The Outcast Blade (23 page)

Also being buried was Lord Atilo’s beloved. They would lie together beneath the mosaics as they never had in life. Side by
side, on one bed of earth, their hands clasping each other’s. Marco had demanded they be married first.

Nothing the archbishop could say dissuaded him.

Faced with the duke’s disapproval or that of the Pope, the archbishop sided with the ruler of the city in which he lived. Since the Pope was negotiating a truce to reunite the competing papacies it was unlikely two corpses married at the request of a lunatic would worry him overmuch.

As for Tycho… Preparing himself for the service had used almost the last of his ointment. He had one more day’s worth, maybe two if he was willing to take the risk. Tycho knew how out of place he looked in his oiled silk and black leather, with smoked glass spectacles to hide his eyes from the daylight.

Had it simply been Atilo he would have stayed at home.

Desdaio, however… That was different. She had befriended him when few thought his friendship worth anything; when most doubted he could be tamed at all. She’d taught him to read and given her jewellery for his freedom.

Tycho owed Desdaio his respect.

Beside Tycho stood his new page, dressed in a livery of black doublet, black hose and black boots, of which the boy was ridiculously proud. Pietro had little right to be there and his presence attracted scowls of disapproval. So Tycho had announced he needed the boy’s guidance through daylight and dared his neighbours to disagree.

“What now?”

Tycho put his finger to his lips.

Now the double coffin would be lowered into a trench.

The fact the coffin was lead-lined had two advantages: it helped seal in the smell of corruption, and its weight would stop the coffin from trying to float to the surface and ruining the mosaics the next time Venice had an
aqua alta
.

Prayers having been said, the trench would be filled, the earth compacted and the underfloor replaced. After which a master
mosaicist would reset the tiny glass tiles removed to allow this burial. That a mosaic in the floor of San Marco had been disturbed showed how seriously Venice took this crime.

“Soon,” Tycho whispered.

Pietro looked at him.

“It’s ending. You’ll be free to go.”

The boy nodded gratefully. It had cost Tycho gold to buy out his apprenticeship, and have evidence of the boy’s earlier crimes removed from the records. Alexa’s patronage had helped.

“Go straight home.”

Pietro nodded and kept his silence. He was learning.

Having given his name, Tycho was allowed into the upper chamber where he had sworn his oath two days earlier. Again, chairs were set in a horseshoe for the Council, with two lesser thrones and one greater throne showing where Alonzo, Alexa and Duke Marco would sit.

A marble table laden with sweetmeats was set against one wood-panelled wall. Wine stood in tall silver jugs and small beer in an oak half-barrel. Alexa had a brazier for making tea. All the gathering lacked was servants to pour for them. These had been banished. Only one person was now missing.

Duke Marco shuffled into the room without looking at anyone, slumped on the throne without being told and sprawled back, kicking his heels on marble tiles to a beat only he could hear. His brief exchange with Giulietta in the basilica had obviously exhausted him; or exhausted his supply of common sense.

Before everyone’s eyes, he forced his fingers into the waistband of his hose and scratched his crotch, then examined his nails.

“Alexa…”

“Yes,” she said. “He does.”

Alonzo shut his mouth again. The protest was for form only. They were there to choose the next Duke’s Blade. Marco
had
to
be there because his presence gave the choice legitimacy. How could it be made if the duke was missing?

“If I may?” Alonzo said.

Marco said nothing.

“We’re assembled to choose the next Blade and discussion is allowed.” He smiled at the Council. “Indeed, you know with me that discussion is encouraged. Tradition makes the choice Marco’s, however. Since my nephew is unable to choose, the choice will be made by his Regent and by…”

“By his
Regents
,” Alexa said.

Alonzo sneered.

It was known he barely tolerated her co-rule, although Tycho imagined the fact Alonzo was usually referred to as
the Regent
, and Alexa styled herself
duchess
went some way to sweetening it.

“The Regents,” he said heavily. “Once the Blade is chosen all those in this room will swear to keep his name secret unto death.” Alonzo glanced round the panelled chamber, his gaze skimming over Marco, stopping on Iacopo, fixing for a few seconds on Alexa and dismissing Tycho altogether.

It seemed studied.

“To me,” Alonzo said, “the choice is obvious.”

