The Ruined City Read online

  A light layer of frozen moisture glazed the bare black branches. A haze of glinting frost lightened the cold-hardened mud of the campsite. A few scattered fires breathed grey smoke into the grey mists of winter. The canvas tents and shelters, once light in hue, had weathered and dirtied to a uniform dingy grey-brown. The patched and makeshift garments of the resident Ghosts had done likewise.

  Color! thought Jianna, remembering Vitrisi with its stained-glass windows, rooflights, and flying pennants, its varied gardens, its costumes and equipages, booths and stalls, and above all its neighboring sea, of a thousand moods and expressions. Did these Ghosts haunting the foggy woods remember or know what was missing?

  Celisse, simply clad in her gown and cloak the color of the tree trunks, stood very straight and very still upon her makeshift platform. Her face, young and grave, seemed to transmit inner light. Her immobility, together with the implied energy of her posture, easily drew all eyes.

  Watching from the shelter of the infirmary tent, Jianna found herself inexplicably cold-fingered and clench-jawed.

  The silence lengthened. Celisse finally allowed her blue-grey gaze to travel. What she saw of audience size and attentiveness must have satisfied her, for she began to speak.

  “Friends and patriots, I’ve received news of an outrage,” she announced, melodic tone conveying dignified sorrow. “Some of you will already have heard. To those who have not, let it be known—in the city of Vitrisi, the Taerleezi invaders have committed new atrocities exceeding all their past crimes, even those of the wars. There have been massacres upon at least two separate occasions. One occurred in the Plaza of Proclamation, where Taerleezi troops attacked unarmed Faerlonnish citizens too slow in obeying a command to disperse. At least a dozen of our countrymen were slaughtered in that place.

  “Appalling as that was, far worse followed. Mere hours later, the Taerleezi soldiers entered the neighborhood of Rookery Grove, whose male residents were rounded up and driven out into the street, where they were slaughtered like cattle. Thereafter the corpses were mutilated—the heads cut off, mounted on poles, and left on display at the edge of the Plaza of Proclamation.”

  Celisse paused, allowing her listeners a moment to visualize the scene. A collective mutter of indignant revulsion suggested that the account was new to most of the audience.

  It was entirely new to Jianna. Turning to Rione, she whispered, “Can this be true? Or is she making it up?”

  “She certainly believes it to be true. My sister never lies,” he returned in an equally low tone. “And she may well be right.”

  When the response subsided, Celisse continued, “Friends, we’ve suffered the tyranny of the Taerleezi beasts for decades. But in all my days, I’ve never heard of a crime blacker than this one. Is there anyone here who knows of anything worse?” She paused briefly, inviting reply, of which there was none. “I thought not. Listen to me. There comes a time at last when no being worthy of the name ‘human’ will accept further abuse. There comes a moment when self-respect, decency, and honor demand satisfaction. For Faerlonne and all of her children, that moment has arrived. If we love our country—if we love ourselves, and our sons and daughters—if we wish to continue regarding ourselves as a people of worth and value—then we must act. Otherwise, let us resign ourselves to the final destruction of Faerlonne. Let us bid our country farewell.

  “I myself prefer to act,” Celisse declared simply. “And I trust there are many among you who share my desire. What then can we do to avenge our murdered countrymen and our violated nation? How shall we strike fear into the hearts of the Taerleezis? I know one sure means of achieving this aim. I’ve proposed it in the past and been overruled—I now propose it again, and this time I’ll not be denied. We must reveal Taerleezi vulnerability by striking at their highest and greatest. I speak of the Governor Anzi Uffrigo. He is a tyrant, a murderer, and an enemy of our country. We will now put an end to his career. The Taerleezis will quake, and all of Faerlonne will rejoice. Friends, are we agreed?”

  Once again she paused for an answer. Her forceful but calm utterance, her composure and self-possession, were more compelling than any display of passion. Her aspect was confident. Clearly she expected enthusiastic assent to her proposal.

  The response was less than she might have desired. An uneasy stirring animated the cluster of listeners. Leaden silence continued for some moments, until some young Ghost raised his voice in succinct objection.

