The Boy with the Porcelain Blade (19 page)

The Domo drew himself up to his full height and began to exit the room, indifferent to the tension that swirled and eddied like a rip tide.

‘I have matters that need my attention,’ he said.

The last vestiges of Lucien’s patience dissolved. He found himself holding a fistful of dusty fabric, dragging the Domo around to face him. The larger man stumbled, looking ridiculous as he tottered over the teenager. The wooden staff clattered to the floor.

‘This is your work,’ hissed Lucien. ‘There’s conspiracy at work and you’re trying to cover it—’

He got no further with his accusation. He was flung bodily across the room into a table. When he staggered to his knees he found his tongue bleeding, adding to his chagrin. Rafaela had also fallen and was likewise finding her feet. Her eyes were dazed and she clutched one arm. Golia stood over both of them, grinning.

Lucien heard himself snarl and rushed toward the older Orfano, his hand going for his blade. Mistress Corvo screeched. The tailor passed out and the seamstress cowered behind the
capo
, clinging to his sword arm and preventing him from drawing his weapon.

Curiously, it was Dino who reached Golia first. The young Orfano charged, clutching a small dagger. Golia swung around, backhanding the boy to the ground with a club-like fist. Dino sailed back from the blow, crumpling in a heap on the floor. He twitched once and then remained still.

Ruggeri was already shouting at Golia to stand down while Giancarlo smiled. Both boys drew their blades at the same instant, Golia unleashing a series of strikes, blade held in both hands, no finesse. Lucien angled his sword to weather the storm, but the intensity of the attacks would not be parried for long. The ceramic blades fractured, then shattered altogether.

With the taste of his blood hot in his mouth, Lucien stepped within Golia’s guard, mashing a fist into the larger boy’s face. Golia’s head whipped to one side, but the larger Orfano dis-played no evidence of feeling the blow.

Suddenly they were surrounded by House Fontein guardsmen, a ring of halberds levelled at them. Two veterans stepped between the duelling teenagers, parting them with shields. Lucien dropped the remnant of his blade with resignation; Golia spat blood on the carpet.

The Domo had left of course, and Lucien had got nothing for his troubles except the sight of Giancarlo’s gloating smile. Lucien remained silent as the guards dragged him from the room. There would be consequences for this in the weeks ahead.

19

Demesne Revisited
THE
SANATORIO
–
Febbraio
315

Lucien was unaware of how long he’d been unconscious in Raul da Costa’s woodshed. His wrists still burned from the rope, his neck felt stiff, complaining with each surge of the horse beneath him. He worried at the split in his lip with his tongue. The thought of Rafaela in the hands of Giancarlo and the Majordomo consumed him entirely, alternately filling him with dread or impotent fury. Worse still were the thoughts of what Golia might do to her.

Had she already been consigned to the
sanatorio
? he wondered.

The dipping of the blood-red sun below the horizon marked his second day as an exile from Demesne. The sky stained itself pink, darkening to purple and deepest- blue as the first stars revealed themselves. The road stretched out ahead dusty and endless. He’d pushed the white mare hard, only noticing his single-mindedness when he began feeling faint. He’d barely eaten in two days. Chiding himself for a fool, he stopped at the cemetery, where he whispered apologies to his mount. The horse steamed in the chilly air, sweat lathered like foam on the creature’s pure hide. She looked almost spectral in the cemetery grounds. He offered her an apple, small compensation, he realised. Once the mare was calm, he threw a blanket over her and sated his own gnawing hunger with bread and cheese, now well past its best.

The hulking menace of Demesne waited on the horizon as he washed down his simple meal with wine. The
sanatorio
stood before it like a squat nightwatchman holding a vigil over the larger building. Slowly, more and more stars made themselves known. The night swallowed the last of the red and yellow brilliance from the sky. After a moment’s hesitation he left the mare in the cemetery, watched over by the sculpted angels. He was confident there was no one around to steal her. Losing one horse was unfortunate; losing two would be unforgivable.

He hurried on deft feet, feeling the night settle around him like a favourite cloak. He was grateful for it. A mist had rolled in from the sea over the lowlands. It would protect him from unwanted gazes in the hours ahead. He was close to Demesne now, the scents of the place keen to him. Woodsmoke and rotting food, horse manure and wood shavings. The pungent odours of the tannery at House Prospero. The smells remained the same but there was a subtle shift to the mood of the prodigious edifice. The hairs on his arms stood to attention; a chill passed down his spine. If Demesne did have a gaze, then it was surely directed inward, preoccupied with history, lost to reverie and perhaps regret. Many of the arched windows were shuttered, others remained unlit. Those rooms that were illuminated showed no occupants. He was pleased to note the guards were not outside the walls. A handful patrolled the battlements and rooftops, thinking themselves unnoticed so high up. They stamped their feet, cursing bitterly about the wind. Some lit pipes, making themselves conspicuous against the night. Lucien took them all in with a hunter’s eye. One by one he could dispose of them; en masse he’d be lost.

