The Fallen Blade: Act One of the Assassini (35 page)

Tycho nodded.

“I’ll go now,” Iacopo said. “You’ll need time to prepare. But let me have some of that small beer first.” Taking the jug, he began filling a rough-blown glass, his grip suddenly slipping and the glass crashing to the floor to roll away unbroken.

“Shit,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

“No matter. The glass isn’t broken.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about.” Producing a scrap of velvet, Iacopo wiped beer from the back of Tycho’s boots. “That’s more like it,” he said.

The carving above the door of the Golden Horse, a narrow tavern between narrow houses in a street south of the Grand Canal’s northern mouth, looked more like a donkey. Once cheaply gilded, it now peeled in patches. The bits not peeling were the hue of rancid fat. Tycho wasn’t surprised to hear a man pissing outside call it the Mouldering Mule. The man stank, as did the tavern and the street in which he pissed. Anywhere near a tannery always stank.

Shit shovellers and tanners’ boys bathed daily. Probably the only people in the city to do so. Except for the very rich, for whom bathing was an expression of power. The difference was that the rich bathed inside, sitting on huge sponges, their baths shrouded by tents to preserve the heat. While the shit shovellers and tanners boys bathed in canals that were frozen in winter and rancid in summer. So rancid that their sole virtue was that they stank less than those bathing.

The man leaving the Mouldering Mule worked a shit boat. From the smell of him he’d decided to have a drink or three before facing the waters of the canal.

“What are you looking at?”

Ignoring him, Tycho turned to go in. He wore his black leather coat, collar turned up. Black doublet, black codpiece, black hose, black boots. Maybe these made customers stare when he began to push his way through. Many glanced up, most glanced away. A human response to seeing someone pass.

A few kept staring.

He could stare back or look away. The first a challenge, the second surrender. So he glanced away, heard a snort and glanced straight back, hardening his gaze. It left his mocker uncertain. Shouldering him aside, Tycho found a table near the back. A one-eyed ex-soldier sat with a heavy glass in front of him.

“This stool free?”

The man spat into the sawdust. “What do you think?”

Tycho sat himself and smiled at the man’s scowl. After a moment, the soldier went back to examining his mug of wine. The woman who came over to take Tycho’s order was Schiavoni, large and busty. In a Venetian her tied-up hair would make her married. With the Schiavoni who knew?

Apart from another Schiavoni, obviously.

“Well?” she demanded.

“Barolo… A jug.”

She scowled. “Red, white, strong beer, small beer. You want anything else go somewhere else.”

“Barolo.”

The soldier laughed. “Your red’s shit,” he told her. “Your white’s worse. As for the beer, you should pay us to drink it. Tell Marco to give him a jug of the good stuff.”

When she came back, she banged Tycho’s jug down hard enough to make her breasts bounce and wine slop across the table. Running his finger through the puddle, Tycho licked it. When he looked up, she was blushing. He gave her a tornsello and a half coin and watched her flounce away. At the counter, she looked back and flounced some more.

“Too bad you’ll never get to explore what’s in that blouse…”
Pushing a folded note around the newly made wine puddle, the soldier said, “Can you read?”

“A bit.” Tycho said.

“More than I can.”

Along the Fondamenta delle Tette, the bare tits and rouged nipples that gave the brothel canal its name were on display. In a hundred and fifty pairs of chilly flesh, and an endless choice of shapes from barely there to pendulous. The patriarch owned this area. The Church having decided that making whores cheap, available and frequent would cut down on sodomy, at least between men.

“You’re no fun…”

The half-naked girl in a tavern full of sailors and off-duty soldiers scowled at Tycho, who shrugged and didn’t bother to disagree.

“I’m cheap,” she said. “And good.”

He could see why she might be proud of the second. But being proud of the first was odd. Unless he misunderstood her.

“And I’m here on business.”

Turning away, she threw her arms around the neck of a passing Schiavoni bosun, who nodded at her whispered price and thrust his hand up her skirt; unable to wait until he reached the stalls before beginning to toy with his purchase.

