The Ruined City (24 page)

“It
seems
long ago. Anyway, things have changed.
I’ve
changed. I’ve come to realize that Vitrisi is where I belong. When my father returns, I’ll tell him so, and he’ll listen to me—he always listens. I know I can make him understand, once I have a chance to talk to him.”

“I see. When your father returns. And what do you propose to do in the meantime?”

“Well, that’s why I’ve come to you. I thought I might be your assistant Noro Penzia again, for as long as you’re here in the city. I could help you look for your sister, or help if you treat any sick people, or …” Her voice dried up. His eyes were boring into her, and she was all at once acutely self-conscious, uncomfortable, and filled with not unwelcome suspense.

“No,” he said.

“What?” She was not certain she had heard him correctly.

“Go back home. Now.” His tone was abrupt, his expression
chill, his resemblance to his sister more pronounced than ever before.

“Are you cross for some reason? You sound vexed.”

“Do I?”

“What have I done?”

“You’ve really no inkling how thoroughly you’ve disrupted my life, have you?”

“Why yes, I have. I know that I’m responsible for turning Yvenza against you, and for endangering your friendship with the Ghosts, and I’ve already told you how sorry I am, and how grateful for all that you’ve done—”

“I’m not speaking of those things that I chose voluntarily. But I never chose to become so used to your company that the world and everything in it seems flat and stale when you are gone. I didn’t expect that, but I was growing accustomed, and might have succeeded in banishing you from my thoughts, had you not come strolling back in, blithely ready to resume our connection for a few days, or whatever period best suits your purpose.”

“I—I thought you might be happy to see me.”

“You thought nothing, you simply acted, primarily to spite your uncle. But you’ll think now, and you’ll think about this—I am not your useful tool, to be taken up or set aside at your convenience. You do not walk into my life, wreak havoc, walk away without a backward glance—then turn up a second time, cheerily prepared to repeat the entire sequence.”

He did not shout, but he was unmistakably angry, something she had never before glimpsed. An almost perverse desire to see more of what lay behind his habitual composure seized her, and she fired back, “
You’re
the one who walked away without a backward glance! That day at the gate of Belandor House, you left, and didn’t look back once.”

“Do you imagine that was easy?”

“It certainly appeared so.”

“For such a clever girl, you are sometimes unbelievably obtuse.”

“I’m not obtuse! Don’t you call me names. If I don’t understand you, it’s because you’re making no sense. You’re in a perfectly foul temper, and I don’t know why you’re angry, or what you think I’ve done, or what you want of me.”

“This.” Pulling her close, he kissed her.

Surprise, excitement, and wild happiness burst inside her. In the midst of it, two realizations touched her dazzled intellect. One, that this was what she had wanted from the moment she had crossed his threshold. The other—that for the first time since reaching Vitrisi, she finally felt that she had come home.

The union of the Belandor and Corvestri parties was sound in theory, but sometimes problematic in execution. Not that the behavior of the principals involved—the family members on each side—was less than irreproachable. Punctilious courtesy reigned. Between Innesq Belandor and the three Corvestris, the courtesy was tinged with a genuine warmth that seemed to deepen from day to day. The Magnifico Aureste neither received nor expected similar cordiality. His infrequent exchanges with the Magnifica Sonnetia Corvestri were decorous and distant. Her son Vinzille was doubtless hostile, but scrupulously polite. As for the so-called leader of the clan—the Magnifico Vinz—he and Aureste scarcely acknowledged one another’s existence. Beyond a few obligatory, rigidly correct formalities, the two of them had not exchanged a word, and in fact almost never came face-to-face.

This avoidance was not mutual, for Aureste never troubled to alter his course in the slightest. But Vinz always faded from view at first glimpse of his old enemy, generally seeking refuge in his closed carriage. The wretch was clearly afraid. On the face of it, this seemed unlikely. Vinz Corvestri, after all, was the seasoned arcanist whose skills should have imparted every advantage. But the Magnifico Aureste’s instincts had always been preternaturally receptive to the slightest whiff of fear or weakness, and he knew beyond question that Vinz Corvestri dreaded the sight of him. The situation offered much by way of potential entertainment, and it was only the fear of his brother’s disapproval that prevented Aureste from seeking out and subtly terrorizing Vinz on a daily basis.

He resisted the temptation, and the members of the two
enemy Houses traveled on in uneasy peace. But the same could not be said of their guards and attendants, whose minds did not appear to embrace the concept of tolerance. Trouble flared continually between the Belandor and Corvestri servants—at the brooks and streams where they paused to water the horses, replenish empty skins and bottles, wash linen; at the cookfires; among the tussocks and the swaths of scrub vegetation, where they gathered fuel; and above all, at the games of dice and cards that they played in the evening.

There tempers boiled, and complaints often expanded into accusations, insults, thence fisticuffs. And on one unpleasantly memorable occasion, a knife fight erupted between a Belandor guard and his Corvestri counterpart. The combatants were quickly separated, and the resulting bloodshed minor, but thereafter certain commands were issued to the servants of both households. There was to be no fighting, with or without weapons, under any circumstances. Personal insults or threats, conveyed verbally or by means of gestures or pantomime, were prohibited. And finally, there was to be no gambling. Games and competitions of various sorts were permissible, but there were to be no wagers placed.

Inevitably there was grumbling, but open complaint ceased following the announcement that the slightest infraction of any new edict would be punished by a thrashing of the utmost severity.

The next two days passed free of incident. The following evening, however, around sunset, when the tents were being pitched and the campfires kindled, a blast of profanity followed by a howling exchange of insults signaled an end to the brief détente.

