The Ruined City (43 page)

“We can’t quarrel. Not now.”

“You’d like it better if I trembled and wept. Then you might comfort me, while imagining yourself wise and strong. I regret to inform you that a traitor and kneeser has lost the right to think so well of himself.”

“You don’t actually believe—”

“I don’t flinch away from the truth. I call you a kneeser, because that’s what you’ve made of yourself. You’re a traitor serving the Taerleezis, as low as the worst of the kneesers, as contemptible as Aureste Belandor himself. I wish you’d adopt a new identity and give up the name Rione. You bring shame upon it.”

“I won’t fight with you. Sister, we meet for the last time in this world.”

“Or in any world. If there are worlds or lives beyond death, then you and I will inhabit different spheres, for our souls are surely made of different stuff. Here and now, I don’t choose to share my time with a servant of Faerlonne’s enemies. Take yourself from my sight, and take your gifts with you.”

“I’ll leave them. There’s a long night ahead. You might be glad of them, before morning.”

“I’ll accept nothing. Best keep them for yourself, you’ve more need of such artificial support than I. Take them away, or I’ll turn them over to the guards and explain how they came to me. You might lose a few of your privileges.”

“Please. Be just to yourself. Only allow yourself a little time to think.”

“Not when I see what thinking has made of you. Time for you to go now, Falaste.”

“We’ve another few minutes.”

“I don’t want them. We’ve nothing left to say to each other, and my eyes are tired of looking at you. You aren’t the person I thought I knew. You’re no true Faerlonnishman, no patriot, and I’m glad now that I’ll not be sharing my death with you. So take your ‘gifts of value,’ and get out. You are not my brother.”

She turned her back on him. For a moment Rione studied the infinitely unyielding set of her shoulders, then dropped the sealed packets back into his pocket, and rapped hard on the cell door. Chesubbo opened it, and he walked out.

Jianna lay in bed, the quilt pulled up to her chin. She was motionless, eyes closed, and anyone seeing her there would have thought that she slept. In fact she was wide awake, the thoughts boiling in her head.

For a long time—or at least it seemed very long—she had lain there wrestling with a single, dreadful question:

Should she attend Falaste Rione’s execution?

On the face of it, the idea seemed to spring from the realm of nightmare. To voluntarily witness the unhurried destruction of the man she loved—it was almost unimaginable. To stand there watching, doing nothing, while he suffered and died before her eyes—she wasn’t certain that she possessed the strength. If she endured it and came through with reason intact, then the memories and images would haunt her for the rest of her life.

She didn’t want to go, and she didn’t have to go. She need only remain where she was, safe in bed in a locked room with the window curtains drawn. The event would take place, and she would hear about it, hear too much, but there would be no sights and sounds to poison her mind forever. She had the right to spare herself all of that.

But another thought
would
recur: Her presence among the spectators might serve Falaste. Provided he spied her, he would know that he was not alone. He would sense her love and support, surely deriving some comfort therefrom. Also he would see that she was safe and well, and that, too, would comfort him.

It was little enough, but it was the only thing in the world that she could do for him.

And now there was no time left for internal debate. Time
had all but run out. The execution would take place in the morning, only a few hours away.

She hardly knew when she reached a decision. Somehow her eyes were open and she was on her feet. It was dark in her room. She groped her way to the window and pushed the curtain aside, admitting a faint trickle of light. The low-hanging moon proclaimed the dead of night.

Ingrained habit wrapped her in her woolen cloak. Her mind was set on other things, and she probably would not have felt the cold. A pocket in the cloak contained her mask, but she did not remember to put it on.

It was not too soon to set off for the Witch. It was not a long walk, but she needed to be among the first on the scene. The execution of the governor’s assassin—who happened to be a young and attractive woman—together with her brother-accomplice was certain to draw a big crowd. Only the determined and devoted willing to arrive at dawn or earlier and to wait for hours in the prison courtyard would enjoy the choice positions at the foot of the scaffold. She needed to secure such a position. She must stand where he could see her and read the message in her eyes.

Leaving The Bellflower behind, she made her way through the sleeping streets. The way was dark and the moonlight feeble. Another night, another occasion, and she would have worried about losing her way. Now she thought nothing of it, but simply trusted her feet to carry her. Her trust was not misplaced. She navigated the tortuous route without thought or hesitation, and without a misstep.

Another night, another occasion, and she would have worried about wandering the streets of Vitrisi alone in the dark, without a guide or protector, without the smallest weapon. Every darkened alleyway that she passed might harbor footpads, rogue Sishmindris, or worse. But such thoughts never entered her mind now, and her luck held. She walked unknowingly through regions of sinister repute, and nobody troubled her.

The streets, in fact, were nearly deserted. Once she came upon a trio of masked men engaged in quiet conference. They fell silent as she approached; six eyes fastened glitteringly upon her. Jianna scarcely noted their existence. Wholly absorbed in her thoughts, she drifted by unseeing. The eyes followed her every move. Miraculously, nobody laid a hand on her, or even ventured a word.

On she went, until her path crossed another’s, this time impossible to overlook. At the Y-shaped intersection of three narrow lanes, she came upon a solitary Wanderer. The undead, lately a man, was singular in appearance even by the eccentric standards of his kind. At some point in the recent past, a piece of crude surgery or cruder arcanism had amputated both of his legs at the knee. Immobilization of the corpse had presumably been the goal, but in this the anonymous experimentalist had failed. The Wanderer had simply inverted himself, and was now walking Vitrisi on the deteriorating remains of his hands.

