The Fallen Blade: Act One of the Assassini (44 page)

Alexa took the chair he suggested.

There were servants there, of course. There were always servants. As tradition demanded, they were treated as invisible, only obeying or reacting if spoken to directly. Nothing said here would be repeated. They had families: wives, children, parents… Silence was assured.

“Atilo has been telling me he’s keen to help any way he can. He has no intention of refusing any task we’d like him to undertake.”

The duchess relaxed. “Atilo?”

The Regent was luring him into a trap. No, Atilo shook his head. Far worse. He’d trapped himself already and left no retreat. All he could do was discover how serious it was and what room he had left for manoeuvre.

Easy to forget Alonzo had been a
condottiero
. No, even that was wrong. It was easy to remember, since he mentioned the fact constantly. What was easy to forget was that his fame was deserved. In the days before Alonzo became a drunk he was the best strategist in Italy. Atilo should have realised the Regent’s current sobriety was significant.

“Obviously,” Atilo said, “I will do what you command. Although my lord Alonzo expressed worries about my age…” He knew the Regent wouldn’t let him get away with that and he was right.

“Worries now assuaged,” Alonzo said smoothly. “Atilo is firm in his belief he’s the best man for this.”

Best man for what, damn it?

Unrolling a map of the Middle Sea, with red crosses against three Mamluk ports, Alonzo added another at the mouth of the Nile, near Alexandria, and a final cross halfway along the African coast to indicate Tunis or Tripoli. Quickly sketched arrows followed, converging on Cyprus.

Atilo’s heart sank. “The sultan?”

“His fleets launched over a week ago.” For once Alonzo’s voice was flat, his tone matter-of-fact. “He accuses us of burning a Mamluk ship in the lagoon. He refuses to believe otherwise. If he takes Cyprus…”

The Regent didn’t need to finish that sentence.

If the Sultan took Cyprus, Venice would lose a major ally, a way station between the Nile and Europe, and be disgraced. More
than this, if Cyprus fell the Order of Crucifers would be rootless. Bad enough having their embassy in Venice. The idea that the whole Order might need a new base…

“Cyprus must be saved.” Alexa’s voice was brittle.

“My lady?”

“My favour depends on this. What we have in Cyprus is…” If Atilo didn’t know better, he’d swear she cried beneath her veil. “It’s priceless. It must be defended to the death.”

Alonzo looked surprised.

“You don’t agree?” she demanded.

He shrugged. “I didn’t realise you felt so strongly.”

“My lord, my lady… can we put a fleet together in time?”

“It’s done,” Alonzo said. “Such as it is. All ships have been ordered to gather at Cyprus. And we’ve kept a small fleet there since the new year. We simply didn’t expect the sultan’s own fleet to be this size.”

“How many does he have?”

“Two hundred war galleys.”

“And how many are we?” Atilo wasn’t sure he wanted the answer. Two hundred galleys was a major force. More than the sultan had gathered before. Atilo was surprised that many Mamluk galleys existed in the world.

“Fifty,” Prince Alonzo said.

A respectable fleet. An entirely respectable fleet, just outnumbered four to one by its enemy. Atilo expected little of the Regent, not being in his confidence. But he was shocked Alexa had not told him of this before. “Did we know a fleet was gathering?”

“A fleet, yes,” Alonzo said. “Two hundred war galleys, including hardened corsairs from Alexandria and Tunis, and an elite force of ghilman, all converging on Cyprus, no…”

“Ambassador Dolphino has failed,” said Alexa. “Our spies in North Africa have failed. These are matters for later. I need you to leave immediately.” She glanced at Alonzo, nodded slightly. “Janus has agreed you should lead his fleet.”

“How?” asked Atilo. No messenger could reach Cyprus and return in the time available.

“That need not concern you.”

Atilo’s lips tightened. Hightown Crow, then. Unless Crucifers could talk across distances. That was possible. One Black Crucifer to another? If so, could Byzantine mages listen to the ethereal whispers? And if they could, would their emperor help or hinder Venice’s ambitions? Byzantium hated the Mamluks. But it didn’t love Serenissima either.

