by Patrick, Den
Several staff in the kitchen struggled not to stare open-mouthed at Lucien’s tirade.
‘He was determined to fail me, no matter how well I fought. You think I lack the stomach to kill?’ He stabbed one finger forward. ‘You’re wrong.’
The Domo said nothing, grimace deepening.
‘One day you’ll need to make good on all the secrets you’re harbouring,’ sneered Lucien. Suddenly his shoulder was throbbing with pain. The Domo remained motionless. The remaining kitchen staff receded further away, gazes averted, busying themselves at the other end of the room. The Domo opened his mouth to speak just as a messenger in House Fontein livery came through the kitchen door.
‘You are requested in the grand hall of House Fontein, Majordomo,’ panted the youth. He’d run directly from Giancarlo no doubt, who even at this moment would be marshalling support for Lucien’s expulsion. The Domo paused, then turned and followed the messenger.
Camelia laid her hand gently on Lucien’s shoulder, then pulled him close. Tears tumbling down her cheeks.
‘Porca misèria, Lucien. What will you do?’
‘I’ll leave. But first I need to find Rafaela. Do you know where she is?’
‘She’s at home. With her father. Her sister’s birthday is soon, possibly today, I think. She asked for some time off.’
Lucien growled a curse. He turned, making his way out of the kitchen.
‘Lucien, wait. I’ll bring you some food. For the road.’
‘Thank you, Camelia.’ He turned to her under the arch of the doorway, trying to smile but failing. He swept his gaze over the kitchen one last time, then stalked away into the dark corridors of House Contadino.
His ascent up the spiral staircase left him feeling weak, or perhaps it was the blood loss. Lucien opened the door to his apartment, looking over the deep armchairs where he’d spent so many winter’s nights, deep in sleep, deep in books and occasionally deep in conversation. Not nearly enough of the last. Pale grey light filtered in through the latticed windows. Outside promised chill winds and a threat of rain. He dragged fingertips across the spines of cloth-bound books. All were neatly ordered on custom-built shelves, the elegant craftsmanship of House Prospero. He turned his back on the sitting room and entered his bedroom. Warm clothes were pulled from a trunk and the bottom of his closet; thicker boots were pulled on. A waxed greatcoat he’d never worn was dragged out and tried on for size. He winced as the wound in his shoulder snagged and complained. He looked hideous, but it would have to do
‘Vanity is always the first casualty of survival,’ he mumbled before gathering up more items, small clothes mainly, stuffing them into a pillowcase. He swore as he again realised his sword was gone. The scabbard empty on his hip. A hollow vessel.
‘Headbutt, eh?’ It was Virmyre, pale blue eyes giving away nothing, his features glacial. The professore was famously as emotional as a rock. Virmyre leaned against the door frame with arms crossed over his chest, his black robes hanging like the folded wings of a great raven. He ran a hand through his black hair, shot through with stark white, then yawned expansively. ‘Not exactly in the syllabus, is it?’
‘Never was any good at following the rules,’ said Lucien. ‘Improvising always came more naturally.’
‘I had hoped we’d trained you to make your arguments in a more articulate fashion. Perhaps this failure is mine,’ said Virmyre, hand straying to his beard.
‘He set me up,’ growled Lucien. ‘He wanted me to kill people.’
‘You must be aware, Master Lucien, a sword isn’t just for show. What point in training you if you’ve not the will to use it?’
‘True enough. But I’ll not earn my place in Demesne killing farmers. Aren’t we supposed to give people trials?’
‘Only the nobili get trials,’ said Virmyre; ‘the commoners get—’
‘Murdered?’ Lucien eased himself out of the slashed undershirt, wincing. Transparent blood was weeping from his shoulder, turning blue after a few seconds.
‘Yes. Murdered.’ Virmyre let the word hang between them, then nodded.
‘I thought it was supposed to be a testing, not an execution.’
‘Giancarlo has a limited vocabulary; perhaps he muddled the two.’
Lucien shook his head, lip curled at the mention of the maestro di spada.
‘So tell me,’ continued Virmyre. ‘You didn’t give up your values today, even when forced, even when provoked, so who really failed?’
‘True enough, but I’m not being tested on my values,’ said Lucien. He inspected the wound and a wave of nausea overtook him.
