The Boy with the Porcelain Blade

by Patrick, Den

  Duchess Prospero would wear a gown that would reveal more than it concealed, and would flirt with and tease anyone who caught her eye. The more elderly duke would get slowly fuddled on strong wine, before stumbling to his rest. Their daughter Stephania would lead a procession of noble girls, all whispering spitefully behind their fans.

  Duke and Duchess Fontein, on the other hand, would mark out one corner of the hall as their sole domain. Those breaching the threshold would earn sour looks and barbed compliments for their pains. Even Ruggeri and D’arzenta shunned their company, but Giancarlo would remain by their side, ever the faithful retainer.

  Lord Contadino would endure the night but take no pleasure from it. It was common knowledge he preferred the comfort of his privacy. His wife would charm the various guests and earn the admiration of the courtiers anew. Often she’d sing, unaccompanied, to rapturous applause.

  Maestro Cherubini would be found presiding over a great flock of teaching staff from House Erudito. The professori would do their best to act as a collective charisma deficit. Some called them eccentrics; Lucien called them embarrassing.

  Messengers and aides of every stripe and persuasion would haggle and threaten and cajole for an invite to La Festa. If only Lucien could palm off his invitation on someone who wanted it. Small chance of that. No Orfano had ever missed the event – it would be a scandal should he fail to attend. And yet Lucien couldn’t find it in himself to care this year. Superiore Giancarlo had declared his testing would be held three days prior to La Festa. All his thoughts were turned to scissors, stools and humiliation.

  Lucien waited in the antechamber of the training room, bent double at the waist, struggling to draw breath. He feared he would lose the meagre breakfast he’d picked at just an hour earlier.

  ‘Just nerves,’ Ella had said. He’d not replied, blushing furiously. Being nervous at all was bad enough; in front of Ella had increased his shame sevenfold.

  ‘You’ll be fine,’ she soothed, brushing his epaulettes with a firm hand before straightening his cravat.

  ‘I don’t care about “fine”. I just want to pass this year.’ He rubbed his shoulder, remembering where Giancarlo had injured him at the second testing. She squeezed his hand, concern glimmering in her eyes.

  ‘Just do the best you can. That’s all anyone can ask.’

  ‘Giancarlo doesn’t care for my best.’

  She sighed, then stepped forward, soft lips brushing his cheek. Lucien was suddenly breathless. The scent of her hair, of her skin, while subtle had struck him like a hammer blow. The gesture had arrived unbidden and he was blushing furiously in response.

  ‘Be careful, Lucien.’ Her voice was just above a whisper, eyes now downcast, worry evident in the set of her shoulders. She retreated from the antechamber, drawing the doors shut behind her. Lucien waited, chewing his lip, the heat of hers still burned on his cheek, a sun-warmed touch that lit him like a candle. Thoughts of the impending test crowded in on him, stifling the wonder of Rafaela’s affection. He swallowed on a dry throat, not able to meet his own gaze in the floor-length glass. Anxiety ambushed him: he worried he’d arrived late or even confused the day. Did anyone await him in the training chamber? Might he be able to return to his apartment? Would he see out the day unbloodied?

  Finally he was summoned.

  The circular training chamber was now familiar to him, the three identical banners of House Fontein the only respite from the grey walls and flagstones. Giancarlo indicated he sit on a rough wooden stool provided by a scurrying novice. There were a good number of them present this year, all of them from Giancarlo’s school. They variously sneered or primped themselves, looking haughty and superior. D’arzenta stood to one side, cold and furious, head bowed as if in great concentration. He knew what was coming, just as Lucien did. Maestro di Spada Ruggeri stood on the dais, occasionally glaring at the students when they became too boisterous. Behind everyone, leaning against the far wall with his arms crossed, was Golia. He looked more thuggish that usual, his blunt features impassive.

  Giancarlo began to lecture the students on practicality and appearance, ignoring Lucien entirely. Then he brought forth the scissors, brandishing them like a short blade. He turned to Lucien as if noticing him for the first time.

