The Boy with the Porcelain Blade (27 page)

‘Dino had a double. He hasn’t slept in his own room since the night of the fire you ordered to kill Anea.’

The Domo said nothing, watching with impotent rage as Lucien walked away to stand beneath the heavily decorated arch leading to the king’s chambers. A moment’s hesitation, then he was pushing the key into the hole – a turn, a click. The sound of chains scraping against metal filled his ears. The ancient wood opened inward, scuffing on the worn flagstones. Lucien took a moment to free another lantern from its hook on the wall.

‘You will not survive this night, Lucien, if you pass through that door.’

Lucien looked at the ruin of a man, a grotesque, bleeding blue and convulsing. ‘You’re a monster,’ he said sadly.

‘Greater monsters than I await you.’

Lucien turned his back and entered the king’s chambers. The doors boomed shut behind him just seconds later, drowning out the stream of curses the Majordomo uttered in his wake.

28

Prospero’s Politics
HOUSE FONTEIN
–
Febbraio
313

The sound of Lucien’s boot heels reverberated down the stark corridors of House Contadino. He wore a midnight-blue doublet, brass buttons gleaming dimly in the sparse lantern light of Demesne’s passages. Rafaela followed at his shoulder, wearing a sober grey bodice laced at the front. A matching skirt reached her ankles, moving in graceful sweeps and swishes. The cream blouse revealed her supple neck and the smooth olive skin of her shoulders. Dark brown tresses fell in ringlets on each side of her face, the rest of her hair tucked under a richly embroidered cap.

Lucien’s thoughts lingered on the night he had wanted to kiss her, over a year and half ago now. He revisited that memory more than he was keen to admit. But the awkwardness of that embrace had been smoothed over with the passage of time. Ella had quickly resumed her unique role as maid, friend and confidante.

‘I’m not sure why you want to see this through,’ she whispered. ‘It’s not like Giancarlo is going to welcome you with open arms.’

‘I’ve just turned sixteen so I can apply for adoption. You know that.’

‘But you don’t have to apply to House Fontein.’

‘I’ve dreamed of being a soldier in House Fontein for as long as I can remember,’ he replied.

Rafaela snorted behind him, failing to mask her disdain. He stopped abruptly and turned to face her. Her hazel eyes were full of mischief until she saw the angry expression on his face.

‘What? What’s so funny?’

‘Well, you own a
lot
of books for an aspiring soldier. I doubt Golia sits around reading stories and feeding drakes.’

‘Are you saying I’m not good enough?’

‘No, of course not—’ she pursed her lips thoughtfully ‘—just, well, you don’t seem like a natural soldier. There’s a bit more poetry to you than that.’

Lucien fell into silence. In one simple sentence she had calmed him, reining in his petulance.
Poetry…?
His shoulders slumped a fraction.

‘And after the way they’ve treated you all this time, are you sure House Fontein is the best place for you?’

‘I’m sorry,’ he mumbled. ‘I’m on edge, that’s all.’

‘Just make sure this is what you really want, Lucien,’ she said quietly, smoothing down his collar. ‘Orfani are given choices that most folk only dream about.’

They stood at the gateway where House Contadino joined the King’s Keep. All that separated him from achieving his most cherished goal was several metres of sprawling corridor, twenty minutes, and the Rite of Adoption.

‘But Golia is House Fontein. I’m always being compared to him. What else am I supposed to do?’

‘Virmyre isn’t a soldier—’ she shrugged ‘—and he’s a perfect gentleman. Or he would be if he ever let himself smile.’

‘But I’m an Orfano.’

‘And what of the other Orfani, those in the past? Perhaps they thought the way you do now? Where are they?’

Lucien looked around, painfully aware Rafaela was breaching one of Demesne’s taboos. The fate of previous generation’s Orfani remained unspoken.

‘Suppose they all trained as soldiers?’ she continued. ‘What if all that training bought them was an early death?’

‘I can’t back down now.’

‘I know; I’m just saying you’re not Golia. What’s good for him may not suit you.’

She leaned forward. For a second Lucien’s heart stopped in his chest – it was as if time itself had slowed to a crawl. He tried to swallow and couldn’t. Rafaela rested her fingertips lightly on his shoulders and then raised herself onto her toes, kissing him gently on the forehead. Disappointment settled about him like a damp coat. He bowed his head so she wouldn’t see his downcast expression.

‘Come on,’ she said, taking his arm. ‘We’ll be late.’

As it turned out, lateness was the least of Lucien’s worries.

