The Boy with the Porcelain Blade (13 page)

Across the chamber D’arzenta pressed one fist to his mouth. The students were rapt, keen to see the pale blood of the Orfano spilled. Giancarlo stepped in smoothly, kicking Lucien’s feet out from under him, shoving him down onto the polished floor of the training chamber with the buckler. Adepts and novices around the chamber winced, jeered or gestured with down-pointed thumbs. D’arzenta looked on with narrowed eyes. Giancarlo could have stopped there, his point made, his victory assured.

But he pressed on.

Lucien had been expecting all of this – the stool, the scissors, the rampant unfairness. He’d expected to be barged to the ground by the larger man. Expected Giancarlo’s blade to open his flesh.

Giancarlo swept the blade down at the supine boy, eager to add to his scars. And his shame.

Instead the sword chimed like a bell, blocked by a thick steel dagger. Lucien had smuggled the forbidden weapon under his jacket, fully aware he would be failed for using it. It barely mattered. Giancarlo’s eyes widened in confusion, then narrowed in contempt.

‘Orfano are not permitted to bear steel weapons. I’m failing you.’

Adepts and novices around the chamber stared open-mouthed. Giancarlo withdrew and sheathed his sword.

‘And I will petition for your exclusion from further lessons. Such disobedience will not be tolerated.’

The boys on the dais were caught up in a frenzy of whispering, incredulous that such a thing should occur. D’arzenta stepped down and began to protest in a loud voice. Ruggeri endeavoured to silence the students. Lucien wanted to mash his fist into every face of every one who had dared to laugh at him. But most of all he wanted to hurt Giancarlo. He wanted him dead. The chamber was filled with the sound of outrage and disbelief; only Lucien remained close-mouthed, consumed with fury at being cast out from his lessons at House Fontein.

Three great detonations sounded, silencing everyone.

All eyes turned to the balcony above, where the Domo stood.

‘This is no testing at all,’ said the ancient steward. ‘There will be no expulsion.’

‘You don’t dictate to m—’

Giancarlo was cut off by another impact of the staff, booming from the floor of the balcony. It were as if the Domo had summoned thunder.

‘I
will
dictate as the king sees fit, you will carry out the king’s wishes, or I will find someone else who can.’

Giancarlo looked up at the Domo, impotent with fury, then swung a hate-filled gaze at Lucien. The Orfano approached, closing with the
superiore
until only a hand’s width separated them.

‘
Vai al diavolo
,’ whispered Giancarlo.

‘You first,’ replied Lucien, ‘and don’t even think about cutting my hair again, you piece of shit.’ These words loud enough for Giancarlo’s ears only. Deathly quiet filled the space, dense like smoke. The students were aghast, some blinking, others open-mouthed in surprise, gaping like landed fish. Golia grunted something. He pushed past the smaller boys, shouldering through the larger ones, exiting through the door at the back of the chamber. Some flinched, others swore, all called after him with angry bravado.

Lucien looked up at House Fontein’s novices and spared a look at the balcony. The Domo had departed as silently as he’d arrived. And then the Orfano was gone, sweeping out of the training chamber, kicking the doors open as he went.

One year later he’d do the very same thing at
La Festa.

13

Master Esposito
THE EASTERN ROAD
–
Febbraio
315

Lucien had not known about the road that ran behind the cemetery until the moment he broke free of the weeping willows. He hoped the road led somewhere useful, or at least somewhere less dangerous. He ran, feeling the weight of the saddle pressing down on his shoulder, the sack of food slapping and catching on the back of his leg. He was struggling to believe his luck could turn quite so sour. Losing his horse had been unthinkable, being discovered by the Majordomo even worse.

The two soldiers gave chase in a half-hearted manner. The lower orders of House Fontein were far from specimens of physical perfection, more given to standing and glowering than hunting down enemies of the king. Red-faced, the men floundered and collapsed under the weight of their weapons and armour. They would undoubtedly return to Demesne, pretending they’d not seen Lucien. Better this than admitting their failure to Giancarlo.