Duchess Alexa’s shoulders stiffened and then she relaxed, sitting back in her carved chair to stroke Marco’s hand, settling him.

“Do go on…”

“Venice cannot be without a Blade.”

The Regent’s slight pause suggested he was waiting to see if Duchess Alexa would object. When she remained silent, he nodded. Tycho imagined the duchess knew he was leading her like a horse to the jumps and that any minute now the small jumps were going to turn into bigger ones.

“That means we should choose now.”

Alexa kept her silence and waved her hand as if to say that Prince Alonzo should go on. He flushed.

“There is only one member of the Assassini in Venice.”

The duchess looked at Tycho.

“No,” said Alonzo, shaking his head. “Tycho is
not
Assassini. He failed his apprenticeship and was dismissed. It is true we have Blades in Constantinople, Vienna and Cordoba but only one here. Another, a Nubian ex-slave, already tasked with a job, has ridden north. I would suggest slaves have not been a good choice recently.” Alonzo smiled. “So our choice seems simple.”

“
My lord!
” Iacopo said.

“Alonzo… This needs discussion.”

“What’s to discuss? We need a Blade and we need one now. The only suitable candidate in Venice stands before us. This is the son of a man who died fighting for this city as a free oarsman on one of our war galleys. The fact more experienced members are abroad is a poor excuse for not acting.”

“Sir Tycho…”

“Is not qualified to be an Assassini.”

“He defeated the Mamluks.”

“So everyone says. How exactly did he defeat the Mamluks? How could
that
possibly defeat an entire navy? It was Atilo, your husband’s admiral.”

On the throne Marco stopped kicking his heels.

“S-so,” he said. “We’re d-done?”

As if answering his own question, he stood up, helped himself to a handful of his uncle’s sweetened almonds, finished his mother’s tiny cup of tea in a single gulp and staggered towards the door.

“Marco…”

“D-done,” he protested. Only returning when Alexa took his hand and led him back to the throne.

“You insist on Iacopo?”

“I thought you’d approve. After all, he was body servant to your… old friend. They worked closely and Iacopo had many opportunities to study Lord Atilo’s methods. And, let’s face it,
we need a Blade
…”

The Blade was as much a part of government as the Great Council, inner council and the Ten themselves. As totemic for the city as the
bucintoro
, the duke’s ceremonial barge, the battle flag of San Marco and the chalice and ring the duke used to marry the sea.

“He’s not noble.”

“At least he’s Venetian. Besides, that’s easily solved.”

Walking to a fireplace where an ancient sword hung as decoration, Alonzo reached for its handle. The sword’s edge had been blunted to make it safe but he didn’t need sharpness.

Returning to Iacopo, he commanded, “Kneel.”

And in that moment, seeing the smugness and false modesty on Iacopo’s face as he knelt, Tycho hated him more than ever. Iaco had brought Atilo to the point of killing Desdaio. How could he not hate him?

“Rise, Sir Iacopo.”

Iacopo bowed low to the thrones.

In the sly smile that flickered across Iacopo’s face was everything Tycho loathed about the man. Looking up, he found Marco staring at him.

“T-t-tycho…”

He thought he was being called. Then realised he was being talked about. Although what Marco was trying to say was near impossible to tell. The duke was so tongue-tied he began pounding his throne in anger. To Tycho it seemed studied. If not studied then exaggerated. Everyone said the duke’s senses came and went. Tycho was beginning to wonder if they went quite as often as people said.

“H-h-he has s-s-something to s-say.”

“You have?”

Maybe there was warning in Alexa’s question. There was certainly warning in Alonzo’s scowl. Iacopo simply smirked. He was the Blade, the weapon Venice wielded against its enemies. How could Tycho touch him now?

“They’re e-equals?”

“Yes,” Alonzo said heavily. “Equals.”

The duke smiled happily.

Beyond the window, gulls squabbled and the waters darkened as the sun sank into the horizon. It would be night within an hour and Tycho could feel at ease again. Fishing boats would be lowering their night nets. Somewhere in the back canals smugglers would be stacking contraband knowing the Watch had been bribed or threatened into looking the other way.

Venice was Venice.

As it was and maybe always would be.

