FOUR

The workroom was discreetly situated in a cellar beneath the kitchen behind Corvestri Mansion. The kitchen’s separation from the house reduced the risk of fire. The windowless workroom below, similarly distanced for corresponding reason, was accessible only by means of a subterranean corridor whose entrance was guarded when the chamber was occupied. It was occupied now by three human beings, two of them living and one of them undead.

The Magnifico Vinz Corvestri, illicit arcanist and head of his House, was deeply immersed in his work—with good reason. The plague-stricken object of his attention displayed the rebellious tendencies so characteristic of his puzzling malady, and effective control demanded effort. Control was essential, however. Should the undead visitor escape the net of sorcerous restraints presently hemming him in, then the plague must surely take hold in Corvestri Mansion, starting with the master and his only son.

Vinz’s eyes shifted for a moment to the boy standing beside him, heir to his title and his talent. Even in the midst of the most strenuous mental endeavor, he experienced the usual thrill of pride. Young Vinzille Corvestri, only thirteen years of age, already demonstrated a precocious arcane ability that more than qualified him to serve as his father’s apprentice and assistant. And an admirable assistant he was—careful, accurate, diligent, yet at the same time imaginative, boldly original, blessed with flashes of insight that sometimes seemed inspired. A genius, perhaps, gifted with powers destined to outshine his father’s.

Much of the gift resided in the lad’s intense concentration, his exclusion of all distraction. He was doing it now, Vinz observed with approval, shutting out the world and everything in it beyond the plague-ridden prisoner before him. His face was still and almost eerily empty—a youthful, incompletely formed, but very excellent face, Vinz noted at some cost to his own focus. Vinzille Corvestri bore little external resemblance to his soft-bellied, round-visaged, nondescript father. Happily, he favored his handsome mother, from whom he had inherited his fine features, his slender height, and his chestnut-haired autumnal coloring. Yes, altogether an ideal son.

The moment’s self-indulgence had taken its toll. The sorcerous net enclosing the undead visitor gave way, and a bony arm clad in dark rags thrust through the rent. That groping arm would spread pestilence unless promptly contained. Vinz Corvestri came within a breath of exerting his power and then held back, allowing his son to take command.

Vinzille rose to the challenge. Without hesitation he reshaped his mental construction, shifting the complex lenses of his mind to bend the energy of the Source in a new direction. The questing arm of the undead froze for an instant, then drew back through the rent in the sorcerous net, which promptly mended itself. The plague victim—a tattered former denizen of the Spidery gutters—pushed vaguely at the surrounding intangible walls, turning in aimless little circles within the confines of his prison. A flex of Vinzille’s intellect seized and immobilized the undead, whose facial contortions expressed unidentifiable emotion.

“Name yourself aloud,” the boy commanded in tones of adult authority.

Vinz Corvestri caught his breath. Direct verbal solicitation of the force inhabiting the ruined body of the plague victim had formed no part of his plan; had not, in fact, occurred to him. This novel approach offered further evidence, if any was needed, of his son’s uncommon talent. A fresh wave of pride threatened to rock his concentration.

The undead’s milky eyes rolled. His jaw shuddered and dropped. A yellowish tongue protruded. It quivered and a low, unintelligible mutter emerged, something between a rumble and a moan. Scarcely a human utterance.

“Name yourself,” Vinzille insisted.

Successive spasms convulsed the undead’s body. A froth of reddish foam appeared upon his lips. “We,” he replied in a voice scarcely tolerable to human ears.

“Again,” Vinzille directed quietly.

The undead’s jaw clamped. His head thrashed in a recognizable gesture of refusal.

Linked to his son by the shared current of arcane energy, Vinz felt the sudden surge of the boy’s will, the intensity of which would probably have achieved success had not a sharp knock on the workroom door blasted all concentration. He briefly sensed the heat of Vinzille’s frustration, and then the connection lapsed.

