The Traitor's Daughter (22 page)

Almost before she realized that she had made up her mind, she found herself creeping on all fours toward the shelter of the woods. The height of the shrubbery would conceal her flight, for a while. Should the sentry happen to look her way, he would probably assume that she had paused for rest, seating herself out of sight on the ground among the bushes, her actions observed by the watchdog. With any luck, he wouldn’t note her absence for long minutes to come.

She hardly expected luck. Her ears all but tingled in anticipation of a shout from the guard or a growl from a revived and vengeful boarhound. But nothing interrupted her progress, and moments later she reached the dank shade of the woods. Springing to her feet, she began to run. The woods were completely unknown territory. She had no idea where she was going other than away from Ironheart.

The ground was deep in fallen leaves. No path or trail was visible. She ran blindly. The low branches and brambles slapped and grabbed at her in passing, but she scarcely felt them. She ran for what seemed a very long time, ran until her breath came hard and her steps faltered, and even then she did not stop, but only unwillingly slowed to a walk. On she pushed at the best pace she could maintain, until at last she grew certain that she had put miles between herself and the stronghouse, losing herself in a trackless wild beyond reach of the outlaw Belandors.

Jianna paused and looked around her. There was nothing to see but the countless grey trees, their boughs thinly clad in the last clinging leaves of autumn, their tops half lost in the persistent fog of the Veiled Isles. She could hear the rustle of branches, the occasional birdcall, the scratch of a squirrel’s claws on bark, and little more. She sensed no human presence; she had never felt more completely alone. The muted scene breathed tranquillity. Surely she need not fear pursuit; they would never find her here.

A brief blaze of passionate gratitude swept through her, and then the mind of Aureste’s daughter resumed functioning. By this time the sentry back at Ironheart would have noticed her escape and sounded an alarm. They would pursue her; perhaps the chase had already begun. Unlike the fugitive, the Belandors and their creatures knew these woods well and would probably hunt her down with ease. She needed to find help before they caught up with her. A town or village, even an ordinary cottage, someplace with men of decency willing to protect her. Or if she could find her way back to the road, she might meet travelers, a carriage or coach to carry her off to safety and civilization, either in Orezzia or Vitrisi.

Vitrisi. Home. Father and family. Belandor House. And beyond them, the sights and sounds of the city that she loved.
Home
. If only she could get back there, she wouldn’t be pushed out again, no matter what her father had to say about it.
If only …

Which direction? She had no idea, but it did not matter. The Alzira Hills were wild but hardly uninhabited. Sooner or later she would encounter humanity.

She resumed walking, choosing a route that took her downhill. The way was easy, but the ground was stony and she still wore the same fashionable, insubstantial shoes in which she had traveled by coach from Vitrisi. The only pair she owned, now.

Presently her feet began to hurt. The pretty shoes were chafing her heels, no doubt raising blisters the size of inflated bladders, but there was nothing to be done about it now. On she went, but soon her attention shifted from the pain in her feet to the sharpening pangs in her belly. She had not eaten since daybreak, and now her stomach was making its dissatisfaction known. She should have brought some sort of provisions with her, she realized belatedly. It dawned on her that she really had not planned particularly well.

She had been resourceful and inventive enough in creating the cheese balls, but her imagination had not carried her beyond the moment of escape from Ironheart. She had never considered her course of action once clear of those stone walls. She had not done so, she now perceived, because on some level she had not truly expected the trick with the drugged tidbits to work. Even now, her success seemed unreal. And it would be unreal indeed if she eluded her hunters only to die of hunger and exposure, alone and lost in the woods. On, then. And never mind the blistered feet.

People found all sorts of roots and fruits to eat in the wild, did they not? And water? People found edible greens and delicious wild mushrooms. Honey in hives. Nuts and seeds. The woods were absolutely crammed with food, were they not?
And water?

Nothing recognizably edible presented itself, but the question of water was answered with rainfall; a light sprinkling at first that swelled and settled into a steady downpour. The trees offered little protection, and Jianna’s garments were soon sodden. A grim little breeze punched through to punish her flesh and she shivered miserably. The breeze hit harder, driving cold rain into her face, and her teeth chattered in response.

