The Boy with the Porcelain Blade (36 page)

‘Stupid,’ said Dino, and withdrew the sword in a fluid motion. Carmine clutched his neck, but the blood jetted through the gaps in his fingers. He fell face down, expiring at Dino’s feet, who cleaned the blade on a rag and turned to Lucien before giving him a lazy salute.

Lucien nodded. ‘I’m glad you kept that thing.’

‘So am I,’ replied Dino, sheathing the weapon with a flourish.

‘If you ever want to give it back…’

‘Highly unlikely,’ said the younger Orfano.

‘Is it over?’ asked Virmyre.

‘I hope so,’ said Russo. ‘There’s not many of us left.’

Stephania was holding a kerchief up to her face and trying to disguise the fact she was crying. The
capo
was desperately trying to make himself invisible. D’arzenta and Ruggeri re-sheathed their swords. Tension ebbed from the room.

Lucien breathed heavily. Silence crowded in behind him. He felt the weight of the last two days drag at every muscle. His vision wavered a moment and then his gaze fell on Rafaela. He walked toward her, glad not to have a weapon at hand for once.

‘But… but what now?’ asked Duchess Prospero.

Lucien turned to her, his face impassive.

‘Demesne has been abducting people for hundreds of years. I think it’s time you starting giving something back.’

A few of the nobles spluttered in the beginnings of outrage but were quickly silenced by Lucien’s flinty gaze.

‘I’m leaving her in charge,’ he said, pointing at Anea. ‘It will be unfortunate if I have to come back.’

38

The Duke’s Funeral
THE CONTADINO GATEHOUSE
–
Novembre
314

The day after
La Festa
brought a deluge of questions, many of which would remain unanswered. Some for mere hours, others for all time. Lucien stood in the arch of the House Contadino gatehouse, watching the grey skies unleash wave after wave of hazy raindrops. He clasped a mug of coffee to his chest, lost in thought. Virmyre found him, joining him in the rain-slicked silence. Nothing needed to be said. Together they watched the lightning fracture the horizon, listened to the rumble and boom. Staff went about their morning chores, some of them suffering from the previous night’s excesses, all of them keeping their voices to a hush.

Death had visited Demesne again.

Dino appeared turned out in black, clutching Lucien’s sword cane. His eyes were red-rimmed, his face grey and unwell. Even Achilles, perched on his shoulder, wore a small black sash around his neck. Lucien thought it looked ridiculous but said nothing. Virmyre nodded to the Orfano politely.

‘We found him at the bottom of the stairs,’ said Dino, voice not more than a whisper. Lucien blinked a few times and stared at the boy.

‘What did you say?’

‘We found him, Duke Prospero, at the bottom of the stairs. He must have hit every one of them on the way down. He was a mess.’

‘I thought Dottore Angelicola discovered him?’

‘No.’ Dino shook his head. ‘After you left
La Festa
, Anea wanted to leave too. I escorted her back to her rooms, just as you asked me. It was still early so I went back. Lady Stephania spoke to me. She was a little drunk at that point. She wanted to show me her pony.’

‘Her pony?’ Lucien exchanged puzzled glances with Virmyre.

‘She was drunk. She was talking about her pony and… anyway, we left the party to go to the stables. She said she knew a short cut, a stairwell in House Prospero. That’s where we found him.’ Dino shivered and looked down at his feet. The wind shrieked around the towers of Demesne, across an army of battlements, haranguing rusted weathervanes.

‘I’m so sorry, Dino. Did you get any sleep?’

‘There’s more,’ said the boy with a touch of defiance, daring himself not to cry, Lucien guessed. Virmyre stared at the boy, one hand straying to his beard.

‘Stephania wanted to come to you after we found him. I brought her to your apartment. The door was open so we went into the sitting room.’

Lucien felt himself grow pale. His stomach became a tight knot.

Dino glanced at Virmyre for an instant, then continued. ‘When it was obvious you were unavailable we left, but she’s very upset.’

‘How is Lady Stephania today?’ asked Virmyre. If he caught the unspoken moment between the Orfani he did not show it.

‘Not good. Not good at all. She’s refusing to speak to her mother. She says her father threw himself down those stairs because of the business with the
capo
.’

‘The duke was drunk. He got lost and he fell,’ said Lucien angrily. ‘He’d never commit suicide. He’d never abandon Stephania.’ But even as he uttered the words he faltered, remembering how broken and despairing the old man had sounded.

‘It doesn’t really matter now, does it?’ said Virmyre. ‘He could have had a heart attack or just dropped dead on the spot – he might even have been pushed. We’ll never know.’

