The Boy with the Porcelain Blade (9 page)

Lucien waited, watching the narrow chin beneath the sombre hood, the old man’s gnarled hands clutching his staff. For the tiniest fragment, like a sliver of time itself, Lucien was sure the Domo knew. His chest began to hurt; he’d forgotten to breathe. The Domo turned to his left and then right before going on his way, one foot idly pushing fragments of tile to one side. Lucien remained huddled against the gargoyle, eyes pressed together tight, waiting for someone to emerge on the roof.

No one did.

There was hell to pay when he eventually appeared at the House Contadino kitchen porch that night. The sun was descending and the day, such as it had been, was ending.

‘Lucien, you’re soaked through and you look like death. Where have you been? They had every guard in Demesne looking for you.’ This from Camelia, who had taken him to his rooms and then insisted on shooing Giancarlo, Ruggeri, D’arzenta and Virmyre away. Lucien had looked on incredulous as the simple cook gave each their marching orders. No mean feat.

‘You can shout at him after I’ve made sure he doesn’t have pneumonia.’ They’d not liked that. All of them protested except D’arzenta, whose face showed only concern. Giancarlo complained with his usual vigour, but Camelia remained unperturbed.

‘I said
after
,’ she boomed. ‘You’re in House Contadino now, so behave yourselves. That is all, gentlemen.’

Lucien shivered in his cloak, looking miserable.

No sooner had the irate teachers left than Rafaela barged into his apartment, her deep-brown hair tangled and windswept, boots muddied, skirt spotted from the road. Lucien had never seen her look furious before, but he saw it then. Her nostrils flared, her jaw was set. The silence stretched between them, then snapped.

‘I’ve spent all day traipsing along cliff paths, checking you hadn’t fallen in the ocean.’ She paused to gasp, but this broke and became a sob, ‘Twice we thought we found a body washed up on the shore.’

Tears appeared at the corners of her eyes. She dashed them aside with the back of her hand, trying to marshal anger now fled.

‘One of the guards broke his wrist climbing down the rocks,’ she said, voice unsteady, ‘only to find a sheep’s carcass tangled in seaweed.’ She paused again, her anger coming back to her. ‘Have you any idea how many people have been worried about you?’ Her red-rimmed eyes confirmed there had been at least one.

Camelia knelt down next to him and pulled off his sodden garments.

‘He’s not said one word since he got back. Wherever he’s been, whatever he’s been up to, well, it’s fairly shaken the words out of him.’

Lucien thought it peculiar that Camelia spoke about him as if were not there. She stood, spiriting his clothes away, departing for the kitchens, where water was being heated. Rafaela threw a blanket around his shoulders. He was grateful to be free of his nakedness as much as the warmth the blanket provided. He pulled on small clothes as if in a dream before Rafaela led him to the sitting room and lit the fire, casting concerned looks back over her shoulder. Lucien perched on the couch, glassy-eyed and unspeaking.

‘So, are you going to tell me where you’ve been hiding all day? I’ve heard of one or two Orfano who wanted to miss their exams before, but nothing like this.’ She sat down next to him, one arm slipping around his narrow shoulders, the other hand pushing his fringe back from his face, hazel eyes full of concern.

‘You’re shaking like a leaf,’ she whispered.

‘I…’ The word lodged in his throat as if he might choke on it. ‘I saw something.’

Rafaela’s eyes narrowed.

‘Tell me, Lucien. Tell me what you saw.’

‘I…’ He faltered, sickness uncoiling in his gut, his breathing ragged. He was remembering, remembering the gag, the blindfold, the sound of her voice. Remembering his own inaction, his disbelief, his fear. He saw her lying in the long grass as Giancarlo struggled to lift her.

‘I believe I may be able to help,’ droned a voice from the door. Lucien shuddered, recognising the dreadful monotone instantly. Rafaela stood and bobbed a curtsey, a look of confusion and curiosity on her face. She glanced at the dishevelled form of Lucien and back to the Majordomo.

‘It seems Master Lucien has had quite an ordeal.’ She smiled blandly.

The blanket fell from his shoulders as he stood, before making his way to the armchair where the raven had settled. The armchair where his blade rested in its scabbard. It called to him now. He drew the weapon in one fluid motion, pointing the tip at the Domo. He caught sight of himself in the full-length glass near the door. Ashen-faced, naked but for his small clothes, ridiculous, like drowned vermin.

‘Get out of my rooms. Right now. I don’t want you anywhere near me.’

