The Boy with the Porcelain Blade (34 page)

His door.

Someone awaited him in his apartment. Giving the sword cane to Dino now seemed like a very foolish decision. One that could cost him his life.

35

An Unkindness
THE
SANATORIO
–
Febbraio
315

Lucien knew he was in trouble. Golia had a distinct height and weight advantage and always played to his strengths, raining blows on his opponents like hammer strikes. He was master of the overhead cut. No finesse, just punishment, the sword reduced to a club.

But not today.

Golia circled him, then thrust and followed up with a series of attacks, testing Lucien’s defences. He stepped in close, using his dagger in lethal jabs, or else parrying Lucien’s ripostes with casual ease. The sound of blade on blade pierced the still morning air. The roof of the
sanatorio
was uneven, the roof tiles threatening to trip the duelling Orfani at any moment.

Lucien was distracted by Rafaela. She tugged and strained at the knots in the rope to no effect. His shoulder ached, continuing to pain him long after the initial wound. Lack of sleep and scores of bruises and abrasions had worn him down. Lucien suspected Golia knew he had little left. He’d draw out the fight, waiting for Lucien to tire. With exhaustion would come mistakes. They circled and struck. Lucien parried and Golia pressed his advantage, pushing him back to the edge of the roof. Lucien dodged sideways and slashed at the back of his opponent’s head, just as D’arzenta had done the day they’d trained in the Contadino courtyard. Golia bent double at the waist to avoid the strike, then withdrew with a grunt, his momentum broken.

A raven alighted on the head of a gargoyle, cawing loudly. Golia snatched a sidelong glance, and Lucien thrust his blade forward, keen to capitalise on the distraction. Golia swept his sword across his torso, a clumsy move not helped by the uncertain footing. He stumbled slightly, batting Lucien’s thrust aside.

Another raven descended and perched, eyeing the duellists with a piercing gaze. The black bird joined its mournful din with that of the first, who was still hectoring Golia. More ravens appeared, settling on stony heads and flapping. Still more positioned themselves on hunched shoulders, adding their voices to the throng. The Gargoyles were soon indistinct under black wings. Accusatory eyes followed Golia’s every move.

The Orfani fought on, grunting with exertion, dripping sweat, snarling curses. Their blades rang out, drawing the attention of the
sanatorio
inmates in the meadow. Lucien noticed a change in Golia. The larger Orfano couldn’t keep his eyes from the ravens, who glared and harangued him stridently. He was ashen.

Golia was afraid of birds.

Lucien waited for the next sidelong glance and then unleashed an attack of his own, not aimed at Golia directly but the dagger he clutched in his left hand. There was a clash of metal on metal followed by a gasp. The short blade skittered across the roof, coming to rest at the feet of a gargoyle. Golia stared down at his empty hand, making a fist and then clutching the numb fingers to his chest.

‘They chose me!’ he roared, hefting the sword over his head. Lucien stepped away from a blow that would have broken his collarbone or more likely have split him from neck to sternum. The sword crashed into the roof tiles, which jumped from the rafters in fragments. ‘I’ll be king. Not you. Not Dino.’ Golia was eying Lucien with naked hatred.

Lucien took advantage of the lull, knowing it was of small consequence. He was spent and needed a good deal more than just a few seconds’ respite. Golia hefted his sword and came on, calm again. They danced like this for many minutes. To Lucien it felt like hours: his muscles were turning to lead, his feet dragging. Golia would circle then lunge, the steel racing ahead of him, threatening to split Lucien’s skull in two. Lucien dodged time and again, moving as nimbly as the sloping roof would allow. Again and again Golia brought his sword down in savage arcs, forcing him back with the sheer ferocity of each strike.

Lucien’s mind wandered to the Majordomo and the many people the official had lied to. The people he’d manipulated to do his bidding. The gravedigger, Angelicola, Giancarlo; the list went on and on. Golia was no different, lacking the insight to realise he was being played like a piece on a board. He was a blunt instrument, nothing more.

There was a pause as Lucien sidestepped again and Golia staggered from a combination of fatigue and uneven footing. The ravens called out as Lucien turned his blade and brought it down with a great slap across Golia’s right wrist. The hulking Orfano howled and Lucien desperately hoped he’d fractured the bones. His prayers were answered.

Golia dropped his sword, filling the air around him with curses. Lucien extended his blade, feeling unsteady, the strength in his arms beginning to fail.