Vinz contained his own annoyance. His servants, those few that he could still afford to keep, were well trained. None would presume to disturb the magnifico in his workroom without good cause. Stepping to the triply bolted door, he applied his eye to the peephole and spied the familiar outline of a Vitrisi resistance activist known to him and his household members only by the alias Lousewort. The Corvestri servants were under orders to admit Lousewort at any hour of the night or day. Vinz unbolted the door at once.

“Wait,” he instructed his son.

“No.” Vinzille shook his head. “We had it, I can get it back. Don’t stop me now.”

“Only for a moment.”

“Please, Father. I can do it.”

He probably could; he was already that accomplished. But no adolescent, however gifted, should be left to pursue so dangerous an endeavor unsupervised.

“Not alone. I’ll return shortly. Wait.” Vinz stepped out into the corridor, shutting the workroom door behind him.

Lousewort stood there, bland visage all but lost in the shadow of a broad hat. It crossed Vinz’s mind fleetingly that he had dealt with this man for years and still possessed no very clear mental image of the face beneath the hat; probably that natural or cultivated anonymity offered a valuable asset to the local resistance movement.

Vinz wasted no time in preliminaries. “I heard that Pesq and Fovi were taken in Mouse Alley. You’re in trouble?” he asked.

“No, but you may be,” Lousewort replied succinctly.

“There’s not much they could tell the Taerleezis about me. Fovi doesn’t even know—”

“I’m not talking about Pesq and Fovi. The Taers won’t get anything out of them. But that maidservant of your wife’s might be another matter.”

“Brivvia, you mean?”

“I wouldn’t know her name. Not so young, medium figure, brownish cloak.”

“Brivvia. What about her?”

“How much does she know?”

“Nothing about the group.”

“You sure? What could she pick up from the magnifica or the other servants?”

“They know next to nothing.” So far as he knew, this was true. For reasons that he chose not to examine too closely, he had never confided in his wife. Her ignorance protected her, he had told himself on the rare occasions that he considered the matter at all.

“Let’s hope so. Otherwise, no telling what your Brivvia may be carrying to the ears of Aureste Belandor.”

Vinz stared at him.

“No mistake,” Lousewort asserted, correctly interpreting the look. “She was spotted entering Belandor House around noon today. She stayed about twenty minutes, then went to a confectioner in Searcher Street, made a couple of small purchases, and came home. Any idea what your wife’s servant has to tell the Kneeser King?”

“How can you know that the woman contacted Belandor himself?” Vinz demanded. “Perhaps she simply visited some servant of the household.”

“Corvestri and Belandor retainers call on one another?”

“I couldn’t say. It’s not impossible.”

“Nor is it impossible that she carried intelligence to the Viper’s pet swine.”

Or a note. The thought struck Vinz Corvestri with the force of a meteor. A note from her mistress, his wife, the Magnifica Sonnetia, to Aureste Belandor. His wife’s former betrothed.

It had been a rare love match between Sonnetia Steffa and Aureste Belandor. That unflinching honesty of hers had impelled her to admit as much to Vinz Corvestri upon acceptance of his proposal. At times Vinz felt that he might have made do with perhaps a little less candor. On the other hand, but for her proud integrity, Sonnetia would never have broken off the betrothal to that walking cesspool Aureste. And had it not been for Vinz Corvestri, with his impeccable lineage and his offer of a marriage deemed fine by the most stringent of traditional Faerlonnish standards, she might never have been permitted to break it off, integrity notwithstanding. For then, as now, in the aftermath of the wars, the Steffa family coffers had been nearly empty and the continuing maintenance of an unwed daughter problematic. She might have run away or committed suicide; instead she had elected to wed the awkward, earnest young Vinz Corvestri. Her resigned acquiescence had hardly fueled his vanity, but so eager had he been to acquire the beautiful Sonnetia that he had willingly accepted her without dowry.

