The Boy with the Porcelain Blade (21 page)

Virmyre turned to him, his face impassive, pale blue eyes grave. Lucien tried to swallow in a dry throat.

‘Like the Majordomo. Or the king.’

Virmyre’s hand strayed to his chin and idled at his beard, his eyes wintry despite the heat of the classroom.

‘You have a long road ahead of you, Master Lucien.’

Lucien nodded and chewed his lip, his mind a savage churn of possibilities.

21

Into Madness
HOUSE CONTADINO
–
Febbraio
315

Lucien sneaked down the stairs as silently as his boots would allow, the worn leather soles doing much to deaden the sound as long as he stayed off his heels.

Keep your weight on the balls of your feet, Master Lucien.

So many times had he heard that instruction from D’arzenta and Mistress Corvo. It had taken him a long time to get his footwork right for each of the disciplines. Lucien descended the stairwell with a dancer’s grace, not giving a thought to his own apartment two floors below Anea’s. He wanted only to reach the
sanatorio.
And Rafaela.

Demesne was a muted place. It seemed as if every possibe vignette and drama were playing out behind closed doors. Lucien wondered what else had occurred during his short time away. If Golia had decided to kill the other Orfani then what hope was there for the rest of the citizens? No one was sacred. Not Dino. Not Festo. Not Rafaela. Lucien worried for Virmyre and Camelia – he hoped they’d reached safety, if any safety could be found.

Lost in his thoughts he didn’t notice her, hands clutched to her chest in mute agony. As ever, she wore her customary black, making her one with the shadows. If she hadn’t gasped fitfully he may have missed her altogether.

‘Who’s there?’

She flinched.

‘Mistress Corvo?’

She gazed at him, eyes wide, mouth pressed together into a thin line, lips almost bloodless. Her hands looked skeletal and pale.

‘They said you…’

Lucien waited. Careful to keep his hand away from the hilt of his sword.

‘They said you killed them.’

She looked more cadaverous than usual in the meagre light of the corridor. Lucien said nothing.

‘They said you killed all of them,’ she stammered, ‘Poor Dino, poor Festo.’ She suppressed a sob. ‘There are men everywhere. Armed men. You’ll be caught no matter what you do to me.’

‘I don’t know who killed them, only that it wasn’t me.’

‘Lies,’ she hissed, suddenly more sure of herself. ‘You’ve always been trouble. A stain on House Contadino. Such a wicked boy. So much disobedience.’

‘There’s more going on here than either of us know about.’

‘More lies!’ She pressed her back to the wall and began to wail.

‘Professore Russo is in Anea’s chamber. You should go to her.’

She nodded, but he knew she agreed simply to be spared. He was, after all, the outcast
strega
, notorious killer of Demesne. Or so Giancarlo would have everyone believe.

‘Don’t tell a soul you’ve seen me. Understand?’

A frantic nod of the head. She was dissembling of course, sure to blurt her discovery to anyone with the wit to listen. He left her trembling where he’d found her, sour disgust uncoiling on his tongue.

And then he was outside the windowless room where he’d brought the Majordomo the day he collapsed. He tested the handle on instinct. The door was locked, and nothing could be heard within. And if the door had been locked the day of the collapse? Would he have still discovered the Domo for an Orfano? So much of life in Demesne rested on doors being open, closed, locked. Portals of wood, stone and sometimes truth. Lucien shrugged, untangling himself from thoughts like clinging cobwebs, continuing on his way.

The Contadino kitchen’s back door was unguarded. He hesitated in the porch, exhausted and afraid, fearing he’d run into someone else. He could ill afford the time. The fog still strangled the castle, the moon an indistinct glow high above. Silent feet carried him through the courtyard, eyes taking in every corner, expecting each door to release squads of sleep-muddled guards.

He emerged outside the castle, fog roiling sinuously as if alive. Guards on rooftops called to each other, the shouts forlorn and muted by the mist. Lucien walked steadily, head held high. He had no need to skulk here; he could let the night do its work and not draw attention to himself by sneaking. He’d look like any other shadowy figure in the night, perhaps mistaken for a
sergente
with the sword belted at his hip. It was quite dark now, the chill settling into his clothes quickly. His fingers grew numb. He found himself clenching his hands for warmth. The long grass clutched and whipped at his boots. He hammered on the doors of the
sanatorio
with one fist. No one answered. The iron-studded double doors remained closed to him.

