that it rotated upon its great axis directly below. Its proximity elated and awed him. He might almost have imagined himself merging with that great originator of power, losing his individual identity and becoming part of it, but for the odd sense of discord. It was as if he were hearing a mighty chorus sung slightly off key, and the wrongness jangled his nerves.

  There was more. There was still the Other, always the Other, but now expressing Itself ever more insistently as They.

  Many times he had nearly glimpsed Them with his eyes open. With his eyes closed and his mind receptive, They were closer yet, but still indefinite as to size and shape. He dreaded Them deeply, yet ached for knowledge. Here he sensed himself trembling on the brink of great revelation, and the lure was irresistible.

  Orlazzu opened his eyes, and the vibrant hidden world faded. They receded as well, but reluctantly, and not far. He cogitated briefly and reached his decision. This desolate spot, seemingly quiet and empty, reeked to the arcane skies of power, purpose, and danger. If he chose to remain, the risks were great. He would need to construct solid fortifications, and he would need to maintain ceaseless vigilance; a daunting prospect. And yet the potential rewards—the insight, the knowledge, the understanding of the Source’s essential nature—were too great to forgo. It might end in disaster, but he would make the experiment. He could hardly stop himself.

  Accordingly Orlazzu prepared himself, ingesting a trio of lozenges. The task he contemplated was considerable. The power charging the atmosphere, though significant, was not enough in itself to sustain him—he needed more. He had not resorted to mental enhancement of any kind in days, and now the effect of a large dose was intense.

  His mind broke free of its mundane shell, sprouted vast pinions, and flew. His trained power, heightened by means of the lozenges, buoyed by the energy infusing his surroundings, had never seemed so huge and so certain. The sense of rushing flight and unbridled potency was intoxicating. But for the discipline of a lifetime, he might have lost himself in stupid delight.

  But discipline ruled yet. He steadied his breath, regulated his heartbeat, and prepared to commence creation of a vertical shaft destined to access an impregnable, stone-walled underground burrow.

  Before the first yard of dirt and rock had been removed, however, an impingement caught his attention. His focus continued intact, but his vision shifted and he beheld a couple of undead humans standing a few feet away, staring at him with their milky eyes. Both male, barely covered in moldering rags; their age, condition, and origin unknowable.

  His enhanced vision recognized vehicles of the Other—not nearly as pure and true as They, but capable of effecting Its desires. And It could hardly relish his presence in this place.

  Orlazzu contained his surprise. He had seen animals of various species inhabited by the Other. He had seen a Sishmindri—an intelligent quasi-man—afflicted with the plague. But this was his first glimpse of truly human undead.

  They were hideous and sad. Human bodies ought never to be subjected to such indignities. They were his own kind, and their exploitation represented his own potential ruin, together with that of every other man, woman, and child of the Veiled Isles. Moreover, they were dangerous. They would infect and absorb him, if they could.

  No matter. He could rule them. A strong flick of his intellect shoved the undead pair back into the mists. They were out of sight, but hardly gone.

  He could keep them out. Likewise he could keep Them out, and It out. Not easily, not without recourse to his best abilities, but he was equal to the challenge.

  His full attention returned to the task at hand. Much remained to complete before the end of the day. Grix Orlazzu’s mind embraced the Source, and excavation recommenced.

  The dim and tangled neighborhood of Vitrisi known as the Briar Patch had long been recognized as the haunt of rogue Sishmindris. Here the fugitive escapees from plague-stricken palace, mansion, and town house had sought refuge and a kind of safety in numbers. Here they had banded together and, under the leadership of the great amphibian calling himself Aazaargh, they had established a tiny enclave of their own, which they defended with vigor and determination. There was nothing remotely secure, much less legal in their occupation of the Briar Patch. They had gone largely unchallenged by the forces of human order for two reasons. The first—that the maze-like warren they now regarded as their own was difficult to attack and easy to defend. The second—that the troops of the Deputy Governor Gorza were largely busied with the struggle to control the riotous human element of the city; the resistance fanatics, the ordinary criminal predators, the desperate and unhinged, the infectious diseased, and the dead Wanderers.

  Beyond doubt the long term of nearly undisturbed success had bolstered amphibian confidence, perhaps to unrealistic levels. It may have been for this reason that a murky afternoon in early spring witnessed active implementation of the resolution restricting the Briar Patch to Sishmindri residency alone. The passage of such a resolution was never announced, but easily inferred.

  There were still a few human denizens to be found lurking in odd corners and courtyards of the old neighborhood. Loath to abandon home despite all transformation of their surroundings, they were largely inclined to silence and extreme discretion. All efforts to achieve self-effacement, however, were futile.

  Shortly after midday, dozens of Sishmindri patrol teams commenced sweeping the Briar Patch. Beginning at the perimeter and working inward toward the center, the patrols hurried through the narrow little streets, checking building after building. Any human encountered was immediately taken into custody, regardless of age, gender, state of health, piteousness of pleas, or vehemence of protest. No prisoner was needlessly harmed, but those who resisted were forcibly subdued. There were many bruises, but no blood.

  When the sweep conclude
d in the late afternoon, some three dozen men, women, and children stood packed into a dense, scared mass at the center of the neighborhood. Their captors surrounded them closely and, upon a croaking command, began to herd them eastward.

  It was not a long journey. Quite soon they reached Hay Street, which marked the boundary between the Briar Patch and its eastern neighbor, the New Houses. Out onto Hay Street the humans were thrust—so firmly that more than one landed facedown in the gutter. Those remaining upright gazed about in confused alarm.

  “Ours.” The amphibian commander’s sweeping greenish arm claimed the Briar Patch. “Our ground. Sishmindri ground. This place is called Roohaathk. Ours now. No men here. Stay out.” He gestured, and the Sishmindris melted back into the foggy shadows.

  The human ejecta of Roohaathk remained closely huddled. Many of them clasped hands. None had been permitted to carry even the simplest belongings from their erstwhile homes. Several had been plucked from their firesides, and these lacked even so much as warm outer garments. They had no money, no belongings, no idea where to go or what to do.

  Their sudden arrival and the attendant commotion attracted the notice of the solid New Houses residents, who began to converge on the spot.

  Others were likewise noticing and converging. A trio of Wanderers shuffled north along Hay Street. A second trio was traveling south. Two more appeared at the mouth of a side street, and a moldering quartet had sprung up out of nowhere. So sudden, swift, and sizable a confluence was too great a coincidence for belief. Almost it seemed that they had been drawn by human distress and vulnerability, and it all smacked unnervingly of deliberate intention. The warier among the human observers withdrew. Hardier souls remained to watch, positioning themselves within easy reach of clear escape avenues. Some shouted warnings.