They stood unspeaking as blacker clouds heaved themselves across the sky, presaging a twilight darkness. Drain pipes gurgled and gutters ran like miniature rivers all across the rooftops of Demesne. The blocky form of the
sanatorio
was just discernible in the distance, visible through a veil of rain.

‘I should take Achilles back inside,’ said Dino. The drake had curled up and looked miserable. ‘I came to return this.’ He proffered the sword cane to Lucien, barely concealing his distaste.

‘Keep it. Seems to me you earned it last night.’

‘I don’t see how: the duke’s dead.’

‘I didn’t ask to you to protect the duke.’ Lucien emptied the dregs of his coffee onto the cobbles and gave Dino a hard stare. The younger Orfano shrugged and turned away, leaving without another word.

‘Anything you’d like to tell me?’ rumbled Virmyre.

Lucien shook his head, watching the puddles in the courtyard ripple as the rain fell, imagining the scent of Rafaela.

The funeral took place a week later, coming to be regarded as the most awkward event in living memory. The rain had fallen steadily since that bleak morning, making the trip to the cemetery an ordeal for anyone who couldn’t get a seat on a cart or carriage. At the graveside the mourners huddled under stiff parasols of waxed black canvas. The artisans of House Prospero had worked tirelessly to prepare them. The duke had his faults but was unanimously loved by his workers, Lucien wondered if they’d remain as productive under Duchess Prospero.

The high wall that surrounded the final resting place of Demesne’s nobility seemed lower than Lucien remembered it. A few more stones had come loose since the day he’d run away, only to be brought back by Virmyre, and everywhere was the insistent cling of ivy, seeking to undermine the barrier between living and dead. It looked to be succeeding. The copse of cypress trees rustled, bending in the wind like old men. No one had repaired the gates, and so they remained rusted in place, weeds binding them to the ground. Lucien had arrived early and hunched down under his own parasol beside them, watching the other mourners approach.

Anea and Dino arrived first. Dino kept off the rain with a parasol as Anea held his arm. She was huddled in a great fur cloak and met Lucien’s eyes reluctantly. Dino had been conspicuously absent since he’d attempted to return the sword cane. The two Orfani headed into the cemetery without a word. Lucien took this as a signal to wait outside a moment longer.

Virmyre and Russo arrived, representing the teaching faculty. They nodded to Lucien, exchanging a few words with him before passing through the gates. Lucien realised he could count the number of people he could trust on one hand, but he was grateful that Virmyre was among them.

Duchess Prospero was attended by a smattering of pages. Her aide was a new girl with bright blonde hair braided into a severe plait that drooped over her shoulder in the rain. Lady Prospero smiled tightly at Lucien but swept past him, keen to get the ceremony over.

The Majordomo arrived, unfolding his lank frame from a carriage. He moved with lurching, arthritic grace. The damp had invaded his joints and he rested heavily on his staff. He was splendid in formal crimson robes, now wet and muddy to the ankle. If the Domo saw Lucien he didn’t show it, instead making his way straight into the graveyard.

The
capo
followed, leading a guard of honour that seemed as redundant as it was in bad taste. Duke Prospero had never been a fighting man, and it was unlikely he’d have wanted the
capo
within fifty miles of his funeral. The soldiers marched past, keeping their gazes frozen ahead of them. Lucien scowled and pushed his fingers through damp hair.

Everyone present had someone to stand with.

Everyone except Lady Stephania, who arrived by carriage. Alone. Lucien approached her with a tightness in his chest.

‘Hello,’ he said in a low voice, feeling abashed. Stephania nodded to him, her mouth pinched, brow set hard.

‘Where are they burying him?’ No grave had been dug as far as Lucien could see. He doubted digging a grave in these conditions was even possible. Stephania extended an arm, pointing to a sepulchre at the back of the cemetery. They walked toward it, boots crunching on the gravel path.

‘About
La Festa
—’ He got no further.

‘I really don’t care, Lucien,’ she said icily. ‘I don’t care who she is, if you love her, if you’re going to bed her again or even if you prefer men. We’re getting married, and that’s all there is to it. I’m going to take control of House Prospero before my mother makes us a complete laughing stock. And you’re going to help me.’

Lucien concentrated on the ground. The rain beat a staccato on the fabric of his parasol. He chewed his lip. ‘I’m not sure this is going to work, Stephania.’

‘I don’t see you have any choice. Giancarlo and Golia are dying to find a reason to get rid of you. Permanently. By becoming Duke Prospero you’d make their lives hell. They wouldn’t dare try and kill you for fear of the other three houses uniting against them.’

They were close to the sepulchre now. People were shaking the rain from their parasols and squeezing into the gloomy interior. The Majordomo waited with a scroll unfurled in front of him.