‘It’s done. You’re unarmed.’

Golia continued to curse expansively in the old tongue.

‘Have the intelligence to surrender at least,’ said Lucien, exasperation creeping into his voice.

‘I don’t need a sword to deal with vermin like you,’ grunted Golia, and shucked off his jacket. The shirt beneath was sleeveless, leaving his heavily muscled arms free. Shiny blue spines arced back toward his elbows from brawny forearms. He threw the jacket at Lucien, who parried on instinct. The fabric wrapped itself around the steel, then Golia was bearing down on him, charging across the roof of the
sanatorio.

Lucien freed the blade from the tangle of the jacket, turning to strike at the oncoming Orfano. Too late. Dashed to the tiles, the air driven from his lungs, he watched Virmyre’s sword go rattling across the roof and over the edge to fall to the meadow below.

Golia was astride him, hands clutching at his throat, pressing down with implacable force. His huge hands fitting easily around Lucien’s slender neck.

‘Not. So. Clever. Now,’ grated Golia from clenched teeth.

The edges of Lucien’s vision swam and began to grow dark. He clawed weakly at the hands around his throat, but Golia had always been bigger, stronger. He reached down for the dagger tucked in his boot but found nothing. He remembered the other outcast Orfano, how he’d wheezed and spluttered with Lucien’s dagger in his throat. No such reprieve today. The ravens were shrieking now, flapping and hopping on their stony perches like a demented black-robed choir. Golia was shouting, but Lucien could only hear a dim roar. Everything seemed far away.

Suddenly the pressure stopped and he dragged down a lungful of air, pushing himself to his elbows. Golia was clutching his throat. Rafaela stood behind him, the rope that had bound her wrists now a garrotte. She was red-faced with the strain, her eyes shut tight with the effort. Golia slammed an elbow into her stomach. She bent double a moment, then sprawled across the roof, collapsed in pain.

Lucien reached out for Golia’s sword. The hilt was just within reach of his right hand. He writhed underneath the hulking mass of the larger man, feeling the leather-bound hilt under his fingertips.

He didn’t see Golia slash down, plunging his spines into his unprotected neck. Lucien coughed and drew in a shuddering gasp.

Golia withdrew his arm and leaned back, roaring into the sky, ‘Not so clever now!’

Lucien coughed, clutching at the spread of piercing wounds. He felt like Golia’s hands were still around his throat, pressing down, stifling him with panic.

‘Poison.’ Golia laughed, cradling Lucien’s head between his hands in a mockery of affection. He pressed his forehead to Lucien’s own, his face filling the Orfano’s field of vision.

‘I bested you, you pathetic weakling. You’ll be dead in minutes.’

Golia sat back, looking supremely proud of himself. Lucien’s throat continued to swell. He was making a dreadful noise, like an ancient pair of bellows.

‘Giancarlo always said I’d best you. He always said you were weak.’

Lucien stared at the spines that curved from Golia’s forearms. Dino, Golia, the Majordomo, even the king, all of them had blue spines, and yet he’d lacked the wit to discover how dangerous they were. He clawed at his neck, knowing it was too late. Golia hawked and spat on Lucien’s jacket, then plastered on a manic grin. He barked out more cruel laughter, then a jolt passed through him. Golia looked down at the red knife tip protruding from his chest. His eyes widened, straining to look over his shoulder to see what Lucien had already seen.

Rafaela stood over them, smeared dirt and shorn hair making her almost unrecognisable. One hand had snaked around Golia’s neck; the other was working the knife into his lungs. Golia sighed and a whimper escaped with it. She clung to him, withdrawing the blade and thrusting again. There was a wet sound. Golia opened his mouth to protest, and a trickle of blood escaped from the corner. He turned his head back to Lucien, blood-rimmed smile twisting his mouth.

‘No matter,’ he wheezed. ‘Sinistro will still die. No one survives that much poison.’

Lucien clutched at his throat, willing cool air to seep down into his lungs. He was beginning to grow faint.

‘No one survives that much poison,’ repeated Golia. A terminal cough rattled through him.

‘You’re wrong,’ said Rafaela, holding Golia close. ‘Lucien is immune.’

Golia stared up her, brow creased and incredulous. He opened his mouth to speak, but only scarlet emerged from his lips.

‘You think I’m some stupid girl from the countryside? A maid who washes bed sheets and hangs up clothes?’