  ‘Ah, Master Lucien. You arrived on time this year. Small wonder you arrived at all.’ Giancarlo turned to his students, who sniggered on cue. The superiore continued his lecture on the virtues of appearance while shearing off the longer sections of Lucien’s hair. The scissors cut especially close to the sides of his head, laying bare his disfigurement for all to see. Lucien sat, not hearing the words only the steady steely scrape of the metal blades. His upper lip curled with hatred. A single tear tracked down his cheek before hitting his chest, now covered in slivers of coarse black hair.

  He’d expected this. And Giancarlo was more thorough than he had been the time before, taking his time to shear every lock

  ‘Now, Lucien. Now you are ready to fight. Like a man, I would hope, rather than a boy masquerading as a woman.’

  All the adepts and novices laughed at that. All except Golia, who simply looked bored. If any emotion crossed his features then it was one of irritation. D’arzenta caught Lucien’s eye and nodded almost imperceptibly. Lucien dried his eyes on the sleeve of his jacket and felt a calm descend on him.

  They’d spent many hours training for this.

  The maestro superiore di spada and the student took their positions, Giancarlo strapping a shiny buckler to his left forearm, just as he’d done before. He gave Lucien a fencer’s salute, a mocking grin fixed on his tanned face. Lucien caught sight of his own reflection in the surface of the buckler. His black hair had been ravaged completely. When offered a shield of his own, Lucien flicked fingers from beneath his chin, glowering at the novice who held it.

  ‘Well, well, it seems your etiquette is the equal of your swordplay, Lucien,’ sneered Giancarlo. ‘Perhaps I can carve some manners into you.’ Another round of laughter from the boys, and then the fight began.

  Giancarlo opened with very basic attacks, smiling as Lucien threw up the correct parries and ripostes. Lucien pressed in, only to be turned aside by the buckler. The sight of his reflection drew his eye, the distraction costing him a slash across the ribs, ripping fabric but not the flesh beneath. Giancarlo grunted in satisfaction, then renewed his assault, thrusting at the Orfano’s chest. Lucien struggled to turn the blade aside in time, feeling the point score him deeply. His shirt became damp, but he couldn’t tear his eyes from the superiore to see how much blood he was losing.

  ‘Perhaps now is a good time for you to quit, Master Lucien?’

  The pack of novices brayed and heckled, cheering on Giancarlo. A few dared to boo before finding themselves sent out by D’arzenta.

  The pain of his wounds called out to Lucien – an irresistible song but not one of defeat. One of fury. The Orfano launched a series of deft strikes, slashing high, low, high, low, thrust, altering the tempo of each attack as he went. His gaze was fixed on the superiore, no longer daunted by his reflection. Giancarlo’s mocking expression changed to one of surprise, then concentration. All eyes followed the fighters, every breath in the chamber baited. The superiore batted aside a thrust with the buckler, managing to parry the following strikes. He’d given ground and was backed up against the far side of the circular room. A cruel smile stole over Lucien’s lips; the watching novices were silent, ashen-faced and incredulous.

  Giancarlo grinned, hefting his sword above his head, bringing it down like a hammer strike. The novices gasped. Giancarlo had disarmed Lucien. Worse still, the Orfano’s ceramic blade had fractured as he had parried. The weapon tumbled from numb fingers, shattering on the granite floor, breaking apart in three distinct shards of polished black.

  Across the chamber D’arzenta pressed one fist to his mouth. The students were rapt, keen to see the pale blood of the Orfano spilled. Giancarlo stepped in smoothly, kicking Lucien’s feet out from under
him, shoving him down onto the polished floor of the training chamber with the buckler. Adepts and novices around the chamber winced, jeered or gestured with down-pointed thumbs. D’arzenta looked on with narrowed eyes. Giancarlo could have stopped there, his point made, his victory assured.

  But he pressed on.

  Lucien had been expecting all of this – the stool, the scissors, the rampant unfairness. He’d expected to be barged to the ground by the larger man. Expected Giancarlo’s blade to open his flesh.

  Giancarlo swept the blade down at the supine boy, eager to add to his scars. And his shame.

  Instead the sword chimed like a bell, blocked by a thick steel dagger. Lucien had smuggled the forbidden weapon under his jacket, fully aware he would be failed for using it. It barely mattered. Giancarlo’s eyes widened in confusion, then narrowed in contempt.