And so they had married, and she had scrupulously kept her end of the bargain. She had managed his household with care and skill, freeing him to fix his attention upon his arcane investigations. She had presented him with the best son in the world. Throughout the course of nearly twenty-four years together, she had rarely failed to treat him with kindness, courtesy, and at least the appearance of respect. And at night in the bedchamber? There, too, she displayed kindness and courtesy. And tolerance. About as much as any lawful husband had the right to demand, Vinz supposed, but sometimes he could not help but wonder whether Aureste Belandor would have received different treatment.

“Belandor has plans for you, I suspect,” Lousewort offered. “You’d best take action.”

Vinz nodded, frowning. Action. Never his forte. He preferred contemplation, experimentation, analysis. He was happiest and most at ease in his workroom, either alone or with his son at his side. Within that comfortable space, he could operate effectively. But the outside world was alien. There he was uncertain and accident-prone, hardly a match for such a natural-born predator as Aureste Belandor.

“You’ll question this Brivvia, eh?” Lousewort prodded.

Yes, he would have to do that, and the prospect was unappetizing. The woman was likely to prove recalcitrant, severe measures would be needed to loosen her tongue, and he hadn’t the stomach for violence. Well, perhaps it was time to master his own lifelong squeamishness. Or maybe the ugly task could be entrusted to a servant. Vinz became aware that he was nervously clenching and unclenching his fists.

“Whip the truth out of her,” Lousewort advised. “And when you’ve got it, you may find yourself obliged to hit Belandor before he hits you.”

The words had been spoken. Vinz felt his stomach roll over.

“Not an easy target, but with your abilities not impossible,” Lousewort continued conversationally. “And a project my group would support. We’ve wanted to nail that whoreson for years.”

Nail that whoreson. A faint sense of warmth began to well within Vinz. Nail him. Finally. Possible?

“You want me to—” he began, and a cry from the workroom cut him off. Hearing terror, Vinz turned, threw wide the door, and checked on the threshold, transfixed by the sight of his son wrapped in the embrace of the undead.

The protective web of magic hung in radiant shreds. The prisoner had torn free and now, attracted to vitality, sought to draw young Vinzille Corvestri into the twilight realm of death-in-life. Vinzille lay limp and insensible in the other’s arms. The undead’s lips pressed his in a devouring kiss.

Vinz was unaware of the cry that escaped him. He took a step forward and halted, recognizing the futility of physical intervention. Should he touch the undead, he would accomplish nothing beyond his own infection. At such a moment, arcane force was his sole weapon. A calmness fell over him then, a profound inner silence, the crowning achievement of a lifetime’s study and practice. Beside or behind him, Lousewort was yelling, but he did not hear the words. He drew the air deep into his lungs and let the stillness claim him. At the center of that hushed inner universe glowed the ember that was his gift, and now he breathed the ember into flame. The familiar power blazed through him and he never faltered, never hesitated or groped for the words and gestures that tapped the wellspring. He was one with the Source and its vastness. He was absorbed, yet still himself—a self given over to absolute purpose. His will resonated, bending the power of which he was now a part upon the surrounding world.

The intangible net mended itself, binding the undead tightly and compelling him to release his prey. Vinzille dropped to the floor. Vinz tightened the strands, reducing the prisoner to compressed immobility. Without pause, almost unconscious of his own words and gestures, so deeply ingrained were they, he wove a second such web to encase the body of his son, containing all contagion.

It was now comparatively safe to touch the boy. Vinz let his sorcerously stimulated awareness sink back to the mundane level, and the world came rushing in. His mind rocked under the impact, and the tide of exhaustion always following significant arcane endeavor threatened to overwhelm him. He pushed fatigue away and issued instructions. Together he and Lousewort carried Vinzille from the workroom, and along the passageway back to the main house. Then up the servants’ narrow stairway to the third story, and along another bare corridor whose splendid mirrors had been sold off years ago to pay Taerleezi taxes, to the boy’s own bedroom.

