The Boy with the Porcelain Blade (10 page)

Lucien glanced back over his shoulder, unable to tear his eyes away from the unfolding scene, even as Fabien carried him into the safety of the countryside. Standing in the centre of House Erudito’s courtyard was Dino, bloody tears tracking down his pale, perfect face, his chin smeared with more of the same. He raised his sword to a vertical position before his eyes in salute. Behind him were Virmyre and Camelia, holding each other close, glad to be alive amid the turmoil. Maestro Cherubini was clucking around them, dressed in a satin nightgown. The guardsmen provided a backdrop of halberds and the scarlet and black of House Fontein. Some pursued him as far as the gates, shouting for his return, others busied themselves putting out the fire. Golia had dragged himself to his feet, spending a moment to glower at Dino before retreating back into the darkness of Demesne.

Lucien struggled to gasp down air as Fabien pounded the road, dark trees looming ahead of them, the stars above glittering coldly. He cursed himself for his inaction. The woodland near the graveyard rushed to meet him and the horse galloped freely, on and on, hooves like thunder. Lucien wondered at what had passed, dismay and shock buffeting him, regret and remorse threatening to drag him from the saddle.

Lady Allatamento would be hearing word of her son’s death, while Giancarlo would learn of Lucien’s escape, and somewhere in the deep darkness of the night a stallion had burned to death.

10

The Blind Quartet
KING’S KEEP
–
Febbraio
309

Lucien had done his utmost to avoid the Majordomo in the five months since witnessing the abduction. He realised he was most at risk of an impromptu audience when alone in his apartment and lowered his profile to the point of invisibility. Lucien restricted himself to familiar groups and safe locales after the episode at the
sanatorio
. Anything to steer clear of another confrontation with the gaunt shade of the king’s will. There was the cruel weight of the Domo’s secret to bear and a lack of anyone to tell. Who if any would believe him?

The House Contadino kitchens had been his first refuge, the porters and cooks surprised at his reappearance. Camelia was delighted of course, although she took pains to hide it. He’d applied for additional lessons from Maestro di Spada Ruggeri, in part to make amends for missing his testing, but also from a genuine desire to improve. It also placed him within House Fontein, where the Domo rarely appeared. He spent as much time in the library as possible, even helping Archivist Simonetti. Other times he lurked around Professore Virmyre, offering his help as a laboratory assistant. Lucien’s scheme paid off. He’d not been cornered by the hooded old man since that dreadful night, the events of which were still etched into his mind, painfully and precisely, revisiting him in dreams with impunity.

‘I can’t get over the change in you, Lucien,’ said Rafaela one morning. He was attempting to clamber out of his nightshirt without appearing naked. He’d recently become very self-conscious in front of his nanny. So self-conscious in fact he’d stopped using the term nanny altogether, instead settling for ‘maid’ when forced to use a title at all. When they were alone together she was simply his Ella.

‘Well, I just thought, seeing as I’ve failed the last two testings, I need to attend more lessons.’ He flashed her a smile. ‘Obviously I’m not a natural with the blade, which means I have to work harder at it.’

He’d spent days rehearsing this justification and felt suitably pleased he’d had the chance to use it. Rafaela arched an eyebrow at him. He couldn’t decide if it was incredulity or something other.

‘Hmm. I’m not sure where this new Lucien has come from, but I think I like him.’

‘Not new, just, I don’t know…’ he floundered, looking away embarrassed, searching for a shirt.

‘You should make sure he stays. It would be a pity if he vanished before we could get to know him properly.’

He blushed of course. He was always blushing these days when Rafaela spoke to him. She was seventeen now, and he never quite knew what to do with himself in her presence. Technically she worked for him, but she was also there to discipline him when he forgot his manners. The relationship was baffling. The only person he had attempted to discuss it with was Professore Virmyre. A thoroughly bad choice as it turned out. Virmyre had coughed into his fist and suggested he talk to Camelia, and they’d drifted into an uncomfortable silence.

‘So, what does today hold for young Master Lucien “Sinistro” Contadino?’ She curtseyed with mock solemnity, then flashed a taunting smile.

Sinistro, his new nickname, given to him by Master Ruggeri on account of his left-handedness. Lucien was ambivalent about the epithet, but the name had taken on a life of its own. The other students at class had adopted it immediately, thinking it vexed him. They’d been disciplined repeatedly for using the word
strega
in class, but that didn’t stop them inventing a battery of other pejoratives.

Perhaps it was just as well. Lucien didn’t consider himself an Orfano. Poor with the blade and unremarkable at many subjects, ‘singularly unspectacular’ had been Superiore Giancarlo’s latest rebuke. He could reinvent himself as Sinistro, become more than the sum of his abysmal testings and ragged reputation. As Sinistro he could rise above being ‘the boy who ran from the raven’. Lucien was tied to incompetence and insecurity; Sinistro didn’t have to be fettered by such labels.

