SEVEN

She needed cheese. Meat might have been better, but meat was hard to come by and quick to spoil. The cheese would work almost as well, and presented several practical advantages. She had secured the necessary bread the previous day, and if it was growing stale, that was actually all to the good.

The cold-closet containing perishable foodstuffs adjoined the kitchen, which was never unoccupied. But the closet possessed a second doorway giving onto the courtyard, allowing convenient delivery of the assorted furred or feathered woodland creatures that Onartino and Trecchio managed to kill during the course of their sylvan rambles. The courtyard door was barred at night but remained unlocked during the daylight hours, for the Lady Yvenza hardly feared pilfering. Her confidence was well founded. With the sentry’s tale of the mutilated wretch caught stealing salt pork still fresh in her mind, Jianna would rather have avoided the cold-closet altogether. But there the cheese was stored. And she needed cheese.

Most of the time Yvenza kept her busy drudging away at one domestic duty or another. Around noon, however, after she had finished inspecting a massive batch of mending, there came a lull in the rhythm of her labors and she managed to slip out into the courtyard.

The air was raw and the sky was drab. A wedge of black birds cleft a passage through the clouds overhead. Autumn was sharpening; time was passing. One of the servants, busy recaning the seat of an old chair, seemed wholly absorbed in his work and unaware of her presence. Another, working the tangles out of an enormous length of rope, appeared equally oblivious. They had not noticed her as yet, but she was scarcely invisible. One or the other need only lift his eyes. She hesitated.

Audacity possesses its own particular utility, her father had often advised her. Assume a confidence of demeanor and you will go unchallenged more often than not.

So be it, then. Audacity. Drawing a deep breath, she marched straight across the open space at an unhurried pace designed to create an aura of legitimate purpose. If anyone accosted her, she would claim that Yvenza had dispatched her upon an errand.

That necessity never arose. Neither of the servants glanced up from his work. Her presence went unmarked or else ignored. The cold-closet door, unlocked as expected, yielded without protest, and she slid through.

The place was windowless and dark. The air was still and thick with edible odors. Jianna waited and let her eyes adjust. Presently she spied a linear luminosity at floor level—light leaking in under the door from the adjoining kitchen. There were voices and clattering on the other side of that door, and she wondered briefly what she would say if someone entered and discovered her here. Assume a confidence of demeanor …

Something rustled nervously in the dark. Mice.

Her surroundings lightened into dim view. The cold-closet was sizable, its walls draped in shadow. She spied wooden barrels large and small, baskets of fruits and roots, hanging garlands of sausage, pale cylinders and blocks wrapped in coarse fabric. She went to work on one of the cylinders, and her nose confirmed her success even before the coverings fell away to reveal a substantial round of firm-textured cheese. Exactly what she wanted.

Her fingers danced, worrying fragments off the edge of the cylinder. A few crumbs found their way to her mouth. Most went into her pocket. When she judged she had taken enough, she stopped. The big cylinder was visibly pocked, as if nibbled by mice. With luck, anyone seeing it would assume that such was the case. For the cold-closet was surely infested; she could still hear those furtive little rustlings in the gloom. For some reason the hairs along her forearms rose.

Time to go. She had managed to escape detection so far, but her good luck could not continue indefinitely. She took the time to rewrap the cheese neatly, then turned and made for the exit.

Her hand was on the latch when she heard another little rustle and then a whispery voice.

“Yes.”

Jianna drew a startled gasp, too spontaneous to suppress and sharply audible in that confined space. No point now in trying to hide. The unseen other, whoever it might be, was certainly aware of her presence.

“That, too.” The small whisper thrilled. The speaker’s age and gender remained obscure. There was a long pause, and then as if in reply to a silent query, “They do not tell me.”

Her curiosity almost outweighed her alarm. Stepping resolutely to the rear of the cold-closet, she discovered the owner of the voice lodged in the narrow space between the wall and a barrel. There in the shadows crouched a diminutive, skinny form crowned with straggling locks fair to the verge of whiteness. She descried a little peaked face and pale lambent eyes that seemed alien as a Sishmindri’s.

