by Patrick, Den
‘I modelled them after my daughter’s ears. She’s about your age, you see.’
There was a burst of laughter from the bravos.
He had girl’s ears affixed to his head – that would take some living down. Older boys in the crowd looked on smugly, while the girls whispered and joked behind raised fans. Duchess Prospero gushed her admiration while her husband nodded his great bald head. Lucien blushed but said nothing, ignoring everyone, concerned only for the reflection that stared back. He looked absurd, of course. The porcelain looked nothing like his skin tone. The metal band that pinched at his scalp looked crude and ugly against his hair.
None of that mattered.
His scars were covered up. Who cared if the ears looked peculiar? It was far better than parading around with scab-red holes on each side of his skull. Lucien shook the man’s hand warmly, not wanting to let go. Wanting to hug him despite the gross breach of etiquette.
‘Thank you. I’ll not forget this. You must tell me your name.’
‘Ah, that’s not important, Master Lucien, only that you enjoy the work.’
‘No, I mean it. If there’s anything I can do. I am in your debt, master craftsman.’
‘Not a master, but very pleased to be of service all the same.’
‘And now,’ she glanced around trying to look impish, her rictus-like grin anything but, ‘Lucien will dance a gavotte.’
Several boys sniggered openly and were cuffed by the adults present. Lucien looked at the floor, hoping for an earthquake. Mistress Corvo took his hand in her own icy claw, giving further credence to Lucien’s theory she might actually be dead. Before he had the chance to object he found himself in the centre of the hall facing Anea. He stared mutely at Mistress Corvo.
a skull with waxy parchment plastered to it.
Lucien’s stomach turned to ice. Anea was just nine. A child. He was being made to dance with a child in front of his peers. Any reputation he’d gained by passing his recent test was about to be diminished by this curious arrangement. They began, nervously pacing through the first steps before finding their confidence. Lucien allowed himself a sideways glance. Anea wore a cream gown featuring a black frill along sleeves that reached her wrists. Not a frill after all, he would realise later, but many loops of soft thread. They quivered with each step and every movement of her arm. Her hair was swept into an immaculate golden plait. She glided across the room with a noble air quite at odds with her age. A cream veil with black gauze covered the lower half of her face, vaguely web-like. Her ears had been pierced since the last time he’d seen her, each bearing a tiny amethyst rose.
‘Did you know about this? About dancing with me?’ A sullen whisper from Lucien as they faced each other before resuming the steps side by side.
A reluctant nod in reply.
‘You could have warned me.’
She shrugged in response and continued gliding through the stately yet intensely boring dance. Lucien managed to get through the routine with only two hesitations and no missteps. He was glad of this at least. He would do well not to displease Mistress Corvo again. The last notes of the music died and Lucien let himself enjoy a sigh of relief.
The sound of polite clapping, then the snag of her sleeve on his epaulette. Her wrist was snared, the angle awkward. She flinched, then panicked, lifting her arm. Her fingers brushed one of the porcelain ears. The metal band had lost some of its grip during the gavotte and the prosthetic fell, hitting the floor with a heartbreaking crack. The room fell silent, save for one gasping girl.
Lucien looked down. The pale ears looked small and pitiful on the polished slate grey flagstones. Neat fractures ran across them, and the lobe of one ear was quite separate. Lucien didn’t meet Anea’s gaze. He couldn’t bring himself to look at her. Instead he slunk out of the jacket, sleeve by sleeve, leaving her still attached to the offending garment. He stalked away, hand gripping the hilt of his blade, knuckles white. The crowd parted, men stifling objections, bravos coughing unkind remarks as he left. Women tottered on heels, stumbled on the hems of dresses in their haste to avoid him. Anea remained in the middle of the room, shocked and shrunk small, an apology frozen in her eyes. Low and mocking laughter came from the back of the hall. This from Golia. D’arzenta rounded on the brute and backhanded him into silence.
Lucien kicked open the double doors with one booted foot. They rattled on their hinges, leaving only Anea’s muffled sobs to fill the room. Mistress Corvo flapped about the girl, not knowing what to say, almost stepping on the broken ears.
