The Boy Who Wept Blood (14 page)

24

Drinking Alone
–
28 Luglio
325

The Domina’s chamber was in the same state of cluttered disarray. Fiorenza opened the door, flashing him a smile.

‘You look exhausted, my lord. Can I offer you some refreshment?’

Dino shook his head. He wanted nothing save to return to his room and fall deeply asleep. Maybe he could forget this awful business if he slept long enough. Perhaps a
dottore
could slip him a preparation, ensuring a dreamless slumber. He’d much need of it.

‘Lord Erudito for you, my lady.’

The Domina remained at her desk, hat discarded to one corner, hair matted and tousled about her shoulders. She scratched at parchment with a quill, not looking up. He stood there for a handful of seconds, feeling the weight of the stiletto where it lay along the inside of his forearm beneath his jacket sleeve. Another source of shame stored alongside his cuffs and the bindings of his tines. Taking the blade had been a mistake; he should have slipped it beneath Duke Fontein’s pillow.

‘It’s done,’ he said, looking out of the window and watching the
cittadini
go about their work. Somewhere below, children laughed, but the sound was foreign to Dino, like another language. The Domina continued her correspondence, seeming to ignore him.

‘I said it’s done.’

‘Fiorenza, leave us.’ The maid flashed a look of concern at Dino as she left, pulling the door closed behind her with care. The Domina looked up from her work. There was a gleam to her eye he didn’t care for, and a vitality that had been absent for some time.

‘How?’

‘Poison.’

The Domina laughed, but it was loaded with bitterness, as hateful a thing as Dino had ever heard. She reached up with both hands and massaged her temples, a contented sigh as her eyes slid closed and reopened.

‘The most formidable swordsman in Demesne and you employ poison?’ Her voice was a sleepy drone. Another laugh. ‘Did you lose your stomach for killing? Were you afraid the old bastard might best you?’

‘More elegant that way. Less mess. Fewer questions.’

‘Until the
dottore
examines him.’

‘I took the precaution of leaving half a
caraffa
of wine and two glasses on the dresser. His maid will find a whore’s small clothes when she strips the bed. Rumours will spread. They’ll say he died with his cock inside a courtesan. Too much excitement for an old heart.’

The Domina stared at him, eyebrows raised. ‘Impressive.’ She nodded with a begrudging respect.

Dino shrugged. It had not been easy – many things to set up, feints and distractions. He didn’t enjoy lying for a living but he’d managed it.

‘It seems I underestimated you, Dino.’

‘You address me as Lord Erudito. And yes, you did.’

He swept from the room, leaving the door ajar, struggling to keep the sneer from his face. The duke’s stiletto weighed heavy in his sleeve. And on his heart.

‘Come in,’ he shouted, too loud. He was amused to find himself slurring. Nardo stepped into his sitting room, hat in one hand, the other gripping the hilt of his blade. Always a serious man, Nardo looked on the verge of anger. Massimo entered close behind, the look of concern on his handsome face turning to one of curiosity. Dino was slouched in an armchair, feet up on a low table. A
caraffa
of red wine stood close at hand, accompanied by a glass empty but for dregs. A spare glass on the table reflected the dying sunlight as it dwindled. His boots were unbuckled, shirt undone, jacket hanging from one corner of the bookcase. The couch was occupied by his sword belt and scabbard.

‘Huh. Unlike you to leave the door unlocked. Expecting company?’

‘Not really,’ said Dino, eying Massimo with a broad grin. ‘But you’ll do. You’ll do just fine. Join me for a drink?’

‘I think you’ve had enough,’ said Massimo with an embarrassed smile. Nardo eyed Dino warily as the Orfano turned a long stiletto over in his hands.

‘Suit yourself,’ replied Dino.

‘Margravio Contadino said I should bring you the news.’

‘News?’ said Dino, distracted by Achilles. The reptile had scuttled up onto the couch and was staring at Nardo from beneath a scaled brow.

‘Duke Fontein is dead,’ said the messenger in a quiet voice.

Dino nodded twice as if he were hearing an appeal in the Ravenscourt. He passed the stiletto to his other hand, then proceeded to pour another glass of wine.

‘Did he fall down a staircase?’

Achilles yawned and continued to look at Nardo with a baleful eye from the couch.

‘Huh. Speranza said he died in his sleep.’

‘I imagine the duchess is
overcome
with grief,’ said Dino, taking another sip.

‘You don’t seem very surprised,’ said Nardo, his gaze lingering on the stiletto.

‘There’s a rumour he wasn’t alone when he died,’ said Massimo from beside the door, which he closed and locked. Dino shrugged and took another sip of wine as Nardo took the chair opposite, removing his gloves. Massimo remained standing, hand on the hilt of his sword as if expecting trouble.