The Orfano ran to the
sanatorio
, pressing himself against the curving stone, his breath before him in small wisps. If Rafaela was in here he’d find her, even if he had to break the lock on every door to every cell. No sooner had he started to climb than he heard his name, harsh and insistent on the evening wind.

Not Sinistro, as the guards would call, but his real name.

He looked around, trying to locate the source. Sweat prickled at his brow, ears straining. Fearing discovery he flattened himself against the wall, willing himself to become just another patch of darkness. After a moment of confusion his eye was drawn to Anea’s window. Russo was shaking a white pillow case at him, flagging frantically for his attention.

He ran, bent low at a sprint until he reached the familiar grey stone of Demesne. The burgundy ivy trembled in the breeze. He climbed without thinking, fingers mechanically seeking each handhold, feet seemingly moving of their own accord. His shoulder held fast under the tight bandage despite grumbled whisperings of pain.

Lucien arrived at the window and gazed inside. The sitting room was a wreck. The shelves had been thrown down, scattering the floor with leather-bound books. A few of the tomes smouldered in the fireplace, shedding a mean ruddy light. The oak door to the apartment was splintered and shattered. Whoever had wrought this destruction had also taken a sledgehammer to the furniture. Lucien imagined the old prejudices against
streghe
finding an outlet among the guards. Few were more feared than the silent and mysterious Anea. Golia at least could be understood – he was composed of brute force and cruelty – Anea was unknown and haughty, ever Demesne’s enigma. The sacking of the apartment was total. Lucien opened the broken window and hopped down from the sill like a great raven. His boots crunched on broken glass; splintered wood lay all around. A vase lay in countless pieces, lilies cast across thick carpets soiled with mud, countless footprints of vandal guardsmen. He crossed the room, avoiding the wreckage, knocking at the bedroom door, still intact somehow.

‘It’s me, Lucien.’ There was a pause, and then a key scraped in the lock. The door opened a fraction. Russo’s incredulous, red-rimmed eye stared out from the gap.

‘Why are you here?’ she whispered.

‘You summoned me – with the pillow case?’

‘Did I? Oh, I thought I was someone else.’ Russo opened the door. She was alone. Her jacket had been ripped at the shoulder. The corner of her mouth was bruised, a splash of blood dried at the corner, her customary purple lipstick now faded.

‘You mean
you
thought
I
was someone else’’

The
professore
forced a weak smile onto her face and blinked slowly.

‘Russo? Who did this to you?’

But she was staring into the middle distance. She wrung her hands with a dreamlike slowness. A lantern on the nightstand behind gave a tawny light. She looked faint, insubstantial.

‘Can you tell me what’s going on?’

‘Dino and Festo were found slain in their beds this morning and Anea’s been arrested. I tried to stop them but…’

‘What?’ whispered Lucien, clutching the hilt of his sword, sickness yawing in his gut.

‘We think Golia killed the other Orfani. Even the very young ones didn’t escape.’ Russo shivered and clutched herself. ‘He’s blaming you. You didn’t do it though, did you?’

‘Of course not! It’s me, Lucien, I—’

‘No one dares to contradict him,’ she continued, ‘in case they’re killed too. Like Festo.’

‘And Dino is really…’

‘Gone. All gone.’ She stared at him with glassy eyes. ‘Killed in his sleep.’ A sigh escaped her and then she swept the dust from her riding skirt.

‘Professore?’

‘Oh, hello, Lucien. When did you get here?’

‘You were telling me about Golia, and the Orfani.’

‘Yes.’ Her eyes snapped back into focus. ‘No one knows what to think. We’ve barely heard from the Majordomo since all this began.’ She began to cry. ‘Giancarlo is never seen without at least four bodyguards.’

‘This whole thing has the stench of a coup.’

Lucien walked to the window of the sitting room, gaze set on the
sanatorio
, shaking with fury, breathless with it.

‘What will you do?’ asked Russo, her voice no more than a cracked whisper.

‘I’ll go to the place where Demesne deposits all of its wayward unwanted women; I’ll go to the
sanatorio
.’ He turned to her. ‘Stay here. Lock the door.’ He surveyed the damage. ‘For all the use it will do.’

The sound of booted feet came from the corridor beyond. Russo flinched instinctively, eyes widening with panic.

‘Lock the door,’ repeated Lucien, taking a deep breath. He turned to find two guardsmen in the ruin of the doorway, their tabards bearing the scarlet and black of House Fontein. The shorter of the two bore a sledgehammer, likely the perpetrator of the earlier damage. He was in his thirties and sported two days’ worth of stubble and a broken nose. The taller of the two was a sour sort that Lucien recognised. Their dirty faces betrayed their shock at finding him.

‘Hunting Orfani, are we?’ said Lucien, his voice low. ‘Looks like you struck gold.’ He held his arms out at his sides, beckoning them in.

‘We’re just following orders,’ grunted the shorter guard. ‘Giancarlo said Mistress Anea was part of a plot against the king.’