The House Fontein chapel was crowded with every functionary who could claim any standing. Pages and messengers, soldiers and
sergenti
, artisans and aides all shuffled their feet, waiting in the chill air. The minor houses – Marco, Datini, Di Toro, Elemosina, Sciaparelli, Allatamento, Martello and even House Albero – had representatives present. Archivist Simonetti favoured Lucien with a nod and a smile. The sun streamed through the stained-glass windows, casting snatches of multicoloured light over the throng. The pews of the rarely used room had been pushed aside. The guests stood expectantly, some elbowing their way forward for the best vantage point.

The three noble families were present. Lucien bowed to each in turn. Rafaela presented Duchess Fontein with a bouquet of flowers as was the custom. Anea was present in a splendid white gown that left her arms and shoulders bare. A huge ultramarine headdress swept back from her forehead, decorated with gold thread. Her veil and shawl were made from the same fabric, intricately embroidered. She was far more regal than any of the ladies of the court despite being just thirteen. Lucien bowed politely and she curtseyed in return, drawing raised eyebrows from the assembled nobles. A wash of half-whispered comments issued through the crowd. Duke and Duchess Prospero in particular exchanged concerned glances.

Dino had also gained entrance, standing with Rafaela, who was beaming a bright and generous smile. Dino flicked a lazy salute and Lucien matched it, a smile twisting his lips. Festo stood beside him, a small smile playing on his lips, his thatch of unruly hair smoothed down. Of all the Orfani he was the most handsome.

Virmyre and Russo headed the contingent of dusty teachers, resembling a murder of stuffed crows in their black gowns. Dottore Angelicola lurked near the House Erudito teaching staff, complaining just loudly enough to be heard over the din of the crowd. Lucien approached and grabbed him by his large aquiline nose, pulling him into the centre of the chamber. Conversations died in throats and all eyes turned to the upstart Orfano.

‘If you spoil today for me with your incessant whining I’ll take you outside and kill you myself,’ growled Lucien. ‘Do you understand?’

For every startled gasp there was a peal of unrestrained laughter. It appeared the
dottore
had fewer friends in Demesne that Lucien had imagined. Angelicola fell silent, blanching in the face of Lucien’s threat. Behind them the Majordomo cleared his throat, smashing the foot of his staff against the floor, signalling his readiness for the ceremony. Lucien released the
dottore
, who did his best to look affronted under his bushy eyebrows. He pressed his fingers tenderly to his beaky nose and retreated into the congregation.

The Domo stood beneath the pulpit of the chapel, his great staff of office clutched in his near-skeletal fingers, gaunt frame swathed in splendid crimson. It was a welcome change to the mass of moth-eaten rags he usually wore. D’arzenta and Ruggeri stood beside him.

Giancarlo was conspicuously absent.

Lucien broke protocol a moment to turn his back on the Majordomo, searching the masses for Giancarlo’s slab-like visage. Realisation of his absence crept through the assembly; a susurrus of whispering became an audible muttering.

Lucien forced himself to turn back to the Domo, biting down his frustration. The crowd fell silent, the soporific drone of Demesne’s chief steward lulling them into a stupor. Lucien remained painfully alert, his throat dry, pulse hammering with indignation. Not a soul living within the crumbling walls would take today’s Rite of Adoption seriously. The edict would be as hollow and meaningless as the chapel they stood in.

Dino stepped forward and presented Lucien with a bouquet of lilies, a symbol that his old name was now dead. Then Anea stepped forward, gracefully offering him a smaller posy of snowdrops. Lucien bowed, took the flowers. They were fake of course, made from coloured glass. His mind strayed to the night he’d been presented with the porcelain ears, then recoiled and refocused.

Finally, after Lucien had felt the last of his patience run out, D’arzenta and Ruggeri stepped forward, each tying a sash of silk around his arm above the elbow. D’arzenta’s sash was black velvet, while Ruggeri tied on a sash of scarlet. Lucien saluted his instructors, bowed to the Majordomo and turned to the audience, who had roused themselves in order to applaud. He nodded politely to the few people he could bear to make eye contact with, failing to produce any sort of smile. The whole event had been a sham. He stalked from the chamber and headed directly back to House Contadino, leaving a near-silent chapel to decipher what had happened.

He was slumped in his armchair when they came, still brooding and cursing from the humiliation at the Rite. The snowdrops lay forgotten on the mantel. He almost ignored the knock on the door, then called out he was not receiving visitors. The sound came again, the door opened. Rafaela slipped in, gesturing frantically to him to get up.

‘What? What are you doing? I said I’m not receiv—’

‘It’s not me visiting,’ she replied, ‘it’s Duke and Duchess Prospero. Why are your boots in the fireplace?’

‘Because I threw them there.’ He frowned, refusing to rise from the armchair.

