The Ruined City (19 page)

“How has the Source soiled itself?”

“What point in demanding a technical explanation certain to exceed your mental grasp? But come, you appear weary, disheveled, and travel-stained. You will wish to rest and refresh yourself before presenting me with a full explanation of your absence and silence, together with a detailed account of your actions. You have already observed that this north wing is the only section of the house that remains habitable. You will occupy one of the second-story chambers. There is one just across the hall from my own that will serve.”

Just across the hall from Uncle Nalio? A little too close for comfort.

“Why don’t I scout around a bit for an empty one that suits me?” she suggested.

“The one that I have chosen will suit you well enough.”

“Am I not the best judge of that?”

“It is best by far that you accept my decisions without time-consuming argument, sulks, and tantrums.” Nalio’s brows and chin lifted. “I am, you will recall, acting head of House Belandor.”

“Yes, I understand that, but—”

“Now, what did I just say about arguments and tantrums?” Nalio’s upraised finger enjoined silence. His regard shifted to the mutely attentive Sishmindri. “Ini, conduct the Maidenlady Jianna to the chamber opposite mine. See to it that she is properly installed. Do not permit yourself to be distracted or delayed.”

Jianna felt her cheeks heat. Her uncle spoke like a parent consigning some unruly, potentially deceitful child to the care of a governess. A tart reply quivered upon her tongue and she clamped her lips to contain it. Both law and custom upheld Nalio’s borrowed authority, but it was only temporary. She could afford to let him enjoy his fleeting moment of glory.

“Niece, we shall dine together,” Nalio decreed. “At which time you will relate all particulars and answer all questions put to you. For now, you may leave me.”

“According to your will, Uncle,” Jianna replied sweetly.
You obnoxious, insufferable little twit, you just wait until Father gets home
.

The room was one of those comparatively modest chambers that would formerly have been assigned to visitors of no great importance—obscure kinsmen, insignificant officials, or perhaps an exceptionally celebrated artist. Once upon a time, it would have struck her as insultingly humble. Now, following her term of residence among the Ghosts, the chamber with its polished wooden furnishings, finely carved stone mantel, good carpet underfoot, curtains and bed hangings of colorful crewelwork, seemed miraculously luxurious. It was not home, however. Not a single personal belonging marked the space as
her own. In fact, she had never before crossed this particular threshold. Only once, during the course of a long-ago childhood ramble through the far reaches of Belandor House, she had come to this place, opened the door, stuck her head in, spied nothing remotely interesting, closed the door and gone away, never to return until now.

Jianna’s eyes stung. It would all be better when her father and Uncle Innesq came back. Then everything would be right again.

I wish I’d stayed with Falaste!
The thought flashed and instantly his face filled her mind: pale, fine, scholarly features—blue-grey eyes that saw everything—mobile lips that silently expressed so much—stubborn chin—and it seemed that all she wanted most in the world was to be with him again. But Falaste hadn’t invited her to stay. Quite the contrary. He had delivered her to Belandor House like a parcel, then ridden away without hesitation and without a backward glance.

A couple of tears slid down her cheeks, and she wiped them impatiently. Falaste was gone and she had resumed her real life. The transition was unsettling, but she would accustom herself soon enough, and it was certainly all for the best.

Her eyes traveled the handsome, foreign chamber and found their way to the very small bundle of her personal belongings lying on the bed, where Ini had left it. Of course the Sishmindri had offered to unpack for her, but she had refused—her reluctance stemming from a curious sense of something that took her a moment to recognize as embarrassment. Her possessions were so meager, so shabby and makeshift that she was actually ashamed to let them be seen, even by a Sishmindri. Curious to find herself so aware of Sishmindri regard. Certainly her recent experiences had altered her in ways that she herself had yet to recognize.

She seated herself on the edge of the bed. (Soft. Lavender-scented. Richly patterned coverlet.) Another hour remained before dinner. In past years, she would have spent the time changing her clothes, selecting jewelry and ribbons, allowing
a maid to arrange her hair. None of those options now existed. Certainly no luxury items reposed among her belongings these days. She unknotted the little cloth bundle, opened it, and surveyed the contents. One change of linen, one pair of knitted stockings, a roll of rags worn thin with repeated washings, a wooden comb, a wooden spoon, a twig with several lengths of thread wound about it, and a single, precious bone needle. Also a knob of brown soap, and a sliver of horn, pointed at both ends, serving as toothpick and nail pick. Not much there to work with.

Rising, she crossed to the washstand, above which hung a mirror—a small one by Belandor standards, but nicely framed in gilded carving, and once again astonishingly elegant by her recent standards of comparison. Studying her own reflection critically, she decided that Nalio’s description of her appearance as “weary, disheveled, and travel-stained,” had been insulting and only partially correct. So far as she could tell, she did not look particularly weary. Her hair and clothing were decently ordered. She was worse than travel-stained, however. She was filmed from head to foot with smoke-deposited soot. There was even a dark smudge of the stuff branding one cheek. No wonder the guard at the gate had failed to recognize her as the magnifico’s daughter.

Removing her outer cloak, she uncovered a dress still reasonably clean, but mended and patched dozens of times, its once rich fabric threadbare and faded. No help for it; she owned no other.

The washstand offered a pitcher of fresh water, basin, lemon-scented soap, and lush towels. She cleaned herself as best she could, then combed her hair and plaited its dark length into a single thick braid, secured at the end with a length of twine. Once upon a time she had adorned her hair with exquisitely bejeweled and enameled combs. These days—twine.

There was a discreet knock at the door.

“Come,” said Jianna, and Ini entered.

“Dinner now,” announced the Sishmindri. “Master Nalio waits for you.”

“I am ready. I’ll find him—where?” Odd to be asking such a question, as if she were a stranger here.