The Domo remained, unperturbed by the blade that had appeared at his throat. His robes were dry now, not the dew-drenched attire of that morning. The hood still obscured his eyes. Then he stepped back, bowed and departed. The only sound in the room was the crackle of burning wood in the hearth. The tip of the sword wavered: Lucien’s arm ached from holding it. Rafaela took it from him gently, prising the hilt from his chilled and trembling fingers.

‘What happened, Lucien?’ Her voice was the sweetest whisper. He turned to her, the words sticking in his throat.

‘I had a nightmare. When I woke up there was a big raven.’ He swallowed. ‘It came through the window last night. I ran away, and then I was too scared to come back.’

The lie didn’t make sense, even to Lucien, but it would have to do. There was no telling what the Domo would do if he feared his secret compromised. Better to keep that dark truth from Rafaela’s ears, else she might fall victim to abduction. Her ignorance might be all that kept her safe.

9

A Stallion Aflame
HOUSE
ERUDITO
–
Febbraio
315

Lucien emerged into the moonlit courtyard warily, his breath steaming in front of him. He still clutched his dagger, blood staining the creases between his fingers. The iron stink of it repulsed him, so different from his own. There was a bitter taste he could not rid himself of. The wound in his shoulder continued throbbing, the pulsing of his heart providing a rhythmic counterpoint.

The night sky was smudged with ash-coloured cloud. Stocky barrels lurked in the corners of the courtyard holding a vigil, while a cart missing a wheel waited for an artisan’s attention. A selection of buckets lay discarded around the base of a well, waiting for the dawn, when they would be pressed into use again. The stables stood on the far side, a feeble light escaping from above the door. Nothing moved; a cemetery hush weighed on him.

Lucien fretted. If Giancarlo’s soldiers had chopped down the door to his apartment there was a good chance the encounter could have descended into combat. Virmyre, D’arzenta, even Dino could be dead this very moment.

He shivered, making his way on silent feet around the edges of the courtyard, remaining in shadow, not daring to walk out in plain sight. This was his life now, existing at the edges, fearing danger at every corner. He pressed on, eyes restlessly roving over every door, each portal threatening to disgorge soldiers at any moment. Soldiers all too keen to spill the blood of the troublesome witchling.

The courtyard remained silent.

The stable was home to around twenty horses, including Lord Contadino’s splendid black stallion, a much-admired thoroughbred. Lucien slipped in through the doors and pulled them closed. The wooden bar slotted into the metal hooks, preventing any unwelcome guests. The warm smells of straw and manure greeted him, not unpleasantly. Two battered lanterns spilled yellow light down the center of the stable, revealing the only visible occupant. A scrawny stable boy lay in a heap of blankets with a sheepdog curled up around him. He opened one bleary eye toward Lucien, then closed it and rolled over. An empty jug lay discarded in the straw, relieved of the small beer inside. A few of the horses whickered, eyeing Lucien with interest.

‘Virmyre?’ he whispered, not daring to call out. The
professore
appeared from one of the stalls. He was his usual unreadable self, although his hair was a mess.

‘What happened back at the apartment?’

‘Never mind that,’ growled Virmyre, ‘What in nine hells happened to you? Are you hurt?’

Lucien realised he must look terrible, covered in the outcast Orfano’s blood.

‘I was attacked on the roof.’ He paused to chew his lip. ‘There was someone up there. Living up there, I think. He attacked me.’

‘Are you hurt?’

‘Just bruises. I… I had to kill him.’

‘Were you seen? Were you heard?’

‘No. He was alone up there.’

Lucien pressed fingers to his neck, remembering the constricting grip of the Orfano, then the awful sound of the man dying with a blade lodged in his throat.

‘Where’s this horse? I’d better make my exit before things become worse.’

Virmyre took a saddle down and placed it on a roan horse that looked at Lucien with large bored-looking eyes.

‘So I’m going to be a horse thief in addition to being an outcast?’

‘No. This is my horse. Now it’s your horse. He’s called Fabien. Try and look after him. Or find someone that can.’

‘But you don’t ride.’

‘I used to, back when my wife was alive. I keep meaning to go riding again, but…’

Lucien stood in the dimly lit stable watching Virmyre attach the bridle and fasten the straps, feeling overwhelmed by the older man’s generosity. A knock at the door startled both men and they ducked down into the stall. Lucien pulled his knife free of its scabbard an inch before Virmyre laid a hand atop his and gestured he calm himself. The stable boy huffed and grumbled, shrugging off the blankets, pushing himself to his feet reluctantly.

‘Who’s there?’ he called out in a rough voice thick with sleep.

‘It’s me, Camelia.’ The lad shrugged and lifted the bar from the door.