But now, at last, an encouraging sign. She had come upon a forest trail—narrow, overgrown, and showing little evidence of use, but undeniably a trail that must lead to something or someone. For another twenty minutes she followed the twisting path down a long, gradual incline, at the foot of which she found her way blocked by a stream. Running to the water’s edge, she dropped to her knees, dipped her cupped hands, brought them forth brimming, and drank deeply. The water was cold, muddy, and more than likely to make her sick, but for the moment she did not care. Repeatedly she dipped and drank until the ferocious thirst born of much exertion coupled with nervous tension began to abate. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, despite the manifest futility. The rain was pouring down, soaking her to the skin and chilling her to the bone.

The stream, already swollen, ran swift and brown. On its far side a break in the underbrush marked the continuation of the trail. There was no bridge. A succession of big stones bulging above the surface of the water offered the obvious means of crossing. The first of the stones stood no more than a yard or so from the bank. Jianna effortlessly stepped across onto the broad, flat surface. On to the next, with equal ease. Two more, and now she had reached the middle of the stream, where the water ran its deepest and the wet rocks were slimed with dark algae. Pausing briefly to wipe the rain out of her eyes, she took a long hop and landed atop a humpbacked algal plantation. The slick, rounded surface offered no purchase to her smooth-soled shoes. Her foot slipped, her ankle turned, and she fell sprawling into the stream.

A shocked squeal escaped her. The water was shallow, only a few inches above knee level, but it was shudderingly cold. Thrashing, she struggled to stand up; half rose, slipped again on the rocks of the streambed, and sat down hard; tried again, and this time managed to find her footing. Pain shot through her ankle; beyond question it was twisted or sprained.
Or broken
. No; if it were broken, she would not be standing on it.

Gathering up the burden of her drenched skirts, she limped the rest of the way across. By the time she reached the bank, the ache in her ankle was fierce and steady. She paused to inspect the damage. The joint was already starting to swell, despite the frigid bath; soon it would be worse. Impractical to continue walking on it. Impossible not to. She glanced about in search of a good stick or fallen branch to use as a cane, but there was none to be seen. Her eyes stung and, rather than giving way to tears, she spat an expletive, one that she had sometimes caught upon the servants’ lips when they did not know that the magnifico’s daughter overheard them. Setting her chin, she made haltingly for the gap in the underbrush.

* * *

The sentry sat on the ground with his back resting against the wall. His lungs were pleasurably filled with tobacco smoke, his mind pleasurably empty. The jolt of a hobnailed boot striking his ribs roused him from his reverie, and he looked up to find Master Onartino standing above him. As usual, Master Onartino’s eyes expressed nothing at all, but his face was flushed and his breath alcoholic. The sentry scrambled to his feet. Removing the pipe from his mouth, he stiffened in anticipation of a reprimand, probably accompanied by a blow. He received neither.

“Where is she?” demanded Onartino.

“Sir?” mumbled the sentry, surprised.

“The girl. The hothouse flower, the rare bird, the princess. Where is that little slut?” Onartino neither raised his voice nor slurred his words, but the red stain suffusing his face darkened as he spoke.

“Kneeser’s daughter?” The sentry’s surprise deepened, luring him into imprudence. “What d’you want with her, then?”

He had gone too far. His mistress’ son struck him, and he staggered a little but stayed on his feet.

But the alcohol must have loosened Master Onartino’s tongue, for—having expressed his disapproval—he deigned to answer the question, after a fashion.

“Anything I like,” muttered Onartino, almost to himself. “She’s mine.”

He was a little premature, but the sentry voiced no objection, merely extending an indicative finger toward the kalkrios bushes. “Picking,” he explained.

“I don’t see her.”

“Then she must be down on the ground going for the low leaves. She’s coming up a pretty fair picker.”

“You let her out of your sight, clodpoll?”

“Grumper’s there, sir. He’ll hold ’er, right enough.”