‘You’ll marry me, Lucien. You’ll marry me if you want to live. And you’ll help me teach my mother a lesson. What you do at night is your own concern, but I
will
want an heir at some point, so try not to catch anything.’

Her brown eyes ran him through before she turned on her heel and entered the sepulchre, leaving him drowning in uncertainty outside.

After the ceremony the mourners filed out, glad to be away. Stephania exchanged a few brief words with the Majordomo as the sombre gathering dispersed. If Duchess Prospero had any feelings about her husband’s passing she did not show them. No one stepped forward to offer her condolences, instead addressing Stephania. The mourners crossed the cemetery, picking their way through overgrown grasses and broken masonry, back to the convoy of carts and carriages. Coachmen shouted, whips cracked, and the procession headed back to Demesne – back to the beating heart of Landfall and the strange edicts of the reclusive king.

Lucien remained. He leaned against the cold stone of the sepulchre, lingering on Stephania’s words, turning them over in his mind. She was correct of course. Politically, her thinking was sound. Only by aligning with each other might they survive. There was a dreadful hardness to her. It were as if she were someone else, someone new. As if the flirtatious girl at
La Festa
had surely fallen down the stairs with her father. Lucien wondered how excruciating it must have been for her to stand in his sitting room, hearing him abed with Rafaela. How terrible for her to have sought him in her hour of need, only to find him in the arms of another. He cursed Dino for bringing her to his apartments, knowing even as he did that Dino was blameless.

A shadow detached itself from the trees, no more than an outline in grey. It approached quickly, bearing no parasol, blurred and indistinct due to the falling rain. Lucien drew his blade on instinct. He’d welcome a fight. Someone who could hurt him. Someone he could hurt. Anything to prove he had some choices left in his life. Anything but the twisting skeins of politics and intrigue.

Capo de Custodia Guido di Fontein emerged from the gloom, hair plastered to his pretty face, clothes sodden. Despite this he wore a ridiculous grin. He stopped a dozen feet away from Lucien, beyond the range of his blade. He rested a hand on the hilt of his sword and took a moment to catch his breath.

‘Master Lucien, you appear to have missed your ride back to House Contadino.’

‘I was just enjoying the weather.’

‘You have peculiar tastes, if you don’t mind me saying so.’

‘Actually I do.’ Lucien still hadn’t sheathed his sword. No reason to make it easy for the empty-headed noble.

‘We’ve not really had a chance to talk recently,’

‘It seems I’m still entitled to small mercies.’

‘I had to discipline one of my men yesterday.’ The
capo
smiled, relishing this, like the final moves of a chess game. Lucien didn’t reply, merely raised an eyebrow and nodded to show he was still listening.

‘I caught him gossiping. It seems your maid was seen leaving House Contadino early the morning after
La Festa
.’

Check
, thought Lucien.

Perhaps she left something at home. She lives out on the estate,’ replied Lucien. He tightened his grip on his sword.

‘The guard in question is an observant sort. He couldn’t help noticing she was wearing the same attire she had worn on the previous day.’
Checkmate.

Lucien let it hang between them. The rain was beginning to slacken.

‘I can’t say I’m concerned by such things. If your man is so interested in dresses perhaps you should buy him one.’

The
capo
clapped his hands slowly in mock applause.

‘What do you want, Guido?’

‘You will address as me as Capo,’ he snapped.

‘Work hard to earn that title, did you?’

‘Did you work hard to earn yours, Orfano?’

‘I didn’t ask to be born Orfano; there are days I’d rather be anything but.’

Silence crowded about the cemetery and the
capo
shivered.

‘Duchess Prospero would prefer it if you declined any invitation to marriage from Lady Stephania.’

‘Really?’ Lucien almost laughed. ‘The duchess has been actively campaigning for many months for that very thing.’

‘She would prefer it if you declined any—’

‘Or she’ll tell every one in the four houses that
she thinks
I bedded my maid on
La Festa
.’

‘I can see Virmyre has trained your intellect to be razor sharp.’

‘It’s not the only thing I own that’s razor sharp,’ replied Lucien, rolling his shoulders and flicking rainwater from the blade. ‘Tell Her Highness I’ll think about it.’

‘What?’ The
capo
looked less sure of himself. Lucien guessed Duchess Prospero had coached him, but she’d not rehearsed him in what to say in the event Lucien didn’t yield. He stepped forward, eyes like flint, hatred aching out of every pore. How he’d love to cut this popinjay down where he stood. For the duke. For Stephania. For himself.

‘Tell her I’m not going to be blackmailed with half-truths and might-have-beens. Tell her she’s going to need a bit more than a hung-over guard crowing about a maid. Tell her that after the death of her husband it would be respectful for her to retire from public life for few weeks.’

The
capo
stood with his mouth open.