“Nissi?” There was no response, no sign that the other had heard.

“I will … try …” The alien eyes were inexpressibly distant. Apparently unaware of Jianna’s presence, she was speaking to herself or else to some unseen listener.

Automatically Jianna glanced about in search of the invisible audience, then recognized the absurdity. This pallid wraith of a girl was mad or moonstruck.

“Nissi,” she repeated more insistently, and this time she was heard.

Nissi’s luminous gaze focused. “He says, ‘Ask them,’ ” she confided in her tiny voice.

“Ask whom? Ask what? Who says?” The questions were no doubt pointless, but Jianna could not contain them.

“He does. The nice one.”

“The nice what?”

“They are not all nice.”

“Who or what aren’t?”

“Sometimes they get angry. Because I go too fast. Or else they just fade away. But he doesn’t. He keeps up and he’s nice.”

“But who?”

“He tells me not to be afraid in the woods when the world isn’t real anymore. Are you afraid when that happens?”

“Are you all right?”

“Yes, thank you.” The enormous eyes widened. “Are you all right, too?”

“Well enough.” As long as you don’t go telling the world that you’ve seen me in here. Jianna eyed the other narrowly. What would this peculiar, inscrutable creature choose to do? A word in the wrong ear could bring punishment ranging from the unpleasant to the unspeakable. How best to silence Nissi? Enlist her sympathies, perhaps? Assuming a woeful expression, she elaborated, “Only—well, I’ve just been so hungry, so sick and faint for lack of food, so desperately famished, that I finally felt I’d surely die if I couldn’t just—if I couldn’t somehow—”

“Please,” Nissi interrupted almost inaudibly. “Please promise.”

“—find something, maybe just a handful of dried beans or an old root—”

“Please promise that you won’t tell.”

“Tell what?” Jianna inquired, her rush of creativity momentarily diverted.

“That you saw me here. That I did the Distant Exchange.”

“Oh. Oh.” So the white girl wasn’t supposed to be in the cold-closet, either. Jianna’s confidence rose and her curiosity bloomed. “The Distant Exchange—I’ve heard of that. It’s something arcane, isn’t it?”

“They would not like it. Lady Yvenza—Master Onartino …”

“Why not? Are they worried about the Taerleezi ban?”

“They … would not like it.”

“I see. Well, then.” Jianna considered. Her prospects had brightened. “In that case, I give you my word. Your secret is safe.”

Nissi regarded the floor.

Jianna studied the huddled figure. At last, she ventured to ask, “You have the talent?”

The colorless head bobbed.

“And the Distant Exchange lets you communicate with others like yourself?”

Another silent nod.

It was not so surprising. Power ran in the Belandor blood and always had. Nissi might not be the legitimate product of a lawful marriage, but talent made no social distinctions.

“Well, then—” Jianna swiftly reviewed possibilities. “Perhaps you could send a message from me to my Uncle Innesq in Vitrisi? He has the talent, too, you see.”

Nissi stared mutely.

“Just a short message, only to tell him that I’m alive and unhurt,” Jianna urged. “He doesn’t know what’s become of me and he must be sick with worry. All of them would be.” It was her father’s state of mind that most concerned her, but an appeal on Aureste Belandor’s behalf was hardly apt to rouse sympathy within the confines of Ironheart, so she concluded, “Uncle Innesq could let the rest of the family know that I’m alive. It would be a great kindness.”

The ensuing silence suggested that the request had gone unheard. At length Nissi murmured, “Family …”

“Yes. They probably think that I’m dead.”

“They would … grieve?”

“Very much so.” Some of them, at any rate. “They’ve offended no one, they shouldn’t have to suffer. Will you help me?”

Silence resumed.

“I think you want to,” Jianna essayed.

“They would not like it,” Nissi repeated.

“They’d never know.”

Nissi shook her head.

“They wouldn’t find out, you’ve nothing to fear.” This last was probably untrue, but Jianna did not let herself think about it.

Nissi rose to her feet and drifted noiselessly toward the exit.

“Wait, where are you going? Nissi, please wait, won’t you even send the smallest message to my uncle? Just enough to tell him that I’m still—”

“I am leaving now,” Nissi announced.