Through it all Vinzille slumbered palely. But when they laid him on the bed, he woke and glanced about in confusion. His eyes found his father’s face, and he whispered, “Wrong.”

“Don’t speak,” Vinz advised.

“Wrong,” Vinzille repeated.

“Wrong move?” Lousewort inquired, keenly interested. “Arcane error?”

“Wrong. Impossible.”

“Explain, boy. I don’t quite—”

“He’s in no fit state to speak,” Vinz interrupted curtly. “He should rest. You’d better go.”

“Our conversation remains unfinished, Magnifico.”

“We will finish it another time.”

“I’ll await word from you. I advise you not to delay.” So saying, Lousewort retired with his hallmark inconspicuousness.

Vinz turned back to his son, who was trying once more to speak.

“Sorry.” Vinzille struggled for breath.

“Not now.” Vinz ignored something akin to physical pain.

“Do it alone. What happened couldn’t.”

“You’ve been exposed and infected, son. I can mend matters, but I must begin work. Don’t distract me.”

“More important.”

“What?”

“This. Impossible. All laws—everything. Wrong.”

“You’re ill. Don’t waste your strength.”

“Currents ran backward—progressions inverted—couldn’t happen—”

“Quiet, son.”

“Natural law broken. Believe me.”

“I do. I know. Now lie still, else I’ll have to drug you.”

Vinzille closed his eyes, relapsing into silence or unconsciousness. Vinz stood a moment, then slipped a green lozenge from the pocket of his robe into his mouth, where it dissolved swiftly. The usual nausea assailed him, and he suppressed it. A few swift mental exercises completed his preparations, and he went to work. The task he confronted was arduous, necessitating supranormal investigation of the boy’s interior, including every minute refuge wherein the agents of the plague could have sought concealment. It might take hours, even days.

Vinz commenced the search and was almost immediately interrupted, yanked from his sorcerous trance by the arrival of his wife. By some mysterious means she had learned of Vinzille’s misfortune—probably some servant had spotted the boy being carried through the house—and now she wanted to be with her son. Understandable enough, but not a good time. He would have to tell her as kindly as possible that she was in the way, and she was likely to argue.

“What happened?” Sonnetia Corvestri asked, her voice low-pitched and well controlled as always.

Vinz looked at her. Her face—fine-boned, strong, and still almost untouched by age—was calm as a tomb. Her eyes—green, flecked with brown, like her son’s—were fixed on Vinzille. A few uncharacteristic tears sparkled the lashes.

“Accident in the workroom. He’ll recover, but he needs arcane assistance and he needs it now.”

“I’ll stay.”

“No, madam. I must be alone with him for now. It is the only way I can work.”

Her eyes shifted to his face. To his surprise, she nodded. “You’ll let me know when I can come back?” she asked.

“I’ll send word at the earliest opportunity. I promise.”

“Thank you.” She glanced away, then back at him, asking as a manifest afterthought, “You are unhurt in this accident, Magnifico?”

“Completely unhurt. I wasn’t even in the room.”

“You left him alone in such a place?”

She was staring at him, and a sudden sense of guilty responsibility flooded his mind. He could not afford such a distraction. “I must work,” he reminded her. “I’ll send for you when I can.”

For an intolerable moment longer she gazed at him, then turned and swept from the room. He watched the tall, slim, straight-backed figure retreat, and found that all the old feelings of longing and inadequacy were still there inside him, strong and galling as ever. Not the moment to think about them.

The door closed behind her. He was alone again with his son. Vinz shut his eyes. It took all the discipline of devoted decades to clear his mind and resume his former heightened mental state, but he did it and the interrupted search resumed.

This time he was fortunate. Following a mere four hours of effort, he found what he sought—a vicious anomaly hidden deep within the recesses of Vinzille’s sleeping brain; a distinctive invasive entity, all but devoid of physicality. He might have called it a parasite, but for its lack of substance.