If he couldn’t truly mourn Atilo’s death Tycho was surprised to discover he could regret it. Desdaio, however… He mourned that and hated her refusal to let him save her, while understanding her reasons.

“T-t-tycho?”

Iacopo’s jealousy and Tycho’s own carelessness had killed her. He wasn’t sure which he despised more. Stalking across the room, he backhanded Iacopo to the floor. “You murdered Desdaio.”

The new Blade stood up.

“They were your hands around her neck, your blade between her ribs. You drove Atilo to murder her,” Tycho said.

“They were killed by foreign assassins.” Alonzo shot a warning glance at Alexa, who nodded. Desdaio and Marco were childhood friends. She’d once hoped they would marry. The last thing she wanted was Marco upset again.

“You can fight me,” Tycho said. “Or I can kill you here.”

“A d-duel?”

Tycho bowed in Marco’s direction.

“Among equals.” The duke smiled. “S-s-so clever of my uncle to make that p-possible.” And Tycho realised this was what Marco had intended all along.

His note from Lady Giulietta was brief.
You loved her?
Tycho tried to imagine the Millioni princess saying it, and found it impossible to read her meaning from between the words. For an hour he considered ignoring it.

Having decided he needed to answer, he spent another hour wrestling with what to say. Challenging Iacopo was easy; answering a three-word note from a girl who hated him made demands Tycho barely understood. In the end he settled for the truth. Compressing it into three carefully chosen words of his own, in letters he could only write because Desdaio taught him.

“
She loved me
.”

It was true. A complicated and unfulfilled love. The love of a rich young woman betrothed to an older man for a slave a little younger than her. She gave her jewellery for him. Braved shame to buy him in Limassol slave market when he was bound and weakened and before he could be sold to a brothel.

She was the closest he had to a true friend.

Iacopo had to die.

Opening another jug of his best wine, Tycho sipped it slowly as the hours slipped away. As he expected, the messenger he sent
to Ca’ Friedland returned with no note in reply. So he sharpened his sword, then sharpened both his daggers and considered and then rejected the idea of adjusting the straps on a breastplate he’d bought but never worn.

He would fight without armour.

That was how he felt about Giulietta, Tycho suddenly realised. He went into every fight with her armed but without armour; and came away not knowing until later how badly she’d wounded him.

Prince Alonzo and Sir Iacopo arrived at the duelling site together. The site being a ruined square beyond Arzanale, almost over the bridge into San Pietro, the island at the eastern edge of Venice ruled by the patriarch.

The pair arrived flanked by Lord Roderigo, his half-Mongol sergeant and a half-dozen Dogana guard carrying lit torches. All the guard carried ready-cocked crossbows, except for Sergeant Temujin who wore a curved sword. Iacopo’s breastplate glittered in the torchlight and he proudly carried an open helm in the Florentine style. The fact Lord Roderigo and his Dogana guard accompanied the Regent and Iacopo said sides had been taken, as if anyone needed telling.

Alonzo said something and Iacopo laughed.

A church with a broken tower, a cracked wellhead, herringbone brick rooted up by rubbish pigs, the fate of ruined squares everywhere… Tycho let Alonzo and Iacopo determine the square was empty before dropping from a broken balcony. Pietro crawled from a filthy tunnel leading to an old cistern.

“What’s he doing here?”

“He’s my page.”

Alexa was the last to arrive in her red-lacquered palanquin, the velvet curtains carefully drawn. Her two Mongol carriers put down the chair and retreated to the edge of the square without being told. Pulling back the curtains, Alexa opened
the light wood half-door herself and stepped on to broken brick.

She said nothing, simply glanced at where the sun would stain the horizon and looked at Tycho, who nodded. He wore ointment. When the last of the pot was gone so would be his ability to face even weak sunlight.

“You’re here,” Alonzo said.

He made it sound as if they’d been waiting hours.

At his nod, Roderigo had his men form a circle and raise their torches, lighting the makeshift arena.

“This is an affair of honour.”

Lord Roderigo nodded at Alonzo’s words while looking puzzled. Not being a member of the Ten, he lacked the vital information that Iacopo was now Duke’s Blade. Tycho imagined Roderigo was wondering why the Regent and Duchess Alexa would so openly involve themselves in something so slight.