"Provided you've time and opportunity. Blankets and candles?"

"Do without."

"Alone in the dark and cold of the subcellar, with the rats and insects to steal your food, and the stench of the cesspit always in your nostrils-you think you could endure it?"

"If I must. But it wouldn't have to be as bad as that-not if you'd place a blanket and candles down there sometime during the next couple of days. You could do it easily."

"And why in the world would I do all this and risk so much for you?"

"Perhaps because you don't want to see me tortured and destroyed. Am I wrong?" She was standing so near him that she could discern the striations of color in his eyes, true blue alternating with slate. His face was unrevealing, but for a moment she felt as if she could read his mind. He wanted to remain detached and impersonal, but his resolve was crumbling and about to crash in ruins. She had him. She knew it. Triumph shot across her mind and flared for a moment in her eyes.

And he caught it. His expression altered.

She knew at once that her face had betrayed her and instantly lowered her eyes.

"Look at me," Rione commanded.

Unwillingly she obeyed. He was studying her, his penetrating gaze seeming to plumb the depths of her mind, and it was all she could do to sustain the scrutiny without visibly squirming. She tried to think of something to say. Nothing occurred to her.

"Well, maidenlady." He broke the comfortless silence at last, his voice soothing and unruffled as always. "You've ambitious plans, but you can scarcely hope to carry them out if you're unable to walk properly."

The abrupt change of subject took her aback, setting off internal alarm bells.

"My ankle's not so bad," she assured him quickly. "By this time tomorrow it will probably be all better."

"I shouldn't wonder. Better let me have a look, though."

"Oh." She cast about for some means of putting him off, but found none. "Thank you."

He knelt and there was nothing for it but to draw her skirt back a few inches, exposing to view a slim ankle quite free of swelling. He did not trouble to draw the flimsy shoe from her foot, but took her ankle in both his hands and pressed experimentally. His hands were warm, his touch light and sure. Her nerves jumped, and she drew a sharp breath.

"That hurts?" Rione inquired.

"No." She remembered to grimace. "It's all right."

"And this?" He squeezed her instep.

She flinched emphatically.

"Maidenlady?"

"That hurt some," she lied. "But not badly."

"And this?" He pressed.

"Just a little." She decided to stiffen. "It's nothing."

"I agree," replied Rione.

"What?" This time her start was spontaneous.

"I said I agree. It's nothing. There's no swelling, no loss of flexibility, no apparent inflammation, no appropriate response. Your ankle isn't bothering you in the least, is it?"

"It's much better than it was." She swallowed. Caught. "I've been telling you that all along, haven't I?"

"You've been telling me much. The story about last night's meeting with Onartino, for example. That was a lie, wasn't it?"

"It's no lie that he's waylaid me in this house. It's certainly no lie that he's shoved me, hit me, and threatened me."

"But not last night."

No room to maneuver. "Not last night."

"And he's never pushed you down the stairs, has he? Last night or at any other time?"

"Not yet, but it's something he's certainly capable of doing."

"This weak equivocation only cheapens you. I begin to see why they keep reminding me that you are your father's daughter. You seem to share his famed penchant for deceit and manipulation."

His remote expression alarmed her. She had blundered badly in lying to him. Unless she could make it right, he would never assist her. Moreover, he would think ill of her ever after, a prospect she found remarkably disturbing. Perfectly genuine tears filled her eyes and she blurted, "I'm sorry, Falaste! I never meant to deceive or manipulate, I didn't intend-"

"The artificial limp, the well-crafted lies-they were purely accidental?"

"No, I mean I didn't think of it as deceiving you, I only thought about somehow persuading you to help me, that's all I wanted, and still do, because I need your help desperately. I'm doomed without it. There's no falsehood in that." Her voice broke and the tears streamed freely down her face.

For a while he stood looking at her, and she had no idea what was going on behind his eyes. When finally he spoke, his tone was kind and impersonal, as if he addressed a distraught serving maid. "Take such time as you need to compose yourself, maidenlady. You may come back to work when you are calm."

She gazed at him piteously. Ignoring the mute plea, he stepped back into the infirmary and the door shut firmly behind him.