Although Tycho drank as little as he could get away with at each stop his head was still spinning, and his thoughts wandering by the time he reached the Alexandrian, his fifth destination. A single-storey building leant against the side of a palace, with the fish market downstream on the Canalasso’s far side. He approached it along a narrow alley, and found himself facing an original palace, which was halfway through being rebuilt. Bamboo scaffolding rose in the darkness.

Slick with rain, the rope lashing the lengths together was dark and swollen. A vicious-looking guard dog turned to watch Tycho approach. And for the first time since he’d arrived in Venice a
dog raised his hackles and launched an attack. Only to be brought up short by its chain.

Picking itself up, it bared its fangs and tried again.

“Easy,” said Tycho.

This only drove the beast into a frenzy of snapping teeth. Until saliva flew and the beast’s eyes looked ready to roll in its head.
Dogs ignore me
, Tycho thought. It wasn’t that they liked him or disliked him. They simply behaved as if he didn’t exist, until now. He hoped it wasn’t an omen.

The club’s owner obviously had permission from the palace’s new owner to keep trading, because nothing looked temporary. The Alexandrian was as far from the Mouldering Mule as two drinking dens could be. Far further than the thousand steps it would take to walk from one to the other. Above this door stood a gilded warrior, dressed in a battle skirt and holding a sword. “Iskander” said a carving on its base. “Conqueror of the Known World.”

The room was narrow but deep, with a painted ceiling. The floor paved in Istrian stone that was almost clean. A carpet hung on one wall, its reds and browns matched by smaller carpets on other walls. Marble-topped tables matched stools that didn’t wobble. Candles burnt in candelabra.

And the air stank of beeswax, incense, expensive wine and perfume so heavy Tycho thought he’d wandered into another brothel by mistake. According to Atilo, brothels existed in Venice for every taste. Young women, older women. Whores who would hurt you. Whores who liked to be hurt. Whores who didn’t like to be hurt, but, for extra, you could hurt them anyway. The best provided food, usually at a loss. Food and drink and hazard tables and areas for conversations best not overheard. According to Atilo brothels were for more than fucking.

A dozen masks looked across. None looked away and Tycho could feel their hunger. Languidly pushing back his chair, a figure in a white mask, red silk gown and golden shawl came to drape one arm around Tycho’s shoulders.

“First time?” Before Tycho could respond, a waddling doll propelled herself to her feet, and hurried over.

“He’s with us.”

“I saw him first.”

“Allophone, you’d be wise…”

The first figure dropped his arm from around Tycho’s neck and left hurriedly, muttering apologies and protests that he hadn’t realised who he’d been talking to.

“He’s a little idiot,” Hightown Crow said, pushing back his gilded mask and smoothing the front of a purple gown. “But a
pretty
little idiot. Who will get himself into trouble. Probably serious trouble if we’re lucky.”

Tycho gaped at him.

“Welcome to the Alexandrian,” said Dr. Crow. “I have two patrons who want to meet you.” He pointed to a door at the back.

“You’re grown,” Duchess Alexa said. She looked at Tycho thoughtfully. “Into what is another question. In height, certainly. Atilo tells me you’re ready for testing…”

“Yes, madame.”

She laughed at his flatness of tone. “Still hate me, do you?”

“I’d kill you.”

“What prevents you?”

Something did. His fury at seeing the woman who used Rosalyn as bait to catch him burnt like flame. And that Rosalyn had died that night should have… But the flame shrank and shrivelled, leaving only regret. Blinking, Tycho claimed back a little of his anger. “Magic.”

Alexa smiled. “Close enough.”

“I’ll kill you though, eventually.”

“When you’re able to kill me you’ll no longer want to…”

“Don’t count on it.”

“I won’t,” she promised. “You should know I count on
nothing.” Tiny octopuses filled a plate on a table in front of her. They were dressed with oil, large flakes of pepper and sprigs of some dried herb. “Try one,” Duchess Alexa said.

Tycho shook his head.

“I insist.” Tycho popped a tiny octopus into his mouth, feeling it wriggle briefly as he crunched. “Did you taste it?”