“No, wait, you can’t go yet, not if you don’t want to be seen. There are servants out there in the courtyard.”

“They will not … notice me. I am easily overlooked.”

“But shouldn’t you at least—”

“I am leaving now.”

The door opened briefly and Jianna blinked against the stab of daylight. During that blink, Nissi vanished and the cold-closet sank back into comforting shadow.

If otherworldly little Nissi could wander the courtyard at will, then surely Aureste Belandor’s daughter could do at least as well. Chin up, Jianna departed the cold-closet and made her way back into the house without incident. Once inside, she was obliged to sit rolling bandages for hours, and after that she transcribed the notations on countless crumpled paper scraps into the household ledgers, copying each entry in her neat, fine hand. The afternoon slowly spent itself. In the early evening she endured dinner with the family, and after that she was free to seek the sanctuary of her own room. She heard the scrape of the bolt locking her in for the night, and then she was finally alone.

The room was cold. Despite the advancing season no fire burned on the grate, for the matriarch of Ironheart deemed such comfort superfluous. A tiny oil lamp furnished the sole illumination and by that feeble light she worked, sprinkling absorbent bits of stale bread with the kalkriole elixir, rolling the bits into tiny balls, enclosing each moist ball within a layer of cheese. Presently she had molded a dozen neat spheres, which she wrapped in her only handkerchief. The small bundle disappeared into the pocket of her gown. This done, she stripped down to her linen, blew out the lamp, and slipped into bed, where she lay taut and wakeful well into the night.

* * *

Two more days trudged by without incident before Jianna’s unspoken hope was fulfilled and she was dispatched to the garden.

Once again she stood amid the thorny shrubs without the wall of Ironheart. Once again she bore a wicker basket that she had been commanded to fill with kalkrios leaves, the last harvest of the year. Once again the woods beckoned and once again Grumper barred her path to freedom. But this time it was going to be different.

Jianna worked her way along the row of bushes at an unhurried pace, the boarhound close on her heels. Practice had improved her skills and now she easily avoided the thorns. Her fingers flew unbloodied, and the basket filled quickly. When she reached the end of the row, she paused to shoot a glance at the gate in the wall. There slouched the homespun sentry, his attention fixed upon the lighting of his clay pipe. He did not trouble to look her way. The dog could be trusted to control her, and her value as a source of amusement had lapsed days earlier.

She was unobserved by all save Grumper. Turning to face him, she remarked, “We need to talk.”

He stared at her.

“Perhaps we started off on the wrong foot,” Jianna continued earnestly, “but I hope that it’s not too late for the two of us to establish a relationship built on mutual respect and courtesy. Wouldn’t you prefer that, Grumper? I know I would.”

His ears twitched at the sound of his name.

“There’s been a certain uneasiness, even antipathy between the two of us in the past,” she conceded sadly. “There was an incident that we should doubtless both prefer to forget. I’m sure that I was at least partially to blame for that, and I want you to know that I regret it.”

He cocked his head.

“I want to make amends and start over, Grumper. Would you like that, you handsome boy?”

A low growl rumbled from the depths of his throat.

“Oh, I don’t believe you really mean that. You’d really like to be friends, wouldn’t you, Grumper? Well, so would I, and I can prove it. Just to demonstrate my good intentions, I’ve brought you a gift. Something good, something delicious, especially for you. See, look at this.” She drew the small linen package from her pocket and opened it, exposing the cheese balls.

Grumper’s nostrils quivered.

“Yes, you’re interested, aren’t you? And you should be, they’re lovely. And all for you, good doggy, all for you. Here, boy, catch.” She tossed him a tidbit, expecting him to catch it in typically voracious canine style.

Grumper, however, allowed the offering to hit the ground. He eyed it with interest, even longing, but made no move to touch it.

“Clever dog,” Jianna acknowledged sourly. “Well trained. But let’s see how untouchable you really are.” She set to work on one of the balls, peeling away the exterior layer of cheese but leaving the doctored bread center intact. When she had stripped off a sizable morsel, she chirruped enticingly, and Grumper dragged his eyes from the food on the ground to her face.

