The Ruined City Page 7

  Compunction gnawed. Deliberately he shut himself off from it. No time for distracting qualms. Right now, he needed to delve into the exact nature of Innesq Belandor’s condition.

  Rest and nourishment had served him well. The discipline of a lifetime came to the fore, and his mind cleared. His mundane surroundings fell away, his perceptions altered, and—for the first time in eons, it seemed—the inner light dawned, and he touched the power of the Source. The sensation, following long deprivation, was almost too glorious. Deep joy threatened to rock his concentration.

  His skill and talent were still with him. When he rested light fingertips upon the unconscious man’s brow and sent his intellect questing, the origin of Innesq’s affliction revealed itself at once. Profound depletion, a dangerous drainage of strength and energy. Nothing more. Until that moment, Vinz had not known what to expect, for the effects of the arcane anomaly—impossibility—that he had precipitated on the night of the attack were incalculable. Anything or everything unimaginable might have befallen his victim. The problem that he confronted, however, was soluble.

  The technique at his command enabled him to replenish Innesq, but the procedure was taxing and the long effort left him shaky. Legs suddenly weak, Vinz sank into the wheeled chair that stood beside the bed. His attention remained fixed on Innesq’s face, white as the linen pillowcase, closed eyes shadowed in charcoal, no apparent change. Yet a change had occurred, something he detected by means of enhanced perceptions rather than physical senses. He recognized the invisible stirring of renewed life, and was therefore unsurprised when the other’s eyes opened.

  “Magnifico Corvestri,” observed Innesq. His voice was faint but tolerably clear. His eyes were likewise clear: awake, aware, and filled with intelligence.

  Vinz started. Skill and experience notwithstanding, he had not anticipated quite such a swift and complete recovery of intellect. Moreover, Innesq’s expression was unnerving. He felt exposed beneath that serene regard, and it came to him then that Innesq must have seen straight through the mask to recognize him on the night of the attack—that Innesq knew everything. He wanted to bolt from the room, but instead sat as if paralyzed.

  “We must put it behind us,” Innesq whispered.

  There could be no mistaking his meaning. Yes, he knew, all right. Vinz had not foreseen it, could scarcely believe it. He had blundered, but it was not too late to correct his error. A flex of his practiced mind could return Innesq Belandor to the comatose depths, and this time permanently. He drew a deep preparatory breath.

  “Make our peace. Work together. The Six.” The voice was feeble, but infinitely resolved.

  “The Six?” Vinz stared.

  “It’s time. You see it.”

  Yes, Vinz realized. Yes. He did see it, but had never until this moment faced it squarely. For weeks—no, months—he had told himself that the moment had not yet arrived. The situation demanded investigation, analysis, consideration. Careful planning. Communication among all parties involved, exchange of ideas, consensus; in short, plenty of reassuring delay. But somewhere deep inside, he had known better, and with one simple remark, the man just awakened from a coma had dragged it out into the light.

  “Reversal of the Source approaches,” Vinz agreed.

  “It is all but upon us. We cannot wait. We must call upon the others.”

  “Communication among the Six has generally lapsed.”

  “We shall renew it.”

  “The ban upon arcane practice has affected Faerlonnish technique. We have lost something of our skill.”

  “Not all of us. In any event, two of the Houses are Taerleezi, unaffected by the ban. Among the lot of us, we shall find expertise enough.”

  “How many of us remain, though? House Orlazzu is all but extinct. House Steffa is virtually dormant at present. My son Vinzille combines the best of Steffa and Corvestri, but he is only a boy. There are the two of us. Houses Pridisso and Zovaccio, on Taerleez, may perhaps furnish some talent. Apart from that, who is left?”

  “There is a second promising Belandor adept we might enlist. As for House Orlazzu, I am not altogether certain. And there are possibilities beyond the Six.”

  “What, the lowborn incompetents, the pretenders, the tinsel-and-fustian magicians of the city? The cleansing of the Source requires the combined talents of six accomplished adepts, and I fear they’re not to be found.”

