The Boy with the Porcelain Blade (8 page)

But Virmyre was not the only one lying in wait for him there.

8

The Uninvited
LUCIEN’S APARTMENT
–
Settembre
308

Lucien woke with his heart pounding in his chest. He ran trembling fingers through his hair, reassuring himself the black strands had grown back. A year had passed since his failed testing with Giancarlo. The wounds of that event were not confined to his flesh and had been slow to heal. Outside a gale shrieked and moaned, gusting around the towers of Demesne. Rain drummed against the window, a constant percussion on the glass, trailing away in rivulets. He pulled the sheets up around himself as if the bedclothes might insulate him from his fears. Something banged in the wind – an unsecured shutter perhaps? He wriggled down under the blankets, his heart returning to a more restful pace.

He’d done his best to be less than a shadow during the last twelve months, not venturing to the other houses for anything more than lessons. His absence from House Contadino’s kitchens was greeted with relief from the surly porters, although Camelia clucked and fussed as if he were her own. His fleeting visits were irregular; the words he managed to utter much the same. Lucien’s contact with people was largely restricted to his teachers, fellow students and Ella. His evenings were spent alone, perching on wide windowsills. He’d gained entry to an abandoned tower of House Contadino. His favourite companions were forgotten books taken from the House Erudito library. The Archivist Simonetti tried to engage him in conversation every so often, but the Orfano pared down his responses, not inviting anything more than pleasantries. Frequently disappearing for hours on end, Lucien would arrive at his rooms just in time for dinner, clothes ghosted with dust and cobwebs.

The wind howled with renewed ferocity. The sound of wood creaking and slamming in the gale filled his senses. There would be no rest while the storm raged. Cursing under his breath he kicked the sheets to one side, leaving his bedroom, padding into the sitting room beyond, naked feet on cold tiles. The sky was a deep and impenetrable black, the light of the full moon held hostage behind hulking clouds. The source of the noise was obvious. One of the windows was open, swinging wildly at the wind’s insistence. It was a mercy the panes of glass had not been shaken out of the soft metal lattice. The last thing he wanted was a coterie of surly artisans trooping into his rooms come the morning.

He crept over to the window, practically blind in the dark. Leaning out he pulled the shutter closed first, then locked the window after it. He pressed his fingers to the chilly glass, checking each pane remained in place. This was not a night to lose sleep. Tomorrow was his second testing, this time at the hands of Maestro di Spada Ruggeri. D’arzenta had quietly confided there would be no repeat of last year’s humiliation, but his words had failed to calm Lucien’s unease. His hand strayed unconsciously to his black ragged tresses.

Something shuffled and scraped in the darkness. Lucien realised he was unarmed and cursed himself. He edged to the dresser blindly, one hand held out in front, stubbing his toes on solid mahogany. Numb fingers fumbled around, trying for matches. A yellow nimbus greeted him. The lamp took the flame despite his shaking hands. He peered into the gloom, holding the light before him, daring not to breathe. No cloaked assassin detached himself from the darkness to plunge a blade into his chest. Not that he was a difficult target – he’d just given away his position, and with no weapon to defend himself.

‘Regard Lucien!’ he called out, a bitter smile scarring his lips, ‘The poorest Orfano in Landfall. More witless than a dullard, more clumsy than an ox, and likely to get slashed open by Maestro di Spada Ruggeri in just a few hours’ time.’ He bowed theatrically, rose with a mocking wave of his hand and blew sour kisses to an imaginary audience.

The imaginary audience squawked, the call raucous.

Lucien started violently, dropped the lamp, scrambling to retrieve it. A string of uninventive curses escaped his lips, turning to thanks as the lamp stayed alight. Something in the darkness had called to him. He stared into the dimness of his sitting room, eyes straining, took a wary step forward. He’d taken to discarding his sword in the armchair of late, causing Ella to make pointed comments about how he treated his gear. Perched on the hilt of his blade was a great raven.

Lucien had not seen a raven up close before. He found himself surprised at the bulk of the dark bird. It fussed and flapped, extending its wings, before settling down and regarding him with a steady gaze. There was a great age and weariness in those black eyes, Lucien thought. The raven called to him again and Lucien fled to his bedroom. He dressed quickly, throwing on a cloak before surrendering his rooms altogether.