“Look, Grumper,” she invited. “Look at this beautiful cheese. So rich, so satisfying, so luscious. Can you smell it? I hope you can, because it’s wonderful. I’m telling you, I can’t resist it myself. See, Grumper? I’m eating, I’m just feasting.” She popped the cheese into her mouth and savored it at length. The flavor was unremarkable. Closing her eyes, she loosed a moan of pleasure. “Uuummmmmmmmm. This is so good. I think it’s the best cheese I’ve ever tasted, the best cheese anyone’s ever tasted. This is the high point of my entire life.” For some seconds, she radiated ecstasy, then opened her eyes. Grumper stood transfixed, rapt gaze fixed on her face. A thread of saliva dangled from his lips. Good. “You really ought to taste this, boy. You owe it to yourself. And mind you, I understand that this places you under no obligation whatsoever. I expect no special consideration in return.” Kneeling, she proffered the remainder of the cheese ball on an open palm.

Grumper sniffed yearningly. A moment longer he hesitated, then his will buckled and he accepted the food from her hand. He wolfed it down in a single gulp, made similarly short work of the ball on the ground, then stood waiting for more.

“Yes, you love that, don’t you? Of course you do. Here, have another.” She tossed him a cheese ball, and this time he caught it in midair. “Oh, yes, good. Eat up.”

Grumper complied, and the cheese balls vanished. When he had finished eating, he licked his chops, lay down, sighed deeply, and went to sleep.

Jianna watched in disbelief. It had been so miraculously quick and easy. Almost she suspected the hitherto invincible Grumper of indulging in some canine version of a practical joke. If she made the wrong move now, he would surely spring to his feet and knock her down, and then the sentry would laugh at her again. But when she spoke his name he did not stir, and when she ventured to touch him, he remained quiescent. She prodded his ribs, as she had not long ago prodded the sleeping Ghost in the infirmary, and like the Ghost, Grumper slept on.

She had done it. She had outwitted her enemies in a manner befitting the daughter of Aureste Belandor. There remained only the mechanics of actual departure. Jianna, crouched low to the ground beside the unconscious boarhound, cast another hostile glance back at the sentry. Tobacco occupied his full attention. He was not watching her. The moment had actually come. Briefly she considered her situation—poised on the verge of solitary flight into the wilderness, devoid of provisions, money, weapons, friends, or knowledge of her surroundings; devoid of anything likely to ensure her survival. It seemed like a leap off a cliff, but the alternative was worse.

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—”

“Stop. Take a deep breath,” he advised.

His voice was low-pitched and possessed of a singularly soothing quality. Her breathing eased at the mere sound of it, and she followed his instructions without thought.

“And another.”

Again she obeyed.

“Good. Now calm yourself, there’s nothing more to fear. You’ve been found and you are safe. First we’ll tend to your injured ankle, and then we’ll see about returning you to your friends and family.”

So compelling and reassuring was his voice, so gentle his manner, that it took her a moment to notice that he had simply disregarded her attempted explanation. And why wouldn’t he? Her own voice echoed in her mind: … abducted, held prisoner … sure to be hunting me … the dog … horrible plans for me … It all sounded absurd, a fever dream or the outcry of a hysteric. If she wanted him to believe her, she had better control herself, moderate her language and her tone.

“Thank you. I am very eager to return to my family,” she returned quietly. “My father is in Vitrisi. Will you please escort me back to him?”

“That is hardly practical.”

“It isn’t? Why not?” Jianna was nonplussed. Perhaps his voice had misled her, for he spoke with the accent of an educated Vitrisian and she had unconsciously classified him at the first sound of it. She was a lady of Vitrisi in distress; as a gentleman of her city, he should stand ready to assist her by any and all means within his power.

“Vitrisi is days distant, and I am wanted here.”

“But what am I to do? I tell you I must go home to my father! He can protect me from those criminals. Do you not understand?” Her voice was rising again, despite her efforts to control it. “I’m in danger, they’re hunting me, they’re depraved lunatics with a grudge against my father, and I need your help!”

