The Boy with the Porcelain Blade

by Patrick, Den

The deed done, Lucien dived forward, rolling and rising to his feet in one smooth motion, sword held in a reversed grip. The riders turned their mounts, trying to avoid trampling their unconscious companion. Horse Cock advanced shouting incoherently, blade held high. Spittle flecked his lips and rage lit him from within.

  And then the nobleman slid off his mount, saddle and all, landing with a stifled yelp.

  Lucien sniggered and flourished his new sword.

  ‘How the mighty are brought so low. A tragedy.’

  Cutting the broad leather strap that buckled under the horse’s stomach had been a master stroke. The mount, now free of its overbearing master, trotted to the side of the road and began to nibble on the grass.

  Horse Cock stood on shaking legs, sucking down air into reluctant lungs. The fall had winded him badly. He stooped to retrieve his sword. Lucien watched him and waited, affecting boredom.

  ‘You streghe. You think you’re so much better than everyone else, better than us,’ spluttered Horse Cock. ‘Well, I’ll give you a lesson that pathetic D’arzenta never could.’ He charged toward Lucien, fury written across his face, quickly changing to confusion and frustration. Betrayed by a twisted ankle, he was off balance and he knew it. The parry he threw up was weak and after the fact. His head was separate from his chest before he even hit the ground.

  Lucien had barely moved.

  The corpse shuddered slightly and lay still except for the viscous throb of fluid jetting out of the neck. Crimson pooled on the muddy track. The remaining horseman stared at the corpse of his fallen companion and grew pale. The hand holding his blade shook, and it looked as if he might drop it. Lucien flicked his new blade to one side: a trio of red droplets spattered the road. He cleaned the dull metal, feigning disinterest in his last opponent.

  ‘Tell the superiore I am Lucien ‘Sinistro’ Esposito from this moment onward. If he wants me back at Demesne he can come and find me himself. Tell him to stop sending errand boys. And tell him he’ll have to kill me before I attend any charade of a trial.’

  The horseman nodded mutely. Awkward seconds passed, and he turned his horse, trotting off the way he’d come. Lucien watched him recede into the distance, disappearing around the trees. Finally he was alone again on the dirt road with only the clouds for company. It was then the adrenaline left him – he almost staggered with the intensity of it. Something was wet inside his sleeve. A surge of panic and he was shrugging off the coat, fighting down the crawling sense of unease. The pain in his shoulder increased its pitch. His shirt was wet with clear blood, now turning light blue. He felt faint, darkness crowding the edges of his vision. The stitches had torn during the fight, the decapitation costing him deeply. It had been an attack born of instinct, but ultimately unnecessary. Now he was left with the painful consequences.

  He sat down at the side of the road and stared at his boots, willing himself to get back up. His vision wavered.

  Then came the darkness.

  It was the rain that saved him. The cool drops returned him to the conscious world. He ran his tongue over wet lips and let out laughter verging on hysterical. Standing was its own unique torture, his limbs all fighting to cramp at once. He struggled to attach Virmyre’s saddle to the white mare, which had miraculously remained nearby. The creature was a docile sort. Lucien wondered if the mount could sense his desperation and had decided to give him an easy ride out of pity. He collected up the sack of food and both the swords. He then stole Horse Cock’s jacket because it was a fashionable cut and he couldn’t help himself.

  ‘Some habits die hard,’ he muttered as he struggled to pull the garment from the headless corpse. The other fallen rider chose this moment to wake up and stifled a sob. Lucien reckoned the swordsman had broken his collarbone judging by the way he gasped, cradling his arm to his chest. Lucien walked over, helping him to his feet roughly. The swordsman winced but remained standing. They stared at each other for a few moments, Lucien well aware of his opponent’s injury. He hoped he looked more threatening than he felt. He could ill afford another fight.

  ‘Your horse ran off,’ said Lucien, indicating the road behind them. ‘You’ll need to walk back.’ He returned to the white mare and threw the looted jacket over the front of the saddle. The swordsman stared at him as if he were unhinged. His expression blossomed into fully fledged horror as he recognised his friend lying in the road. The head lay off to one side, gawping at the horizon.

  ‘Don’t kill me,’ whispered the broken man. ‘I’m unarmed. You wouldn’t kill an unarmed man, would you?’