‘This is a stable, not a common room,’ he grunted sourly. Camelia calmly cuffed him about the head, then pushed a small jug of cider into hands.

‘Mind your manners, you little beast.’

The stable boy resumed his pose amidst the many blankets. His dog yawned and regarded the newcomer, tongue lolling from an open mouth. Virmyre led the horse out of the stall as Camelia gave a sob and hugged Lucien to her fiercely. The sound of her distress threatened to undo Lucien’s resolve. He felt his throat grow thick while his eyes prickled with tears.

‘What…?’ said Camelia, ‘Why are you covered in blood. Look at you.
Porca misèria.
You look like death warmed up.’

‘I’m fine. I ran into some trouble. I’d better go before I cause any more.’

‘Too late.’

It was Dino; he’d appeared at the stable doors like an apparition, dressed in black with only his pale face catching the meagre light. He clutched a sword cane in his hand with white knuckles, his expression grave.

‘Golia is heading this way. He’ll be here any second.’

Camelia tied a sack to the saddle and grasped Lucien’s head, planting a kiss on his forehead as silvery tears tumbled down her broad cheeks. Virmyre tried to lead Fabien out into the courtyard, but the horse stubbornly refused to move. It swung its head from side to side, making a dreadful noise. Other horses in the stables called out in answer, as if aware of Lucien’s plight.

‘What’s got into him?’ asked Lucien.

‘They’re here,’ hissed Dino. He drew the slender blade from the cane and stepped out into the courtyard, only to come stumbling back in moments later, nose bloodied. He collapsed in the straw and stared up, ferocity blazing in his eyes.

Golia filled the doorway with his bulk, sword drawn, a cruel smile sketched on his vulgar lips. Three years older than Lucien, he was a slab of man, shoulders hunched unnaturally and heavy with muscle. His neck was almost as broad as the crude bulb of his head. He wore his black hair in a close crop, the way all of Giancarlo’s school did. Golia hulked over all of Demesne’s inhabitants with the exception of the Majordomo. As ever, he wore a hooded voluminous tunic in the black and scarlet of House Fontein. Wicked spines sprang from his forearms, extending back to his elbow. People whispered they were poisonous, a rumour Golia had not discouraged. The Allatamento novice from Lucien’s testing accompanied him. The boy lurked behind House Fontein’s favourite Orfano, struggling to see past. Golia pointed one hand at the stable boy and stared at him.

‘Be somewhere else,’ he grated.

The boy complied, grasping blankets and cider jug, slinking out into the courtyard followed by his faithful companion.

‘Lucien was just leaving,’ said Virmyre. ‘It would be unfortunate if anyone prevented him.’

Golia made an unpleasant hacking sound. Lucien realised he was laughing. He’d not heard it before and had no wish to again.

‘What do you intend to do, Professore?’ said Golia. ‘Bore me to death with one of your lectures?’

Virmyre snatched up a nearby pitchfork and calmly extended the tool in front of himself, the twin tines gleaming in the lantern light.

‘Leave this alone, Golia.’

‘I’m afraid not. I’m under orders from Superiore Giancarlo. Sinistro is to be arrested.’ Golia smiled at Lucien. ‘And if he’ll not come willingly…’

And then the Orfano lunged forward, lashing out with his blade. Camelia gave a shriek, falling as she tried to retreat.

‘Get on the damned horse!’ hissed Virmyre before lunging forward. Golia parried the strike from the pitchfork casually, sneering back at the
professore.
Lucien clambered up into the stirrups, almost missing his footing. Golia had moved into the stable now, grinning at Lucien as he closed with Camelia. The Allatamento novice pressed in behind him, clutching a blade in both hands. Lucien cried out impotently and caught his breath. Dino dashed forward, chin dark with his own blood, eyes shining with fury. He parried Golia’s strike with the slender blade, turning it to one side. Golia followed up with another, but Dino slipped back and sketched a deep slash across the back of his opponent’s hand. Golia swore, thrusting forward, but the younger Orfano danced away, kicking Golia in the knee, eliciting a grunt. A heavy backhanded swipe resulted in Golia’s blade lodging in the wooden wall of the stable, but Dino had already ducked under it and rolled forward. The novice dared to step from Golia’s shadow a moment, but there was no one within reach to attack. He hopped about from one foot to the other and paused.

Camelia scrambled back on hands and knees, Virmyre helping her to her feet. They didn’t dare to take their eyes from the fight between Dino and Golia, who even now was wrestling his blade free. The horses in the stalls stamped their feet and whinnied, clearly rattled. The smells of fear and pungent sweat misted the interior of the stable. Fabien backed up, away from the melee, clearly unsettled by Golia. It was not uncommon for creatures to be skittish or antagonistic in the presence of
streghe
. Golia in particular never failed to unnerve them.