  “The presence of six is traditional, but perhaps not essential. We may make do with fewer.” Innesq sat up in bed. “Whatever the task demands, we shall secure.”

  His voice was still weak, but he spoke with such absolute conviction that Vinz’s courage and optimism stirred in response, along with dawning admiration. Maybe it was true, maybe it could be done. When Innesq Belandor spoke, it was remarkably easy to believe. But a short time ago, he had done his best to kill this man, missing only by reason of improbable—impossible—circumstance. Now he found himself blessing his own failure.

  “I shall send word to my young kinswoman in the Alzira Hills this very day,” Innesq declared. “She will be frightened and in need of some reassurance.”

  “It is too soon,” Vinz told him. “You must rest and recover your strength.”

  “There is no time for that, I have lost too much time already. There are sustaining draughts in my workroom—ah, but I remember, the workroom has been destroyed.”

  A revealing flush warmed Vinz’s face. Eyes downcast, he remarked, “You are welcome to use mine. You may regard it as your own.” There was no reply, and he looked up to find Innesq’s eyes fixed upon him. Once again there was understanding, but no accusation in those eyes, which seemed to see straight through to his center.

  “I accept with thanks.” Innesq stretched forth his arm. “Come, Magnifico. Will you not shake my hand? We are allies now.”

  Vinz clasped the proffered member gladly. A burden seemed to drop from his shoulders.

  FOUR

  “Allies? Have you taken leave of your senses?” demanded the Magnifico Aureste.

  “My head is tolerably clear, I believe,” returned Innesq Belandor.

  “The evidence suggests otherwise. Let us forget for the moment that the little rodent’s a Corvestri. For now, I’ll overlook it.”

  “Generous.”

  “Harder to overlook is the role he played in the destruction of our home. It couldn’t have been accomplished without him, and the guilt is largely his. Or have you forgotten that detail?”

  “No more than I have forgotten the murder of poor Unexia and the servants. They were great crimes, it is true. But we must pardon them now.”

  “Pardon? That’s pretty poetry.”

  “It is a necessity.”

  Muted morning light struggled in through the cracked windows of the north wing demi-council chamber, lately pressed into service as a dining hall. The two brothers sat at table, finishing their breakfast. Attired in his customary sober robes, and upright in his wheeled chair, Innesq ate with good appetite. His face, while still pale, had lost the deathly waxen hue. His eyes were alight at the bottom of shadowy sockets, and his voice was quiet but resonant. Only the slight languor of his gestures betrayed unacknowledged weakness.

  Once again, disaster had been averted. Aureste’s relief and pleasure were genuine, but did not embrace full pardon of the true culprit. Now that Innesq was safe, Vinz Corvestri’s reprieve had lapsed.

  “I see by your expression that you do not agree,” Innesq observed. “But I tell you again that personal hatred is an indulgence that none of us can afford. We of the Six must pool our resources, else all of us are lost. For an instant, not long ago, you seemed to believe me, but now you have settled back into comfortable skepticism.”

  “Not so. Indeed, I do believe you. But Corvestri has dealt us a deep wound—nearly fatal to you—and the thought of some obligatory alliance with him and his House disgusts me.”

  “You must make up your mind to endure it, at least for a while. But come, it needn’t be such
a trial. You’ll see little if anything of the Magnifico Corvestri during the next few days. The Distant Exchange whereby we send word to our counterparts of the Six will be performed within Corvestri Mansion. The magnifico has offered me full use of his workroom.”

  “After destroying yours. But truly, you can’t mean to set foot in Corvestri Mansion.”

  “Wheels, in my case.”

  “The thing’s impossible.”

  “The thing, as you put it, is essential. Understand clearly, once and for all. There is no time left for family feuds, tribal squabbling, personal rivalries, or other such pointless distractions. When the danger is past, those concerned may resume the games, should they so desire, but not before then. I am relying upon your good sense to support and assist me in this. If you cannot or will not, then I must proceed without you.”