“Where does the southern emperor stand?”

A scowl crossed Alonzo’s face. “Manuel Palaiologos stands with the winner. So Duchess Alexa believes. I find it hard to believe he’d support heathens.”

“You’re heathens to him,” Alexa said.

Shrugging, the Regent smiled at Atilo. “We have our fastest galley waiting. Draw gold from the treasury. Select your staff, say your goodbyes, send Desdaio back to her father…”

“My lord.”

“She can’t stay at Ca’ il Mauros alone.”

“She won’t go, my lord. They’re estranged.”

When a smirk twisted Prince Alonzo’s lips, Atilo realised he’d walked straight into another trap. That made two in the same hour. The Regent was toying with him. Maybe the man was right. Atilo was getting old.

“Well,” Alonzo said, “she can’t stay where she is. And it seems she can’t return home.” He glanced at the duchess. “I guess she’ll just have to come here.”

“She could join my ladies-in-waiting,” Alexa agreed reluctantly.

“Oh, I don’t think she needs an official position. At least not yet. Let’s see how it goes.”

The Regent didn’t expect Atilo to return. Whether he hoped he’d fail and die, win and die or simply just die was not obvious. What Atilo knew for certain was that Alonzo had just publicly
staked his claim to the richest woman in Venice. In front of the man who was meant to marry her.

In front of the current duke’s mother, too.

And Marco would be deposed for sure. If Alonzo got his hands on Lady Desdaio Bribanzo’s fortune he’d be ruler of Venice before the year was out. An ex-
condottiero
could buy a very large army indeed with that kind of money.

Adif could taste the salt spray, as the wind and tides fought each other. He could feel the
Seahorse
shudder under his bare feet as her keel scraped rocks. Wince at the shriek from her already battered frame. The Mamluk could hear, taste and fear. But he couldn’t see the Sicilian cliffs or the narrow gap between them.

Tycho could.

“Grip tight,” Tycho said.

Dizzy from water sickness and barely supported by the rope he gripped, Tycho knew his strength was draining like sand in a timer. The power and certainty that feeding on Giulietta had brought him was almost gone. Gone already were his makeshift awning and his earth-filled bag. But he could see a gap between headlands leading to a bay beyond.

And that gave him a strength he didn’t expect.

What showed above the gap scared him. A thin line where darkness was turning pale. It edged the cliffs as if an artist had mixed dark and lapis blue and added a tiny trace of imperial purple.

His death written in the sky.

Grabbing the rudder from Adif, he wrenched the bar towards him, feeling crosscurrents try to kick the
Seahorse
out of true.

“We should pray,” Captain Malo suggested.

Adif nodded.

“Personally,” Tycho spat, “I’d hang on.”

Both the men gripped a rail. The captain appeared resigned to losing control of his galley to slaves. The way he kept glancing at a sodden but ornate strapped-down bedroll suggested other worries. Although, if the inrushing tide did carry his ship on to the headland rocks, how to explain the disappearance of the owner’s son would be the least of them.

Adif had experience of steering galleys.

Ten years as a sailor had been followed by three as a bosun and two as captain. He had five years as a slave after that, having been captured. Five years was a long time for a galley slave to survive. Most died in their first year. A good number of those left in the year following. He allowed their captain wasn’t bad as filthy infidels went.

“The boy died in the storm,” Tycho said.

“What?” Captain Malo looked surprised.

“Why not? Your ship’s near collapse. It’s a miracle we survived.”

Pointing to its broken mast, Tycho remembered Captain Malo couldn’t see the full horror of what lightning had done. Nor the number of dead slaves still to be tossed overboard. The other slaves huddled, sodden, angry and injured.

“Believe me,” he said. “It’s nasty.”

Close up, the gap between rocks was wider than it looked.

