The Boy with the Porcelain Blade (7 page)

7

Over Rooftop, Under Moonlight
DEMESNE
–
Febbraio
315

Lucien woke to find Virmyre standing over him, a grave expression haunting his face. The wounded shoulder throbbed, his thoughts came slowly, torpid and unhurried. It was dark outside and the lantern on the dresser made a chiaroscuro of the
professore
. The sound of murmuring voices came from the adjoining sitting room, muffled by the closed door.

‘What’s going on?’ said Lucien, throat hoarse.

‘That idiot
dottore
gave you a sedative. A very strong one. You’ve been like the dead all day. I was beginning to wonder if you’d ever wake.’

‘It’s late?’

‘Yes. Very late. And if you’re found in Demesne after midnight they’ll throw you in the oubliette.’

‘They wouldn’t dare,’ replied Lucien, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. There was an unpleasant twinge in his shoulder. ‘Exiling me is one thing, but the oubliette?’ He felt his anger rise, but also a pang of fear. Giancarlo had proved he was capable of anything.

‘I think we’re long past the dictates of etiquette and history,’ replied Virmyre.

‘Who’s next door?’ Lucien asked, gesturing with a brief nod of his head. He stood and reached into his closet, beginning the unhappy job of selecting clothes for the road.

‘Master D’arzenta, Dino, Camelia and Massimo.’

‘What?’ Lucien turned to Virmyre. ‘Why are there so many?’

‘We barricaded the door to stop Giancarlo’s men entering the apartment. He was going to have you arrested in your sleep.’

Lucien blinked a few times wordlessly. The
professore
’s face gave nothing away. Only his pale blue eyes showed his concern.

‘
Figlio di puttana.
Angelicola is going to be the death of me.’ Lucien resumed packing. ‘This is ridiculous,’ he muttered testily. He pulled on a heavy greatcoat. It was waxed and had a sturdy high collar. He’d never worn it before, thinking it bulky and crude.

‘Why is Massimo here?’ said Lucien suddenly. The boy was Lord Contadino’s personal aide and was regarded by him as indispensable. It was rumoured he received private duelling lessons from Ruggeri.

‘Lady Contadino decided she wanted a witness here if anything were to befall you.’ Virmyre cleared his throat. ‘No one in their right mind would move against Lord Contadino’s page. And D’arzenta is armed of course. There’s not many who’d be quick to move against a
maestro di spada
, even at a time like this.’

Suddenly a booming sound came from next door, accompanied by muffled shouting.

‘What now?’ hissed Lucien. Virmyre opened the door a crack, peering through into the sitting room. He flashed a warning glance at Lucien, then closed the door, turning the key in the lock.

‘Giancarlo has returned. It must be midnight. Quickly, through the window. No time for goodbyes.’

The sound of shouting increased from the next room. Lucien thought he could hear Camelia crying. D’arzenta was calling out in his most superior tone. He imagined he could hear the rasp of steel as his sword came free of the scabbard.

‘
Avanti
, Lucien,’ said Virmyre. ‘If they’ve brought axes they’ll be through the door in minutes. Let’s not give them anything to find.’

Virmyre crossed to the windows and opened them. It had finally stopped raining and a full moon shone with harsh intensity from inky skies. The stars looked muted by contrast.

‘I can’t do it,’ said Lucien quietly.

‘You don’t have much choice. Climb up to the roof. I’ll meet you in the House Erudito courtyard. I’ll have a horse saddled, but you’re going to need to give me some time. Come on now, quickly.’

Sounds of dull chopping issued from the sitting room. D’arzenta was swearing at the top of his voice. Virmyre held out a hand and gestured impatiently. In three quick steps Lucien was across the room and perched on the windowsill like a huge raven. The bulk of his bag lay in the small of his back, the strap straining across his shoulders. He realised he had no scabbard resting on his thigh, the reassuring weight of a sword painfully absent. He turned to Virmyre breathing hard, steaming in the night air.

‘What the hell is going on?’ he whispered.

‘Chaos,’ said Virmyre. ‘Now go.’

Lucien’s fingers sought the gaps in the masonry, gingerly grasping coarse networks of ivy root, not trusting them to support his weight. His feet slipped and struggled to find purchase; his wounded shoulder complained spitefully. The walls of Demense were still slick and treacherous with the day’s rain. Underneath and far below men scoured the perimeter with lit torches and spears. Raucous voices carried through the gloom; muffled cursing could be heard from the surly guards. Lucien climbed up, whispering incredulously to himself as he went, shocked by the unfolding consequences of his final testing.