Lucien slid around the building’s broad circumference, tracking through fog that stirred in eddies around his feet. He made his way to a place where he might climb without being spotted. Hands sought out gaps in the stone and then he was ten feet, twenty feet from the ground. The many narrow windows were all barred with cold black iron. Wood he could kick in, but the crossed bars made the
sanatorio
inviolate.

There was another way.

He grinned to himself as climbed, the motion natural and pleasing to him. They’d imagined they could keep him out, keep him from Rafaela. Small chance of that. Finally he arrived at his location, a stained-glass window, age and guano adding a patina of filth to the once brightly coloured glass. He hung from the finely carved lintel that extended out over the window, tapping out individual panes with the hilt of his knife. Twice he had to stop for fear of losing his grip and falling to his death. Eventually he kicked in the soft lead framework and dragged himself inside.

The chapel had not seen any visitors for a very long time. Lucien lit stubby candles sitting on a wide table. His sleeves collected thick dust like ashes, his footprints looked as if left in shallow grey snow. The panes he had dislodged decorated the floor, gaudy gems gleaming in the candlelight. A shadow loomed at the corner of his eye, making him draw his sword on instinct. Spinning, he confronted the stranger. A woman clutched her child, head bowed almost fearfully. Lucien let out a taut breath.

Something about the statue unsettled him.

Had his own mother seen out her days in the
sanatorio
? Might she be alive still? Would he encounter her tonight and yet pass her over, not knowing the bond that existed between them?

These thoughts stilled his feet, questions he’d kept locked down in an oubliette of his own. Curiosities too painful to consider, denied even the balm of closure, if such a thing existed.

And there was the issue of his father. This thought provoked a swell of unease. He flinched, shaking off the speculation, and regarded his surroundings anew.

Four pews sat in the centre of the room coated in yet more of the deep dust. A lectern stood empty near the table, the brass dull, the book long since burned. Lucien took one of the thick candles and exited the chapel. He was unsure why such a place still existed since the king had forbidden religious worship. The ban had been imposed during one of his more eccentric episodes, over a hundred years ago, before he’d gone into seclusion. Some artefacts remained, but certain texts had been expunged completely.

The corridor extended out to his left and right, no doubt making a circle. All the sconces stood empty, the walls thick with wax drippings. And there was the smell. A thick miasma of unwashed bodies, the acrid reek of spent bladders. There were other smells mixed into the foulness. The metallic tang of blood, the mouldering of food and possibly even spoiled meat. All was filth and decay.

He approached the first cell, anxious at what he’d find. The
sanatorio
had haunted his nightmares almost as long as he could remember, but the phantoms inside had always remained as shadows, off limits to his imagination and his nightmares. Now he was exploring the dark confines first hand. The candlelight, although poor, revealed to him a solitary person. He thought her a boy or man at first. Her hair had been shorn a uniform length, her body was emaciated and thin. Only a simple shift provided any dignity, although the garment was wretched and dirty. Lucien called out to her, but she failed to acknowledge him. Sitting on the cold stone floor, her back to the wall, she stared at her feet. A thin line of spittle emerged from her mouth. She made no effort to wipe it away. Lucien stepped back, shaken.

He hurried on, looking in each cell with bated breath. Every dank chamber told the same awful story. Here and there cells stood empty, awaiting more of the Majordomo’s abductees. All the prisoners looked similar in the dim light, stripped of their hair, their identities, their dignity.

Their sanity.

His confusion solidified into frustration, then to anger. He wanted to hurt someone very much. He descended the spiral staircase at the centre of the building and resumed his search on the next floor. Each cell here multiplied the wickedness of the floor above. Lucien was appalled by the number of abductions but also by his own long silence. He’d been complicit through inaction. With long shadows haunting his every step, he arrived at a cell from which issued the faintest sound, a lullaby.

And one he recognised

Stella, stellina,
La notte si avvicina.
La fiamma traballa.
La mucca nella stalla.
La mucca e il vitello,
La pecora e l’agnello,
La chioccia con il pulcino,
Ognuno ha il suo bambino,
Ognuno ha la sua mamma,
E tutti fanno la nanna

Lucien sheathed his sword and held up the candle with a trembling hand. The golden light shone through the barred window of the cell door. Another shaven-headed woman crouched in the corner. Not as thin as the rest, she wore a skirt of rich scarlet. Her legs were drawn up to her chest, her forehead resting on her knees. She was shaking.