Jianna halted, transfixed. The Wanderer advanced upon her, upended rags fluttering like moth wings in the moonlight. His progress was lurching and irregular, but quite swift; his sense of balance admirably intact beyond death. Jianna recalled then that the undead were known to seek contact with the living. There were gruesome stories, in fact, of women set upon and subjected to contact of the most revolting intimacy. Perhaps true, perhaps not, but certainly true that she should remove herself from the Wanderer’s path. Yet somehow it seemed that her limbs had frozen—that she was deader than he was.

He was near enough now to waft a faint stench of putrescence that disgusted her but failed to break her paralysis. As he drew level, he turned his head and she caught a brief glimpse of milky eyes, empty behind dragging locks of filthy hair. An odd sense of pity touched her.

“It’s all right,” she whispered, startling herself with the sound of her own voice. “I don’t care, it’s all right.”

No sign that he had heard much less understood her. The whitish eyes turned away. The inverted figure, back arched and stumpy legs widespread for balance, lurched away on its hands. Passing beyond the borders of the moonlight, it vanished into the dark.

Jianna released her breath in a sigh. Some part of her had wanted the Wanderer to accost her, to infect and destroy her. That done, all personal control and responsibility ended. She could not then proceed to the Witch to watch Falaste Rione die.

She willed herself to resume progress. There were no more encounters or delays, and too soon she found herself at the front gate of the prison. This gate was customarily left open, for the courtyard beyond was open to the public. Most days the place was alive with visitors, guards, beggars, pickpockets, and hawkers. On execution days, the crowds were particularly large and lively. Of late, execution days had become increasingly commonplace. Following the establishment of the Clean Zone, many hangings and mutilations formerly performed in the Plaza of Proclamation now took place at the foot of the Witch.

The coming day was exceptional, however. Nothing could have attested to this more clearly than the presence of the torsion tower in the courtyard. There would be no commonplace hanging for the Governor Uffrigo’s assassins. A more exotic form of destruction awaited them.

Jianna studied the tower—a sturdy, crude construction of raw beams, supporting a central post that carried two wheels. Had she not already known, she would scarcely have guessed its function. As it was, every cog, gear, and lever of the mechanism possessed a deadly significance. At the rear of the scaffold waited a long wooden box whose purpose was likewise apparent. She tore her eyes away, and only then realized that she was not the first to arrive.

At the foot of the scaffold, occupying the very best position directly in front of the torsion tower, a cloaked and masked
figure sat upon a small blanket. A portable brazier glowed beside him or her, and there was a wicker basket presumably containing refreshments. Jianna advanced to claim the second-best position in the courtyard. Having brought no blanket or cushion, she seated herself cross-legged on the ground, indifferent to the cold and moisture. As she settled into position, her neighbor’s hooded head turned a trifle, and she caught the quick glint of sharp eyes. She remembered then that she had come to this place bare-faced; an unusual condition in these unwholesome days. Drawing the mask from her pocket, she put it on. She would remove it again when the time came.

She waited, and a welcome blankness descended upon her mind. She thought nothing, felt next to nothing, saw and heard almost nothing. Only vaguely was she aware of the hours passing, the moon setting, the night dwindling to its conclusion. At some point, the chill of the ground working its way into her bones broke through her stupor, and she stretched forth her hands toward her neighbor’s glowing brazier. A hostile grunt warned her off. The warmth of the coals was to be enjoyed by the owner alone.

Time passed. Some peripheral area of consciousness registered the arrival of a few more people. A trio of boisterous youths took possession of the space to her left. A woman with a baby settled down behind her. A couple more masked and unqualifiable individuals came in with large quantities of food, whose aroma only stirred her revulsion.

As morning dawned and the skies began to lighten, activity picked up noticeably, with interested citizens arriving in pairs and groups. The area immediately surrounding the scaffold was now packed with humanity, and the luxury of a blanket spread out on the ground had become impractical; the spectators stood elbow-to-elbow. The sun rose to touch dull glints off the Witch’s leaden roof, and still they came. Presently the dense living mass filled the courtyard from scaffold all the way to the gate.

The close press of the crowd jolted Jianna from her merciful
lethargy. Somebody’s elbow jabbed her ribs; somebody’s breath stirred her hair. She tried to step away, but there was nowhere to go. Just as well. Had she retreated, she would have lost her enviable position at once. As it was, nobody stood between herself and the scaffold. She could see clearly and, more important, be seen. Once she unmasked, he could not miss her.

The morning sun climbed, and a lone man mounted the platform to perform a quick final inspection of the tower mechanism. His air of proprietary expertise marked him as the executioner, but he did not conform to the popular stereotype. He was not huge and brawny, nor did he sport a black hood. He was just an ordinary-looking man. Evidently satisfied, he signaled, and the prison door opened.

The crowd went silent as a small party emerged. At its forefront walked a greying man with Taerleezi features, attired in a quasi-military uniform of some sort. Presumably this was the governor of the prison, obliged to preside over so significant an execution taking place within his domain. Behind the governor scurried some nameless attendant bearing a ledger and documents. Then came a pair of guards. Between them walked Celisse Rione.

Jianna stared, almost incredulously.

It was strange, even eerie seeing her thus, for she looked impossibly normal and familiar. She seemed, in fact, very much her everyday self—dark hair neatly coiled, garments sober and practical, just as she had appeared in the camp of the Ghosts. She was pale, but little more so than usual. Her spine was straight, head high. No trace of fear touched her face; quite the contrary, in fact. Her expression conveyed a serene exaltation suggesting beatification.

There was no sign of Falaste Rione.

For a moment Jianna was confused, and then two possible explanations suggested themselves. They meant to execute Celisse, and when it was done, they would bring out her brother. Or else he was already dead, perhaps at the hands of
brutal guards or interrogators. A shudder shook her. She clasped her gloved hands tightly together to still their trembling. Perhaps it would have been better to look away or to shut her eyes, but the scene playing out on the scaffold gripped her inescapably.