Authors: Paula Brandon

The Traitor's Daughter (56 page)

BOOK: The Traitor's Daughter

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“You don’t know what you’re saying. You’re weak, faint, and probably confused. Rest awhile, and when your head has cleared we’ll decide what you’re to do about locating Jianna.”

“It is extraordinary, this ability of yours to exclude all that you do not wish to hear, as if an arcane shield enclosed your head. I have rested quite long enough. Would you be so good as to help me to my chair?” The wheeled chair in question, untouched by smoke or fire, stood beside the bed.

“Where do you mean to go?”

“My workroom. There is much to do. I must begin.”

“Innesq, wait. Your workroom was destroyed in the fire.” His brother’s face reflected shock, and Aureste added truthfully, “I am sorry.”

“Destroyed? Everything?”

“I think the Sishmindris rescued a few items.”

“Where are they?”

“I’m not sure. I think in one of the rooms at the end of the corridor. Everything here is in disarray. You don’t yet realize the extent of the fire damage. We’ve suffered a tremendous loss.”

“I will see for myself. Help me to my chair, if you please.”

“Are you certain this is wise? Oh, very well, if you insist. But wait, I’ll have your bodyguard assist. He’s younger and larger than I.”

“Bodyguard?”

“He’ll stay out of your way. But I mean to keep you protected, brother. You’ll not be attacked or injured again. And please don’t trouble to protest, I’ll hear no argument.” Stepping to the door, Aureste opened it and commanded, “Drocco, get in here.”

The youngster lurched in. His eyes were filmy, the whites faintly yellow. Sweat dewed his forehead, a heavy stubble covered his chin, and a disquieting, almost putrescent odor wafted from his uniform.

“You’re falling-down drunk.” Aureste’s nostrils flared. “And you stink. Go downstairs and have them send up someone sober. Then collect whatever wages you are owed and clear out.”

Drocco’s face did not alter. Almost he seemed too muddled to understand. An incoherent muttering escaped him, and he tottered forward into the room.

“I told you to get out.” Aureste fell back a couple of paces. “Do you wish to be beaten before you go?”

Drocco displayed no sign of comprehension. His dull gaze wandered, encountered Innesq Belandor, and anchored there. His muttering intensified, and he wobbled toward the bed.

“Stay back. You drunken donkey, have you gone deaf?”

Still nothing of understanding, nor yet of obedience. Drocco’s laborious advance continued, and a dash of doubt, or even something like alarm shot through Aureste. Interposing himself between the guard and his brother’s bed, he promised, “Another step and I will thrash you myself.”

“Aureste, no, do not touch him.” Innesq’s voice from behind him, filled with something beyond characteristic pacifism. “Do you not see? He is ill. It is the plague.”

Plague
. The word detonated like an infernal machine in Aureste’s mind. He knew at once that it was true; the signs were clear enough, had he allowed himself to recognize them. The pestilence, here in the heart of all that remained of his household; the plague, come to rob him of all that was still his, including his brother’s life—and his own. Innesq would go first; the infectious guard was heading straight for him. At that moment it seemed to Aureste that the disease, in the guise of a shambling figure named Drocco, was an enemy that could be fought and conquered like all other enemies. Without hesitation and almost without thought, he sprang to the fireplace, snatched up the poker, raised it, and swung with all his strength. The iron struck Drocco’s forehead with a startlingly loud crack. The youngster dropped without a cry. Letting fall the poker, Aureste drew the poniard from his belt, stooped, plunged the blade into Drocco’s throat, and stepped back quickly to avoid the rush of blood. Spasms racked the dying body.

“What have you done?” Innesq’s voice was hardly more than a whisper. “Oh, what have you done?”

“Saved us all, I hope.” Aureste tossed the poniard from him, watching as the final tremors stirred Drocco’s long limbs. A last gurgle of escaping breath, and the guard lay still. “There, it’s done. And it had to be done, Innesq. You must see that. If it’s discovered that the plague has come to our house, we’ll be placed under quarantine and left to die at leisure. We’ll be trapped in here, and there goes all hope of finding Jianna. Nor could all my credit with Uffrigo prevent it. I can’t allow that.” There was no reply, and he continued, “We must dispose of this body, and do it without contaminating ourselves. Can you use your abilities to disinfect him, brother? Render him safe to handle? Or better yet, could you vaporize him?”