“Eating place. Not real.”

“Not—oh, you mean a makeshift dining room, set up after the fire?”

Ini blinked his golden eyes affirmatively.

“Lead me there, please.” Strange, not to know the way. But the strangeness would wear off quickly, she told herself.

Ini bowed and departed, with Jianna at his side. He brought her along the corridor, down a flight of stairs, and then a few yards down another corridor to an arched doorway through which he ushered her with a graceless gesture. She paid him little heed, but the question shot across her mind,
What goes on in that hairless head of his?
Another peculiar mental twitch, and she could hardly account for it, but everything seemed awry just now.

The “eating place” looked to be a converted council or audience chamber, all but untouched by the fire, save for a few cracked windows. A good-sized table had been set up, and Uncle Nalio sat regally at its head, in her father’s place; a sight that set her teeth on edge. Of course, as acting head of the household he had every right to be there. In any case, it hardly mattered, for there was nobody present to admire his new grandeur. He sat alone at an empty, oddly sterile board. The usual gathering of visiting friends, kinsmen, and business associates had vanished. Presumably all had departed in hopes of avoiding contagion, but where in the world would they find refuge? Across the sea, perhaps? Is that what it would eventually come to for everyone?

Nalio glanced at her as she walked in, his lips assumed an astringent pucker, and she was at once acutely conscious of her patched dress, scuffed shoes, and the twine in her hair. Ridiculous to fret over such trifles, but the expression in his
eyes left her no choice. Averting her gaze, she headed for the chair at the foot of the table, the one farthest away from him.

“Not there, niece. I do not wish to shout the length of the chamber at you. Seat yourself here, beside me.” It was a command.

Once again she swallowed an acid retort. His lordly tone was altogether ridiculous. Really, it was laughable, unworthy of her anger. Best to humor the little emperor, for now. She seated herself in the chair that he had specified.

Nalio was inspecting her openly and at leisure, at length observing, “We must remedy your appearance as best we can, without delay. You are a Belandor, and your present state ill becomes the dignity of our House. The loftiness of our standards expresses itself in our external aspect. This is a lesson that you must learn, niece.”

“Yes, Uncle Nalio.”
Oh, you pedantic, pretentious little pipsqueak
.

“We shall summon a dressmaker to replenish your wardrobe. You will also require a lady’s maid of responsible character, adequate experience, and suitable years to serve as your personal attendant and chaperone.”

What, you mean to sic some aging watchdog on me? We’ll see
. On the other hand, the promise of the dressmaker and the new wardrobe was exciting. Pretty clothes again, at long last. Perhaps looking like herself once more would help her to feel like herself, the Maidenlady Jianna Belandor, as opposed to some uneasy alien, belonging nowhere.

“I’ll need someone who can do my hair.” The smile directed at her uncle was suitably appreciative.

“That is not an unreasonable criterion.” Nalio visibly relaxed and expanded. The interview was going well. “I am willing to allow this.”

Allow
. The arrival of the soup spared Jianna the necessity of reply. Just as well. No sense at all in picking a quarrel. The soup bowl and underplate were of fine, translucent porcelain,
elaborately painted. The spoon was silver, heavy but gracefully designed. These were only the ordinary implements that she had used and taken for granted throughout her life, but she had never before noticed how beautiful and luxurious they were. Indeed, everything at Belandor House was beautiful, or had been so before the fire. And would be again, she silently promised.

The soup was rich and subtly seasoned, its flavor enlivened with floating herbs and petals. Whatever damage Belandor House had suffered in the recent past, its kitchen evidently functioned unimpaired. Jianna breathed an inaudible sigh. She had almost forgotten that such food existed.

Shellfish in wine sauce followed the soup. Then, breast of chicken garnished with half a dozen different species of mushrooms. There was newly baked white bread, fresh butter, a terrine of assorted vegetables, tiny preserved game bird eggs, salad of mixed greens, cream-filled pastries, and astounding hothouse fruits that tasted of summer. It was only an ordinary dinner by Belandor House standards, and it was magnificent beyond description. Jianna feasted, her enjoyment dampened only by Uncle Nalio’s objectionable presence. He was eyeing her severely as she ate. The uncompanionable silence stretched, but at last he addressed her.

“Well, niece. You have enjoyed ample opportunity to refresh yourself and compose your thoughts. I trust you are now prepared to render a full explanation of your prolonged absence and silence.”

“Very well, Uncle.” She suppressed her annoyed reaction to his magisterial manner. His demand was entirely reasonable, in fact inevitable. Aureste himself would have framed the same request—but he would have stated it differently.

“It began about halfway between Vitrisi and Orezzia,” Jianna commenced. “Our carriage was attacked by marauders.”

“The carriage was discovered within days, along with the
dead bodies of its passengers, driver, and guards. Everyone was there except you, niece. Only you had vanished.”

“They abducted me.”

“So your father surmised. We could not fathom the absence of a ransom demand, however.”

“They didn’t mean to hold me for ransom. Their intentions were far worse.”

She launched into a full description of the events following her capture by the outlaw Belandor clan. She spoke of Ironheart, its inhabitants, their hideous matrimonial schemes, and their connection to the Ghosts of the resistance. She spoke of the cruel treatment, the blows and threats she had received, and the menial work she had performed. She spoke of serving as assistant to Dr. Falaste Rione, an honorable physician and resistance sympathizer, whose father had once held the position of house doctor to the Magnifico Onarto Belandor. She described her rescue, the escape from Ironheart, the flight to the Ghosts’ campsite, where Rione’s medical skills were much needed, and whence no written communication had been possible. She described the ugly epidemic assailing the Ghosts, spoke much of Dr. Falaste Rione’s talent and dedication, told of the doctor’s ultimate success, after which he had finally been free to escort her back to Vitrisi and home.