“You shall have that,” he assured her. “Let us see first to your ankle and proceed from there. Come, seat yourself.”

Once again his low, unhurried voice exerted a curiously calming effect, and without argument she sat down on a rock and waited a moment while he tethered his horse, then extracted a small leather pouch from one of the saddlebags. This done, he knelt before her and paused courteously. “With your permission.”

He was a stranger and they were alone in the wild, but somehow she did not hesitate a moment to draw her skirts back a few inches, exposing her foot and swollen ankle to view. His brows rose at sight of her delicate, waterlogged shoe. He removed it and set it aside. Then he took her ankle in both of his hands and still, such was the power of his voice and manner, she was not frightened or offended in the least. His touch was warm, light, and sure. Exploratory pressure here and there produced only the mildest of twinges. A brief examination sufficed to satisfy him.

“You’ve strained your ankle,” he told her. “No doubt it’s painful, but the injury is minor. A few days of rest should effect a cure, although I’d recommend favoring the ankle for another month or so thereafter. In the meantime—” The leather pouch yielded a roll of spotlessly clean bandages. One of these he wound around her ankle and fastened with a small metal clasp, his movements so deft and precise that the operation was painlessly completed within seconds. He slipped the shoe back onto her foot and stood.

“I’ve never seen anything quite like that before.” Jianna studied her well-wrapped joint in wonder. The bandage was fashioned of some subtly lustrous fabric that seemed to offer support without bulk or binding.

“That is my own invention. It’s made of silk for lightness and strength, knitted for elasticity.”

“You can knit silk?”

“Not personally,” he admitted with a slight smile that transformed his face, lighting up the grey-blue eyes. She saw then that he was considerably younger than she had at first supposed. The gravity of his expression had misled her, but he was probably no more than seven or eight years her senior.

“Surely you must be a physician?”

“I am.”

“But how fortunate for me. Whom shall I thank?”

“I’m called Falaste.”

“That’s a Vitrisian name. And you speak with the accent of the city, too. You are a long way from home, Dr. Falaste.”

“The city isn’t my home. I am of Vitrisian descent, but I don’t live there.”

“Orezzia, then?”

“I’m nomadic. My practice carries me throughout the range of the Alzira Hills.”

“Couldn’t your patients spare you for just a few days while you conduct me back to my father’s house? You’ve done me a great favor, and my father will be eager to reward you.”

“You’ll not be starting any long journeys before that ankle of yours has had a chance to mend,” he informed her. “A week’s rest and then you should be fit to travel. Fortunately, you’re not far from comfortable shelter. Only a few miles from here stands a stronghouse whose owners can certainly be persuaded to take you in.”

“You’re not speaking of Ironheart?” she cried.

“Ah, you know it?”

“Yes, I know it! That’s the place. Those are the people. That’s where they took me and held me prisoner. In a locked closet in the cellar! And threatened me and set the giant dog on me! There’s a family of monsters living there and if they recapture me, there’s no telling what they’ll do!” Her voice had risen again, but for the moment she could not master it. “I’m not exaggerating. They’re highwaymen and murderers. They killed my aunt, my maid, and the guards. There’s nothing they won’t dare!”

He pressed his hand lightly to her brow for a moment then withdrew it, remarking, “You do not seem feverish, but perhaps your ordeal has—”

“I’m not feverish, and there’s nothing wrong with my mind! And I’m not lying to you!”

“I don’t suggest that you lie. But you’ve been injured and frightened. Under such circumstances a little confusion is often present, and misinterpretation is possible.”

“I’m not misinterpreting my dead aunt and maid! I’m not misinterpreting my own abduction, or the threats and blows I’ve received! Above all I’m not misinterpreting the ruin that I face if they lay hands on me again!” She managed to get her voice back down again, concluding on a calmer note, “Dr. Falaste, you must believe that everything I’ve told you is true.”