  ‘Orfano are not permitted to bear steel weapons. I’m failing you.’

  ‘And I will petition for your exclusion from further lessons. Such disobedience will not be tolerated.’

  Three great detonations sounded, silencing everyone.

  All eyes turned to the balcony above, where the Domo stood.

  ‘This is no testing at all,’ said the ancient steward. ‘There will be no expulsion.’

  ‘You don’t dictate to m—’

  Giancarlo was cut off by another impact of the staff, booming from the floor of the balcony. It were as if the Domo had summoned thunder.

  ‘I will dictate as the king sees fit, you will carry out the king’s wishes, or I will find someone else who can.’

  Giancarlo looked up at the Domo, impotent with fury, then swung a hate-filled gaze at Lucien. The Orfano approached, closing with the superiore until only a hand’s width separated them.

  ‘Vai al diavolo,’ whispered Giancarlo.

  ‘You first,’ replied Lucien, ‘and don’t even think about cutting my hair again, you piece of shit.’ These words loud enough for Giancarlo’s ears only. Deathly quiet filled the space, dense like smoke. The students were aghast, some blinking, others open-mouthed in surprise, gaping like landed fish. Golia grunted something. He pushed past the smaller boys, shouldering through the larger ones, exiting through the door at the back of the chamber. Some flinched, others swore, all called after him with angry bravado.

  Lucien looked up at House Fontein’s novices and spared a look at the balcony. The Domo had departed as silently as he’d arrived. And then the Orfano was gone, sweeping out of the training chamber, kicking the doors open as he went.

  One year later he’d do the very same thing at La Festa.

  13

  Master Esposito

  THE EASTERN ROAD

  – Febbraio 315

  Lucien had not known about the road that ran behind the cemetery until the moment he broke free of the weeping willows. He hoped the road led somewhere useful, or at least somewhere less dangerous. He ran, feeling the weight of the saddle pressing down on his shoulder, the sack of food slapping and catching on the back of his leg. He was struggling to believe his luck could turn quite so sour. Losing his horse had been unthinkable, being discovered by the Majordomo even worse.

  The two soldiers gave chase in a half-hearted manner. The lower orders of House Fontein were far from specimens of physical perfection, more given to standing and glowering than hunting down enemies of the king. Red-faced, the men floundered and collapsed under the weight of their weapons and armour. They would undoubtedly return to Demesne, pretending they’d not seen Lucien. Better this than admitting their failure to Giancarlo.

  Lucien had escaped. Or so he thought.

  He pressed on along the road, grey sky unremarkable, the wind tugging at his coat and teasing his hair. The landscape rolled to the horizon, undulating in gentle swells, hedgerows and sturdy stone walls edging the fields. Here and there a cluster of cypress trees broke the panorama. Lonely farmhouses wheezed chimney smoke into the sky. Lucien set his mind to the walk ahead, ignoring the chill that crept through his bones.

  Lucien was unsure how many hours passed, only that his legs grew more weary. Then two dots appeared on the horizon behind him, quickly joined by a third. They were undoubtedly from Demesne. Lucien pressed on, resisting the urge to look back over his shoulder. He walked calmly so as not to arouse suspicion. Small chance of that, he decided. Few folk in all of Landfall owned saddles. Fewer still wore blood-spattered raincoats. He surrendered to the need to see his pursuers and turned. Mud rose behind them, kicked up by horses approaching at a gallop. Definitely three of them now.

  A cluster of buildings lay ahead, just a few miles out of reach, snug in a gentle depression. Blue-grey smoke dissipated above thatched rooftops. It looked peaceful, as if the inhabitants might still be at their rest. Lucien envied them their cosy beds and their quiet lives.

  The horses were audible now, their hooves beating a subdued thunder on the track, the sound pressing against the back of his skull. If he were anyone else he could at least attempt a bluff, to claim he was a blacksmith or an artisan on his way home. As an Orfano he was immediately recognisable. Anonymity was the province of other people.