‘Rafaela?’ he whispered, his voice harsh.

Bright hazel eyes looked up, wide and hopeful. Lucien felt his stomach shrink. Her beautiful hair, all gone. He couldn’t breathe.

‘What have they done to you?’

She stood, crossing the cell on naked dirty feet, pushed shivering hands through the bars to stroke his face. Tears tumbled down her cheeks.

‘Lucien.’

‘I’m getting you out of here,’ he said, anger seething hotly in his veins. ‘I’ll find the keys. I’ll be right back. I promise.’

She nodded mutely, too consumed with relief to attempt speech.

Lucien didn’t need to search far.

The jailer stood just ten feet away, a fearful expression frozen on his face. His hair was shot through with white, but his face looked much younger. A few days’ stubble covered his pockmarked cheeks. The backs of his hands were heavily scarred. Lucien couldn’t remember ever seeing him before, another one of the Majordomo’s secret cogs.

‘Unlock the cell.’ The words were shocking and loud in the crypt-like silence of the
sanatorio.

‘I can’t do that. Only the Majordomo puts them in and takes them out.’ His voice was reedy and high, the knot in his throat bobbing in a scrawny neck

‘Unlock this cell now.’ Lucien eyed the thick bundle of keys hanging from a large silvery loop, then met the jailer’s furtive stare, drawing his sword.

‘I won’t ask you again.’

The jailer turned to flee. Lucien dropped the candle and lunged after him. The blade swung awkwardly, the confined corridor hampering his strike. A small cut appeared on the jailer’s shoulder, the ragged sackcloth of his crude shift soaking up the blood.

‘
Figlio di puttana!
Give me the keys!’

The jailer managed a few panicked steps then fell. Lucien fell on him instantly, straddling his chest. Dropping the sword, he punched the jailer again and again. The man went limp under the onslaught, face a battered mess. Lucien lurched to his feet, wrenching the keys from him as he went. He retrieved his sword and the candle and thought about giving the man a quick death. The tip of his sword hovered over the man’s throat before Lucien calmed himself. Better the Domo’s accomplice stand trial, if only for the families of all the lost girls.

The keys were a seemingly numberless series of blackened metal. Each one failed to fit into the lock on Rafaela’s door or refused to turn. Frantic moments passed, fraying his nerves. Lucien began to worry the key he needed was somehow absent.

Then a satisfying click.

Rafaela’s eyes looked at him through the bars, not daring to believe it. The door creaked open. And then the buzzing of flies reached Lucien’s ears. He turned, candle in one hand, keys in the other, dreading what would come next.

‘The exile returns,’ droned the Majordomo. He held up a lantern in one hand, shedding sombre light over his charcoal-grey robes. His mouth was downturned and grim. Flies darted about and hovered near the opening of his cowl, adding to the nasal drone of Demesne’s custodian.

Lucien didn’t have time to draw his sword, his hands full of candle and keys. The first strike from the Majordomo’s staff stamped into his chest, knocking him sprawling. He feared for his ribs, wheezing loud in the gloomy corridor. The Domo came on, looming over him, staff feinting and thrusting, quick, quick and then slow. Heavy strikes smacked from the stone walls as Lucien dodged under them, throwing himself back. He was being driven away from Rafaela’s cell. The thought of this infuriated him and he lunged for the sword. Again the Domo thrust the butt of the staff into his chest, sending him reeling, slumping into the wall before ducking and rolling forward to avoid another crushing blow of the heavy oak. Winded and desperate, Lucien drew his knife, only to look up in time to receive a blow to the face.

What surprised him were the stairs.

Somehow the Domo had driven him back, directing him to the spiral staircase. He slithered and rolled, bumping down them, fingers struggling for purchase, trying to stop his descent. His head impacted on stone. He went limp.

The double doors of the
sanatorio
were open. A dozen men in House Fontein livery stood over him, some with weapons drawn, others holding lanterns. All looked incredulous. The Majordomo appeared at the bottom of the staircase, lantern in hand, staff scraping on the flagstones. It was as if he had never fought.

‘This is Lucien, killer of the Orfani, arsonist, plotter.’

Lucien raised his head weakly, hiding his dagger inside his jacket.