‘I’ve got the day off,’ he replied cheerfully, having negotiated his way into his britches without loss of dignity. ‘Think I’m going to practise some forms with D’arzenta. After that Professore Virmyre said we should attend a lecture by Dottore Angelicola. They say he has a corpse to dissect.’

‘And I suppose you’re dying to see it, you grotesque child.’

‘Virmyre says it’s biology. I have to go. I think it’s disgusting actually.’ He wrinkled his nose and grimaced.

‘Mind that the
dottore
doesn’t dissect you. You know how he is about Orfano.’

‘It’s fine. My scalpel is bigger than his.’ Lucien drew his sword with a flourish and sketched out a few thrusts and parries. Rafaela rolled her eyes.

‘And after that?’

‘After that I’m going to help Camelia out for a bit. We’re having gnocchi tonight.’ He grinned. The prospect of spending the afternoon in the kitchen pleased him no end. Rafaela said nothing, smiling at him warmly. He continued dressing himself, tucking a knife into the top of his boot and concealing another within his jacket, recent additions to his armoury at D’arzenta’s insistence.

He was careful to leave his apartment the moment Ella did, for fear the Majordomo would appear, like the dreadful raven, as if from nowhere. He checked himself briefly in the mirror by the door, content his long black hair hid his deformity. He’d even consented to let Camelia cut off the worst of the split ends, making him look halfway respectable.

Lucien locked the door to his apartment and strode along the corridors, jogging down stairs, arriving at the junction where House Fontein connected to King’s Keep. The guards nodded to him more from duty than respect. Lucien flicked a lazy salute in a way he knew infuriated the career soldiers.

They muttered between themselves and tried to ignore him.

‘You could use a shave,’ he drawled and went on his way, knowing the guards would be flicking their fingertips from under their stubbly chins behind his back.

The centre of King’s Keep was a largely unknown quantity. Each of the four houses adjoined the central structure, linked to each other by a poorly lit corridor that ran the circumference of the keep at ground level. There was the usual stifling bureaucracy of the gate guards, who insisted on doing searches. They had nothing better to do after all. Gate duty was seen as punishment among the soldiery, given to those too lazy, too incompetent or too old to be effective. Outbreaks of corruption would occur every now and then, only to be rooted out by Giancarlo. The guards were, in truth, as decorative as gargoyles but much less useful. No one really believed that inter-house squabbles would escalate into assassination. Only the Orfano were watched closely, and Lucien tired of the suspicious gazes lingering on his every step.

The grand corridor of the King’s Keep was also the main artery into the king’s own chambers. Doors fully twelve feet high towered over passers-by, leading to the heart of Demesne. The passage itself was ribbed with buttresses supporting the outer wall. Lucien imagined being inside the hollow chest of some giant petrified snake. It was here, in this dank gloom, that Lucien saw the Majordomo.

And he was not alone.

Behind the hooded figure were three women and a man, all wearing fine clothes, tailored in the same cut, the style antiquated. All were elderly and bore traces of dusty neglect. There was a perverse formality about them, as if they were ancient quadruplets whose parents still dressed them, twee and yet sinister. All wore tar-black spectacles which reflected the lamplight. Lucien crept closer, his curiosity outweighing his desire to flee the lurching presence of the Majordomo.

Hiding in the shadow of one of the corridor’s buttresses, Lucien studied them. Each of the bespectacled strangers had a hand extended to rest on the shoulder of the person in front. The foremost rested her hand on the Majordomo’s shoulder, creating a sombre chain of seemingly sightless individuals. Each clasped a violin in their left hand, surprising since instruments were such a precious rarity in Demesne. Lucien furrowed his brow in confusion, forcing himself against the cold stone, desperately hoping to avoid detection. The Majordomo busied himself at the doors to the King’s Keep with an unusual two-pronged key. Some mechanism inside the lock churned, followed by the sound of grinding. Metal chains rattled from behind the thick wood. Lucien waited, suddenly much too warm, heart beating loud in his ears.

The doors opened inward, their ancient oak grating on the flagstones until they came to rest with a shudder. The Domo led the blind quartet into the king’s chambers, his staff tapping and rasping on the stone floor, its amber headpiece winking in the gloom. Lucien stared after them, his pulse racing, not daring to breathe. The corridor was deserted. He set off, closing the distance between his hiding place and the cavernous entrance at a flat run. The rattling of chains greeted him, loud and fast. The mechanism had been released. And then the doors swung shut, booming closed in his face. Lucien hit the wood and bounced back, his pride receiving the greater wound.