A minute before Tycho had been wondering if the
Seahorse
would fit, now he knew two ships could pass if they didn’t mind being lashed together and having their sides scraped. “Hold tight,” he shouted.

Seawater heaved as it lifted the galley, carrying her with a rush across the bulging water and down to calm conditions beyond. Behind her, the sea still fought for entry. Ahead lay a low beach on which a fire burnt in front of half a dozen huts. A ramshackle jetty sank into the sea.

“It’s a fishing village.”

The Mamluk clapped Tycho on the shoulder.

“He can see in the dark? That’s how he got us here?”

“Yes,” Adif admitted.

“Get me on to dry land,” Tycho said. “Cover me before daylight arrives.”

“
What?
” Captain Malo demanded.

“That’s my price for saving you.”

“He’ll give you freedom,” Adif said. “You saved the
Seahorse
, you saved our lives. We’d be dead if not for you. He’ll give you freedom.”

“No. He won’t.”

And looking at the captain’s face Tycho knew he was right. The owner’s son was dead. Captain Malo’s ship needed repairs. Captain Malo could no more risk offending Venice by freeing Tycho than Tycho could fly. He would be taken to the slave market in Cyprus and sold as Alonzo ordered.

Limassol’s slave market was open on all four sides, roofed in crumbling clay tiles, and supported on misshapen sandstone pillars. The steps to the selling plinth were worn and dipped from years of merchandise being led before buyers.

The platform could take five at a time. Outstanding offerings were sold individually. Brothers and sisters were usually sold in pairs. The rest in bundles of three or five. No one could remember a sale to sell a single slave before.

Certainly not a sale that started at midnight.

Maybe it was the strange hour, or the fact that only one slave was on offer, that drew a huge crowd to a district most patricians tried to avoid. Mind you, most patricians, including the king, tried to avoid Limassol altogether. Squalid by day, noisy by night, stinking of animals and slaves, it was fit only for merchants.

And maybe, Sir Richard Glanville thought, the rumours of an invasion had led to the party atmosphere. A reaction to everyone’s natural worry. Since returning from Venice and his time as the king’s envoy he’d found himself second in command of the White Crucifers. Sometimes a tricky place to be.

Sir Richard didn’t relish taking the slave to market.

The boy was filthy, dressed in a squalid doublet, with his hair braided, and swaying drunkenly as he stumbled and muttered, trying not to trip over his fetters. Sir Richard would have thought this task beneath him if the prior had not suggested it.

The price Sir Richard received was irrelevant.

What mattered was that the slave be sold within a day of arriving. And so, having been delivered last night to the Priory of the White Crucifers, the boy had been locked in a dungeon for the day, slopped down from a bucket at nightfall, and delivered to Limassol in an ox cart guarded by five men at arms.

Sir Richard would have felt better if the boy tried to escape.

“We’re here,” his sergeant said.

“I can see that.”

The man’s face tightened.

They should be preparing Cyprus against the Mamluks. Goat herds needed driving into the mountains, or slaughtering and salting against the coming siege. Swords required sharpening. Damn it, they needed making. Sir Richard commanded five hundred soldiers. What was he doing at midnight with some pretty boy slave who’d end up a merchant’s catamite?

Unless the king wanted him.

Sir Richard hadn’t considered that. King Janus’s tastes were complicated. There was a rumour, probably false, involving the Grand Prior when both were much younger. If Janus wanted this boy that changed things.

How subtle was Venice?

Subtle enough to send an assassin disguised as a pretty slave to attract the attention of the prince he intended to kill. Sir Richard wouldn’t put it past them. But why would Venice weaken Cyprus at a time like this? He took another look at the boy with the silver-grey hair.

“You,” he said.

The slave turned as Sir Richard punched.

A soldier swore, Sir Richard’s sergeant dropped his hand to his dagger, wondering what he’d missed, but Sir Richard’s attention was on the boy. Who blocked his blow without even thinking about it and settled into a rear-foot stance, readying but not throwing an answering blow.