So consumed with the climb was Lucien that he forgot Anea’s room was located two floors above his own. He glimpsed her through a gap in the curtains as he squatted on her windowsill to give his wounded shoulder a rest. Anea was tearstained and tired, folded in on herself on the couch. Professore Russo was comforting her, one arm holding the girl close. The Orfano girl was scribbling something in her book. Lucien felt tempted to knock on the glass and say goodbye, but just as he did so a corresponding knock sounded at the door, drowning out his own summons. Russo opened the door and stood at the entrance, arms crossing her chest and looking down her nose. There was a moment of conversation, and Russo’s temper flared, her hands going to her hips, chin thrust out defiantly. Insistent shouting came from the other side of the doorway, increasing in pitch and intensity. This would not end well.

Lucien began to climb again. He wondered if there was a single room of Demesne that was safe tonight. The minutes stretched as he pressed on, relying on his right arm, his left almost useless except to steady himself. The rooftop overhang above was visible, signalling the end of his climb. His limbs felt like lead and perspiration leaked down his neck from his pallid brow. Angelicola’s concoction had slowed him, perhaps even inured him to his plight. Now, so close to the end of his climb, he realised how much danger he was in. A fall from this height would end any escape before it had even begun.

With a grunt he pulled himself onto the uneven rooftop of House Contadino. It was a landscape of tiles and shallow sloping angles. The other keeps that made up Demense were of roughly the same height. Long-forgotten weathervanes rusted beneath the stars, encrusted with moss and guano.

Lucien calmed his breathing, feeling his heart beat strong and steady in his chest. Far below, the men with torches continued their restless search, becoming bored or frustrated. Lucien rose shakily to his feet and set off toward the centre of Demesne, toward King’s Keep. Its two towers jutted up near the middle of the roof, slumped against each other like drunken lovers, upholstered in ivy which fluttered in the weak breeze. No light shone from their windows, each one a darkened eye. The moon made the rooftop unreal and dreamlike, a monochrome vista of tiled slopes and sinister statuary.

He was halfway across the rooftop of House Contadino when a flicker of movement made him turn. Distracted, he lost his footing and fell, winding himself on the slippery tiles. His left shoulder sang with pain, settling into a droning ache. There was grit in his mouth, metallic and sour. He lay there for long moments, trying to suck the night air into lungs that refused to obey. Lucien listened, straining to hear footsteps in the darkness, but no one appeared. After a few anxious moments he pushed himself to his knees, wheezing with the effort, his ribs bruised. There was someone up here with him, he was sure of it.

The Orfano looked around with caution, then began again, taking care with each step; he could ill afford another fall. He was close to where House Contadino merged into the King's Keep when the figure sprang on him. Lucien threw one arm out to ward off his attacker and tried to sidestep.

Too late.

The impact lifted him from his feet: he landed on his back with a thud, the bag of clothes slung over his back breaking his fall. He gasped with shock all the same. A hooded man pressed down on him, sour breath coming in gasps. Searching fingers sought Lucien’s neck. He tried prising his attacker’s hands away, but it was futile. In desperation he pushed his hands under the hood, attempting to gouge an eye, but his thumbs could find no purchase on the shadowed face. His attacker responded, squeezing harder on his windpipe. Lucien was beginning to black out when he remembered he wasn’t completely unarmed. The loss of his sword had preoccupied him, but he had other weapons.

Lucien bucked his hips, forcing the strangler to one side, allowing him to bend his leg. His hand snaked down to the top of his boot, sliding the knife from its concealed sheath. Darkness blurred at the edges of his vision. And he thrust into the hooded man’s neck. There was a moment’s stillness. His attacker shuddered, then issued a dreadful cough. Lucien felt something hot and wet on his face. The man slumped to one side, clutching at the blade lodged in his throat with tremulous hands.

Lucien stood over him, realising his attacker looked smaller in death than he had in life. Had he ever been a man? Was he a child, living rough on the rooftops? There was a final shudder and then stillness. Lucien drew the blade out of his attacker’s neck, cleaning it on the dead man’s clothes. His garments were old and weather worn, stained with bird droppings, rough stitching from hasty repairs. The jacket was held together by a rope faded to grey. He had no boots, thin feet blackened with grime. The skin on the corpse’s hands was calloused and wizened. No child then, but someone much older. Someone who had clung to life with a steely tenacity. Lucien felt a wave of relief; infanticide was not a sin he could live with. This death alone was weight enough on his conscience.

