The Boy with the Porcelain Blade (12 page)

‘No more need for you, my friend,’ said the Domo. ‘The endgame is upon us, for better or worse.’ He turned and disappeared among the trees, back along the path, staff holding back branches. Lucien willed himself to stillness, certain Demesne’s steward would return at any moment.

The skies lightened, the disc of the sun became visible over the tops of the trees.

Lucien stood, satisfied he was alone, clutching his knife, for all the small protection it might afford him. He approached the grave cautiously, well aware of the sight waiting in the rude earth. The slain Orfano and the gravedigger lay together in a twisted embrace. In life they had most likely never known each other. Now they had been discarded callously into the same grave.

Lucien made his way back to the fire pit, now smouldering weakly, stamped out by the Majordomo, no doubt. He retrieved the saddle, slung it over his good shoulder with a grunt. Flies buzzed about the corpse of the slaughtered roan, gorging themselves on the congealing blood. Spiders and their various cousins in the order of insects had joined the gathering, already returning the horse to earth in tiny increments.

‘Virmyre is going to kill me, assuming no one else does first.’

Lucien froze in the shadow of the cemetery wall as two House Fontein guardsmen appeared at the gates. The men looked bored and unhappy, their halberds dull in the flat light. The scarlet and black of their uniforms were more subdued than usual, mud-spotted from the road. No guard would relish hunting down a highly trained Orfano. The guards were merely a deterrent, bullies kept in line by tyrants.

Lucien swore as one happened to look up and spot him. Disbelief gave way to anger, and they clutched their weapons more tightly. Lucien turned on his heel and ran, struggling under the weight of the saddle, cursing his luck. Or the lack of it. He longed for a scabbard and a blade at his hip, feeling naked without them. Behind him stifled shouts, the clattering of men in breastplates scaling the cemetery wall. Lucien ran, feet tumbling over themselves. The branches of the copse conspired to hold him back, roots foxing his steps, leaving him sprawling. He emerged from the copse in a tangle of limbs, some of them his own. He took a moment to pick himself up. A surge of elation.

The dull scar of the road cut through the land among patchwork fields and ragged hedgerows. Farmsteads clustered at junctions in the distance. Lucien turned and listened, hoping the guards had given up and turned back to Demesne, reporting to their betters.

It was a short-lived hope.

The guards emerged, muddied and red-faced, exhalations steaming on the chill air. One was missing a helmet, spewing curses and indignation. Their eyes fell on him and Lucien ran, with only the open road ahead of him and nowhere to hide.

12

Diplomatic Intervention
MISTRESS CORVO’S STUDIO
–
Settembre
309

Mistress Corvo, his dance teacher, was a woman in her late fifties. Unmarried and always attired in black, she was emaciated and wizened. Despite this she was possessed of a vigour that few within Demesne could match. Lucien surmised she sucked the marrow from children’s bones to sustain herself. There could be no other explanation. He’d said as much to Rafaela, who’d chided him when she finally stopped laughing.

‘You should be grateful you have the luxury of such lessons; there’s many that don’t,’ Rafaela told him one morning.

‘Have you ever learned?’

‘To dance?’

‘Of course.’

‘When would I find the time?’ She shook her head, then set down a pile of fresh bedding on the chest in his bedroom. ‘Between keeping this place and helping Camelia I barely have five minutes to myself.’

‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ he replied, feeling a twinge of guilt. ‘Maybe I could ask Mistress Corvo to—’

‘That’s a sweet gesture, Lucien, but there’s no need.’

He’d felt curiously raw following her refusal.

‘Lucien, will you pay attention!’ His focus snapped back to the gaunt dance teacher in her studio at House Erudito. He couldn’t shake the feeling: there was something unseemly about her. No one that thin and corpse-like should have so much vitality. She was given to grinning inanely in the presence of nobles, resembling an awful skull, hair gathered up in a bun at her crown. Thick blue veins ran through her hands and up her age-spotted arms. Technically she was part of House Erudito, on account of her status as a teacher, but she spent the greater part of her time clucking around Duchess Prospero. She doted on the duchess’s daughter Stephania, a regular attendee of her classes.

Mistress Corvo treated Lucien no differently to how she treated any other student, which is to say she castigated him in the most caustic language available.

‘Lucien, another blessed hour in your presence. And to think, I could be teaching a dozen young ladies to walk like princesses.’ She rounded on him, slapping and prodding him into posture. ‘Instead I’m teaching an ape to walk. Never let it be said I do not suffer for my art, no?

‘No, Mistress Corvo,’ he managed from gritted teeth.

‘There are some men who are fair of feature and move with beauty. You are not one of these men, Lucien. Nor will you grow into one, I think. Still, we must work with what we have.’

Lucien hated the dance studio: full-length mirrors greeted him at every turn. Mistress Corvo insisted he tie his hair back during lessons. While this did not reveal his missing ears, he could not find any peace. His self-consciousness manifested with greater intensity with each passing year. Now eleven years old, he wondered if he could bear to make it to his teens. He squeezed his eyes shut to be spared his reflection for a second, took a breath, then set his gaze on the withered teacher

She had been especially exacting of late, abandoning their work on a tarantella to teach him a rather more sedate gavotte. He’d not minded. The constant rattle of the tambourine with its effete ribbons, so essential for the tarantella, had tested his nerves. She’d even foregone her attempts to make him do ballet, much to his relief.