‘When word gets around regarding what you did, about what you refused to do, I’m sure Giancarlo will be forced to reconsider failing you.’
‘Giancarlo not only failed me, he’s expelling me. I’ll be lucky if I can even leave the Contadino Estate.’ Lucien slumped down on the bed. ‘I’m a failure, I always have been.’
‘You’re not a failure, Lucien,’ said the professore.
‘My days out there are numbered. Golia will come looking for me, backed up by others. They’ll come by night and I won’t see the following dawn.’
‘Have you considered bleeding to death?’
‘Trying it right now. How am I doing?’
‘Admirably, I’d say. Although I don’t have a great deal of experience in such things.’
Lucien grinned at his deadpan mentor, shook his head.
‘How am I supposed to beat him when he comes? I’m no match for that sort of strength.’
‘Then you’d best be smarter than him. I’ve not spent the last thirteen years letting you grow up to be a dullard. You can’t beat Golia with strength, so outwit him.’
Lucien slung the jacket onto the bed and ignored the throbbing in his shoulder. One of these days he’d repay Giancarlo in kind for every scar he’d ever inflicted. He looked up, eyes narrowed.
‘What is it?’ said Virmyre.
‘Someone’s coming.’
Sure enough, footsteps from the corridor outside gave away the dottore. The grumbling man entered the sitting room without knocking before poking his head into Lucien’s bedroom.
‘I was sent for,’ he said simply. Angelicola was a shambles of a man. Permanent stubble and wild wiry grey hair conspired to make him look unkempt. The navy-blue doublet and britches he wore were out of date, thick with dust and dandruff on the shoulders. Threadbare elbows gave way to ragged sleeves. His boots were scuffed and long past polishing, his shirts were always rumpled and horribly stained.
‘Cook Camelia said I was to attend you. You’ve been injured, apparently. You look all right to me.’ He blinked small furious eyes under bushy brows, his overlarge aquiline nose making him look older than his forty-nine years.
‘Master Lucien was wounded at his testing,’ said Virmyre, ‘I’d like you to very carefully tend to him. Clean and stitch the—’
‘I don’t need to be told how to do my job by a professore! I actually work for a living.’ He swayed slightly and Lucien caught the slightest hint of wine, even across the room.
Virmyre drew himself up to his full height, just a fraction taller than the ill-mannered dottore, and unfolded his arms. His jaw clenched and Lucien saw him take a long slow breath before trusting himself to speak. When he did the sound was low and controlled.
‘I think you forget yourself—’ his pale blue eyes were wintry ‘—and, more than that, you forget whom you address.’
Angelicola blinked a few times and opened his mouth to speak, then thought better of it. Something passed between the two men and Lucien saw regret pass across the aged dottore’s face like a fleeting shadow.
‘Now stitch Lucien up,’ said Virmyre, ‘before I lose all patience.’
6
Via al Diavolo
HOUSE FONTEIN TESTING CHAMBER
– Ottobre 307
Lucien was unaware it was customary to arrive fifteen minutes early to a testing. A stricken-looking novice was pacing back and for
th when he finally arrived at the antechamber. He was an older boy, possibly sixteen. The ghost of a moustache hung on his top lip. His cheeks had broken out in a riot of acne.
‘Where in nine hells have you been?’
‘Maestro di Spada D’arzenta was ill this morning. I was in the kitchens with Camelia. And Dino.’ Anxiety clenched at the pit of his stomach.
‘In the kitchens?’ The older boy sneered.
‘D’arzenta didn’t say anything about—’
‘You’d better get in there,’ grunted the novice, ‘and hope he doesn’t fail you immediately.’
‘No one told me – it’s not my fault.’
He thought back to the previous year’s test with Ruggeri. D’arzenta had been with him every step of the way, and there’d been no chance of being late.
The novice stalked off, his scabbard slapping against his leg. Lucien flicked his fingers from under his chin as he’d seen the older boys do.