“I am afraid it is not quite as easy as that.” Innesq’s voice was almost pitying.

“I never said or thought that it was easy.”

“Still you do not understand. Watch.”

Aureste obeyed, looking on with a sense of nameless dread that sharpened to horror as dead Drocco stirred, opened his filmy eyes, and sat up slowly. The empty gaze drifted over Aureste, who went cold inside, then traveled on to Innesq, where it halted. Clumsily, his movements stiff and abrupt, Drocco rose to his feet. A trickle of blood still descended from the great wound in his throat—doubtless drawn by the power of gravity, for his heart beat no longer. For a moment he stood rocking from foot to foot as if in experimentation, then resumed his interrupted advance upon the bed.

Breaking his own stunned paralysis with an effort, Aureste took up the poker again to bring it smashing down on the back of Drocco’s head. Again he heard a sharp crack, but the dead guard barely faltered. He struck again and again, to no effect. There was a curious roaring in his ears, through which he caught or thought he caught the sound of his brother’s voice, rhythmically upraised. Now he changed his mode of attack, clubbing the knees until he felt bone and cartilage give way, whereupon the dead man staggered, one leg buckling beneath him. And now for the other, but Drocco’s attention was finally shifting from Innesq to Aureste, as if recognizing him for the first time as a significant threat, and the big hands were reaching out. Aureste swung the poker again, only to have the blow arrested in mid-arc and the weapon twisted from his grasp. The poker went flying, and he stood unarmed. The way to the door was clear; he could certainly escape, but that meant abandoning Innesq to the mercies of this … thing. His eyes ranged the chamber. The poker lay some distance from him. If he could reach it, he might target Drocco’s remaining good leg. Break that one, and the corpse should be effectively disabled.

Retreating to the bedside, he seized Innesq’s wheeled chair, and—rolling the chair before him as a perambulating shield—made for the poker. He had taken no more than three steps before Drocco’s hands closed on the arms of the chair. His shield was wrenched away, the poker was out of reach; he stood once more defenseless. But the dead guard carried a short, heavy-bladed sword, presently sheathed. If he could duck in swiftly and pull that sword from its slow-moving owner’s scabbard, then perhaps a tendon-slicing slash might fell the corpse.

Almost as if telepathic, Drocco slowly drew his sword, which he regarded without comprehension. As he stood staring, Innesq Belandor’s voice rose to a controlled crescendo, and a blessed rigor mortis seized the dead guard’s body, petrifying every muscle. Drocco crashed full length to the floor, where he lay motionless as a fallen granite image.

Aureste turned to the bed where his brother lay, sweat-soaked, eyes closed, breathing in rapid, shallow gasps. In his weakened state he had called upon his arcane powers, without benefit of the stimulants or chemical enhancements that he would have utilized as a matter of course at the best of times. There was no telling the effect of such killing overexertion.

He hurried to Innesq’s side, and what he saw terrified him. The hectic spots of color had vanished from his brother’s face. His lips and the shadows beneath his eyes displayed a bluish tinge. His quick breath was labored, and drops of blood spotted his lips.

“Innesq.” Aureste’s own heart was beating hard and fast. “Innesq, you’ve saved us both.”

“Aureste.” Innesq’s eyes opened. His perishing whisper could barely be heard. “Not saved. Now you have glimpsed what we face. Understand? Adepts must gather. Work together as one. As one.”

“Impossible. You speak of the enemies of our House.”

“No longer. Make peace. Even with Corvestri. Or all lost.”

For the first time a measure of true understanding came to Aureste, and with it a recognition of the ruin he had wrought. Remorse, guilt, and shame rose up to scorch him; demons that could be exorcised only by way of confession.

“I have caused more harm than you know,” he admitted. “Vinz Corvestri sits in prison, where I placed him, probably facing execution. And you spoke of a young girl at Ironheart—I did not see her, but I destroyed the stronghouse, blasted it out of this world. If she survived, she and her people will never make peace with us. This is my doing.”

“Forget the past. New start. Must be—” Innesq’s voice died away.

“I can’t hear you. Stay awake. Try to stay awake.”

“No choice. As one.”

“Don’t talk anymore. Just stay awake.”

“Aureste. Understand.” For one moment the voice was clear and steady.
“We need them.”

Innesq Belandor sighed, and his eyes closed.

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