Lucien drew in a gasp, the pressure at his throat beginning to lessen.

‘How?’ whispered Golia.

‘Dino has the same spines. I’ve been feeding Lucien tiny amounts of poison since he was ten.’ She whispered this into his ear, as close as a lover, hand clutching the blade still thrust into his broad back.

Golia released a grunt; more blood trickled down his chin, spattering on his chest. Rafaela stood back, and he crashed down onto his side, the knife still embedded in his back. He was bleeding freely, his eyes growing dim.

‘You won’t ever call me
porca puttana
again, you sack of shit,’ said Rafaela.

Lucien pulled himself to his knees, still wheezing, and Rafaela helped him to his feet. They stared for at each other a moment before embracing, arms holding tight with fierce intensity. Neither daring to let go.

Trembling, Lucien looked her in the eye. ‘You’ve been poisoning me for eight years?’

‘Just a bit.’ She shrugged. ‘Every morning.’

‘You’ve been poisoning me
every day
for the last eight years?’

‘Not when I had a day off.’ She smiled. ‘I can’t be everywhere at once, you know.’

‘How did you know Dino’s poison would immunise me from Golia’s spines?’

She hesitated. ‘I didn’t.’

‘Oh,’ said Lucien, then ran a hand across the puncture wounds in his throat.

‘I was going to be king,’ wheezed Golia, blood and spittle leaking from his mouth. Lucien looked down and felt a wave of sadness overtake him.

‘Yes, you were, but only in name. The Domo had other plans. I’m sorry, Golia. Everyone you ever trusted lied to you.’

The elder Orfano looked up at Lucien, gritted his teeth against the pain.

‘I always hated you,’ he hissed. And then the light went from his eyes like a candle snuffed.

They stood, staring at the crumpled form of Golia, the pair of them spattered with his blood, each certain there had been no other possible outcome. It didn’t make either of them feel any better.

The stillness of the morning returned; even the unkindness of ravens had fallen silent, dark-eyed witnesses to a duel, a failed poisoning, a brutal ending. Offering no comment, they kept their stony perches and stared at the reunited couple. Lucien pushed his fingers into Rafaela’s hand, then led her to the trapdoor. He breathed deeply, daring himself to believe she was safe again.

One of the ravens cawed loudly, causing Lucien to turn, releasing Rafaela’s hand with reluctance. She descended into the darkness of the empty
sanatorio
. One of the birds detached itself from the rest and hopped down, settling on the hilt of Golia’s sword. It cawed again, flapping its wings. Lucien crossed the rooftop and stooped to retrieve the blade. The raven took to wing and the rest of the birds followed suit, exploding from the rooftop in a scattering of daybreak silhouettes.

Lucien had a feeling he’d need a sword again before the day was done.

36

After
La Festa
LUCIEN’S APARTMENT
–
Ottobre
313

Lucien crossed the corridor and unhooked a lantern from the wall, imagining Golia waiting in his apartment. The older Orfano would be brooding on his coarse dismissal at
La Festa
no doubt, keen to avenge the slight or put matters to rest for all time. Lucien stepped inside, all too aware he was unarmed. At first he thought the sitting room untouched, then noticed the fire had been banked up. New wood had been brought in for the pile. The ruddy light imbued the room with a hellish cast, putting him in mind of Anea’s apartment the night of the fire. He needed no reminder of that event. The panic and choking fumes revisited him as dreams only rarely, but vividly all the same.

He took up a dagger he’d left on the sideboard, knowing it would be little help if Golia were in his chamber armed with a sword. No sound greeted him; only darkness showed beneath the bedroom door. He pressed the absence of one ear to it, hearing nothing except the racing of his heart.

The door creaked open.

Waiting for him in the twilight was Rafaela, slumped on the bed, her boots discarded on the floor. Thick coils of hair covered her face and splayed out across the cream linen. He approached, hands shaking. Would she wake? Had Golia killed her and left the body where Lucien couldn’t help but find it?

‘Lucien?’ she mumbled through a smile, eyes heavy lidded, teased open by the lantern light.

‘Yes, it’s me.’ He concealed the knife so not to startle her. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I only sat for a minute.’ She brushed her hair away from her face, smile deepening. ‘I must have fallen asleep. Looks like I missed
La Festa
.’

‘Not quite. I left early. If you want, we could still make the end.’