  “Reprisals.”

  “Perhaps. What of it? Are the deeds of Faerlonnish freedom fighters to be limited by fear?”

  “How about by good sense?” another voice from the group spoke up. “Eh, girl?”

  Jianna could not see the speaker from her present vantage point, but recognized the unhurried tones of Poli Orso. The flush that darkened Celisse Rione’s pale face was visible even at a distance.

  “It is more than good sense—it is a vital necessity—to teach the tyrants that their worst offenses carry consequences. So great an outrage as the Rookery Grove massacre can’t pass unpunished, else worse will follow. They must learn once and for all that Faerlonnishmen are not sheep for the butchering.”

  “They’ll learn it, and the sooner the better,” Orso countered. “But killing off the Viper be’nt the way to teach. Do this, and we’ll leave the Taers no choice but to hit back hard, for the sake of pride. And for that, there’ll be massacres that’ll make Rookery Grove look like a tavern brawl. Will we do ourselves any great good with that? So we’ll strike for our dead right enough, but we’ll choose another target. That Taer tax collector sitting on his moneybags over at Worm Ridge—there’s a good prize. All that silver he’s squeezed over the last season might find its way back into Faerlonnish hands. The Taers would feel the loss right enough, and our own folk stand to profit.”

  The faces in the group about him brightened.

  “Profit. Money. Prudence.” Celisse’s brows lifted. “Always Poli Orso thinks of such things. His care and extreme … caution are well meant, but they come at the cost of justice. We are Faerlonnish, all of us. Haven’t we courage? Haven’t we pride? Haven’t we the strength and will to defend our nation?”

  “More than one way of doing that. Doesn’t do Faerlonne much service if we all throw ourselves off a cliff,” Orso observed.

  “We shall do Faerlonne the greatest service.” Celisse’s assurance did not waver. “And we won’t stop to count the cost. We’ll do this because we love our country and our compatriots more than we love ourselves. The true hearts among us will do what must be done.” She let her eyes travel in search of kindred spirits. “Who’s with me? Who’s for Vitrisi, and action? Speak up now.”

  Silence followed, broken only by the nervous clearing of assorted throats. Celisse’s demanding gaze swept the fidgety audience and fastened on a likely face.

  “Trox Venezzu.” She singled him out ruthlessly. “I take you for a lad of spirit. Have you the stomach for a dangerous mission?”

  Following a protracted pause, Trox replied with audible discomfort, “I’d say the whole thing should be thought through, first.”

  “For how long, Trox Venezzu? Until the Taers have killed off half our people, and enslaved the other half? Would that allow enough time for thought? Or would you rather wait longer, perhaps until the world has forgotten that the island of Faerlonne was ever anything more than a third-rate province of Taerleez?”

  No reply was forthcoming, and she selected a new victim.

  “Illi Dunnzo. You’ve some red blood in your veins, I think. Are you for Vitrisi, and action?”

  There was no answer. A moment later a scarlet-faced boy emerged from the group and made for the shelter of the woods.

  “Zees Quiorno, then. Do you love your country, Zees? Are you a man? Will you come to Vitrisi?”

  “Maybe. I’ll let you know. Right now, I got work.” Zees Quiorno departed abruptly.

  “Benna Ciosso? You’re a woman with the heart of a tiger. Shall we show these boys
what courage is? Are you for it?”

  “That I am not,” returned the tiger in question. “This is dangerous foolery. Celisse, you fizzle like wet powder. Be good to yourself and the rest of us, and give it up.”

  “I thought more of you, Benna Ciosso. I thought better of all of you.” Celisse’s contemptuous regard chilled each of her listeners in turn. The slow gaze traveled from face to face, and then ranged farther, to the infirmary tent, where her brother and his assistant stood in the open entry.

  For a moment the icy eyes bored into her own with an expression of such unequivocal animosity that Jianna resisted the impulse to step back into the shadows. Compressing her lips, she stared back. Eventually Celisse’s eyes moved on, returning to objects of more immediate and intense displeasure.