‘Fine,’ he muttered, resuming his spot next to the buttress. He glowered at the offending portal, wondering who else had been privileged to pass beneath the ancient arch. A few people passed by, eyeing him warily, but none challenged him. Being Orfano, he could generally do as he pleased.

It was impossible to gauge how long he stood there. The darkness combined with the muted music made Lucien feel as if he were outside time itself. He found himself floating, anxieties and curiosities holding him in place, becalmed on an ocean of worry.

The doors grated inward again, hinges groaning, the grease on them long dried to a black crust. The Majordomo appeared, an ashen shade, his amber-topped staff clasped in his hand as ever.

‘I had wondered if you might still be here.’ That bored flat monotone. Lucien stepped out of the shadows, slouching insolently.

‘I want to see the king,’ he said, thrusting his jaw out, trying for a pugnacious mien. His fingers trembled and sought the comfort of his blade, the worn leather of the hilt reassuring.

The Majordomo started laughing, a horrible thing. Wheezing wet exhalations filled the passage until the tall figure coughed loudly, folding at the waist. The laughing, if indeed it had been been laughing, was replaced by a dreadful hacking. The Domo held out a hand to steady himself on the wall, then regained his composure. Lucien stepped closer, his hand still clasping the hilt of his blade. The Domo reached beneath his robes. Lucien nearly drew on instinct, the urge to unleash his blade almost painful to resist. The emaciated long-fingered hand brought forth a handkerchief. Lucien sighed and stepped back, tension draining out of him. The Domo dabbed the corners of his mouth a few times.

‘Are you ill?’ Lucien felt like an idiot the moment the words took shape.

‘Old. Ill. Name me the difference.’ The Domo was more phantom-like than ever in the gloom.

‘How old
are
you?’

‘It becomes so difficult to count. Not more than a hundred and one by my reckoning.’

Lucien took a step back, a sneer coming to his lips. He was positive the Domo was telling the truth. He’d been mocked enough to know the distinction between sincerity and sarcasm.

‘I assume I can share this little secret with you,’ droned the Domo. ‘After all, you kept the business at the
sanatorio
to yourself, no?’

‘I didn’t tell a soul,’ Lucien whispered. ‘I guessed you’d kill anyone who knew about it. I can’t stop you killing me, but you don’t have to hurt anyone else on my account.’

The Domo paused to consider this for a moment. His hand dabbed the corners of his mouth with the kerchief again. He nodded slowly, and an insinuation of a smile stole over his parchment-like lips.

‘Perhaps you have a sharper mind than I gave you credit for.’

‘You hurt anyone on my account and I’ll see you dead.’ Lucien’s hands were trembling freely now, equal parts fury and cold fear.

‘And possess some measure of conviction too, it would seem.’ Another ghost of a smile from the Domo, this last a definite mockery.

‘Why are you so old? Why don’t you die like other men?’ asked Lucien, sounding affronted.

‘Curious too.’ The Domo wheezed once before continuing. ‘The king. He has magics from a time long ago. A time before we washed up on these shores. He can alter people to his choosing. Make them live longer, encourage certain attributes. I may be over one hundred years old but I feel no older than fifty-five.’

‘Why the coughing then?’ Lucien pressed.

‘I am ill. The king can do many things, but he is far from expert on diseases. Especially his own.’

The Domo resumed coughing, more violently this time. His staff clattered to the floor, the sound reverberating down the corridor. He reached out a withered hand for the wall, already beginning to fold in on himself. Lucien caught him as he fell, struggling under the weight. It was unnatural one so thin could weigh so much. Lucien lowered him to the ground as delicately as he could, grunting with the effort. He stood there waiting for help. None came. The shadow of an idea scuttled across Lucien’s mind, the dagger beneath his jacket sang to him. It would be the work of seconds. He thought back to the night on the
sanatorio
roof; the sound of the girl resisting Giancarlo still haunted him. Mere seconds, a sharp knife, and the king’s steward would never again spirit away the helpless.

A procession of troubling thoughts trampled the urge to kill: where would he conceal the corpse? Would he be a suspect in the murder? Would Giancarlo continue the abductions in the Domo’s absence? It was too much for one Orfano to take on, or so he told himself.

Lucien struggled under the weight of the man, dragging him to House Contadino past startled gate guards to a small sitting room. There was no one there of course; all the servants who rested here were at their tasks. Lucien was sweating freely as he hefted the long-limbed bulk of the Domo onto a couch. Once this had been a windowless storeroom. Dilapidated furniture had been given a new lease of life by house craftsmen. A particularly hideous candelabra dominated a scuffed sideboard. Lucien lit the candles, grateful for the warm light that infused the room. He turned, seeing the form of the Majordomo sprawled across the couch, chiding himself for not killing the
bastardo
. He most certainly deserved it for the part he had played outside the
sanatorio
that night.