Lucien had escaped. Or so he thought.

He pressed on along the road, grey sky unremarkable, the wind tugging at his coat and teasing his hair. The landscape rolled to the horizon, undulating in gentle swells, hedgerows and sturdy stone walls edging the fields. Here and there a cluster of cypress trees broke the panorama. Lonely farmhouses wheezed chimney smoke into the sky. Lucien set his mind to the walk ahead, ignoring the chill that crept through his bones.

Lucien was unsure how many hours passed, only that his legs grew more weary. Then two dots appeared on the horizon behind him, quickly joined by a third. They were undoubtedly from Demesne. Lucien pressed on, resisting the urge to look back over his shoulder. He walked calmly so as not to arouse suspicion. Small chance of that, he decided. Few folk in all of Landfall owned saddles. Fewer still wore blood-spattered raincoats. He surrendered to the need to see his pursuers and turned. Mud rose behind them, kicked up by horses approaching at a gallop. Definitely three of them now.

A cluster of buildings lay ahead, just a few miles out of reach, snug in a gentle depression. Blue-grey smoke dissipated above thatched rooftops. It looked peaceful, as if the inhabitants might still be at their rest. Lucien envied them their cosy beds and their quiet lives.

The horses were audible now, their hooves beating a subdued thunder on the track, the sound pressing against the back of his skull. If he were anyone else he could at least attempt a bluff, to claim he was a blacksmith or an artisan on his way home. As an Orfano he was immediately recognisable. Anonymity was the province of other people.

Closer now, so close he could think of nothing else but being trampled. Iron-shod hooves smashing his ribs and snapping his spine. He wondered if they would even try and apprehend him, or simply choose to cut him down as they rode past. It would be the work of seconds. They could drag his corpse back to Demesne and parade it in front of Giancarlo. They’d be rewarded with promotions, favoured with positions for life. The tension increased, balling his hands into fists, his throat becoming dry. He dared himself not to look over his shoulder.

Keep walking.

The drumming of hooves.

Keep. Walking.

The first rider shot past him, the horse skidding to a halt, then rearing up on hind legs. It was lathered in sweat and steaming in the chill air. The rider looked back at Lucien and grinned spitefully. He nodded to his companions, who remained behind Lucien, their pace slowed to a trot.

‘Lucien “Sinistro” di Fontein,’ crowed the rider, some jackass nobleman who had forgotten his origins, adopted a few years earlier from a minor house and now a favourite of House Fontein. He fairly reeked of braggadocio and self-assurance, twenty years old and reputed to be a capable swordsman. Lucien had pointedly refused to learn his name. Not much of a victory, but Lucien would take what he could get.

‘What do you want, you odious horse cock?’

Perhaps the swordsman thought Lucien would turn himself in without a fight, cowed by being outnumbered. He was in for a bitter disappointment. Lucien relished the chance to serve it up to him.

‘Superiore Giancarlo demands that you return to Demesne this instant. You are to stand trial for arson at the request of House Erudito, and also for the killing of Viscount Contadino’s horse.’

‘Well, that’s difficult,’ replied Lucien.

‘Why so?’ said Horse Cock.

‘Well, firstly, I’m an Orfano. Strictly speaking, I don’t take orders from anyone. I acquiesce at my discretion.’

‘What does “acquiesce” mean?’ grumbled Horse Cock, now thoroughly aware the conversation had slipped from his control.

‘It means I do what I like, when I choose to. Only the king and the Majordomo can command me to do anything. And then only directly. Perhaps if you’d spent longer at your etiquette lessons you’d know this. Now, the second reason I can’t come back to Demesne is because I’m outcast.’

‘Outcast or not, Superiore Giancarlo has ordered it,’ croaked Horse Cock.

‘That really doesn’t sound like my problem,’ said Lucien, enjoying himself immensely.