‘Stand up. And for goodness’ sake, grow up. If you don’t make yourself presentable I’ll resign this very minute.’ There was nothing in her tone to suggest she was bluffing. Lucien climbed into his boots, pushing a small pile of books under the couch before whispering a quick apology. Rafaela opened the door and his guests entered the apartment.

They were an odd pair. Duke Stephano of House Prospero was barely five foot seven and as round as a barrel. He possessed a chin so weak as to be an extension of his blubbery neck. His finery, if it could be referred to as such, looked distinctly threadbare and dusty. Any hair he had possessed was now but a memory; a liver-spotted pate told of his advancing age. Lucien placed him in his late sixties. Duchess Prospero stood six inches over her husband, her corsetry exaggerating an hourglass figure. A fine black gown exposed her supple shoulders and décolletage to a scandalous degree. Her hair was piled atop her head, an abundance of lustrous curls and coils.

Lucien bowed, Rafaela curtseyed and closed the door. There was an awkward moment of silence. All the etiquette Lucien had ever learned fled his mind. He realised he was blushing furiously.

‘Please, take a seat,’ he indicated the couch. Agamemnon glowered before slinking off to the floor.

‘What fascinating pets you have, Master Lucien,’ purred Duchess Prospero.

‘Thank you.’ Lucien shot an anxious glance at Rafaela, who remained calm and composed. ‘Would either of you care for a drink?’

‘That would be the very thing! A very
fine
thing!’ boomed the duke and sat down with a thump on the couch. Rafaela curtseyed again and headed off to the kitchens to seek refreshments.

‘So, this is an unexpected visit,’ managed Lucien, hoping his uneasy grin wouldn’t be misconstrued as a grimace.

‘Yes, I suppose it is,’ said the duchess. She and leaned forward as she sat down, and her neckline plunged even further. Lucien busied himself coaxing Antigone from under the armchair. The drake scaled his arm and took up her usual perch on his right shoulder. Lucien looked up and locked his gaze on the bulk of Duke Prospero, away from the heaving bosom of his wife.

‘We came to say how sorry we are that House Fontein saw fit to slight you in such a despicable way.’ Lucien guessed His Grace was partially deaf in one or both ears. There was simply no accounting for why he shouted so loudly.

‘Yes,’ said the duchess, ‘that business with Master Giancarlo’s attendance—’

‘Or lack of,’ said the duke.

‘—was most unbecoming of a house with the prestige of Fontein.’

‘Quite,’ said the duke, and patted his wife’s hand. Lucien noted the way the duke’s eyes lingered on his wife’s lips. Not the gaze of adoration, rather one of understanding. Lucien guessed the duke read her lips.

‘That’s very kind of you, and doubly so to visit me,’ said Lucien, charmed and baffled in equal measure. No lord or lady had ever paid him the slightest attention except when he was in trouble, and yet here he was with the rulers of House Prospero discussing the latest scandal.

Rafaela appeared with a silver tray loaded with three glasses and two bottles of wine. She set them out, flicking a glance at Lucien with a raised eyebrow. He smiled back at her and she retreated to the doorway after the mandatory curtsey. The duchess sampled her wine and made a breathy, satisfied sound before turning her attention back to Lucien.

‘Stephano and I were keen to discover whether you had any romantic ambitions.’

Lucien, who had been halfway through his first sip of a particularly pleasing Barolo, spluttered, then choked and finally swallowed. He stared blinking at Duchess Prospero, who continued as if nothing had happened. ‘It’s been quite some time since an Orfano has been in a position to wed. We suspect you might be the first.’

‘Assuming Golia doesn’t have his eye on someone, eh?’ rumbled the duke with a leery grin.

‘How dreadful,’ whispered the duchess. ‘I pity the poor girl who finds herself shackled to that dullard.’ She covered her mouth in mock dismay. ‘Oh, forgive me for being so uncouth. It’s not my place to speak in such a way of the king’s chosen.’ She smiled unapologetically and fluttered her eyelashes.

Lucien beamed back and waved the breach of etiquette aside. He was far more interested in how Rafaela had stiffened. Her eyes were directed toward her feet, hands clasped in the small of her back. Antigone fidgeted on his shoulder but continued her vigil.

‘So, do you?’ bawled the duke.

‘Do I what?’ said Lucien, tearing his eyes away from Rafaela.

‘Have any romantic aspirations?’ pressed Duchess Prospero.

‘One such as you could position himself to enjoy the benefits of an alliance with any of the great houses,’ continued the duke.

‘Ah, I see,’ said Lucien, resting one elbow on his armchair and pressing a thumb against the point of his eye tooth. ‘I hadn’t really given it any thought, to be honest. I’m a bit young to get married.’

‘Nonsense,’ exclaimed Duchess Prospero, eyes suddenly full of a manic energy. ‘Why, I myself was married at just sixteen.’