  “You are afraid for your own little lives. You are filled with such fear that it blots out all else. You are cowards, useless and unworthy.” Celisse’s voice and face remained calm and immeasurably cold. “I have lived among you for years, and that’s what I think of you now. Is there anyone among you with spirit or heart to prove me wrong? If so, let him or her seek me out. If not, I’ve no use for any of you.”

  Head high, she stepped off her stump and marched away. Her listeners dispersed in muttering twos and threes.

  “She’s going to sulk in her tent?” Jianna inquired.

  “Not the most sympathetic description,” Falaste Rione returned.

  “Well, you’re right about that. I know you don’t want to hear me speak ill of your sister, but she has some dangerous ideas. Happily, the Ghosts know better than to follow her. Think that solid snub she just received will teach her a lesson?”

  “Perhaps.” He smiled, but the vertical crease between his brows remained.

  “You don’t sound optimistic.”

  “Once she’s made up her mind, Celisse isn’t easily turned from her purpose.”

  “I know. Will of iron, and all that. Selfless dedication, intense patriotism, heart of fire … Immense self-importance, intolerance, utter humorlessness—oh, stop looking at me like that. All right, I’m sorry, I know, she’s your sister. I can’t help it. I’ve tried to like her, but she doesn’t make it easy.”

  “I know that. But her intentions are of the best and highest.”

  “So are yours, but you aren’t so oppressive about it. Sometimes I wonder how you and Celisse can look so much alike, and share so much, yet be so different.”

  “Sometimes, so do I. But not at the moment, when there are patients—er—languishing.”

  “Not very many languishing. Most are more like—lounging,” Jianna told him, and it was true. The population of the infirmary tent had decreased dramatically. The power of the hot heaves was largely broken, and those few lately stricken with the malady suffered little of its earlier fury. Their lives were hardly threatened. Even so, they were miserable enough, and their sufferings still demanded care and attention.

  Jianna worked hard, as had become her habit. The faces looking up at her smoothed and cleared under her ministrations. The experience she had acquired told her that every single one of them would live, and the sense of victory warmed her to the core. The hours passed quite happily, and then there was the midday meal, and more work, followed by a span of free time that she devoted to the mending and reinforcement of her deteriorating garments. During this time she never caught sight of Celisse Rione, which suited her well enough.

  The day marched to its conclusion. The skies darkened from grey to charcoal, and preparation of the evening meal commenced. Jianna scraped carrots and chopped onions; small tasks to which she had grown accustomed. When the food was served up, she took her usual place at the usual fire, noticing for the first time the absence of both Falaste Rione and his sister. Rione was quite likely to come late to supper, or to skip it altogether, if a patient required attention. Such was not the case at the moment, however, and for the second time that day, uneasiness stirred inside her.

  She ate, making abstracted conversation with the closest Ghost, while her eyes roved so incessantly that her companion soon grew impatient, and left off speaking. Jianna scarcely noticed. The minutes passed, and then Rione was there in the circle of firelight, face harder than she had ever seen it.

  “I’ve just checked on Celisse,” he informed the group at large. “All of her things are gone. She’s cleared off.”

  A moment’s silence greeted this announcement, and then Poli Orso spoke up, with some regret. “Can’t say I’m surprised. The lass was that peeved.”

  Jianna’s eyes were fixed on Rione’s set face. Occasionally the working of his mind mystified her, but from time to time she felt as if his blood pulsed in her veins, and his heart beat in her breast. She felt so now.

  “You think she’s run for Vitrisi,” Jianna heard herself state clearly. “You think she means to assassinate Governor Uffrigo.”

  Her listeners’ attention crystallized. Somebody loosed a muted imprecation.

  “I do.” Rione turned to face her.

  “All by herself?”

  “Yes.”

  “Has she the smallest chance of success, on her own?”

  “The very smallest. And the very greatest chance of destroying herself.”

  “You mean to stop her?”

  “Yes. None of the sick lads here are in real danger, so I can be spared for a while. I’ll leave tomorrow at first light. Noro, you may come with me or remain here at camp, as you choose.”