He set the lantern down on the floor, noticing the bottle of Barolo, half full. She looked at him, propped up on one elbow, her bodice slightly unlaced, her blouse rucked and untucked, lips stained a darker red.

‘Looks like you’ve been having a party of your own,’ he said, raising an eyebrow. She shrugged, regarding him from the corner of one eye.

‘Might be more fun now that you’re here.’

He picked up the bottle and took a swig, then stood and kicked off his boots beside hers. His jacket was cast off next, slung in the direction of the wardrobe. All this was done under the watchful gaze of her hazel eyes. He felt them linger on him, not unpleasantly.

‘You look out of sorts,’ she said.

A brief nod of his head, an unhappy curve of the mouth. He sat on the bed, fingers kneading his temples before looking back to her.

‘The older I get, the less things make sense.’

‘It seems to work that way,’ she replied. ‘I thought you’d discovered that truth a long time ago.’

‘I did, but…’ He faltered, looking at the palms of his hands as if he might find his fortune told in the whorls and creases of his skin. Some clue. Anything. ‘This place. I can’t stand it. Anea baffles me; Golia is a constant threat; Duchess Prospero is…’

‘Wearing out all the men under twenty-five?’ Rafaela grinned.

‘Just the
capo
, as far as I’m aware.’ He returned her smile, letting it take him over. She always found a way to make him smile. She always had. His thoughts turned to Prospero. ‘The duke spoke to me tonight. He looked so broken. Like he’d bet everything and managed to walk away with nothing but his shirt.’

‘There are people in Landfall who enjoy much less.’

Lucien nodded at the truth of this before continuing.

‘He was drunk, of course. But he knows about the
capo
and the duchess. It was awful. He knows, and there’s nothing he can do about it. They married for political reasons and now what?’

‘I had no idea you were so fond of him.’

‘I’m not.’ Lucien shrugged, surprised at the strength of his own reaction. ‘Not really. But seeing him like that… He whispered to me to look after his daughter.’

‘And will you?’ Rafaela had pushed herself up and swung her legs over the side of the bed.

‘He meant—’

‘I know what he meant.’

He shrugged and swallowed, a surge of emotion forcing its way up from his chest until his eyes were prickling with the force of it. Rafaela pressed close to him, her lips drawn into a pout, brow creased with the beginnings of a question.

‘What else did he say?’

Lucien shrugged, ‘All he really wanted was… Never mind.’

‘It’s very sweet of you to care about him, but he never acknowledged you before the Rite of Adoption. Try not to let it worry you.’

She was so close he could almost taste the wine on her breath. Other traces teased at his senses – the sleep-warm smell of her skin, her hair. Her eyes, ever a pleasing hazel, looked green and cat-like by lantern light.

‘Why are you in my room tonight, Rafaela?’

She met his eyes for a second, then leaned forward, lips brushing his. Impossibly soft. One hand stroked the side of his face as she continued to kiss him tenderly. The world pitched sideways a fraction, perhaps the entire universe. His skin flushed and sensation flooded through his body, suddenly blood-warm and delirious. He’d wanted her for ever, at first not even knowing the name of his longing or how to satisfy it. And now here in this moment, this unexpected moment, she’d come to him.

‘I don’t understand,’ he murmured. ‘When did you start—’

‘Since Navilia,’ she said, eyes downcast. ‘You were so determined that day, so brave. You’ve always been brave. And the Rite of Adoption. You wanted to be House Fontein for so long, so passionately. I would have done anything that day to see a smile on your face.’

‘I don’t care for House Fontein any more; there’s something else I want…’

‘I know.’ Her voice was barely a whisper, then she was kissing him again with the trace of wine on her tongue, he in turn kissing her neck, losing himself in the soft fragrance of her hair, unlacing her bodice with trembling fingers, heart pounding. His buttons were suddenly apart, dress shirt pulled over the top of his head, revealing supple shoulders crossed with scars. She smiled again, mouth pressed to his as he ran his fingers through her rich ringlets.

‘Wait,’ he said, then stooped over the side of the bed to retrieve the lamp and made to blow it out.

‘Don’t do that,’ she said. ‘I want to see you; I want to remember everything.’

Lucien set the lamp back on the floor, then turned to her. ‘How will this work? I mean, you and me?’

‘There won’t be a you and me, Lucien. There can’t be.’ A flash of defiance in her eyes now, something he’d never seen before. ‘Except for tonight.’