ELEVEN.

Early evening, and the lamps glowed warmly in the magnifico's study at Corvestri Mansion. Two men faced each other across the polished expanse of the desktop. One was nondescript to the verge of invisibility. The other was utterly miserable.

"Your wife's maidservant has been back to Belandor House," announced Lousewort. "Around noon today. Did you know that?"

Vinz Corvestri hesitated, uncertain. He had not known that, but a frank avowal of ignorance would underscore his lack of mastery in his own household, a weakness he preferred to conceal from his resistance contact. And it wouldn't even be true, because he had known, or suspected, in a way; or rather, he was not in the least surprised. Some part of him had been waiting for it.

"This time, did your agents manage to discover what she actually does there?" Vinz liked his own reply, which seemed pleasingly assertive.

"You're in a better position than anyone else to find out," Lousewort parried. "But our lads have managed to secure one other bit of information that may be of some interest to you."

Vinz could not bring himself to voice the expected query. He sensed deeply that he did not want to know.

Lousewort, however, required no encouragement. "It's about our friend Belandor. For days now, he's been gadding about town buying up muscle."

"Buying up what?"

"Muscle. Able-bodied men, wherever he can find them. In short, he's working hard to raise a force. I don't know another Faerlonnishman in Vitrisi who'd get away with it. But seeing as it's the Viper's pet, the Taers just pocket their bribes and look the other way."

"A force. Aureste Belandor is raising a force?" Vinz longed to disbelieve, but knew from past experience that Lousewort's intelligence was reliable. "What for?"

"To maintain public safety, no doubt. What do you think?"

"That your levity is misplaced."

"I am justly rebuked. You're right, it's no laughing matter. Let's consider, then. Your wife's maidservant flits back and forth between Corvestri Mansion and Belandor House, while your greatest enemy musters a small army. What does all of this imply?"

"You suggest that Aureste Belandor plans an attack upon my home?"

"He probably means to raze it to the ground. Such a scheme is hardly beyond him. Weeks have passed since you spoke of launching your own preemptive strike. Our people are ready and willing to support this venture, but there's been no call from you. Have you devised a plan?"

"It is incomplete." In fact it was nonexistent. His initial enthusiasm had long since ebbed, and with it his resolve. He had let himself drift, buoyed on the hope that all difficulties might quietly resolve themselves without benefit of his direct intervention. Clearly the difficulties had failed to oblige.

"We can help you with that," Lousewort pushed. "We can supply men, weapons, and strategy. But we can't proceed without you, Magnifico."

"I know." He knew only too well.

"The middle Belandor brother, the crippled one, is known to possess arcane skills of a high order," Lousewort pressed on. "He'll have safeguarded the house. We'll need to call on your abilities to break supranormal barriers and disable arcane devices."

Vinz said nothing.

"This task lies within your power, does it not?"

Vinz nodded distantly.

"Are you quite certain, Magnifico? You understand, we'll be relying on-"

"I said yes," snapped Vinz, goaded. Beneath the apparent impatience lurked trepidation and profound reluctance. Lousewort and the others expected his active participation in an armed assault upon Belandor House. He had supported the Faerlonnish resistance movement for years, giving greatly if surreptitiously of his time, money, influence, and arcane skill. But never in all that time had he been called to violent action. And with good reason: He was not a man of action. He never had been, even in his youth.

"Good. Then let us set a date."

"Now?"

"What better time?"

Some other century? Vinz realized then that he did not remotely want to go through with it. The pictures flashed through his mind-fire, explosions, the clash of steel, the shouts and screams, the stink of smoke and blood-and he shuddered discreetly. He wanted no part of such ugliness and horror, but what choice was there? Threatened, he was obliged to defend himself. Moreover Lousewort's cronies of the resistance were depending on him, and how could he fail such insanely selfless patriots? No question about it, he was committed. Trapped.

"Let me know more of your plans, then," Vinz temporized. "Will you-that is, we-enter Belandor House by stealth? Or do you intend something more of a straightforward military strike?"

"In view of Belandor's resources, we-"

A tap at the study door cut Lousewort's reply short. Both men turned. The door opened, and the Magnifica Sonnetia stood on the threshold.