It took the highest skills at his command to perform an extraction without damage to the host. Eventually he succeeded, but his victory was incomplete. He had intended to isolate and preserve the invader for further study. Immediately upon removal, however, the elusive entity dissipated; nor could all his skill call back so much as a ghost of its existence.

The loss was significant but hardly seemed to matter now, not with Vinzille lying there on the bed, white and motionless, but free of disease. The arcane net enclosing the boy’s weedy frame could be dispensed with now. Vinz let the protective barrier slip, then collapsed into a chair beside the bed. For a while he simply slumped there exhausted, thinking of nothing. Presently he opened his eyes and watched his sleeping son. At last recalling his promise to his wife, he dutifully rose and tugged the nearest bellpull. A servant answered the summons, and was dispatched with a message to the magnifica.

Perhaps he fell asleep for a few minutes, for she seemed to materialize instantaneously, looking much as she had hours earlier. But not exactly the same. Her eyes were puffed. She had been weeping, an indulgence she rarely permitted herself. She was not weeping now, however. Her eyes were dry, her face set and white.

He answered before she asked. “He will recover. He is safe now.”

Her lips quivered and for a moment he thought she might give way to emotion, but she did not. Silently she went to the bed and stood looking down at the insensible boy. Very lightly she touched his cheek with her fingertips. Vinzille did not stir.

Vinz thought she had forgotten his presence and was taken by surprise when she turned to face him.

“Why was he left alone in your workroom?” she asked quietly.

There was no hint of accusation in her voice or manner, yet the guilt stabbed, and with it came anger. Because I was called away to be told that your personal servant has been seen entering Belandor House, he wanted to shout. Because that Brivvia woman you’re so thick with is a spy, or maybe a messenger between you and Aureste Belandor. Because that collaborator you were once so eager to wed is probably plotting to ruin or kill me. Or do you already know that? He said none of these things aloud, answering only, “I was called away briefly. I told him to do nothing until I returned. He disobeyed.”

“Of course he disobeyed. Do you not know your own son?”

Vinz said nothing.

“He’s still too young, that’s all.” She spoke with careful self-restraint. “He’s very talented, but still only a boy. Please try to make allowances for that.”

She blamed him for the accident; she blamed him for leaving an adolescent unsupervised in a dangerous place. She wouldn’t utter a syllable of reproach, but he could see it in her eyes and that was rich, coming from her, whose closest personal servant had been spotted sneaking around Belandor House.

Scarcely trusting himself to reply aloud, Vinz inclined his head.

She bent a small, lackluster smile upon him before turning back to her son. For a moment Vinz stood watching them both, then let himself out of the room. He closed the door behind him with an audible thud, but his departure went unnoticed.

He went to his bed where he lay fatigued but wakeful, suspicions simmering. At twilight time he rose and made his way to the north wing, shut down these twenty-five years for the sake of necessary economy. Climbing countless stairs to the top of Corvestri Mansion’s tallest tower, he placed a lamp in the window. The signal did not go unnoticed. When Vinz ventured out later that evening to a certain wineshop just behind the Plaza of Proclamation, Lousewort was there to meet him.

The place was busy and crowded. The atmosphere was hazed with smoke and the light was low, both attractive attributes under the circumstances. The two men faced each other across a small table. Vinz Corvestri hid in the shade of a wide hat chosen to preserve his anonymity. Lousewort was his usual highly nondescript self.

A serving girl brought them wine. Vinz waited until she withdrew, then announced with a resolute air, “I’ve considered all that you told me, and I’ve decided to defend myself. It is time to remove Aureste Belandor.”

“More than time.” Lousewort nodded.

They touched beakers and drank.

* * *

Jianna opened her eyes on cramped, dismal surroundings, which she regarded for a moment without recognition before yesterday’s events came crashing back.

Early-morning light pushed greyly through the tiny window of her cellar prison. The iron grillwork looked solid enough to resist cannon fire. The oaken door was similarly substantial, and she did not waste her strength on it. It was not without reason that rural residences such as this one, built to withstand attack, were known as stronghouses.