‘I can’t bear it,’ she shrieked one afternoon. ‘You’re beyond incompetent. You make the incompetent look graceful. I’d rather teach servants.’

‘Maybe you should, and stop torturing me with this horrible shit,’ he muttered. Not quietly enough, as it turned out. He’d been barred from lessons for a week and forced to help muck out the stables. Not much of a punishment, as he rather enjoyed it.

Now he was learning to dance with a partner, and he suspected he knew why. Noble children were often called on to dance with each other at
La Festa.
The idea of performing like a trained dog mortified Lucien. The dance teacher had icy-cold hands, and Lucien recoiled from touching her. Her breath was strangely odourless, and being so close to her filled him with disgust. He never embraced anyone except Camelia, who occasionally swept him into a bear hug.

‘I see no reason you shouldn’t learn some court dancing now that you’re eleven,’ snapped Mistress Corvo. ‘A boy like you will be quite sought after next year.’

‘Only if I grow some ears,’ mumbled Lucien sourly.

‘What?’

‘Ah… I said, “I hope I get taller next year.” ’

Mistress Corvo squinted at him, opening her mouth to say something, then thought better of it.

La Festa del Ringraziamento
was the one time of the year the Orfani were officially gathered together in the same room. Twelve months from now he’d be made to dance with an empty-headed noble’s daughter, probably a halfwit from House Allatamento. Golia would be there, glowering at Giancarlo’s heels like a wolfhound. Anea would put in the slightest of appearances. She stayed as long as etiquette dictated and not a minute longer.

Lucien hated
La Festa.
He loathed that moment of walking through the double doors, being announced by the steward of the house, only to find himself staring back into the dismissive faces of courtiers and pages. Worse still, he never knew what to say, either to his peers or anyone else. He’d be fussed over by some teachers and blanked by others. The nobles of the four families would try to outdo each other in their finery, duelling with sharpened slights and veiled put-downs.

Duchess Prospero would wear a gown that would reveal more than it concealed, and would flirt with and tease anyone who caught her eye. The more elderly duke would get slowly fuddled on strong wine, before stumbling to his rest. Their daughter Stephania would lead a procession of noble girls, all whispering spitefully behind their fans.

Duke and Duchess Fontein, on the other hand, would mark out one corner of the hall as their sole domain. Those breaching the threshold would earn sour looks and barbed compliments for their pains. Even Ruggeri and D’arzenta shunned their company, but Giancarlo would remain by their side, ever the faithful retainer.

Lord Contadino would endure the night but take no pleasure from it. It was common knowledge he preferred the comfort of his privacy. His wife would charm the various guests and earn the admiration of the courtiers anew. Often she’d sing, unaccompanied, to rapturous applause.

Maestro Cherubini would be found presiding over a great flock of teaching staff from House Erudito. The
professori
would do their best to act as a collective charisma deficit. Some called them eccentrics; Lucien called them embarrassing.

Messengers and aides of every stripe and persuasion would haggle and threaten and cajole for an invite to
La Festa.
If only Lucien could palm off his invitation on someone who wanted it. Small chance of that. No Orfano had ever missed the event – it would be a scandal should he fail to attend. And yet Lucien couldn’t find it in himself to care this year. Superiore Giancarlo had declared his testing would be held three days prior to
La Festa.
All his thoughts were turned to scissors, stools and humiliation.

Lucien waited in the antechamber of the training room, bent double at the waist, struggling to draw breath. He feared he would lose the meagre breakfast he’d picked at just an hour earlier.

‘Just nerves,’ Ella had said. He’d not replied, blushing furiously. Being nervous at all was bad enough; in front of Ella had increased his shame sevenfold.

‘You’ll be fine,’ she soothed, brushing his epaulettes with a firm hand before straightening his cravat.

‘I don’t care about “fine”. I just want to pass this year.’ He rubbed his shoulder, remembering where Giancarlo had injured him at the second testing. She squeezed his hand, concern glimmering in her eyes.

‘Just do the best you can. That’s all anyone can ask.’

‘Giancarlo doesn’t care for my best.’

She sighed, then stepped forward, soft lips brushing his cheek. Lucien was suddenly breathless. The scent of her hair, of her skin, while subtle had struck him like a hammer blow. The gesture had arrived unbidden and he was blushing furiously in response.

‘Be careful, Lucien.’ Her voice was just above a whisper, eyes now downcast, worry evident in the set of her shoulders. She retreated from the antechamber, drawing the doors shut behind her. Lucien waited, chewing his lip, the heat of hers still burned on his cheek, a sun-warmed touch that lit him like a candle. Thoughts of the impending test crowded in on him, stifling the wonder of Rafaela’s affection. He swallowed on a dry throat, not able to meet his own gaze in the floor-length glass. Anxiety ambushed him: he worried he’d arrived late or even confused the day. Did anyone await him in the training chamber? Might he be able to return to his apartment? Would he see out the day unbloodied?