The long-case clock in the corridor had stopped. He could not guess at the time, but yearned to be free of his uninvited guest. His yearning was then replaced by desperation to be free of Demesne too. He drifted through House Contadino, no destination in mind, lingering at junctions and on staircases. After a time he found himself at the Contadino kitchens and then outside, through a concealed side door. He pressed on, grateful to find the storm departed. Dawn was insinuating itself across the horizon, revealing a day of pale greyness: indistinct clouds to the east, heavier, darker clouds to the west, retreating like slovenly bravos tired of taunting. Lucien crossed the rain-slicked grass, feeling blades of dull green swish and whip at his boots. He looked around in the predawn and his eyes settled on the squat presence of the
sanatorio
.

It had been there all his life. No one spoke of it of course. He noticed adults did their best to avoid even the sight of it: a collective blindness, a shared denial. The building was apart from the four houses that clustered together around King’s Keep, yet made of the same stone, the same deep red tiles adorning the roof. The edifice consisted of one large circular tower, six storeys high. A spindly sister tower leaned against its north-eastern side. Buttresses embellished the base of the larger building, while hunched stone figures leered down from the roof. Suddenly Lucien knew exactly where he wanted to be.

It didn’t take long to climb. The side of the
sanatorio
facing Demesne was decked in a riot of ivy, the many windowsills providing hand- and footholds despite being narrow. Lucien enjoyed climbing. It made sense to him on a level that nothing else did. Not swordplay or conversation. Not chemistry or art. Certainly not Demesne itself. There was just the steady precision of movement and the feeling of accomplishment when you reached the summit. There was no competition, merely terrain. There was no failure, only falling.

He emerged on the roof of the
sanatorio
, looking around at his new fellows. Each was as tall as he, variously grinning or gurning, looking manic or pained in its stony way. Some were winged, most had tails. Lucien was fascinated, studying each one in turn, running his hands over the pointed ears, or tracing the tips of horns. He dared himself to push fingers into fanged mouths, snatching them away as if the gargoyle might suddenly snap down. The watchers’ tongues were silent, furred with moss and guano. He wondered how he’d missed such sculptures before, revelling in the uniqueness of each of them. It began to rain again, not as heavy as before, the heavens no doubt exhausted by the earlier storm. The landscape stretched away before him, the woodland at the back of the graveyard swaying silently in the dying wind, ancient oaks beside languid willow. Roads wound themselves between fields and hedgerows, stands of proud cypress following the gentle rise and fall of the island of Landfall. Slumbering farmsteads sent up traceries of smoke, exhalations from fires burning late into the night.

Eventually he tired, squatting down next to one of the brooding presences, regarding Demesne. His home. A landscape of rooftops and towers lay ahead of him, crumbling masonry and dirty windows. Out of sight were courtyards and rose gardens, fountains clogged with leaf mould, statues embraced by ivy. Forgotten cloisters linked old rooms now carpeted only in dust. Bedrooms beyond counting, pantries and kitchens. And somewhere within the castle were the four great halls of the four great houses, each vying with each other for decor and taste. At the heart of it all was the circular keep of the king, their mysterious benefactor, saviour of their souls.

If he even existed.

Lucien snorted to himself. Probably just an old man given to ranting, weak enough to soil himself yet too strong to die. He sneered, becoming another gargoyle on the roof of the
sanatorio.

Faint at first. So faint he thought the wind had resumed its mournful din. Then louder, unmistakable. He gripped himself tightly. There was genuine fear and helplessness in that tone. He looked down between the curving stone keeps of House Contadino and House Prospero – he knew a direct gateway to the King’s Keep nestled between them. The triumphal arch, that was how he’d heard it described. The king would have visitors from the estates arrive at these portals, weighed down with gifts and tribute. This was over two hundred years ago, back when the king would still see people, before he became ill. So Virmyre had said one day after class.