  Closer now, so close he could think of nothing else but being trampled. Iron-shod hooves smashing his ribs and snapping his spine. He wondered if they would even try and apprehend him, or simply choose to cut him down as they rode past. It would be the work of seconds. They could drag his corpse back to Demesne and parade it in front of Giancarlo. They’d be rewarded with promotions, favoured with positions for life. The tension increased, balling his hands into fists, his throat becoming dry. He dared himself not to look over his shoulder.

  Keep walking.

  The drumming of hooves.

  Keep. Walking.

  The first rider shot past him, the horse skidding to a halt, then rearing up on hind legs. It was lathered in sweat and steaming in the chill air. The rider looked back at Lucien and grinned spitefully. He nodded to his companions, who remained behind Lucien, their pace slowed to a trot.

  ‘Lucien “Sinistro” di Fontein,’ crowed the rider, some jackass nobleman who had forgotten his origins, adopted a few years earlier from a minor house and now a favourite of House Fontein. He fairly reeked of braggadocio and self-assurance, twenty years old and reputed to be a capable swordsman. Lucien had pointedly refused to learn his name. Not much of a victory, but Lucien would take what he could get.

  ‘What do you want, you odious horse cock?’

  Perhaps the swordsman thought Lucien would turn himself in without a fight, cowed by being outnumbered. He was in for a bitter disappointment. Lucien relished the chance to serve it up to him.

  ‘Superiore Giancarlo demands that you return to Demesne this instant. You are to stand trial for arson at the request of House Erudito, and also for the killing of Viscount Contadino’s horse.’

  ‘Well, that’s difficult,’ replied Lucien.

  ‘Why so?’ said Horse Cock.

  ‘Well, firstly, I’m an Orfano. Strictly speaking, I don’t take orders from anyone. I acquiesce at my discretion.’

  ‘What does “acquiesce” mean?’ grumbled Horse Cock, now thoroughly aware the conversation had slipped from his control.

  ‘It means I do what I like, when I choose to. Only the king and the Majordomo can command me to do anything. And then only directly. Perhaps if you’d spent longer at your etiquette lessons you’d know this. Now, the second reason I can’t come back to Demesne is because I’m outcast.’

  ‘Outcast or not, Superiore Giancarlo has ordered it,’ croaked Horse Cock.

  ‘That really doesn’t sound like my problem,’ said Lucien, enjoying himself immensely.

  ‘But Superiore Giancarlo—’

  ‘Can go fuck your mother for all I care.’

  Horse Cock bristled. He nodded to one of his companions. It stood to reason he was too much the snivelling coward to take action himself. Lucien heard the grate of metal on metal, the unmistakable sound of a blade rasping from its sheath. He turned,
flung the saddle he carried into the face of the chestnut mare which had approached close behind him. The beast floundered to one side and staggered, confused. The rider struggled to exert control, curses escaping his lips as he pulled on the reins. Lucien followed up, stepping in on nimble feet. He had to get the timing exact or he could expect to lose his head. At the very least he’d be struck in the face. The rider had already committed to a downward slash, blade descending. Lucien stepped in closer, the smell of horse, leather and oiled weapons strong in the air.

  This was the telling moment. It all hinged on this one desperate gamble. His wounded shoulder protested, but he was only dimly aware of it through the intoxicating flood of adrenaline. Reaching up with both hands he caught his attacker’s wrist, twisted his body and heaved with every ounce of his strength. The rider sailed over his head, then clattered to the ground along with his blade. The chestnut mare fled back along the road at a mindless gallop, free of its burden. Horse Cock and the remaining rider drew blades, wheeling their mounts. Shock was now etched onto faces that had borne arrogance just seconds before. Lucien stamped on the fallen rider’s head, snatching up his blade from the road in a heartbeat. He felt the strange weight of metal and its promise of death; no longer would he be contained by the fragility of a ceramic blade. A surge of excitement ran down his spine and he switched his concentration back to his opponents. They were swearing and cursing him loudly.

  Lucien realised he was laughing and tried to stop himself.

  The first of them, he was unsure which in the chaos, trotted in and swung a blade. He ducked beneath the flashing steel, remaining low, then spied an opportunity. Lucien lined up his strike, taking a moment to dodge the pounding hooves. There was a split second he was afraid he might eviscerate the beautiful white mare, but his training and concentration held fast.