Virmyre stepped forward as if to sweep the hulking Orfano out of the stables with a broom. The pitchfork bobbed back and forth in a series of jabs. Frustrated, Golia held his ground and struck the haft of the fork with a backhanded blow of his sword. Suddenly Virmyre found himself wielding nothing more that a stick. The head of the fork shot across the stable, clattering against the side of the stall, narrowly missing Dino.

Golia grinned. The advantage his, he hefted his blade up for one of his characteristic hammer blows. Only a brute like Golia could reduce the art of sword fighting to such crude strikes. Lucien feared for the
professore
, waiting for the blow that would surely cleave him from collarbone to sternum. Virmyre could only watch, frustrated at his lack of a weapon.

Golia’s blade reached its apex and connected with a lantern high overhead. The glass shattered with a crack and the whole device pitched backwards, tumbling down, igniting like a comet.

It landed on the shoulders of the Allatamento boy, still lurking in Golia’s shadow. The boy released an inhuman howl as the burning oil splashed over him. Golia looked aghast, confusion creasing his slab-like features. The stable was filled with the scent of burning hair. Then, inevitably, the smell of scorched flesh. The novice, screaming like the damned, fled across the courtyard, pitching himself down the well in frantic desperation. For a moment his agonised howl intensified. There was a muffled splash as he finally reached the bottom of the shaft, then silence.

Everyone in the stable stared after the young noble in shock, then Golia turned, still blocking the door.

‘You’ll pay for that, Sinistro,’ he grunted, not noticing the flames licking around his boots. Virmyre called out as the fire took hold. Lucien beat his heels against Fabien’s sides and the horse shot forward, then stalled as Golia blocked the way. The roan, finding his hooves surrounded by fire, reared up and lashed out. Forelegs smashed into Golia’s bulky shoulder, almost lifting him from his feet. The
strega
staggered back into the courtyard, losing his footing and crumpling to the ground, sprawled across the cobbles. His sword skittered from his hand, far from reach.

Virmyre was doing his best to escort Camelia from the infernal scene. They emerged into the cool air of the courtyard clutching each other, wide-eyed with shock and struggling with lungfuls of acrid smoke. Virmyre’s sleeve was smouldering.

Inside, Dino ran from stall to stall, unfastening the catches and urging the now terrified horses out of the blazing stable, now far beyond redemption. Dino coughed and retched, the fire threatening to overtake him at any point, smoke making his eyes smart.

Lucien urged the panicking Fabien into the courtyard, where the horse wheeled and stamped. He’d never been much of a horseman so could do little but cling on, bending down close over the horse’s neck. He prayed he wouldn’t be thrown onto the cobbles and stamped on by metal-shod hooves. Golia crawled away, keen to be spared a similar fate.

Into this devastation came a full unit of guards, spilling from doorways brandishing halberds, the officers shouting with swords drawn. They were a cacophony of blind obedience, caught up in the fervour of hunting a hated s
trega.
Virmyre and Camelia found themselves surrounded by surcoats, breastplates and helms.

Viscount Contadino’s perfect black stallion erupted into the courtyard, the jet horse looking newly arrived from hell itself, wreathed in yellow and orange flames and shrieking. The doomed creature raced across the yard and out through the gates, into the dark, quiet countryside, where it receded from sight like a lantern growing small in the distance. Everyone looked on, shocked into immobility. Lucien felt his blood turn icy.

‘The madness is upon us all,’ grated Virmyre. The spell broke and the guards rejoined their purpose, but less sure of themselves now. Virmyre shouted and harangued them. The stable roared and spat with great sheets of flames, falling in on itself with a dreadful groan. People were appearing at the windows overlooking the courtyard, calling out in dismay. Presiding over everything from a balcony high above was the hooded figure of the Domo. Lucien pressed his fingertips to his chin and flicked them at the gaunt spectre, then put his heels to the horse’s sides. He squeezed his knees together and hoped he wouldn’t slip.

How Lucien got past the array of halberds was pure fortune, helped in no small part by wildcat slashes and threats from Dino. The younger Orfano trailed curses, blade dancing in his hand. Lucien managed to control the roan, pleading in hushed tones lost in the melee. Fabien headed out of the courtyard, keen to be away from the din and clamour. More people had emerged from Demesne, attempting to quell the flames with a chain of buckets. In the morning they would wonder at the corpse they found in the well shaft, and declare the entire night cursed.