‘Sit down, Mass,’ said Dino. ‘You’re making the place look untidy. Untidier. Is that even a word?’

‘They’re saying he was with a woman when he died,’ said the swordsman.

Achilles chose this moment to hurry over to the armchair and take up a position on Dino’s shoulder, tail curving around the nape of his neck.

Nardo tossed his gloves onto the table and rubbed at his temples with one hand.

‘Hell of a thing.’

‘Poor girl,’ muttered Dino. ‘Imagine having to ride that sour bag of bones, just for the fucker to die inside you.’

‘Huh. This girl, this whore. They say she took something from the duke – a knife or something.’ Nardo’s gaze lingered on the stiletto even as Dino slid it inside his sleeve to lie flat along the inside of his forearm. ‘It has gold engraving on it. Quite a piece apparently. Very recognizable.’

‘Well, I reckon she earned it,’ said Dino, a drunken scowl on his features. ‘Don’t you?’

‘Not for me to say,’ replied Nardo.

Dino set his glass on the table and stood, swaying. He steadied himself on the mantelpiece and took a deep breath. ‘Virmyre always said drinking alone was … something. Something bad.’

Massimo stood and crossed to the mantelpiece, regarding the swords in their scabbards suspended by black iron hooks from the chimney breast: a rapier with a swept hilt, a saber from the Verde Guerra, a court sword with the pommel fashioned after a raven’s head.

‘Quite a collection.’

‘Most of them are blunt,’ said Dino. A terrible dread closed its fingers around his heart. ‘Just dangerous bits of old metal really.’ He took out the stiletto and placed it on the mantelpiece. What did he care if they knew? He’d done them both a service. If it were not for him Massimo would find himself asked to kill for the Domina. Nardo’s life would surely become easier now that House Contadino had one less opponent.

The red light of evening shone from the golden letters on the blade.
Misura.
Massimo looked away, oblivious to the proof of Dino’s guilt, turning to regard a painting that had belonged to Cherubini. The scene was a nocturne, great pine trees reaching up to the stars, a slash of purple lightning descending from the heavens. Dino had always thought it gaudy and fanciful.

‘What are you celebrating?’ asked Nardo in a disapproving tone.

‘I’m drinking to Cherubini’s departure.’ Dino scowled again. ‘He always knew a good vintage.’

‘You can have too much of a good thing,’ said Massimo.

‘Virmyre always said drinking alone was …’ Dino eyed the collection of weapons, then stretched out one arm along the mantel to obscure the stiletto.

‘We have to get back to the
margravio
,’ said Massimo. ‘He’s worried for Medea and the children.’

‘So soon? But you’ve only just arrived.’

‘We have other people to see, I’m afraid,’ said Massimo, who smiled and shook his head. ‘Marchesa Contadino wanted us to warn you there is an assassin abroad in Demesne.’

‘There’s no assassin,’ Dino replied, but the word evaded him, came out horribly slurred. ‘The handsome swordsman and the loyal messenger, what a pair.’

‘How are you so drunk?’ asked Massimo.

‘With the liberal application of this,’ replied Dino, waggling the wine glass, his head drooping forward.

Nardo stood and crossed to the door, opened it, taking a moment to check the corridor was empty.

‘You go on,’ he told Massimo. The swordsman left with a quick salute.

‘Do you know what you’re doing, Dino?’ said Nardo. The Orfano turned to him with a gaze as pointed as any weapon, the grey of his eyes transformed to silver for a second, a trick of the light.

‘Do any of us?’

‘It’s one thing to go looking for trouble,’ said Nardo; ‘it’s another to welcome it into your home. Have a care, my lord.’

The Orfano nodded, eyelids heavy with the wine. When he opened them he was alone save for Achilles. He locked the door and stumbled to bed. The room spun unkindly in the darkness, forcing him to light a candle and keep his eyes open. Somehow the stiletto was back in his hand, an unwelcome weight, a cold reminder. He’d given the duke a painless death at least.

Tempo. Velocita. Misura.

‘Virmyre always said drinking alone …
Porca miseria
, what did he used to say?’

25

The Vine-Choked Divide
–
4 Agosto
325

The castle bustled with its usual fervour, members of the houses going about their business. Students of blade and book went their separate ways, guards stood to attention and saluted Dino’s passing. He chewed his lip as he paced the flagstones, acknowledging them with curt nods. A week had passed since Duke Fontein’s death, four days since the great and the good had paid their respects, sincerely or otherwise.

‘My lord?’ Speranza appeared from a side corridor in House Erudito bearing a bouquet of lilies, an anxious smile troubling her lips.

‘What have I told you about addressing me like that?’

She fell into step, struggling to keep up with his stride. ‘I’ve not seen you recently.’

‘I’ve been teaching. The
nobili
pay a fortune to have their sons trained to be effective killers. Pity they don’t spend the same money to educate them.’ He flashed her a look. ‘I hear your own lessons are progressing admirably.’