15
By Ravens Watched
TERMINELLO FARM
– Febbraio 315
Tap. Tap tap.
The sound came like the first raindrops of a storm on a windowpane. Lucien felt the soft darkness dragging him back into the snug folds of sleep. His limbs were leaden, his breathing regular, each intake soothing him back toward unconsciousness. He paid the interruption no mind, the sound seeming far away.
Tap. Tap tap.
The same sound, regular, measured. His eyelids fluttered, a shift of his body, a half-hearted moan. He was blood-warm, a pleasant soporific heat, a welcome change to the late-winter chill he had known for hours. His mind fumbled at the edges of memory – the previous night spent in the mausoleum of the nearly deaf Duke. It seemed ridiculous. Why had he slept there?
Tap. Tap tap.
No rain ever fell with such precision. Shouldn’t there be a howling gale to accompany it? Shouldn’t there be winds shrieking around weathervanes? His childhood was littered with such nights, yet none were so vividly remembered as the night he’d fled to the sanatorio. The night the raven had invited itself to his sitting room.
Tap. Tap tap.
Hadn’t he been going somewhere? Hadn’t they sent people after him?
Eyes open now, yet heavy with the promise of sleep if not for the insistent noise. He took in the golden interior of the kitchen, oil lantern burning with a flame turned down low. The light was a bulwark against the wintry gloom outside. Knives hung from iron hooks, blades well used and bright from sharpening. A table occupied the centre of the room, four chairs ordered around it neatly, simple and functional. Fire smouldered in the grate beneath a mantelpiece empty of affect or decoration. This was not the Contadino kitchen. Or any kitchen in Demesne.
Tap. Tap tap.
Lucien shifted his gaze to the window. A silhouette of a dark bird greeted him, framed against grey light. He could feel the single corvid eye on him, willing him awake. He looked down and pulled away the thick blanket. Tied tight against the shoulder wound was a new bandage. He lay, supported by threadbare cushions, trying to piece together the last few hours. The hilt of the stolen sword caught his eye, called to him in the silence, scabbard and belt hanging from a hook on the sturdy door. His jacket was folded over a chair. He still had his britches on.
Tap. Tap tap.
The familiar smells of garlic and flour drifted on his senses, bringing with them reminiscences of Camelia. And Rafaela. Lucien swung his legs over the side of the divan, naked feet seeking flagstones. A surge of nausea ran through him from gut to palate as he tried to sit. The room swayed, spun and stilled itself. A grunt of frustration
‘Do not be so keen to rush to your death. Stay awhile.’ A voice from beyond the nimbus of the lantern cracked like aged parchment.
‘I feel terrible.’ He wasn’t exaggerating.
‘We gave you a preparation to fend off the pneumonia. One can’t lie in the road with rain on your face without conseguenze. And the wound, of course.’
Tap. Tap tap.
The raven spread its wings but did not depart.
‘I need to go,’ Lucien croaked, throat dry. The nausea had passed now.
‘Need. Want. So many never learn the differenza.’
‘Where—’
‘This is better. Where are you? At last the mind awakens.’
He’d tracked the voice to its source, not much more than a bundle of rags occupying one armch
air in the far corner of the room. A large bald dome, a slab of a chin covered in whispery grey growth. Eyebrows white and shaggy. Lucien squinted into the darkness.
‘Where am I?’
‘A mile from where my grandsons found you. You attracted a grande audience.’
‘Audience?’
‘Corvino.’ The old man nodded his great head in the direction of the window. ‘They drew up in a black circle all around you.’
Tap. Tap tap.
‘Persistent, no?’
Lucien eyed the raven, which still hunched on the sill, then turned back to the patriarch. His eyes had grown accustomed to the light, revealing more of his host. The face was deeply lined but yet to collapse to time’s ravages. The eyes that looked out from it gazed into the middle distance, milk-white and cloudy. His hands were clubs of pale wood in his lap, knuckles overlarge, fingers curled tight.
‘What happened to your eyes?’