Rising from her cot, she freshened herself as best she could. Ordinarily Reeni would have been there to help. Her eyes stung. No, she would not think of Reeni. There was still plenty of water left in the jug. But now, despite all horrors, her healthy young body craved food, of which there was none.

They could not possibly mean to starve her to death. There would be no point.

Vengeance was the point. That madwoman Yvenza wanted to drink blood, preferably Aureste Belandor’s, but his daughter’s would do. But no, she reminded herself. Yvenza had something far worse than starvation in mind.

Jianna shivered a little and wondered why her father did not appear. He would rescue her, certainly, but when? How long—the thought came unbidden—before he would learn that she had been abducted? It might be days—weeks …

She went to the window and looked out at the courtyard, where a servant threw feed to a flock of geese. Her stomach rumbled. She could gladly have done with a handful of that feed. After a while the servant retired and then came another bearing a flattened featherbed, which was beaten until the dust rose in clouds. The scene was prosaic to the point of boredom; her own plight all the more improbable by comparison.

Jianna thought of calling out to them, but suppressed the impulse. There was nothing they would do for her, no interest or point in watching them, but it was better than watching bare stone walls and floor. She stood staring out the window until the scrape of a bolt spun her around to face the door. It opened and her breath caught as Yvenza Belandor stepped into the room.

“Good morning, niece.” Clad in last night’s plain dark dress, Yvenza appeared formidably vital by the light of day. She bore a tray with a bowl of gruel, some bread, and fried lumps of unidentifiable composition. Beside her paced a gigantic brindled boarhound. “You spent a quiet night, I trust. Peaceful and undisturbed?”

Jianna nodded warily.

“Excellent. I told those boys of mine that I’d whip them bloody if they dared lay hands on you as yet. Good to see that a maternal admonition still carries some weight with the lads. Well, then. I imagine you must be hungry by now.” She advanced to place the tray on the cot, presenting her back to the prisoner.

The door stood open. Jianna took a step toward it and a subterranean growl rumbled from the boarhound. Its head was lowered, fangs bared. She froze.

“Grumper will take you down if you try to run.” Yvenza turned without haste. “And if you raise a hand against me, he’ll tear you apart.” She looked the other up and down. “Not that I’d need his help, as far as that goes. There’s not much to you. I could break your arm or your neck with ease, and I doubt that you could return the compliment.”

“Probably not.” Jianna arched a fastidious brow. “I’m not much of a brawler.”

“No, I don’t suppose your father ever foresaw any need to teach his wee flower the rudiments of self-defense. Now, what would Aureste Belandor regard as suitable subjects? Dancing, perhaps? A little music, a little embroidery?”

“Among other things—mathematics, natural philosophy, languages, and literature, to name a few. Above all, I’ve been taught how to manage a large household, which is more than can be said for you, if I’m to judge by what I’ve seen of this place.” Idiot. She should have kept her mouth shut. Now this virago would probably set the dog on her.

Yvenza, however, merely appeared amused. “Quite the little spitfire, aren’t you, maidenlady? But I advise you to curb your wit in Onartino’s presence. My boy is somewhat hasty of temper, as you may have observed, and far less tolerant than his mother. For your own sake, you’d best learn to avoid provoking your future lord.”

This time Jianna managed to hold her tongue.

“Which brings me to the true topic of discussion.” Yvenza produced a benevolent smile. “You’ve had an entire night to consider matters, niece. I trust you’ve used the time wisely.”

“I’ve used the time to think,” Jianna returned with spurious composure. “I hope you’ve done the same. If you have, then perhaps you’ll avoid a serious error. Set a ransom on me, my father will pay it without hesitation, and you’ll live to enjoy the profit. But if you harm me, he’ll have his vengeance. You may be certain of that.”

“Who speaks of harming you? You are offered a fine marriage. Most girls would be delighted.”