He nodded, swallowing his mouthful.

“Now eat another.”

This time he felt a tiny spark and watched the duchess smile at the surprise in his eyes.

“Finish the plate.”

By the time he bit into the last wriggling morsel the spark was obvious. A flicker of tiny lightning as the creature died. Wiping the platter clean with a sliver of bread, Tycho was surprised to find himself happier.

“You know why you’re here?”

“For the testing.”

“In the old days my husband would give your master the name of someone he needed dead. A foreign prince. A troublesome priest. Your job would be to make that happen. Tell me what
deniability
is.”

“I know you did it. You know you did it. I can’t prove it.”

She laughed. “The basis of a
perfect kill
. No one can prove a thing. A
trick kill
blames someone else. A
non-kill
looks like a suicide. A
possible kill
looks
almost
like an accident. That’s its subtlety. Since doubt enters our enemies’ hearts like a blade. I can see from your face Atilo has taught you this. So, another question. Why do we allow this club to exist?”

“It keeps Dr. Crow happy.”

She clapped her hands. “Marco would have loved you,” she said. “So young, so cynical. What else?”

“It gives you his friends to blackmail.”

“So astute. If I told you to kill Dr. Crow, would you?”

“Happily, my lady.”

“I almost want to make him your target. Sadly, this comes first.” Unrolling a piece of paper, she revealed an ink drawing. Somewhat between man and wolf, with sharp ears, shaggy fur, pointed snout and long claws. Tycho felt his throat tighten.

“You recognise it?” Alexa asked.

“No, my lady.”

“Would you lie?”

“Of course not, my lady.” Tycho glanced round the room. A raised divan covered with a silk carpet was visible behind her chair. More carpets draped the walls. A tiny single window was leaded with small circles of glass. The room’s only real oddity was its smell. A mix of smoke and something sharper. Tycho had been catching traces of the latter all night.

“Hashish,” said Alexa, “the poor man’s opium.” She nodded to a fretted brass dish, which dribbled smoke. “Your nose wrinkled.”

“And you read my thoughts?”

“Not easy. In fact, surprisingly hard. But tell me first how you got here…” She waited expectantly.

Tycho opened his mouth to say he walked from behind San Simeon Piccolo, along the edge of the Rio Marin, and Rio di San Polo, then cut between the churches of San Aponal and San Silvestro to the Rialto bridge. The way anyone Venetian would describe his walk. Only, he realised, as he prepared to answer, this was not what she meant. “I don’t know.”

His words tasted bitter as ink.

“Ragnarok,” she said. “I see more than you think.”

“Not my beliefs.” He said it without thinking, but it was true. Lord Eric and his followers believed in flames and fire at the end of time. Tycho’s mother was not Viking, nor Skaelingar. That much Withered Arm had told him.

Duchess Alexa seemed strangely pleased with his answer. “That’s Prince Leopold zum Bas Friedland.” She gestured at the drawing. “His father’s emperor, his mother’s French. He’s a
krieghund
. As
the German’s bastard, a
krieghund
and the German envoy, Leopold is protected. In all senses…”

Tycho should ask what the duchess meant.

She sighed when he stayed silent. “Officially, we can’t touch him. No matter what he does.” Tycho
shouldn’t
ask what that meant. This was not his to know. Assassini orders existed to be obeyed, without question and without thought. Thought limited action in the happening, according to Atilo, and destroyed the chance of rest afterwards.

“What’s he done?”

“None of your business.” Duchess Alexa tipped her head. “Surely you were told that?”

“It’s almost the first lesson.”

She laughed, reached for her glass of wine and sipped it, careful not to stain her gauze veil. “He murdered fifteen women over the course of five months. Well, his men did. Only three of the deaths mattered. The third, the seventh and the last. There’s a subtlety in that. Killing at random so his target kills appeared also to be by chance. And then, to finish, he destroyed the Assassini. In a single night, a year and a half ago, his Wolf Brothers killed most of Atilo’s men. They crippled Venice’s reach and left us open to threats.”