Finally he was summoned.

The circular training chamber was now familiar to him, the three identical banners of House Fontein the only respite from the grey walls and flagstones. Giancarlo indicated he sit on a rough wooden stool provided by a scurrying novice. There were a good number of them present this year, all of them from Giancarlo’s school. They variously sneered or primped themselves, looking haughty and superior. D’arzenta stood to one side, cold and furious, head bowed as if in great concentration. He knew what was coming, just as Lucien did. Maestro di Spada Ruggeri stood on the dais, occasionally glaring at the students when they became too boisterous. Behind everyone, leaning against the far wall with his arms crossed, was Golia. He looked more thuggish that usual, his blunt features impassive.

Giancarlo began to lecture the students on practicality and appearance, ignoring Lucien entirely. Then he brought forth the scissors, brandishing them like a short blade. He turned to Lucien as if noticing him for the first time.

‘Ah, Master Lucien. You arrived on time this year. Small wonder you arrived at all.’ Giancarlo turned to his students, who sniggered on cue. The
superiore
continued his lecture on the virtues of appearance while shearing off the longer sections of Lucien’s hair. The scissors cut especially close to the sides of his head, laying bare his disfigurement for all to see. Lucien sat, not hearing the words only the steady steely scrape of the metal blades. His upper lip curled with hatred. A single tear tracked down his cheek before hitting his chest, now covered in slivers of coarse black hair.

He’d expected this. And Giancarlo was more thorough than he had been the time before, taking his time to shear every lock

‘Now, Lucien. Now you are ready to fight. Like a man, I would hope, rather than a boy masquerading as a woman.’

All the adepts and novices laughed at that. All except Golia, who simply looked bored. If any emotion crossed his features then it was one of irritation. D’arzenta caught Lucien’s eye and nodded almost imperceptibly. Lucien dried his eyes on the sleeve of his jacket and felt a calm descend on him.

They’d spent many hours training for this.

The
maestro superiore di spada
and the student took their positions, Giancarlo strapping a shiny buckler to his left forearm, just as he’d done before. He gave Lucien a fencer’s salute, a mocking grin fixed on his tanned face. Lucien caught sight of his own reflection in the surface of the buckler. His black hair had been ravaged completely. When offered a shield of his own, Lucien flicked fingers from beneath his chin, glowering at the novice who held it.

‘Well, well, it seems your etiquette is the equal of your swordplay, Lucien,’ sneered Giancarlo. ‘Perhaps I can carve some manners into you.’ Another round of laughter from the boys, and then the fight began.

Giancarlo opened with very basic attacks, smiling as Lucien threw up the correct parries and ripostes. Lucien pressed in, only to be turned aside by the buckler. The sight of his reflection drew his eye, the distraction costing him a slash across the ribs, ripping fabric but not the flesh beneath. Giancarlo grunted in satisfaction, then renewed his assault, thrusting at the Orfano’s chest. Lucien struggled to turn the blade aside in time, feeling the point score him deeply. His shirt became damp, but he couldn’t tear his eyes from the
superiore
to see how much blood he was losing.

‘Perhaps now is a good time for you to quit, Master Lucien?’

The pack of novices brayed and heckled, cheering on Giancarlo. A few dared to boo before finding themselves sent out by D’arzenta.

The pain of his wounds called out to Lucien – an irresistible song but not one of defeat. One of fury. The Orfano launched a series of deft strikes, slashing high, low, high, low, thrust, altering the tempo of each attack as he went. His gaze was fixed on the
superiore
, no longer daunted by his reflection. Giancarlo’s mocking expression changed to one of surprise, then concentration. All eyes followed the fighters, every breath in the chamber baited. The
superiore
batted aside a thrust with the buckler, managing to parry the following strikes. He’d given ground and was backed up against the far side of the circular room. A cruel smile stole over Lucien’s lips; the watching novices were silent, ashen-faced and incredulous.

Then Giancarlo counter-attacked, wiping the smirk from Lucien’s face, threatening to disarm him. A few of the adepts glanced at each other, knowing full well the
superiore
was using moves far above Lucien’s syllabus. The Orfano fell back under the onslaught, throwing up parries where he could, dodging back when he couldn’t. Then Giancarlo’s blade snagged Lucien’s forearm, opening a shallow cut. The Orfano stifled a curse and retreated, the biting sting all too familiar. Giancarlo had height advantage, reach advantage, and was undeniably stronger. He was all but implacable. Lucien surrendered more and more ground to the
superiore
until there was nowhere left to go. The wall was at his back, just inches away.

Giancarlo grinned, hefting his sword above his head, bringing it down like a hammer strike. The novices gasped. Giancarlo had disarmed Lucien. Worse still, the Orfano’s ceramic blade had fractured as he had parried. The weapon tumbled from numb fingers, shattering on the granite floor, breaking apart in three distinct shards of polished black.