‘But Superiore Giancarlo—’

‘Can go fuck your mother for all I care.’

Horse Cock bristled. He nodded to one of his companions. It stood to reason he was too much the snivelling coward to take action himself. Lucien heard the grate of metal on metal, the unmistakable sound of a blade rasping from its sheath. He turned, flung the saddle he carried into the face of the chestnut mare which had approached close behind him. The beast floundered to one side and staggered, confused. The rider struggled to exert control, curses escaping his lips as he pulled on the reins. Lucien followed up, stepping in on nimble feet. He had to get the timing exact or he could expect to lose his head. At the very least he’d be struck in the face. The rider had already committed to a downward slash, blade descending. Lucien stepped in closer, the smell of horse, leather and oiled weapons strong in the air.

This was the telling moment. It all hinged on this one desperate gamble. His wounded shoulder protested, but he was only dimly aware of it through the intoxicating flood of adrenaline. Reaching up with both hands he caught his attacker’s wrist, twisted his body and heaved with every ounce of his strength. The rider sailed over his head, then clattered to the ground along with his blade. The chestnut mare fled back along the road at a mindless gallop, free of its burden. Horse Cock and the remaining rider drew blades, wheeling their mounts. Shock was now etched onto faces that had borne arrogance just seconds before. Lucien stamped on the fallen rider’s head, snatching up his blade from the road in a heartbeat. He felt the strange weight of metal and its promise of death; no longer would he be contained by the fragility of a ceramic blade. A surge of excitement ran down his spine and he switched his concentration back to his opponents. They were swearing and cursing him loudly.

Lucien realised he was laughing and tried to stop himself.

The first of them, he was unsure which in the chaos, trotted in and swung a blade. He ducked beneath the flashing steel, remaining low, then spied an opportunity. Lucien lined up his strike, taking a moment to dodge the pounding hooves. There was a split second he was afraid he might eviscerate the beautiful white mare, but his training and concentration held fast.

The deed done, Lucien dived forward, rolling and rising to his feet in one smooth motion, sword held in a reversed grip. The riders turned their mounts, trying to avoid trampling their unconscious companion. Horse Cock advanced shouting incoherently, blade held high. Spittle flecked his lips and rage lit him from within.

And then the nobleman slid off his mount, saddle and all, landing with a stifled yelp.

Lucien sniggered and flourished his new sword.

‘How the mighty are brought so low. A tragedy.’

Cutting the broad leather strap that buckled under the horse’s stomach had been a master stroke. The mount, now free of its overbearing master, trotted to the side of the road and began to nibble on the grass.

Horse Cock stood on shaking legs, sucking down air into reluctant lungs. The fall had winded him badly. He stooped to retrieve his sword. Lucien watched him and waited, affecting boredom.

‘You
streghe.
You think you’re so much better than everyone else, better than us,’ spluttered Horse Cock. ‘Well, I’ll give you a lesson that pathetic D’arzenta never could.’ He charged toward Lucien, fury written across his face, quickly changing to confusion and frustration. Betrayed by a twisted ankle, he was off balance and he knew it. The parry he threw up was weak and after the fact. His head was separate from his chest before he even hit the ground.

Lucien had barely moved.

The corpse shuddered slightly and lay still except for the viscous throb of fluid jetting out of the neck. Crimson pooled on the muddy track. The remaining horseman stared at the corpse of his fallen companion and grew pale. The hand holding his blade shook, and it looked as if he might drop it. Lucien flicked his new blade to one side: a trio of red droplets spattered the road. He cleaned the dull metal, feigning disinterest in his last opponent.

‘Tell the
superiore
I am Lucien ‘Sinistro’ Esposito from this moment onward. If he wants me back at Demesne he can come and find me himself. Tell him to stop sending errand boys. And tell him he’ll have to kill me before I attend any charade of a trial.’