For a moment he studied her, his clear eyes seeming to plumb the depths of her mind. At last he suggested, “Let’s consider, then. You are a young woman—scarcely more than a girl, really—very well spoken despite your agitation, bedraggled but elegantly clothed, unmistakably of good background and probably high family. At your stage of life, you can hardly have acquired mortal enemies. And yet you accuse the residents of Ironheart—I know them, by the way—of the worst imaginable crimes. These people can’t quite be considered exemplary, granted, but they’re not lunatics and I assume you’ve committed no unpardonable offense against them. What possible reason could they have, then, to use you with the cruelty you describe?”

“My father,” she returned at once. “They hate my father bitterly. They imagine that he’s wronged them, they hold him responsible for all their misfortunes, and they mean to strike at him through me.”

“Indeed. You’ve a dramatic turn of phrase.”

“I am not making this up!”

“And who is this father of yours that stirs up such commotion?”

“My father is the Magnifico Aureste Belandor, of Vitrisi. I am Jianna Belandor.”

He did not change expression, but it seemed to her that his eyes darkened at the sound of the name.

“I hope,” he observed slowly, “that this is fantasy or theater. You allow a lively imagination free rein, perhaps?”

“I do not. And I’m not delirious, either. I am Jianna Belandor, daughter of the Magnifico Aureste. Why are you looking at me like that? I hope you’re not another of those bigots filled with prejudice against my father?”

“Maidenlady, I fear that you’ll find an entire world populated with just such bigots.”

“Then ignorance is everywhere, and it’s so unjust. My father is a fine man, a kind and warm and generous man. The world doesn’t know him.”

“Possibly the world knows him better than you realize. But I will confess, his daughter’s loyalty speaks well for the magnifico.”

“You’re beginning to believe what I tell you, then?”

“I’d prefer not to believe, but you are persuasive, and your story possesses its own logic. If you are truly Aureste Belandor’s daughter, then the treatment you claim to have received at Ironheart becomes understandable. It is possible.”

“It’s more than possible, it’s fact,” Jianna declared. “You say that you know those people. If so, then you must have a good idea what they’re capable of doing to me. My life is over if you don’t help me to get away from them. Please, please, take me back to Vitrisi!” She gazed up at him with enormous pleading eyes. His face was still, but instinct told her that she was making progress.

“There are other considerations,” he observed at last.

His objection, whatever it might be, could surely be overcome. Jianna looked up at him. Her lip quivered and her eyes filled with tears, which she made no effort to suppress. She did not let a sound escape her, but stood bravely and piteously silent, tears coursing down her cheeks. This tactic almost never failed to conquer her father.

And it seemed that Dr. Falaste was similarly susceptible, for his face softened and he looked young again, if somewhat troubled.

“Maidenlady—” he attempted.

She turned aside as if ashamed of her tears, but in reality offering him a good view of her pretty profile. She let her shoulders shake a little with silent suppressed sobs. Aureste could rarely resist silent suppressed sobs. She glimpsed the physician’s face out of the corner of her eye and saw uncertainty there. Good. In her imagination she approached the gates of Belandor House, with Dr. Falaste at her side. She would introduce the doctor to her father. Falaste would instantly perceive the magnifico’s essential goodness. Aureste in turn would immediately recognize the physician’s talent and intelligence. With the magnifico’s assistance, Falaste would remain in Vitrisi to establish a fashionable, highly profitable practice. He would be a frequent guest at Belandor House, and she would see much of him. There was something so agreeable in this mental exercise that her lips almost started to curve into a smile. She compressed them firmly and stole another glance at him.

He seemed lost in frowning cogitation, and she took the opportunity to study him: face long but not excessively so, complexion pale but not unhealthily so, straight features, stubborn chin, an indefinably scholarly look. Hair presently invisible beneath the rain hood. Medium stature. Probably slender in build, under that voluminous rain cloak. A fine, intelligent, and thoughtful face. Its owner was sure to help her.

Falaste’s head jerked slightly, as if he had reached a decision. Confidently Jianna awaited his reply.

“I’ll help you to shelter,” he told her.

“In Vitrisi,” she prompted, a little confused.

“No. That’s not possible. But I’ll bring you to some cottage or campsite, where you’ll find assistance and a place to rest safely until you’re fit to travel.”