  Aureste examined his brother, whose fragile appearance, gentle manner, and calm good humor concealed a will at least as strong as his own. He himself was acknowledged head of the family, but Innesq was the undisputed premier arcanist of House Belandor. In all matters arcane, Innesq ruled.

  “I’ll always support and assist you.” Aureste’s eyes dropped under the other’s regard. To disguise his discomfiture, he continued, “But I must wonder if you don’t overtax yourself. Surely it’s too soon for exertion. You aren’t strong enough.”

  “I was not strong enough yesterday,” Innesq admitted, “as I discovered when I attempted to leave my bed. But now I have had a good night’s sleep, a solid breakfast, and I am perfectly well. I am expected at Corvestri Mansion, and it is time for me to go.”

  “Go?” Incredible. “Pardon me, but how long is it since you have—gone—anywhere?”

  “I can hardly say. But I am going now.”

  “Well. If you are truly set on this, then take the state carriage, it will best accommodate your chair. And at least two or three bodyguards, fit to deal with Corvestri treachery.”

  “A Sishmindri to assist with my chair will more than suffice. Zirriz is one of the strongest and ablest, but he does not seem to be available. When I ask for him, I am told only that he is ‘gone,’ which, among the Sishmindris, may mean physically absent, mentally deranged, dead, or spiritually diseased. I have not ventured to demand specifics, because—as you may know—the Sishmindris regard direct inquiry into such matters as intrusive. Do you know where Zirriz is?”

  “Why, no.” Aureste offered a faint, puzzled frown. “But if he’s gone missing, then he must be found and brought home at once. Vitrisi is no safe place for a stray Sishmindri, these days.”

  “It never was, but what do you mean?”

  “While you slept, there have been killings. It began in the Plaza of Proclamation, where a pair of Sishmindris belonging to the governor’s household were attacked and slaughtered by the rabble, along with a few Taerleezi guards.”

  “There can be only one reason. The poor wretches must have contracted the plague.”

  “You’ve hit it. Those creatures carry and spread the disease. The governor avenged the destruction of his property—the massacre in Rookery Grove was designed to quell Faerlonnish enthusiasm—but all that it really accomplished was to drive the panic-stricken into the shadows. Since Rookery Grove, the public fears have fastened upon the Sishmindris, who are now turning up dead all over town. I don’t know how many have been killed, but this I do know—there are plenty of Vitrisians fully in favor of wholesale extermination. If our poor Zirriz is wandering about out there, we’d do well to find him—for his own sake.”

  “And ours.”

  “True, his disappearance represents considerable financial loss.” Aureste’s tone of regret was perfectly sincere.

  “That is not what I mean. The Sishmindris do not lack intelligence or strength. They submit to slavery perforce, but it is possible to push them too far.”

  “And then?”

  “And then we might find ourselves confronting a true revolt.”

  “Splendid. Perhaps they might rally the horses and donkeys to a Pan-Bestial cause.”

  “You persist in underestimating these beings. I can only hope that you will not find yourself too rudely disillusioned one day.”

  “And if I do, I trust you’ll be there to intercede on my behalf.”

  “I would try,” Innesq returned mildly.

  Shortly thereafter, to the wonder of all, Innesq Belandor departed his ancestral home. Attended only by a single Sishmindri, he traveled by carriage the short distance to his destination. His wheeled chair was unloaded, he was assisted into it, and then, for the first time in human memory, a Belandor crossed the threshold of Corvestri Mansion.

  Vinz Corvestri was there to greet him, together with the adolescent son, Vinzille, the one described by his father as combining the best of Steffa and Corvestri. Certainly a promising youngster, weedy but well favored, with intelligence and curiosity lighting his greenish eyes.

  The two of them conducted him by an obscure route to a workroom at least as fine as his own lost haven, and unmistakably older. This space had served the arcanists of House Corvestri throughout the generations, and the echo of their ambitions still rang through the atmosphere. Some of those past adepts almost seemed to speak aloud.