  Lucien threw the man his sword, pommel first so he could catch it. An action the noble bungled spectacularly. He stooped to retrieve the blade from the road, crying out in pain as he did so. Lucien guessed the break must be grave indeed. The rain continued to fall and Lucien wondered where he’d find Rafaela. He’d never learned where she lived, aware of her faint embarrassment when the subject arose. He turned to find the swordsman brandishing his weapon and raised an eyebrow in response.

  ‘Go home. I’m done with killing people today. I gave you the sword back as a mark of respect, not that you deserve it.’

  The swordsman didn’t flinch.

  ‘I have orders,’ said the man in a pleading tone.

  ‘I said go home. You’ve broken something. Even Giancarlo can’t punish you for that.’

  The man was wet through now, scarlet and black tabard no more than wet rug. His hair was plastered to his forehead, rain running into his eyes.

  ‘You’re an idiot. Go home before the pneumonia is on you.’

  He turned the horse, heading away at a trot, the stolen sword a satisfying weight on his hip.

  The day ebbed away as the motion of the horse attempted to lull Lucien to sleep. He’d never taken to riding, but the previous night’s lack of rest and his injury conspired to make him drowsy. He rode on. The wind and the rain leached the warmth from him until he could barely keep his eyes open. Soon it was all he could do to stay upright in the saddle. He dismounted with care, but his legs gave out as his boots found the road. Suddenly he was staring up at the sky, a sky flecked with winged black shapes high above. His eyelids pressed down, seductively heavy.

  14

  The Rosewood Box

  THE GREAT HALL OF HOUSE FONTEIN

  – Ottobre 310

  A year had passed since Giancarlo had been publicly humiliated by the Domo. Lucien’s slashed forearm had scarred nicely, the wound across his ribs almost faded. Only his hair had failed to return in a suitable fashion. While not short, it failed to hide the puckered holes of his ears sufficiently. He’d grown taller since turning twelve that year and additional lessons with the blade had put wiry meat on his bones. Camelia was forever bringing extras to his apartment ‘seeing as you’re shooting up now’. He was glad of the food, and the company, ravenous for both in equal measure.

  The last two weeks had perhaps been the happiest of Lucien’s life. This year, for the first time ever, he had passed his testing with a respectable mark. Ruggeri had been the lead examiner, and for reasons known only to himself had passed the hapless Orfano. Lucien couldn’t be sure if he’d warranted the pass on his own merits, or if Ruggeri was playing politics. D’arzenta assured him of the former, although Lucien was aware of rumours that indicated otherwise. Rumours that centred on the influence of the Domo.

  La Festa had begun well enough that year. Lucien had expected whispers and stares to follow him and had not been proved wrong. Demesne had spoken of little else since the Domo’s intervention. Many wondered if Lucien had been singled out for some special attention. He enjoyed the notoriety and was content to leave everyone guessing. The superiore stood in the corner of the House Fontein hall, sharing quiet asides with his duke. Golia lurked nearby, larger than ever in his fifteenth year. Lucien wondered if the older boy would ever stop growing.

  Rafaela appeared through the crowd, a new shawl of turquoise pulled about her shoulders. Her hair fell in loose ringlets about her face, a hint
of blush on her cheeks.

  ‘Are you enjoying it?’ he asked.

  ‘I find all this tiresome, to be honest,’ she replied, not taking her eyes from the room full of guests. ‘The staff work flat out for three days, all so the courtiers and nobili can enjoy themselves for six hours. If you can even call it that.’ She sighed irritably. ‘Look at Lord Contadino. He looks as if he’d rather be mucking out the stables.’

  ‘Maybe he would. The stables are less full of dung than some of this lot.’ He flashed a grin, and Ella gave a disapproving shake of her head, failing to stifle the smile that crossed her lips. Now nineteen, she had passed the threshold of adulthood, leaving him to feel small and ridiculous, longing to be older.

  ‘I see you’ve worn your blade,’ she said, a further hint of disapproval in her tone. He’d worn it in spite of etiquette. The year had been peppered with ugly fist fights, usually during lessons at House Erudito. And knives had been drawn one night when he’d been returning from the library.

  ‘Well, you never know who you’ll meet,’ he replied, ‘and we are in House Fontein. Not exactly friendly territory.’