The doors to the training room were open, waiting for his entrance. Students were expected to present themselves in formal dress for tests, although Lucien couldn’t understand why. The clothes would invariably get spoiled, slashed open or, worse yet, bled upon. The tailors of House Prospero had taken to making spare sets of sleeves for jackets, leaving the stitching loose at the shoulder. It had saved them a lot of time over the years. Lucien wore a suit of charcoal-grey, with black leather riding boots and a thick leather belt. A simple white cravat completed the ensemble, managing to make him look paler than usual. He caught sight of himself in the mirror and wondered what Superiore Giancarlo would say.
The circular training chamber stretched away from him. He seemed to himself an insignificant detail in the great space. Three banners were fixed to the wall above the dais, one for each of House Fontein’s three schools. Giancarlo, Ruggeri and D’arzenta stood stony-faced and serious beneath the banners. Light bled in weakly from overhead windows, outmatched by clusters of candles flickering on ledges built into the walls. The quiet strangled all sound in the room, becoming a ponderous weight that crushed Lucien’s hopes. To stop them shaking he pressed his hands to the seams of his britches.
None of the other novices or adepts was present in the chamber except one. Carmine was roughly the same age as Lucien. He stood at one side of the chamber with a smirk playing on his lips. Where Lucien was slight, Carmine was sturdy. His light brown hair was cropped close in the fashion of all Giancarlo’s students. Lucien had not sparred against Carmine before and there’d been no chance to study the boy’s footwork or judge his form. His attention was brought back to the superiore, who was feigning boredom.
‘Tempo. Velocità. Misura.’ Giancarlo beat his scabbard against the palm of his hand, a dull slap accompanying each word.
‘The essences of a duellist, Lucien. And yet you come to me late, slouching along the corridors like a chambermaid, no doubt. Looking as if you fell from your wardrobe.’ Giancarlo sighed theatrically, then kicked the wooden stool at his feet across the room at Lucien, who jumped out of the way. Not fast enough. The seat struck his shin and he hopped about a moment, looking at his examiner, incomprehension clouding his eyes
‘Sit, bastard child!’ bellowed Giancarlo. His voice was like a thunderclap. Lucien swallowed, felt himself tremble. No one had ever spoken to him that way. He righted the stool, not taking his eyes from the maestro di spada as he lowered himself onto the seat. He allowed himself a glance at D’arzenta, who had hooked his thumbs over his belt. His knuckles were chalk-white, mouth a flat line, cheeks pinched. He looked ashen, clearly not recovered from the morning’s coughing fits. Ruggeri was his usual self, an unremarkable-looking man with the dark features and olive skin so common among the people of Demesne.
‘So, Lucien,’ boomed Giancarlo, his voice filling the chamber easily, ‘it seems your teacher tolerates your idiosyncrasies.’ He was advancing across the circular room. ‘I, however, do not.’
Lucien realised Giancarlo had held his hands behind his back until that point. He had thought the superiore was affecting a patriarchal pose, but it was deceit. Giancarlo’s right hand bore long scissors, not unlike the shears Lucien had seen used by the tailors of House Prospero. Black enamelled handles entwined Giancarlo’s walnut-brown fingers. The blades champed together with a steely scrape.
‘The problem is this, Lucien.’ The superiore grabbed his hair roughly; Lucien suppressed a yelp. ‘The Orfani are supposed to be examples to the four houses.’ Lucien sat up straighter on the stool, his hair yanked upwards. ‘Better educated.’ There was a grate of metal on metal, then a fluttering of black hair fell past his eyes.
‘Highly trained.’ Another snip, another flurry of descending hair.
‘More fearsome.’ Again the slice of scissoring blades. Lucien closed his eyes.
‘More intelligent.’ Slice.
‘Attired perfectly.’ Snip.
‘Turned out in a manner befitting a gentleman.’ Scrape.
Vice-like fingers held his head firm as tears tracked down his cheeks. He couldn’t explain the sensation, only that he felt shrunken somehow. Smaller and terribly self-conscious.
‘Now. That is a vast improvement, and you may actually be able to see who you are fighting. Not so much with that ridiculous fringe, I imagine. I nearly mistook you for your nanny when you walked in.’
Lucien found himself on the floor, the stool kicked out from under him. His elbow had gone numb, smashed on the granite tiles. His cheeks were aflame with embarrassment. The shock disorientated him. From his sprawled position he caught a hint of movement in the unlit gallery above, but could not see who lurked there.
‘Begin!’ bellowed Giancarlo.