“You’d better pray that he does.” So saying, Onartino turned and made for the shrubbery. At the end of the longest row, where the bushes grew high and thick enough to furnish adequate cover, he found the brindled boarhound alone, fast asleep on the ground. An angry exclamation drew no response. Bending low, he shouted the dog’s name, but Grumper slept on. Two or three light kicks availed nothing, and a heavier one proved equally ineffectual. Onartino’s red face went purple. A short cudgel materialized in his hand, and blows rained down on the unconscious dog. Grumper stirred and whimpered, but never woke. Eventually his stirring ceased and he lay very still. Blood spotted his head and muzzle.

Onartino drew back a step. His face was expressionless as ever, save for the small vertical line that dented his brow. His mother set great store by that dog. For some seconds, he stood staring down at the motionless animal, then appeared to reach a decision.

“It’s her,” he announced aloud. “No matter. There’s nothing I can’t track.” His proven prowess as a hunter supported this claim. He glanced up at the sky, whose grey uniformity threatened rain. All to the good. Her feet would leave deep prints on moist ground. “Nothing I can’t track,” he repeated, and set off into the woods at a smart pace.

* * *

Jianna was soaked and freezing. Her ankle throbbed cruelly. She yearned beyond expression to stop and rest. But they might be close upon her trail, for they were surely hunting her by now. Servants from Ironheart—perhaps even Yvenza herself; Yvenza, who would welcome the opportunity to punish her. She could not afford to linger.

There was no human help in sight, but her searching eye fell upon an object of potential value—a big fallen branch, long and sturdy enough to suit her needs, lying beside the trail. She picked it up, took a moment to strip off a few twigs, then tried leaning her weight on the new staff. Yes, it offered good, solid support. And when she attempted a few careful steps, she found herself favoring the bad ankle in a way that distinctly diminished the pain. With the aid of the staff, she could walk for at least a while longer.

On she hobbled through a dim, wet world. The trail was softening beneath her feet, and she sank into the mud with each step. Her heavy, sopping skirts and cloak weighed her down without excluding the cold in the least; her teeth chattered, and she was shivering. Deliberately she filled her mind with warming images—home, family, defeat and capture of the outlaw Belandors, the magnifico’s vengeance upon the abductors of his daughter … happy thoughts.

The trail leveled and widened. A thick carpet of fallen leaves covered much of the mud. Here the way was not so difficult, but Jianna’s spirits hardly rose, for every instinct shouted that pursuit was gaining on her. And how should it be otherwise, when ill luck and injury held her best pace to a hobble? She glanced back over her shoulder for the thousandth time. Still nobody there.
Yet
. Help, she needed human help.
Immediately
.

She tried to push herself to greater speed, but her ankle rebelled. Such a fierce pang smote her that she cried out and halted, jaw clenched. When she resumed progress moments later, her pace was slower than ever and she leaned heavily on the staff.

The trail curved to circle a granite outcropping, and it took her centuries to toil her way around the great rock. An eon expired, and then the path unbent itself to push straight on through an endless soggy wilderness empty of human life.

But not quite empty. The curtains of pouring rain seemed to part slightly, allowing passage of a large, dark shape of indeterminate species, which presently resolved itself into a human on horseback. A rain hood and an enveloping cloak obscured all details of face and figure, including gender. Jianna cared nothing for details. What mattered was that this rider clearly had not pursued her from Ironheart. Relief and intense gratitude filled her. She called out and the hooded head lifted, but she still could not make out a face. She struggled forward at her fastest limp, and the stranger advanced to meet her. Presently they confronted one another and now she could see that the face beneath the dripping hood was masculine and mature but not elderly. The eyes were light in color and intent in expression.

“Help me, please help me,” Jianna appealed.

He dismounted at once. “Lost?” he inquired.

“Very. And worse. I was abducted, held prisoner.” The words tumbled out. “I managed to escape only a little while ago and I ran away, but slipped while crossing the stream and hurt my ankle, and now I can barely walk, much less run, and they’re sure to be hunting me. They know these woods, they can travel much faster than I can, the dog may have awakened, they may be using him to track me, and they could catch up any second now. If they find me, they’ll drag me back to that place and I know I’ll never get away again, never. I can’t let that happen, they’re vicious demented criminals and they’ve got horrible plans for me. Please, please, help me get home. My father will be so grateful, he’ll reward you well, really well, I promise. But we need to go
now
, right
now
before they find me—”