“No, that isn’t what I want.” Her surprise equaled her disappointment. She had been quite certain, moments earlier, that he would succumb. “If you won’t take me back to the city, then at least bring me to some inn or posting house along the VitrOrezzi Bond.”

“The nearest is a good day and a half from here.”

“Well? Can you not spare the time to assist me?” She had not yet given up hope. Perhaps he could be shamed into compliance. “Are you not a gentleman?”

“Maidenlady, if you are truly Aureste Belandor’s daughter, be certain that I offend family, friends, and allies by offering you the smallest aid, even so much as a bandage for your ankle. Nevertheless, I will conduct you to the nearest cottage, where I’ll exert such influence as I own to gain you admittance.”

“Oh,” she exclaimed, “you might just as well throw a rope around my neck and drag me back to Ironheart behind your horse!”

“Good idea.” A flat new voice entered the discussion.

Jianna’s heart missed a beat. She wheeled to discover Onartino Belandor standing a few paces behind her. In the midst of the debate and the downpour, she had failed to notice his approach, and in that moment it seemed unbelievable that she had sensed nothing, because he was so extraordinarily large, looming there as huge and impervious as a rain-soaked colossus. The cold terror and hot hatred flared inside her and every nerve urged flight. She started to rise and the flash of pain from her ankle reminded her that she could barely walk, much less run. A rush of defeat and sick despair all but overwhelmed her. For a moment her eyes shut. Then she drew a deep breath, picked up her staff, and with its support stood up straight to face her hunter.

Onartino snapped his fingers sharply. “Heel,” he commanded.

Her eyes widened a little in disbelief. She did not stir.

“Not trained yet?” Onartino inquired. “We’ll fix that.” One of his pockets yielded a small rawhide quirt. He gave it a flick, and the braided lash answered with a pert pop. Educational aid in hand, he started for her.

This time, she sensed, he truly meant to hurt her, and there was nothing she could do to elude him or to hold him off. Without conscious volition, she threw a glance of anguished appeal into the eyes of Dr. Falaste. His response was all that could be desired.

Without apparent haste he stepped in front of her, blocking Onartino’s way. “Softly,” he suggested in pleasant tones.

“Keep out of it, Rione,” Onartino advised, finally acknowledging the other’s presence.

Rione? The name was familiar. She had heard it spoken more than once, not long ago. At Ironheart? Yes. The memory clicked into place. Of course. Rione was that mysterious genius whose praises were sung in the infirmary. Why had he lied to her about his name? Or perhaps he hadn’t lied. Maybe Falaste was simply his given name. All of this shot through her mind in a fraction of a second.

“Glad to keep out of it,” Falaste or Rione or Falaste Rione returned in his uniquely calming voice, “so long as it’s understood that there will be no violence here.”

“Just a little instruction,” Onartino assured him.

“With a whip? I think not.”

“You think all the time, boy, and it doesn’t amount to much. It never did. Step aside.”

“Put the whip away. You’ll not be using it on this girl.”

“Do you know who and what she is?”

“She told me her father’s name.”

“Did she remember to mention that she belongs to me?”

“If I’m not mistaken, the institution of human slavery has been abolished.”

“The institution of human marriage hasn’t.”

“You claim that she’s your wife?”

“As soon as the East Reach Traveler turns up to make it legal. Me, I see no reason to wait, but Mother wants it done up in pink ribbons.”

The doctor hesitated, then turned to Jianna and asked, “Is this true?”

She looked into his clear eyes and somehow never even thought of lying. “There’s some truth in it. The fact is that they abducted me and then used threats and terror to force my consent. I did agree to wed this—this person here, but much against my will, and only to avoid immediate injury and dishonor.”

“There, she confesses, she’s plighted her skinny little troth. Still questioning my rights?” Onartino demanded.

“This is Magnifica Yvenza’s desire?” the doctor inquired.

“Her plan. She’s set on the match. You know how she is.”

“I do. I see the evidence of her mind at work.”

“You mean to cross her?”

The doctor answered with an infinitesimal shake of the head.

“Then you can go on ahead and tell them that I’m whipping my little bride back home to Ironheart. Run along, boy.”