"Magnifico, a word if you please," she began and broke off at sight of the visitor. "Ah, forgive me, I did not know that you were occupied."

Startled, Vinz goggled at his wife. She stood tall and straight in a wine-colored gown whose fluid lines draped a figure still slender and graceful as a girl's. Her chestnut hair had yet to reveal so much as a thread of grey. And her face-in the forgiving lamplight at least-seemed miraculously untouched by time, as smooth and fine as it had been on the day that he married her, twenty-four years earlier. She was as beautiful as ever, and as remote. He had little idea what went on behind those clear eyes of hers; it might be anything, up to and including treachery.

A wave of wholly uncharacteristic rage swept through Vinz. His face suffused and he heard himself demand harshly, "What d'you mean by bursting in here without permission? This is my personal study and I expect you to respect my privacy, madam."

Her brows rose and for once her face was not at all difficult to read: It reflected simple astonishment. Following a moment's pause, she returned evenly, "Magnifico, I beg your pardon. I did not realize that you entertain a visitor."

"Didn't you? Have you gone deaf, then? Are you trying to tell me that you heard no voices?"

"Indistinctly. I assumed that you addressed a servant."

"Well, your assumption was wrong, wasn't it? Assumptions frequently are. Exactly what did you overhear?"

"Overhear?" Her look of astonishment deepened. "Nothing of importance."

"I'll be the judge of that. Tell me exactly what you heard, madam. And no evasions, if you please." It was curious. In all their years together, he had never addressed his wife in such tones or terms, never even dreamed of it. But now it seemed as if his mouth had taken on a reckless life of its own. He hardly knew what would come out of it next.

He could see Sonnetia's initial amazement giving way to affront. Ordinarily her anger would have reproached him. Today, for some reason, he welcomed it. Some part of him welcomed the opportunity to assert himself, to express himself, to pay her back. Some part of him had wanted it for decades.

"I heard you pronounce the words 'military strike.' " Sonnetia's spine was very straight, her voice chill. "And then I thought I caught the name 'Belandor,' not spoken by you."

"What more?"

"Nothing more."

"Your conclusions?" There was no immediate reply, and he commanded masterfully, "Answer me." It felt fine and he added for good measure, "Now."

"Magnifico, I have offended you and such was not my intent." Sonnetia spoke with mechanically perfect decorum. "Pray forgive my error and permit me to withdraw."

"I don't permit you. I command you." The word possessed such a delicious flavor that he could not resist repeating it. "I command you to retire. Seek your chamber, madam. Immure yourself and consider your duty. Do not presume to emerge without my leave."

She was staring at him, patently incredulous and offended. Her jaw tightened and he braced against an angry retort that did not emerge. Her eyes shifted briefly to Lousewort's attentive face and thence to the floor. Whatever her private sense of outrage, good breeding would scarcely permit her to defy or embarrass her husband under the eyes of a guest.

"According to your will, Magnifico," Sonnetia returned tonelessly, and withdrew, heels clicking a sharp tattoo on the marble floor.

Vinz shut the door after her. His heart was beating fast with a kind of exhilarated anger, beneath which doubt and guilt persisted. He had behaved abominably. She might not forgive him for days; she might never forgive him. But no, he reassured himself. He had merely asserted himself, as a man ought within his own house. He was master here, he was entitled to respect, and his wife should keep that in mind. As for her forgiveness-why, she was the one who should apologize to him. She, after all, was the one whose maidservant went bouncing off to Belandor House upon unspecified errands. She was lucky he didn't beat her for it.

Beat her? The idea was unsettling. He had never in his life lifted a hand against any woman, much less Sonnetia. But he could. She might stand an inch or so taller than he, but he was undoubtedly the stronger. He could chastise his wife anytime he chose to exert his rightful authority, and maybe he should, maybe that was what the situation called for. Maybe it was what Aureste Belandor would do.

Vinz slanted a covert glance at Lousewort, whose forgettable countenance revealed nothing beyond alertness.

"Well," he prodded, "what do you think, eh?"

"About the magnifica?"

"How much do you suppose she overheard?"