  They seated themselves at the table, the boy including himself as if by habit, the father offering no objection. Preparations were quickly completed, and the Distant Exchange commenced. Young Vinzille’s mind was immature and his technique unsophisticated, yet his talent was marked and his contribution noticeably enhanced the sending. Within moments the message was winging toward arcanists far and wide.

  Grix Orlazzu came down into a rock-strewn hollow between hills, and there he stopped dead. For a moment he hardly knew what had halted him. Uneasiness, even suspicion, prickled along his nerves, and there was no obvious cause. His questing gaze traveled an ordinary misty vista. Then his mind recognized the subtle pressure of importunate intelligence seeking entry, and at once he raised barriers against the Other.

  Moments passed. The pressure continued, and something of the visitor’s quality managed to impress itself upon his consciousness. This call was almost comfortably familiar in nature. It came not from the Other, but from human minds much like his own. The minds of arcanists, linked and working together.

  Instinct coupled with curiosity almost served to admit them. Then he caught the flavor of the message—an intimation of impending disaster, a plea for assistance.

  Not difficult to guess the reason. These arcanists knew what was coming. They meant to cleanse the Source, and they wanted Grix Orlazzu’s assistance.

  They wouldn’t get it.

  He scarcely pitied the human tyrants of the world, whose greed and cruelty had wrought calamity everywhere. Surely they had earned their punishment.

  Many of them, but not all.

  And those who had not? The myriad blameless?

  No concern of his. He did not wish them ill, but he was not obligated to help or defend them.

  They would thrive or perish without him.

  The shaky mental barriers reinforced themselves in an instant. The arcane call ricocheted off into the fog.

  Grix Orlazzu resumed his trek.

  The smell of sizzling bacon might have restored appetite to a corpse. In a certain sense, that was the function it was meant to perform. The hour was late for breakfast and early for the midday meal, but time did not matter when addressing the quirks of a ruined body and mind.

  The sullen morning light of winter filtered down through the mists veiling the Alzira Hills, down through the bare-branched trees of the woods to touch the mouth of the little cave scooped into the base of the overhang shadowing the stream. A cookfire burned there, and beside it knelt Yvenza Belandor, frying the fragrant rashers. She wore her customary plain dark gown, beneath a winter cloak. Her hair was neatly ordered, her aspect purposeful. All in all, she appeared unchanged by loss or privation. Behind her, all but invisible in the shadows of the entry, Nissi sat cross-legged and
motionless, luminous regard fixed on the fire.

  Off to the side, in the midst of what passed for daylight, back pressed flat to the chilly support of the overhang, sat a still and broken figure. His large body was stingily covered in garments too small for him—breeches too short, doublet too narrow in the shoulders, too small in the chest, too short in the arms. But these items, former property of his murdered brother, Trecchio, were the sole garments available to a penniless outcast in the depths of the woods. They had been roughly altered to offer workable accommodation—both sleeves of the doublet slashed along their seams to allow passage of the bulky bandages protecting the left arm and the torn fingers of both hands; the breeches likewise sliced to pass smoothly over the battered feet. An assortment of additional injuries—burns, bruises, cuts, and worse—concealed themselves beneath the ill-fitting clothes. But the bandages wrapping the wounds that dented the beaten skull were whitely apparent. And nothing at all softened the wreck of the face—the lacerated lips folding oddly over a toothless gap, the smashed nose scarcely functional, and above all, the livid flesh surrounding the black pit of the burnt-out right eye. The remaining eye—the color of slush shot with blood—stared vacantly off into the mists.

  The bacon was adequately crisp. Removing the strips from the skillet, Yvenza piled them onto a trencher, added a round of hard biscuit, and placed the meal before her son.

  “Eat,” she commanded.

  He appeared unaware of her presence.

  “I know that you hear and understand me. Do as you’re told.”

  The cyclopean eye did not blink.

  “You know the consequences of disobedience, boy. How many times must we repeat this sorry scene?”

  A stranger observing the exchange would have thought Onartino Belandor deaf.