“You’ve threatened me with violence and dishonor. You’ve promised me that you won’t hesitate to carry out those threats, and I believe you. But if you do, then my father will retaliate. He’ll raise a small army, he’ll find this place, and stronghouse though it may be, he’ll burn it to the ground. You and yours will die, else be left homeless and destitute. A high price to pay for the pleasure of ruining a girl who’s never harmed you, wouldn’t you say?”

For a moment Yvenza Belandor regarded her in silence, then curved a genuine smile. “Clever, like your father,” she observed. “And no coward. But still young and apparently not yet much the strategist. Stop and think, maidenlady. How likely is it that Aureste will attack and raze our Ironheart while you lie here within its walls? He’ll never place your precious little life at such risk.”

“Depends on how greatly he’s provoked. Push him too far and he’ll strike back, no matter what.”

“I think not. In any case, I can deal with your father should the occasion arise.”

“Don’t be too sure of that. He knows how to fight. He—”

“His martial prowess, should he actually possess any, is unlikely to display itself. Unless I am much mistaken, the next intelligence he receives will confirm his daughter’s marriage to my son.”

“Yes, you are much mistaken if you think I’ll—”

“What I think is that you’ll consider the consequences of refusal. I will leave you now. I will return in one hour with my oldest son. If at that time you accept his offer of marriage, I shall embrace you as a daughter, and you will be treated as such. If you refuse, I’ll regard our conversation as concluded. Containing my disappointment as best I may, I’ll withdraw, leaving you alone with Onartino. What happens thereafter will be a matter entirely between you and him.”

“I don’t believe you,” Jianna lied. She had gone cold inside. She tried to moisten her dry lips and failed. “You’re not a monster. You won’t do this.”

“You’ve a great deal to learn, maidenlady. I shall enjoy observing the progress of your education.” Yvenza sauntered from the room, trailed by the dog. The door closed behind them, and the bolt scraped.

Jianna stood staring at the locked door. Presently her vision blurred and the hand she raised to her eyes came away wet with tears. She dashed the droplets away. No time for tears now; she needed to think. If Aureste Belandor found himself imprisoned and endangered, he wouldn’t weep; he’d find some way of besting his enemies. His daughter would do the same. She drew a ragged breath and strove to focus. But her mind was clogged with bewilderment and terror; there was no room left for strategy. No room, no time. Yvenza had promised to return in one hour, together with her subhuman son. One hour, and they would be here, and she did not let her mind touch upon what would happen then.

The cellar air was chilly, but the sweat prickled under her arms and the palms of her hands were clammy. Her eyes ranged the trap of a room, found no escape, and shut—but that only worsened matters, sharpening the mental images. She saw Onartino, his muscular bulk, his dead eyes, and there was no weapon with which to fend him off, nothing to hide behind, nothing to stop him except a promise to place herself in his power forever, and even that ultimate concession could only postpone the inevitable for a little while.

How little?

Any respite, however brief, might offer an advantage. That’s what Aureste Belandor would say if he were here. He would tell her how to outwit her captors, how to lie to them and purchase herself a little time. Or perhaps he didn’t need to tell her; the answer seemed suddenly clear enough. Why had it taken her so long to see it?

She would promise to marry Onartino. Some indeterminate interval would elapse before a legitimate magistrate empowered to perform the ceremony could be secured. During that time she would be treated decently—Yvenza had said so. They would surely let her out of the cellar. If she played her part well, they might even come to think her resigned to her fate. They would relax their vigilance, but she would not relax her own. She would watch continually, and sooner or later her chance would come. She would escape Ironheart, make her way back home, tell her father what had happened, and then he would order this entire nest of outlaws exterminated. Maybe he would let her watch the executions.

It was all there, whole and complete in her mind, the fruit of desperation. But Aureste Belandor’s daughter would make it work.

She became aware that she was trembling. She would have to control that.