‘But—’

‘Nothing. You’ll be married off soon, and I’ll not be a mistress. I deserve better. And so does she.’

‘We could run away?’

‘They’ll kill you if you don’t marry. Everyone knows it.’

She wriggled off the bed. Her skirt and small clothes fell to the floor, leaving her in just a blouse, eyes twinkling. Her naked legs were olive-brown, the curve of her calves exciting him, the soft sweep of her thighs enchanting.

‘How do I look?’

‘Luminous.’ He swallowed, unsure, uncertain, almost painfully. ‘How do we do this?’ he whispered.

She summoned him with a crooked finger. He stood, pressing his body against hers, feeling her bite his lower lip. And then her tongue was brushing his, her arms crossing over her body, removing her blouse, his fingers tracing the soft swells of her breasts. And now she was tugging down his britches, grasping him, fingers entwined about his girth. His own fingers ranged lower, she guiding him to the soft enticing folds, tight curls tickling his flesh.

‘That’s it,’ she breathed. ‘Gently.’ Her own hand commanding his to make tiny circles, the callouses of his fingers pressing against the sweet bud of her sex. They stood like that for long minutes, she guiding him with one hand, gently tugging at him with the other. Her breaths came shorter, faster, her guidance more insistent, until she bucked her hips, her knees bending with the power of it. She let out a throaty murmur of pleasure.

‘Get on the bed, lie back.’ Her smile was pure mischief and delight. He obeyed, freeing himself of his britches as he went, feeling ridiculous. He’d not been naked in front of anyone since childhood. She didn’t give him long to dwell on his self-consciousness, straddling him, pressing one finger to his lips. He breathed in her rich musk and found himself besotted. Her hand curled around the shaft of him and he stifled a grunt before her mouth locked on his once more. And then the perfect velvet slickness of her sex enveloped him.

They both gasped.

Lucien was tremulous, breathless.

She eased back onto his hips, the mischief on her face now mixed with hunger, his own expression shock and wonderment.

‘That’s it,’ she breathed, rising and falling, taking more of him, then kissing him again, harder now as his hands savoured the contours of hip and waist, ample breast and hardened nipple.

‘Teeth,’ she managed between laboured gasps.

‘Softly.’ She flinched, laughed. ‘They’re sensitive.’

‘Sorry,’ he mumbled, face aflame.

‘It’s fine. Yes, like that.’

She took all of him, riding harder, his hands working her hips, his own rising to meet hers.

‘Just. Stay. Still,’ she managed, her motion becoming a crescendo, earthy moans escaping her lips as she ground down against him, the movements becoming short. A jagged insistent compulsion. A shudder passed through her, hands clutching at his shoulders. He thought she said his name but she might have been growling. Her hair trailed down over his face.

Everything stopped.

She let out a long, throaty laugh.

‘Is that…? Are you…?’

‘Fine,’ she breathed into his ear, ‘I’m fine,’ a sleepy smile of satisfaction on her perfect lips.

Then there was some small commotion as she wriggled underneath him. He suddenly found himself on his knees, leaning over her, savouring every line and contour. They began to kiss and he found himself inside again, led by her clever fingers.

‘I’ve wanted you for so long,’ he breathed into her ear. She said nothing, her smile alone worth countless words. Her legs angled higher, her ankles hooking in the small of his back, ushering him deeper.

A sudden burst of laughter shook through him.

‘What?’ She didn’t stop, entwined legs still urging him on.

‘I just can’t believe it.’

Her smile was dizzying, fingertips trailing pleasure across his scalp, his back, dragging down the toned curves of his arms. He increased the tempo, excited by the moans now freely escaping her lips.

‘Harder,’ she whispered, eyes now closed, lost in pleasure.

And then an ache sweeter than anything he had ever known, building, expanding. Breath came only as short gasps; speech fled him, time slowed.

And then he was shuddering into her, every muscle tense and suddenly weak, leaving him collapsed over her, buried in the coils of her hair.

‘I lo—’

‘Don’t say it, Lucien. Please.’

His chest became leaden. Was she rejecting him? And now, like this?

‘I don’t underst—’

‘Just.’ She drew warm fingertips down his face, an index finger tracing his lips. The slightest shimmer of teardrops appeared at the corners of her eyes. ‘Please, let’s enjoy each other. But don’t say that. You’ll break my heart.’