Lucien staggered to his feet, struggling to draw breath. The blade edged from his scabbard with difficulty, his arm unresponsive. He willed feeling to flood back into the numb limb but it remained dull and painful. It was a ceramic blade of course, as for all novices. Matt black like the older boys carried with a hilt bound in soft leather stained red.
Carmine had advanced quickly, then paused a moment, confused by Lucien’s strange grip. There wasn’t a single student in Giancarlo’s school who fought left-handed. Lucien used the moment to lunge in, the tip of his blade aimed straight for the boy’s breast. Carmine batted it aside clumsily. The shock rang along Lucien’s blade and rattled his still numb elbow, nearly prising the weapon from his grip. He backed off, breathing deeply, desperate for sensation to flood back into his arm. Carmine did likewise and circled, passing foot over foot, moving around him clockwise. Lucien was put in mind of the sharks Professore Virmyre admired so much, circling before closing in for the kill.
Carmine thrust again, keen to win Giancarlo’s favour and draw the Orfano’s blood. Lucien threw up an ill-prepared parry, almost fumbling the angle and letting his opponent’s blade snag on his jacket sleeve. He stepped back, hoping to free himself but instead inviting Carmine’s boldness. Giancarlo’s novice stepped forward, a low thrust towards Lucien’s knees, lips drawn back from his teeth. Lucien sidestepped, breathing hard, a jagged edge of adrenaline making his hands tremble. Carmine followed up with a slash directed across his face, and Lucien’s attempted strike manifested as a graceless parry. At least it had broken the larger boy’s momentum. The opponents stepped away from each other, regarding each other. Lucien cursed under his breath. He had hoped he would be better than this. Or not so hopelessly outmatched.
Carmine came for him, feinting slow for his front leg, before turning the attack into an awkward slash across his eyes. Rather than try and block, Lucien dropped to one knee, mashing the pommel of his blade into his opponent’s crotch. There was a strangled cough, then Lucien kicked Carmine’s leg away. The clatter of his blade hitting the polished flagstones filled the chamber; a muffled thump came after as the boy followed it down. Lucien stood over his opponent and extended the black blade in first position. The tip hovered inches away from Carmine’s throat.
‘Yield.’
Carmine acquiesced
, a surly and shocked expression frozen onto his features. Lucien held the pose a moment longer before holding out a hand to help him up from the floor. Carmine collected himself and stood without assistance, avoiding eye contact with the victor.
‘Vai al diavolo, you strega bastard,’ he whispered.
‘Well, at least I didn’t rip your jacket,’ mumbled Lucien. Carmine failed to not clutch at his britches, eyes bright with tears. Giancarlo turned to D’arzenta and frowned a moment, then regarded each of the duellists. Icy seconds passed.
‘I hope that was improvisation,’ said Giancarlo to D’arzenta, ‘and you’ve not taken it upon yourself to include an unwelcome addition to the syllabus.’ D’arzenta began to say something, then struggled to contain a fresh round of coughing. He withdrew to the wall, where he steadied himself with one hand. Giancarlo sneered at student and teacher alike before fussing with a crate at the back of the room. He pulled out a buckler and strapped it to his forearm. The superiore turned, looking sternly at Carmine before inclining his head to one side in a brief nod. Carmine retired from the centre of the room with a stiff-legged walk that would have been comical in other circumstances. Lucien was too distracted by the wisps of his own hair decorating the flagstones to notice the boy’s departure. So much black hair, and a year in the growing. A year trying to cover up his hated affliction.
Why doesn’t your friend Luc have any ears?
A good question.
‘So, Lucien, you have proved you are the match of your peers, even if you are somewhat unorthodox. Now I’d like to see how you fare when the odds are against you. It may so come to pass you will have to fight opponents better armed and better armoured than yourself. You will have to deploy all your learning and all your wit to overcome them.’
The superiore held up the buckler. A small shield, it was just over a foot across, perfectly flat, and had been polished until it gleamed. Lucien shivered. He could see himself in the reflection, a badly made scarecrow that no amount of finery would disguise. His hair had been savaged and lay in scraps over his scalp. The puckered red holes of his deformity looked even worse than he remembered, contrasting with his pale skin, matching his red-rimmed eyes.