The wind blew harder, ushering another gust of raindrops. Lucien shivered. He could feel the rain coming through the fabric of his cloak, his shoulders damp. The Majordomo emerged from beneath the triumphal arch, hood pulled over his face as ever, covering his unseen eyes. Voluminous sleeves flapped and trailed in the wind as dew clung at the hem of his robes. It was strange to see him from this angle, so far above. He looked less imposing, furtive even. The great oak staff looked more fragile, as if it were just kindling pressed into service. It was then that Lucien noticed Superiore Giancarlo, attired in a black cloak that reached his boots. The
maestro di spada
gripped a girl. Lucien swallowed and felt himself shrink back against the statue beside him. The girl was blindfolded, gagged. Her wrists were tied. Even from this distance Lucien could see they were red raw where she had chafed herself trying to be free. She stumbled and fell, refusing to get up. The Majordomo stopped, said something to Giancarlo, the wind snatching the words away. The stout
maestro di spada
attempted to drag the girl to her feet but she remained resolutely prone.

Lucien fingered the hilt of the dagger under his cloak, mind racing, trying to understand the scene below. Incomprehension etched itself across his brow, a crawling panic edging up his spine, forcing the air out of his lungs. The Majordomo gestured urgently with one cadaverous hand. He’d raised his voice, but Lucien still failed catch the commands issued.

Giancarlo dragged the girl up by her hair, cuffed her twice and lifted her over his shoulder. He advanced toward the
sanatorio
, distaste evident on his features.

‘Some privilege this is…’ Lucien strained to catch the rest of the words, damning his deformed ears. Giancarlo continued walking in the wake of the Majordomo. They would be at the doors of the
sanatorio
itself in just moments, six storeys beneath his very feet.

‘I’d never have taken the position if you’d told me about this business before you made me
superiore
.’

‘We serve at the pleasure of the king.’ The Majordomo’s voice was a bored monotone.

‘I don’t think I care too much for the king’s pleasure,’ grunted Giancarlo.

‘Not the pleasure you might assume; he seeks only to practise his science.’

They were right below Lucien now, knocking on the iron-studded double doors of the tower, waiting in the chill wind. The captive wriggled on Giancarlo’s broad shoulder, moaning weakly through her gag. Lucien tried to guess her age, certainly not more than twenty. Younger than Ella, but older than Anea. He clung to the statue feeling numb and helpless, as cold as the stones of the
sanatorio
itself.

‘There is much more to this than just you and I, Giancarlo. Not a one of us would be here without him.’ The Majordomo stood with both hands clutching his staff in front of him.

‘If anyone finds out there will—’

‘It is a small price to pay, no?’ interrupted the Domo.

And then the doors to the
sanatorio
creaked open. Lucien nearly slipped, engrossed in the conversation between the two men, craning his neck over the edge of the tower. He saw Giancarlo enter as the Majordomo looked around. The occupants of Demesne slumbered on, peacefully ignorant of the unfolding event. The many people of the estates were tucked up in their hamlets and villages, too far away to see the abduction. Lucien gasped.
Abduction
. The word sat in his mind and curdled, a foul and unbidden thing. He was witness to something unnatural.

A roof tile underneath Lucien’s boot moved just as the Domo disappeared from view, a horrible grating sound. Lucien flinched, edged back. The tile loosened then plunged over the edge. He stared after it, eyes wide, paralysed with disbelief. Had they closed the doors to the
sanatorio
yet? Would Giancarlo come to the roof to investigate? The questions tumbled over themselves as the tile continued its descent and the light on the horizon broke through the cloud, the first sliver of sun.

The tile impacted on the stone steps of the
sanatorio
, shattering into numberless pieces, an explosion in terracotta and umber. Lucien could never be sure how loud the sound really was, but to him it was as if the universe ended. A flock of birds took to wing, the sharp crack rolling across the farmland surrounding the castle. He imagined it shaking raindrops from tree branches, rattling glass in windowpanes, rousing babes to wakefulness.

The doors groaned on their hinges and Lucien froze. Six storeys below him the Majordomo reappeared. The narrow face under the hood regarded the fragments at his feet, then the cowled dome angled upward. Lucien dared not move for fear of freeing another slate. It was in that moment Lucien realised he’d never really seen the Majordomo’s eyes before. The ancient official always kept the heavy edge of his hood drawn low. Those speaking with him would see the tip of his nose and nothing above.