She blushed, hand straying to the blade and scabbard he’d given her. She’d fixed the chape, and the locket gleamed. They scaled the steps up to his apartment in silence. Dino gestured to the couch once they were inside.

‘Excuse me for a moment.’ Speranza nodded and removed her hat, laying the flowers on the low table. Dino emerged moments later in a clean shirt to find her standing at the fireplace, admiring the craftsmanship of the engraved stiletto.

‘Was there something you wanted, Speranza? Or do I have a secret admirer.’ He gestured at the flowers, a tiny smirk tugging at his lips.

‘The flowers are from the Domina.’

‘
Porca miseria.
This is how rumours start. First flowers, then a private dinner.’ Dino raised an eyebrow. ‘She’s somewhat old for me though, you know?’

Speranza hid a smile behind her hand and shook her head.

‘She would have you take them to Duke Fontein’s mausoleum.’

‘
Maledetta puttana
,’ he grunted. Speranza placed the stiletto back on the mantel, favouring it with a look of curiosity before turning to face him.

‘You appear in very poor humour of late, my lord. People are saying—’

‘Stop calling me that!’ He pressed thumb and forefinger into the corners of his eyes and let out a sigh. An awkward moment passed before he spoke again, more quietly. ‘What? What are people saying, Speranza?’

‘They’re saying things aren’t the same any more.’

‘Masters of understatement, all.’ He rolled his eyes.

‘Lady Diaspora is never seen, Maestro Cherubini is sorely missed and Margravio Contadino is all but unapproachable.’

‘I can’t fault them so far – accurate and fair,’ he threw himself down on the couch and stretched out a coaxing hand for Achilles. The drake remained perched on the windowsill, sunning himself contentedly. ‘Fine,’ grumbled Dino. He turned back to Speranza, who had taken a seat in the armchair facing the door. ‘What else are they saying?’

‘That Duke Fontein died in bed with a whore. Although some refute this. They say there’s some other force at work. Her eyes strayed to the mantelpiece, then returned to the lilies on the table. ‘There’s a good deal of anxiety about the next Duke of Fontein. The old duke has no heirs and the duchess is very old. Some say the
capo
—’

‘The
capo
?’ Dino almost shouted. ‘I’d rather give a drunk swineherd the title of duke than that simpering, perfumed …’ He was out of his seat, pacing the stretch of floor behind the couch. Did people say the same of him behind his back, he wondered.

‘There is no one else,’ said the messenger.

‘There’s always someone else. There must be someone else.’

‘Now you mention it, I suppose …’ She smiled at him.

‘Me? Duke Fontein?’ He considered it, plucking at his lip.

‘I’d happily swear my sword to you, my l—’ He glowered at her. ‘Dino.’

‘Well, that’s something. Although I fear my problems would double overnight if I became duke.’ He looked down at the flowers. ‘Do I really have to go through with this damned charade?’

‘The Domina said you’d react this way.’

Dino said nothing, crossing an arm over his chest, the other hand straying to his lip as he regarded the lilies. Speranza stood and crossed the room. Her fingers grasped his.

‘If you ever need anything, Dino. The colours I wear aren’t the colours of my loyalty. Demesne always comes first, Demesne and its sons.’

Speranza pushed up onto the tips of her toes and brushed her lips against his cheek. And then she was gone. Dino blinked and took a breath, a frown of confusion on his brow. The drake regarded him from the windowsill, unmoving.

‘I didn’t see that coming, you know?’

Achilles flicked out his black tongue and scampered off.

‘Well, you would say that, wouldn’t you?’ muttered Dino.

The walk from the castle was a warm but pleasant one. He didn’t wait for a stable lad to saddle a mount, opting instead to take his time. The evening was well under way when he finally set out, the task at hand less odious once he’d committed himself to it. The
cittadini
of Santa Maria saluted, curtsied or bowed, complimenting him on the flowers as he passed. They all knew what the lilies were for, but none mentioned the duke directly.

In truth it was a blessing to be free of the castle, beyond the beck and call of messengers, out of reach of the Domina, away from the stench of the town and the sour reek of politics. Farmers on wagons greeted him cheerfully as they delivered their produce to the granaries of House Contadino, shire horses plodding the dusty earth. A brewer’s daughter occupying a precarious perch behind two dozen barrels waved to him from the back of a wagon. She flashed a coy smile at the young bravo bearing wilting white flowers. Dino guessed her for eighteen summers. She was nut brown from the sun and full of life.

What agreement?

The hecatomb agreement.
His conversation with the dead duke whispered in his mind. He recalled the night the women had got free of the
sanatorio,
shorn wraiths who hobbled and haunted the meadow.

Not so much the proud defender on those dark nights, my duke.