“Wait!” Jianna felt the stirring of incipient panic. “Don’t go! Dr. Falaste, you can’t let him take me back to that place. For pity’s sake, help me!”

“Maidenlady, I’ve already violated loyalties for your sake. I can do nothing more.”

“I thought you were a kind man, a decent man. Was I wrong? Look at Onartino Belandor standing there with his whip. Do you know what will happen if you leave me alone with him?”

“By your own admission, he is your betrothed. What passes between the two of you is a matter of family.”

“He’s not my betrothed; I was already promised to someone else. I was on my way to Orezzia to be wed when they attacked my carriage. This man and his people aren’t family, they’re just kidnappers. If you leave me in his hands, he’ll kill me or worse.”

“I don’t mean to kill her,” Onartino observed with the faintest hint of enjoyment. “Not before she’s tasted the joys of motherhood, anyway. You’re in the way here, Rione. Run along home.”

“Please,” Jianna whispered, eyes fixed on the doctor’s face.

He glanced at her so briefly and indifferently that it seemed as if her plea had gone unheard, then informed Onartino, “I’ll accompany you and the girl back to Ironheart.”

“I told you to get out of this.”

“We’ve two hours or more of walking before us,” the doctor observed serenely. “Best waste no more time. Put the whip away. You’ve no use for it today.”

“Sure about that?” Onartino stared down at the doctor, who stood some inches shorter than himself.

“Quite sure, as I know you’re no fool, appearances occasionally notwithstanding.”

Jianna stiffened. To her surprise, Onartino replied with a mere twist of the lips, a small grimace of contemptuous amusement. In silence he returned the quirt to his pocket. He was not going to use the lash on her. He was not going to use anything on her. She swallowed a sob, her relief tempered by recognition of the reprieve’s probable brevity.

“Maidenlady, you’ll ride,” the doctor declared.

“She’ll walk,” said Onartino.

“She’s injured her ankle.”

“She’ll survive.”

“She’ll delay us if we’re held to her best pace,” the doctor observed easily. “Unless, of course, you’d prefer to drag her by the hair.”

“She deserves a lot worse than that, after what she did to Grumper,” Onartino told him. “Fond of Grumper, aren’t you, Rione? Well, I think she’s killed him. He was guarding her. Somehow she got the better of him, beat the shit out of him. Probably used a rock. That’s how she got away.”

Jianna stared at him, dumbfounded. He met her gaze blandly.

“Grumper is dead?” The doctor was taken aback.

“I think so.” Onartino shook his head. “Mother will be seeing red. That was her best hound.”

“It’s a lie!” Jianna found her voice. “I never struck the dog. Even if I wanted to, how could I? He’d have torn me apart if I’d tried it. If he was beaten, then somebody else did it.”

“Who else had reason?” With a shrug of his heavy shoulders, Onartino addressed the doctor. “There you have it. Don’t let the big eyes fool you. She’s her father’s daughter.”

“I swear I never hurt Grumper.” Jianna spoke urgently to the doctor, who was scrutinizing her face as if striving to read the mind and character behind it. For reasons that she could hardly define, it seemed essential to convince him. She did not want to watch the expression in his eyes transmute to hostility and disgust. “I wouldn’t do such a cruel thing, I’ve never so much as slapped a Sishmindri. Please believe me.”

“Maidenlady, I should like to believe you,” he returned quite gently, “but I’m in no position to judge. Come, it’s time to leave.”

She gazed up at him, unable to comprehend how this man could offer kindness and assistance, then turn around and hand her over to her enemies. Passionate entreaty shone in her eyes. She saw compunction in his, but no yielding. In miserable silence she stood and limped a few paces to the horse. She could feel the weight of Onartino Belandor’s regard as she went, but did not glance in his direction. The doctor boosted her into the saddle, then loosed the tether. For a wild moment she thought of clapping her heels to the horse’s flanks and galloping away; but it was impossible, he held the reins firmly.

They moved off along the path, back the way that she had come, with the doctor leading the horse and Onartino bringing up the rear. Neither man could see her face. Jianna’s shoulders slumped. She bowed her head and her tears flowed, invisible in the falling rain.