‘And that bruise on Professore Russo’s mouth. Was that “following orders” too?’

The guardsmen looked at each other, but if either felt any guilt they didn’t show it. They’d not miss the chance to strike at both an Orfano and an eminent member of a rival house; it was simply too tempting.

‘And killing Dino in his bed? Was that just “following orders” too?’

The short guardsman looked confused, while the taller of the two blanched and gripped his weapon tighter.

‘Don’t know anything about that.’

‘And what about me?’ whispered Lucien.

‘Well—’ the shorter guardsman swallowed nervously ‘—you burned down the stable and set fire to Viscount Contadino’s stallion. People are saying it were you that murdered the other Orfani.’

‘And you’re an exile,’ added his comrade, but the strength behind the words faltered.

‘That’s right. I’m the hunted exile returned,’ said Lucien. The taller of the two wilted, an perceptible slump of the shoulders. Lucien knew in that moment that they feared him. They feared him as an Orfano. They feared him as a swordsman. But most of all they feared him as an exile, no longer bound by Demesne’s stifling protocols and etiquette.

The sword came free of the scabbard with a hiss. Lucien felt the tension flood out of him as the metal shone in the firelight. A smile flickered across his mouth, opening the split in his lip. He savoured the pain, almost delirious with it. Glass crunched beneath his boots. He’d need to be careful or he’d lose his footing. He imagined D’arzenta chiding him quietly, just over his shoulder, out of sight. His breathing was slow and deep, anger and blood a hot roil in his veins. Dino, just twelve years old, killed in his sleep. He imagined the younger Orfano in bed, unable to defend himself. And Festo succumbing to a similar fate, all of nine years old, snuffed out like a candle. Shocked moments of wakefulness and then pain. Then nothing.

Lucien snarled, desperately wanting to hurt someone.

The taller guardsman fell back, attempting to level his halberd. A foolish weapon to use indoors, it was ill suited to close-quarters fighting. Lucien stepped past the point of the pole-arm, grasping the haft with his right hand and unleashing the full force of his hatred. The metal flashed in the darkness.

Once.

Twice.

Three times the blade fell in short brutal strikes.

The guard lay on the floor gasping, face split open, shoulder shattered, a dull gleam of sickly red leaking through the black fabric of his tabard.

‘That was for Dino,’ hissed Lucien.

The shorter guardsman dropped the sledgehammer and made to draw his sword, visibly shaken. Lucien swore. Only men of
sergente
rank or higher were given swords. This would be a harder fight. But only if the man could draw the blade from the scabbard.

Lucien lunged murderously to find the
sergente
ducking out of the room, backing into the unlit corridor. Committed to the strike, Lucien was off balance. The weight of his body and the momentum of his fury embedded his blade in the shattered door frame.

And held fast.

Lucien swore, felt his anger diluted by panic. The sound of the
sergente
’s sword escaping its sheath reached his ears. Lucien tugged feverishly at the hilt of the sword. It refused to move. The door frame shuddered, and a shadow moved in the corridor, black on black. Lucien stumbled away, losing his footing and rolling back over his shoulder as D’arzenta had shown him. The broken glass snagged and bit at his shoulder through the fabric. He regained his feet searching for a weapon.

The
sergente
surged through the door sensing victory, his blade held before him in a tight grip. His smug expression changed to one of shock as a burning book crashed into his face. Being a legal tome, it had considerable weight. Lucien continued pelting the
sergente
with burning books, ignoring the heat of his singed hands. Finally, the guard pressed into the room, heedless of the stream of fiery projectiles. He swung wildly, losing his footing on a shattered table. Lucien was already moving, stepping in close, past the arc of the blade, embracing the man with his right arm. They came together, close like lovers. The
sergente
looked back with stricken eyes, now realising the extent of his mistake. Lucien’s dagger thrust into the hollow behind his jaw. He tried to speak but the words that escaped were wet and crimson. He convulsed once, shook again, Lucien clinging to him savagely. The guard tried a futile slash, but the fight had left him, just as life was fleeing him with each surge and gush of blood from below his ear. Lucien swore, angling the blade up into what he hoped was the man’s brain. Another convulsion, another pitiful strike from the sword, no more than a dull slap. The
sergente
’s eyes became blank and he died silently, slipping to the floor amid the ruin.

Lucien stepped back, cleaning his dagger on the rich brocade of a torn-down curtain. He re-sheathed it in his boot before wiping his bloody left hand on his trousers. His heart hammered in his chest as he eased the sword from the door frame. Killing the two guardsmen had done nothing to cool his anger. He wanted more. He wanted to find those responsible for the murder of the Orfani.

A sound drew his attention back to the broken window he had entered through. A raven perched on the frame, taking care to avoid the shattered glass. The creature surveyed the scene with disinterest, then turned its back, pointing into the night with its great beak. Lucien crossed the room slowly. The large midnight bird remained on the sill, giving a raucous cry, then took to wing, swooping down toward the
sanatorio
.