The Traitor's Daughter by Paula Brandon Page B

woman was much older, well advanced into middle age, with grey streaks marbling her mass of brown hair and deep lines framing her lips, but hardy and strong-looking. She was dressed in an unadorned gown of some sturdy dark stuff, no better than an upper servant might have worn, although it was obvious that she was no servant.
    Jianna hardly noted the costume; she was caught and held by the other’s marked resemblance to Reeni’s murderer. There was the same coloring of hair, eyes, and skin. The same broad, square, heavy-jawed face, same assertive nose and full lips, the same wide-set, thick-lidded light grey eyes. While the size, shape, and color of the eyes were identical in mother and son, the expression differed. Where the son’s eyes were chill and seemingly vacant, the mother’s glowed with active intelligence.
    They were scrutinizing Jianna with equal attention, and presently the woman remarked, “She has something of her father’s look. It’s in the eyes and brows, I believe. We shall soon know if she’s inherited his nature as well.”
    The authoritative contralto carried an unexpected aristocratic accent. Jianna contained her surprise. Facing the other, she straightened her spine and lifted her chin. “My father—” she began, but her dry sticky mouth and tongue played her false, and only a hoarse croaking emerged.
    “Sounds like a sick Sishmindri,” the woman observed with amusement. “One thing I’ll give her father, he could speak.” A new thought appeared to strike her, and she inquired, “Has the girl been properly watered?” There was no immediate reply and she prompted impatiently, “Onartino, speak up.”
    The slush-eyed hulk beside Jianna stirred uncomfortably. His flat gaze wandered.
    “Now.”
    “How would I know?” The murderer addressed as Onartino shrugged. “That’s a business for servants.”
    “You imbecile.” The woman spoke with an air of confirmed expectation. “You want to kill her before you’ve had the good of her?” Without awaiting reply, she commanded, “Nissi, see to it.”
    At once the blanched young girl rose from her chair, took up one of the earthenware goblets, came around the table, and raised the vessel to Jianna’s lips.
    Jianna gulped down watered wine. When the glue that seemed to line her mouth had dissolved, she looked up to encounter Nissi’s luminous, almost colorless eyes inches from her own. The lashes were exceptionally long, but pale and fine as cobwebs. The image of Innesq Belandor’s haggard visage flashed across her mind and it seemed to come from nowhere, for there was no discernible resemblance between her uncle and this wraith of a girl. For an instant the eye contact held and then, as if responding to some spoken command or plea, Nissi set the goblet down, shifted position, and applied herself to the cords that bound Jianna’s wrists. Her touch was cool and weightless as mist, but surprisingly effective. Within a moment, the cords fell away. Jianna brought her hands before her and stared at them in amazement. Her fingers were cold and numb, but when she flexed them, they stiffly obeyed.
    “Thank you,” she whispered.
    “No one gave you leave to turn her loose, you little maggot,” Onartino observed. “Have you lost the few insect wits you ever owned?”
    Nissi appeared deaf.
    “Put those ropes back on her,” Onartino commanded, “or else I will. Which d’you think will be the worse for her, maggot—if you do it, or if I do it?”
    Nissi regarded the floor attentively.
    “Shut your mouth, boy,” the older woman suggested. “You’re not out in the woods.”
    “Mother, this is my concern.”
    “And I wish I could trust you to manage matters intelligently, but you’ve all the judgment of a stag in rut.”
    The hitherto silent young man at the table guffawed, and the speaker turned on him. “You hold your tongue, Trecchio,” she advised. “You’re not one particle better than your brother—in fact, you’re not as