The source of the uproar was discovered in the lee of a tall rock, behind which a pair of guards—one from each household—had retired to play at dice. The game had not gone well, and mutual accusations of cheating and questionable ancestry had escalated swiftly. The guards had come to blows, and the Corvestri man, finding himself disadvantaged,
had snatched up a stone and beaten his opponent with it. The Belandor victim—dazed, badly bruised, and bleeding—would probably have died had the fight not been forcibly halted.

It was a clear case of insubordination. When the two culprits were haled before their respective masters, the Magnifico Aureste did not hesitate to order his erring servant stripped and whipped. It behooved his counterpart to issue a similar command. His eyes shifted to Vinz Corvestri.

Vinz sat in clench-jawed silence. The ruddy sunset air was cool, but his brow was damp with sweat. He looked miserable and perhaps ill. Seconds passed, and he said nothing.

Aureste grew tired of waiting. Orders quivered at the tip of his tongue, and he contained them with difficulty. It was neither his place nor his right to command the punishment of a Corvestri attendant, but punishment was essential, lest discipline and morale suffer.

But the seconds passed, and Vinz Corvestri said nothing. His lips quivered a little, but no sound emerged. It was plain that he knew what had to be said, and could not bring himself to utter the words.

The spineless fool. Aureste strove to control his rising impatience. It was not easy, for the interested spectators were beginning to stir, and something had to be said.

Vinz finally obliged. “You have done ill,” he informed the culprit, as if concluding deep deliberation. “And your offense merits the harshest punishment. Should you repeat your error, know that you will be whipped soundly. There will be no further appeals, and no mercy. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, Magnifico.” A fervent nod.

“Then return to your labors.”

Clearly elated, the guard withdrew, and a low murmuring rustled in his wake.

“The rest of you—back to work.” Vinz swept a regal gesture. He was obeyed, without alacrity.

Unbelievable
. Aureste’s annoyance heated to full wrath. The puling milksop Corvestri was worse than useless, he was
a liability. He hadn’t the nerve to maintain discipline or enforce orders; he was all but encouraging the guards to disregard commands. Worse yet—idiotic, actually—he had spared his own guilty servant punishment
after
the Belandor offender had been sentenced to a whipping. The blatant injustice of it was certain to rankle, understandably so. Resentment could lead to unrest, disruption, delay … all of which could now be laid to the charge of Vinz Corvestri and his pitiful weak stomach.

Aureste turned the full blazing battery of his dark eyes upon his bungling foe, but the blast of bitter unspoken contempt spent its force harmlessly upon its target’s retreating back. Corvestri was already on his feet and moving away, most likely skulking off to hide in his carriage. Just as well. Had he remained within range, words would have flown like poisoned darts.

It was now necessary to oversee the Belandor guard’s punishment—a distasteful task at any time, and doubly so now. Unavoidable, however. Aureste watched without enthusiasm as his servant—already bruised and battered—was stripped to the waist, tied to a tree, and whipped bloody-backed. When it was over and the whimpering unfortunate was finally released, Aureste was likewise freed.

Anger laced with deep disgust seethed in his mind. For the moment, he wished only to free himself of the campsite and its inhabitants. He wandered off, and the noise and stir of humanity soon fell away behind him. Within moments he found himself apparently alone in a quiet world, walking a region of eccentric stone outcroppings set amid grey-brown patches of bramble studded with the first budding hints of spring growth. The atmosphere was soft, the light veil of mists infused with the warm tints of the setting sun. Aureste drew the clean air—no smoke, no stench of charring meat—deep into his lungs, and gradually grew calm. He looked around him. The prospect was spare and austere, but not unappealing. At
the moment he welcomed the silent solace of bare rock, moist soil, thorny shrubbery.

He did not know how long or how far he walked, but at last the silence of his surroundings and the dwindling of the light told him to turn back. The color had leached from the mists, and the world was sinking into grey oblivion. Disinclined to stumble his way over rough ground in the dark, he quickened his pace. But when he came again to the greatest of the tall stones, thrusting skyward among the huddling briars, he found that the world was not empty after all.

A solitary figure wrapped in a long hooded cloak stood at the foot of the highest monolith. Face, form, height, and color were all obscured, but Aureste recognized the other at once, upon instinct. His heartbeat quickened. He hastened forward and spoke aloud.

“Magnifica.”

She turned to face him. Her face was still, and he had no idea what she was thinking. Then she smiled a little, almost as if unwillingly.

“How is it that I am not at all surprised to see you here?” asked Sonnetia.

Perhaps because you wanted to see me here?
Aureste allowed himself the luxury of speculating. Aloud he observed, “It is an isolated, lonely spot, madam. Allow me to escort you back to family and fireside.”

“It doesn’t seem lonely to me. I find it peaceful. It’s possible to collect one’s thoughts here.”

“Ah, you sound like my brother Innesq. Always he speaks of the need for silence and solitude in which to focus his mind.”

“I shall take that as a compliment. There are few worthier models than Innesq Belandor.”

“Strange words, coming from a Corvestri.”

“I wasn’t always a Corvestri.”

“I haven’t forgotten, and I’m glad that you have not.” He
saw by the slight lift of her brows that he had perhaps overstepped his bounds, and added smoothly, “For the Steffa tradition of talent and achievement is surely to be treasured by its fortunate inheritors.”

“Magnifico, the passing years have enriched you with the skills of a diplomat,” she observed drily.

“Not so. Should I possess such skills, I would know how to tell you—gracefully, respectfully, delightfully—that it troubles me to see you walking alone and unprotected in so deserted and unknown a place as this. I would know how to tell you without giving offense that I fear for your safety. And the magic of my persuasions would secure your consent to accompany me back to the campsite. Alas, I own no such skills, and must only express myself with the bluntness of the simple plainspoken man that I am.”