Wrapping her arms tightly around herself, she bowed her head and willed herself to think of Vitrisi and the people she had left there. Her father. Uncle Innesq. Even prissy Uncle Nalio. They were not lost to her; she would see them all again, and soon.

The diversion was effective. Her breathing eased, and her pulse steadied. When the door opened again, she was almost calm.

“Time’s up.” Yvenza, intolerably casual, stepped into the room.

Beside her Onartino loomed like a monolith. His eyes, although pale in color, somehow seemed to reflect none of the morning light.

At sight of him, the hatred and terror swept through Jianna in fresh waves. She concealed both, resisting the natural impulse to back away. Her face was as expressionless as Onartino’s own as she informed her jailer, “I will marry your son on one condition.”

“No conditions.” Onartino’s opaque gaze never flickered.

“You pique my curiosity, maidenlady,” Yvenza conceded. “I will allow you to state your condition.”

“If I’m truly to wed, then the marriage must be legal and as decent as possible under the circumstances,” Jianna returned steadily. “The ceremony must be properly performed by a magistrate or some other equivalent authority.”

“We’ll decide who does the mumbling.” Onartino shrugged. “You’ll take what comes.”

“It must be done right. That’s the only way I can ever in good conscience consent.”

“Your consent isn’t required,” he reminded her. “Haven’t you gotten that through your head yet?”

“Softly, son,” Yvenza advised. “Your bride makes a good point. Nothing must compromise the legitimacy of the next Belandor heir. My grandson will be conceived safely and solidly within the confines of matrimony. I’d keep that in mind if I were you.”

“Well, you aren’t me, and you’re pitching a silly female fit over nothing.”

Yvenza backhanded him across the face so hard that he staggered. Onartino pressed a hand to his reddening cheek. For an instant his eyes came to glaring life, then went dead again.

“That’s no way to speak to your mother,” Yvenza pointed out.

“Sorry, Mother.”

“That sort of talk makes me feel that I haven’t trained you well. Am I right about that? Is additional schooling called for?”

“No, Mother.”

“I truly hope not. Now listen to me. Aureste’s girl here transparently plays for time, but she happens to be right. Your son and heir must be legitimate.”

“And who’s to judge that? I’ll take the title of magnifico by double right as Onarto’s oldest son and Aureste’s son-in-law. My own son by this one”—he jabbed an indicative finger—“inherits, no questions asked. When that time comes, you really think anyone will be asking who performed the marriage ceremony, maybe decades earlier?”

“Stranger things have happened,” Yvenza observed serenely. “It is a chance we are not going to take.”

“That should be my decision.”

“Yes, it should, and it grieves me to find you unequal to the challenge.”

“You should know better. All right, Mother. What do you mean to do? Lead this stolen cow into Orezzia to stand up before a justice of the peace? I wish you well with that.”

“Are you attempting sarcasm, my son? You’ve no talent for it. Spare yourself and your listeners,” Yvenza advised. There was no reply, and she continued, “The East Reach Traveler is an official representative of the Orezzian courts—”

“Appointed by a turd of a Taerleezi governor,” Onartino observed.

“No matter. He’s a magistrate with authority to perform marriages. We’ll intercept him.”

“That could take weeks.”

“A few days, more likely.”

“Too long to sit around waiting. No need, anyway. Look, we rule this stretch of countryside. Let’s just declare her my wife on our own authority and get on with it.”

“You’ll have to restrain your ardor, my young gallant.”

“That won’t be hard.” His contemptuous glance raked Jianna’s body. “But I don’t like wasting time.”

“Your consent isn’t required.” Yvenza favored her son with a steely smile. “Haven’t you gotten that through your head yet?”

He shrugged.

Turning to the prisoner, Yvenza remarked, “You’ve made a sensible decision, daughter, and your title of maidenlady is safe for a little while longer. I am already planning the wedding, however. It will be small and modest, but deeply satisfying to some of the parties concerned.”