The cemetery waited with rusted gates and a profusion of bindweed. Dino entered, boots stained chalk white by the gravel. It didn’t take long to find the Fontein mausoleum. It was a curiously undecorated affair, constructed from a black glossy stone found rarely in Landfall. There was a sombre weight to the building, imposing and imperious. It needed no gargoyles or angels, settling instead for unadorned menace. Dino entered, tracing his way past decaying dukes and their crumbling wives. He located the newly dead and placed the lilies on the top of the sarcophagus.

‘At least you had the courtesy to die without a fuss, you old bastard.’ He looked around the spartan chamber. ‘I doubt my own death will be so bloodless.’ He flicked a lazy salute before turning on his heel. The door to the mausoleum stood open, a rectangle of golden light, pink at one corner. He paused a moment to lean against the jamb and savour the evening.

Two horses were tied to a tree in the far corner of the cemetery. A break of tradition; mounts were always left by the side of the road where a trough had been placed. The horses were of good pedigree, but he recognised neither of them. Dino glanced around the cemetery. No sign of the riders, assassins or otherwise. The trees sighed, mocking him with whispers in the late-evening breeze. He stepped out from the mausoleum, drawing his blade as a precaution, pulse quickening. Grey eyes searched every headstone and silent angel, potential cover for crouching killers. He crossed to the horses, who received him warmly, whickering.

‘And what are you fine ladies doing unescorted on a night like this?’ One hand smoothed the powerful neck of the nearest steed. Something delicate shone underfoot. Dino stooped, careful not to startle the horses, retrieving the curio with a deft hand. A pearl earring sat in the palm of his hand, bathed in the last of the sun’s light.

‘You aren’t the only ladies taking the air, it would seem.’

The wind picked up, setting the trees swaying. A compelling susurrus filled his senses. He didn’t deny it, following the cemetery wall to a tumbledown vine-choked section. He mounted the stony debris and crossed into the woodland beyond. The smell of dust, so pervasive in the castle, so cloying on the road, was absent here. Willow trees filtered out all but the smell of lush greenery, the musk of gentle decay. It was a world away from the endless stone corridors of Demesne.

The appearance of the man in grey took him by surprise, rapt as he was in the verdant maze of willow branches. Dino dropped to a crouch, breath held in protesting lungs. The stranger wore rags and a hood much like the attackers in the market place. That same feeling of tension, of attention, despite the stooped frame. That same impression of not being whole, something festering beneath the coarse cloth. The ragged man stood gazing intently. Dino followed the line of his interest to where more figures had gathered.

The majority were dressed the same, all bar one, who wore a veil much like Anea. Strange that a man cover his face in the way of the sisters. Keen eyes stared from under a pointed hood and he clutched a short blade in a reverse grip. His left hand was held out. Two people in black riding cloaks stood nearby. One had a sword belted underneath the velvet; the other produced a note. The grey men stirred and Dino feared he’d been seen. There was some conversation, but he was too far away to glean any word of it. Frustrated, there was nothing for him to do but retreat, taking care not to attract attention, putting the trunks and boughs of the willows between himself and the eyes of the conspirators.

Dino lost track of the number of times he swung a cautious gaze over his shoulder on the walk back to the castle. He cursed to himself when the riders failed to appear. The sun was now heading toward the horizon, bathing the sky in a shocking vermilion. He arrived at the gatehouse to the Contadino courtyard famished and thirsty. The guards on duty favoured him with a curious glance.

‘Just went to place some flowers on the duke’s tomb.’ Dino jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the road leading to the cemetery. The guards nodded and cast furtive glances at each other. Word would soon spread, adding to the undertow of rumour and speculation. Dino imagined the currents of confusion eddying about him as he passed beneath the arch. He was halfway across the courtyard when Camelia struggled out from the kitchens with a sack of flour. She sunk a knife into the cloth and ripped at the fabric.

‘That sack giving you trouble?’

‘Oh! Dino. You scared the life out of me.’

‘Is this some tradition I was unaware of?’

‘Not exactly. Look.’ She pointed at the flour, which was speckled with grey. Dino dropped to one knee and pushed a hand into the sack, taking out a handful of the powder. Black ants dusted to a dirty grey writhed, legs working a mindless churn.

‘More ants,’ she muttered. ‘I think it’s getting worse.’

‘Is it ruined?’

‘No.’ Camelia shook her head. ‘But we have to sieve them out. We can’t afford not to.’

Dino nodded, saying nothing, watching the creatures attempting to escape the landscape of his palm.

‘They look peculiar in the flour,’ she said, voice low. ‘Like they’re dressed in rags. And they’re big.’

Dino flung the contents of his hand to the cobbles.

‘You may want to keep that knife with you at all times, Camelia. I think we’ve bigger problems than ants.’