  He didn’t trust any of Giancarlo’s students, knowing full well they might corner him and seek satisfaction. A few of them leered over at Rafaela, lascivious as they were obvious. Lucien felt the urge to call them out.

  ‘Ignore them,’ she murmured.

  ‘They shouldn’t behave like that.’

  ‘No, but then you don’t always behave well either.’

  ‘True, but it’s never at your expense.’

  She smiled at him. ‘Are you going to grow up and be my knight protector?’

  He couldn’t be sure if she was mocking him, but a smile pushed itself onto his face all the same.

  He shrugged. ‘Maybe.’

  Rafaela stifled a yawn and then made her excuses.

  ‘I have to be up early tomorrow, and I’ve still yet to get home. Do you think you can keep out of trouble for the rest of the night?’

  ‘Me?’ He adopted an injured look. ‘Trouble finds me; I never sign up for it.’

  Another shake of her head, another smile, and then she turned on her heel and was gone.

  Few of the partygoers welcomed him with open arms. Lucien hovered at the edges of conversations. What could he possibly have to say to other children? They didn’t train for two hours a day with the blade, only to have sit through hours of tutoring on mathematics, politics, chemistry, poetry, etiquette and so on. The Orfano stood resolutely apart from the nobles’ children, not that there was anything mundane about them. Every one could recite where they stood in the order of succession. Each knew the old feuds by rote.

  Duke Prospero’s daughter Stephania stood amid a coterie of fawning hangers-on. She gazed at Lucien from behind her fan, her look neither warm nor disparaging. This in itself was a curiosity, as few in Demesne bore anything less than polarised opinions, especially when it came to the Orfano. She was the image of her mother, with the same proud bearing and olive skin, same abundance of black curls piled atop her head. The girls around her whispered as he looked over. A blonde girl in a green dress said something which provoked laughter, but was quickly silenced by Stephania. Lucien turned away, keen to put distance between himself and the comments. There was no need to hear the insults; he could imagine them all too keenly.

  It was then that the mimes entered, made up in white, wearing carnival masks with long noses. There were seven of them, each attired as a noble of the four houses. A rotund man in a toga smiled beatifically over the shoulder of Maestro Cherubini. The head of House Erudito smiled back, masking his discomfort with a gulp of red wine. The mime minced and swooned, tiny swan wings wobbling, a gauche halo above a bald pate. Aides and retainers laughed as the mime imitated the mannerisms of the maestro. Cherubini winced with discomfort and absented himself from the room.

  Two other mimes were dressed in clothes more fitting for La Festa del Ringraziamento, but wore muddy boots and bore turnips. They closed in on Viscount and Viscountess Contadino with a bow-legged gait. Lady Contadino’s imitator had thrust two of the bulky vegetables down the front of her gown, which she rearranged, much to the mirth of the bravos who had crowded around her. She curtseyed with faux modesty. Lord Contadino’s mime drew a stem of corn from his cap and adopted a fencing posture, earning him an unforgiving glare. It was well-known that Emilio Contadino hated his nickname Prince of Farmers.

  If Lord Contadino was irritated then Duchess Prospero was aghast. A man dressed in drag tottered across the hall, a great commotion occurring at his breast. His head was piled high with deep brown rope and sackcloth, a crude imitation of the duchess’s own tresses. Halfway across the hall the mime adjusted his costume and two suckling pigs wriggled out, leaving him breastless and deflated. The room roared with laughter, while a fake Duke Prospero, a ruddy-faced buffoon in a powdered wig, bumbled around, bumping into pretty girls.

  Duke and Duchess Fontein received an easier ride. Far from being mocked they were actually feted. Their doubles performed an intricate pas de deux that involved wooden knives painted silver. When finally the performers finished, Lucien was glad to see the back of them. While he had no love of the ruling families he also disliked public humiliation. A pastime he was all too familiar with.

  Lucien’s boredom leached the remains of his good humour. He managed to last some thirty minutes of tedious banter and awkward silences. Finally he slunk off to the shadow of a great pillar, one of six holding up the lavish ceiling. Fat marble cherubs hovered above, pathetic wings on their backs decorated in gold leaf. It was from here he watched the party ebb and flow. The chandelier shed amber light onto the assembly below, lords and ladies chatting in their finery, mainly avoiding topics that might revive simmering vendettas. Some were sounding out political marriages or making allies in houses not their own. Aides and staff made free of the wine, making ill-judged amorous advances.