  “Oh. Well then, I’ll come. I’ve a mind to see Vitrisi,” she returned, trying hard to seem nonchalant. Inside, the surge of rising excitement threatened to smash all restraint. Vitrisi. Days ago he had promised to take her home, and she had never for an instant doubted his word. Nevertheless, the suddenness of it took her by surprise. She had prepared herself to accept delay, and now all at once they would be leaving this place tomorrow. And without pangs of conscience, for the sick lads were out of danger; he had just said so. She wanted to hop and shout. Instead, she sat still and fixed her eyes studiously on the bowl in her lap.

  “You might want to take a couple of the boys along,” Orso suggested. “Help you hunt the town.”

  “I know you can’t spare them, and Celisse is most likely to let herself be found if I’m there on my own.”

  His refusal of the proffered assistance surprised Jianna, despite the adequately plausible explanation. What he said might be true, but it was equally true, she realized, that he would find it easier to accomplish his secondary task of returning “Noro Penzia” to Belandor House without benefit of Ghostly observers.

  After that, he’d somehow track down his wayward firebrand sister and take her in hand, forestalling potential disaster. And then the siblings would rejoin the Ghost force, resume their resistance activities, and Falaste Rione would soon forget that he had ever been so unwise as to risk his own position for the sake of Aureste Belandor’s daughter. He would try to forget that he had ever met her at all.

  Let him try.

  She would contrive to effect a meeting between Falaste and her father. Then the unassailably high-minded physician would see for himself. His own sense of justice would ensure recognition of the Magnifico Aureste’s obvious virtue. A single, face-to-face meeting should accomplish all; and afterward, the good doctor might be persuaded to tarry in Vitrisi. For a long time.

  Probably he would be glad to remain, once he arrived and saw the city again, for who could voluntarily abandon Vitrisi? The journey home would involve days of travel across the wintry countryside, but the prospect of much chilly discomfort did not discourage her at all. At the moment it seemed as if pure excitement would keep her warm throughout the trip, and it would begin tomorrow at first light.

  “We have received replies,” Innesq Belandor informed his two brothers. “A couple of them from Taerleez—from Houses Pridisso and Zovaccio. The other, from our young kinswoman out in the wild.”

  “Really, I don’t know that some untutored rustic waif of uncertain pedigree
should be honored with the title of kinswoman.” Nalio Belandor pursed his lips.

  “If you trust in my abilities at all, then you must trust me when I tell you that she is of our blood,” Innesq returned. “She is our cousin—a simple fact in nature, if not in law—and she possesses great natural talent. We very much need that talent now, and the young girl has forced herself to set aside a thousand fears in order to grant her consent. For this she deserves our respect as well as our thanks.”

  Nalio subsided with a frown.

  The three siblings sat in the north wing’s demi-council chamber/dining room. The remains of an excellent dinner lay on the table before them, for Belandor House’s kitchen, at some remove from the main body of the building, had escaped all damage, as had its presiding chef. Save for the black mourning that Nalio wore for his murdered wife, the brothers were their normal selves.

  “How reliable is any information garnered by way of Vinz Corvestri?” demanded the Magnifico Aureste. His black brows contracted. “This so-called communication occurred within the confines of his house, did it not? How shall we measure possible Corvestri influence?”

  “Oh, there is no fear of that,” Innesq returned, almost carelessly. “Vinz understands the importance of our undertaking too well to tamper.”

  “Vinz? How long have you enjoyed such informal intimacy with an enemy of our House?”

  “Since the enemy became an ally.”

  “Surely you can’t be so naïve. By all means, make such use of Corvestri and his resources as your purpose demands and his weakness permits, but don’t commit the blunder of regarding him as an ally, a comrade, or indeed as anything other than a serviceable tool.”

  “Ah, brother, sometimes you oversimplify.”

  “Grant me patience! Do you truly imagine the enmity of generations dissolving upon a handclasp?”

  “Do you truly imagine the self-interest of rational individuals incapable of overcoming ancient prejudice?”

  “Just never turn your back on him, that’s all I advise.”