The horseman nodded mutely. Awkward seconds passed, and he turned his horse, trotting off the way he’d come. Lucien watched him recede into the distance, disappearing around the trees. Finally he was alone again on the dirt road with only the clouds for company. It was then the adrenaline left him – he almost staggered with the intensity of it. Something was wet inside his sleeve. A surge of panic and he was shrugging off the coat, fighting down the crawling sense of unease. The pain in his shoulder increased its pitch. His shirt was wet with clear blood, now turning light blue. He felt faint, darkness crowding the edges of his vision. The stitches had torn during the fight, the decapitation costing him deeply. It had been an attack born of instinct, but ultimately unnecessary. Now he was left with the painful consequences.

He sat down at the side of the road and stared at his boots, willing himself to get back up. His vision wavered.

Then came the darkness.

It was the rain that saved him. The cool drops returned him to the conscious world. He ran his tongue over wet lips and let out laughter verging on hysterical. Standing was its own unique torture, his limbs all fighting to cramp at once. He struggled to attach Virmyre’s saddle to the white mare, which had miraculously remained nearby. The creature was a docile sort. Lucien wondered if the mount could sense his desperation and had decided to give him an easy ride out of pity. He collected up the sack of food and both the swords. He then stole Horse Cock’s jacket because it was a fashionable cut and he couldn’t help himself.

‘Some habits die hard,’ he muttered as he struggled to pull the garment from the headless corpse. The other fallen rider chose this moment to wake up and stifled a sob. Lucien reckoned the swordsman had broken his collarbone judging by the way he gasped, cradling his arm to his chest. Lucien walked over, helping him to his feet roughly. The swordsman winced but remained standing. They stared at each other for a few moments, Lucien well aware of his opponent’s injury. He hoped he looked more threatening than he felt. He could ill afford another fight.

‘Your horse ran off,’ said Lucien, indicating the road behind them. ‘You’ll need to walk back.’ He returned to the white mare and threw the looted jacket over the front of the saddle. The swordsman stared at him as if he were unhinged. His expression blossomed into fully fledged horror as he recognised his friend lying in the road. The head lay off to one side, gawping at the horizon.

‘Don’t kill me,’ whispered the broken man. ‘I’m unarmed. You wouldn’t kill an unarmed man, would you?’

Lucien threw the man his sword, pommel first so he could catch it. An action the noble bungled spectacularly. He stooped to retrieve the blade from the road, crying out in pain as he did so. Lucien guessed the break must be grave indeed. The rain continued to fall and Lucien wondered where he’d find Rafaela. He’d never learned where she lived, aware of her faint embarrassment when the subject arose. He turned to find the swordsman brandishing his weapon and raised an eyebrow in response.

‘Go home. I’m done with killing people today. I gave you the sword back as a mark of respect, not that you deserve it.’

The swordsman didn’t flinch.

‘I have orders,’ said the man in a pleading tone.

‘I said go home. You’ve broken something. Even Giancarlo can’t punish you for that.’

The man was wet through now, scarlet and black tabard no more than wet rug. His hair was plastered to his forehead, rain running into his eyes.

‘You should probably get Angelicola to look at your shoulder,’ said Lucien before mounting the white mare. He took care to haul himself up with his good arm, gritting his teeth through the pain. The swordsman continued holding his
en garde
position. Lucien couldn’t be sure but thought his lips were turning blue.

‘You’re an idiot. Go home before the pneumonia is on you.’

He turned the horse, heading away at a trot, the stolen sword a satisfying weight on his hip.

The day ebbed away as the motion of the horse attempted to lull Lucien to sleep. He’d never taken to riding, but the previous night’s lack of rest and his injury conspired to make him drowsy. He rode on. The wind and the rain leached the warmth from him until he could barely keep his eyes open. Soon it was all he could do to stay upright in the saddle. He dismounted with care, but his legs gave out as his boots found the road. Suddenly he was staring up at the sky, a sky flecked with winged black shapes high above. His eyelids pressed down, seductively heavy.