  Lucien felt a tug at his sleeve, gentle but insistent. He looked down to see Dino staring up, eyes grey and earnest. He’d seen the boy only rarely since first being introduced to him in the kitchens of House Contadino. The younger Orfano was six now, neither slight nor rotund. There was something familiar about him that Lucien couldn’t place. He held hands with a smaller boy, who sucked on his thumb beneath a thatch of straw-coloured hair.

  ‘Hello, Dino. Are you well?’

  Dino said nothing, managing a furtive nod. A small grin creased his features, making him look impish.

  ‘And who’s your friend?’

  Dino grinned but offered no answer.

  ‘Would it be . . . Festo?’

  Another nod, but still no reply.

  Festo could only be three, and clung to Dino happily, contentment shining in his green eyes. Women nearby clucked and smiled, enchanted by the younger Orfano in their finery. It was then that Lucien noted the wooden sword tucked into Dino’s belt, the blade painted silver, the hilt wrapped in fine leather.

  Dino continued to smile. It was then that Lucien noted how long his hair was. Strangely out of fashion for Demesne, not unlike his own hair had been before Giancarlo’s shearing. The boy’s attention was directed elsewhere, and Lucien followed his gaze. Sure enough, Golia loitered on the far side of the hall, arms crossed over his chest, the broad square of his chin thrust out in silent challenge. Lucien flipped a lazy salute, then ruffled Dino’s hair affectionately. He knelt down so he was eye to eye with the younger boy. Festo removed his thumb from his mouth and favoured Lucien with a smile.

  ‘That dullard over there is the most dim-witted Orfano in all of the king’s wicked creation.’

  Dino giggled.

  ‘If there’s one thing you must be sure of, Dino, it is not to turn out like him. Understand?’

  Dino grinned and giggled some more, grey eyes now filled with mirth. Festo added his own chuckle to the sound, the act one of imitation rather than real amusement. Across the hall Golia bristled and glowered, aware he was being slighted. Eventually t
he hulking Orfano busied himself at the buffet table, amassing a plate fit to feed three.

  It was then, standing in the shadow of the pillar, that Lucien again noticed Stephania’s clutch of girls. They had drawn closer and were whispering among themselves, discussing something salacious, no doubt. They fell quiet when they noticed him staring. So he thought. In fact they had noticed an artificer, who had appeared unannounced.

  ‘Master Lucien.’ It was an old man he’d not seen before, bald with pale skin. He had kindly hazel eyes that reminded him of someone. The man was not attired in finery. He wore a leather apron that marked him as a craftsman, a member of House Prospero. Weathered hands with many callouses clutched a rosewood box. It had been polished to a perfect finish. Lucien noticed the craftsman’s wooden clogs. They looked especially crude compared to the finely cobbled boots and shoes of the nobles who were gathering around. Lucien felt himself turn ashen. He had no wish to be the centre of attention, and yet here he was again, as if on stage.

  ‘Forgive my intrusion,’ the craftsman said in a smoky baritone, ‘but I took the liberty of fashioning these for you.’ The craftsman opened the box, the lid neatly hinged with fine brass. Lucien’s eyes widened and he felt a thrill of surprise run up his spine. He struggled to swallow. Inside the box, resting on scarlet velvet, were two ears crafted from palest porcelain. Lucien shivered and looked up at the craftsman.

  ‘For me?’ he managed, his throat thick, regretting the words as they left his mouth. No one else in the room wanted for ears.

  ‘Please, Master Lucien,’ the man smiled, ‘let me attach them for you.’

  Seconds passed as he fixed the prostheses. The artificer was so close Lucien could smell the red wine and old tobacco on him, smell the leather and horsehair, wood shavings too. He didn’t mind at all, almost trembling as the ears were attached to his head by means of a soft metal band across the top of his skull.

  ‘The band is almost invisible, hidden by your hair,’ whispered the artificer. Finally he stepped back, inspecting his handiwork with a critical frown. A page had appeared with a small looking glass, which he offered to Lucien respectfully. Lucien took the glass with a trembling hand and regarded his reflection. The nobles and scholars around him nodded agreeably. Others simply waited to see his reaction. The room was filled with a hush of expectation.