Finally Lucien noticed the man’s nails. Not trusting what he was seeing at first, then fervently hoping it was some trick of the night or an accumulation of dirt. The man’s fingernails were black, his toenails the same. Not the deep brown of mud and soil, but a rich and lustrous black, like a beetle’s carapace. Lucien regarded his own fingernails and shivered. The man had been an Orfano.

Lucien emptied his guts, heaving the contents of his stomach into one of the many gutters that criss-crossed the rooftop. He took a moment to compose himself then slumped to his knees, shivering in the moonlight, giving thanks the hood had fallen over the corpse’s face. He could well do without the accusing stares of dead men.

At one time this man had lived in Demesne too, just as Lucien had. He’d most likely have been educated by House Erudito, fed by House Contadino, outfitted by House Prospero, trained by House Fontein. Just as Lucien had. He’d have attended
La Festa
and trained to dance with Mistress Corvo. He may have even lived in the very same apartment Lucien had grown up in. Now this nameless Orfano was a forgotten casualty of a rooftop brawl.

No one would come looking for him, a luxury Lucien envied him for.

Lucien pushed himself to his haunches, steadying himself with his free hand, the other still clutching the dagger, adrenaline far from spent. He shuffled forward and reached for the hood, intrigued yet simultaneously dreading what lay beneath the mean fabric.

A rude exclamation issued from behind him. Lucien flinched, falling back, finding himself staring into the beady eyes of a jet-black raven. Lucien rolled over and gained his feet, swearing loudly, heart hammering in his chest. He dusted himself off, realising it was a hopeless endeavour. Blood had splashed across his coat, gleaming dark and red. He rinsed his face with rainwater from a meagre pool. A sudden pang of regret lanced through him. He’d spent that morning bending his will to
not
killing people, only to find himself covered in the blood of a nameless assailant. An assailant who had shared all the pain of being a
strega.
Someone who had borne all the crushing expectations of being an Orfano. A hated foundling. A feared witchling.

‘I’m sorry,’ Lucien said in a whisper to the corpse. ‘I’d have given you my coat if you’d only asked.’

The corpse remained silent, face shrouded, hands still reaching toward the gaping wound which had spilled his life so quickly, blood tar-black in the moonlight. The raven perched on one dirty foot of the corpse and glared at Lucien balefully. Thunder rumbled in the distance like a protestation. More heavy weather was approaching from out at sea. Lucien frowned and moved toward King’s Keep, forcing the bested Orfano from his mind.

The twin towers of the King’s Keep stood before him. Lucien circled them, worried that a light would appear in one of the many darkened windows, imagining guards of House Fontein swarming up the many staircases of Demesne. He was so preoccupied that the cupola’s presence caught him by surprise. He very nearly walked into it. It was octagonal, though its corners had been rounded, each side a large arched window. Tawny light filtered up from below. Lucien held his breath and dared himself to look down. Beneath was the sanctum of their mysterious monarch, home of the reclusive ruler.

Nothing stirred.

The room appeared to be a laboratory. Eight workbenches formed a hollow octagon, each in disarray, cluttered with glass containers full of opaque fluids or piled high with old books. Strange slates made of black glass collected dust, while silvery medical instruments sat in velvet-lined cases. The walls were hung with sheets of fine paper yellowed with age and covered with formulae and diagrams. One in particular depicted a crudely drawn tree. Lucien was so fascinated that he almost failed to notice the Majordomo enter. The hooded figure stood, head bowed in reverence, hands grasping his staff. A tiny movement of the cowled head indicated some conversation was occurring, the other speaker remaining unseen. Moments passed and then the Domo was gone, grey robes trailing floors thick with dust.

Lucien couldn’t bear to move, curiosity burning, before it occurred to him that Virmyre would be waiting. He fled across the rooftops toward House Erudito with a chill in his heart. Something about that room had felt very wrong and he was grateful to be away from it. Fortune smiled on him then in the shape of a long disused tower with winding wooden steps. He descended into House Erudito, clinging to the shadows, using servants’ corridors and stairwells far from the main junctions. Hesitant and cautious, he worked his way toward the courtyard, toward Virmyre. And his freedom.