‘They betrayed me a long time ago, along with my legs. I don’t suppose you see such imperfections in Demesne. The frailties of the mind safely stored in the sanatorio, the physical ones hidden in high towers.’
Lucien looked down at his nails, shiny and black like beetle carapaces.
‘There’s some would say I’m far from perfect.’ He smoothed his hair down over an absent ear.
‘Imperfection,’ said the old man in his dry-as-dust voice. ‘And yet there is one who prizes the Orfani above all things.’
‘Perhaps they prize Golia, but not me.’ Lucien’s mouth twisted with bitterness. ‘You found me in the road half-dead. Remember?’
‘There are always casualties.’
‘What do you mean, “always”?’
‘Ah, the young! Always so convinced their problems are unique in nature and unique to themselves. You think Landfall has not seen variations of these events before?’
The patriarch held up his hands and extended his fingers, his palms toward his face. It took him some time. Lucien thought it a strange gesture. It was only when he’d finally extended the gnarled digits that Lucien understood. The man had the same-coloured nails.
‘You’re Orfano,’ breathed Lucien.
‘Once. I was much like you. Learning my lessons, learning the spada, learning politica.’
Lucien had always known there were older generations of Orfano, but the unspoken rule had persisted: one did not ask questions. The past remained unknown. He’d had to make do with snippets and teases of information for so long.
‘Tell me, tell me everything.’
‘This is good. The mind has truly awakened.’ The old man paused and cleared his throat, hands now returned to pale clubs resting in his lap. ‘It was different in my time. All of us twins. They said the generation before were triplets, the generation before that quins. We knew we were being trained to rule. Some of us suspected we were destined to lead one of the houses, others hoped to take the throne. The nobili knew this. And they despised us for it. They turned each of us against each other, just as the king turned the houses against each other. We were schooled in vendetta, obsessed with slights and affronts.’
‘How many of you were there back then?’ Lucien was rapt, the confirmation of the unsubstantiated was intoxicating.
‘Nine. Twins for each of the four houses; House Allatamento had a half-blind runt. No one expected him to last, certainly not the Domo.’
‘You knew the Domo?’
‘Of course. He was much younger then, but no less devious. He hoped some of the crop would survive to maturity, make a play for power. Some even spoke of marrying into the four houses, but it was not to be.’
‘Go on,’ urged Lucien.
‘Some killed each other. Duelli took their toll. We were all half-mad with retaining our honour. Assassini came for others, often the knife, sometimes poison. Blood spilled, lives lost. And now you, Anea and Golia begin the same dance, each another step to oblivion. And the musica, it grows faster, no?’
‘You forgot Dino.’
‘No, I did not. He is already dead.’
‘You can’t know that.’
‘He will not survive. It makes no difference.’ The old man shrugged.
‘He will survive,’ grated Lucien, a faint stirring of anger coming alive in his breast.
‘If he has any sense he will flee, just as I did. I came to this place when I was sixteen. I married a maid from Demesne; we had bambini. Now there are only my two grandsons.’
‘Where is the rest of your family?’
‘Dead. Of course. Taxed into submission, taken by fevers.’
‘Couldn’t you call for a dottore?’
The man wheezed, his mouth breaking into a bitter curve, cracked lips becoming a sneer.
‘You think Demesne cares one shit for the farmer? You are as naive as you are rash.’
‘There wouldn’t be a Demesne without the people, without farmers.’
‘There will always be Demesne.’ The old man grunted and his head bowed, thick eyelids covering the rheum of his unseeing eyes. Lucien wondered if he had succumbed to sleep.
‘How did it happen?’ Lucien sat forward. ‘How did you escape?’
‘In a wagon. In a barrel on a wagon. I spent the night hiding while fires raged on the upper floors. It was terrible. Everyone was awake, extinguishing the flames. You could taste the panic. The previous Duke Fontein . . .’ The old man coughed, sucked down a breath. ‘He had five men scour Demesne. By this time there were only four Orfani left. Two died in their beds, the other was run down as he tried to flee the castle. Cut down in the night like a thief. The Domo could do nothing – all his plotting, all his schemes, all his bribes. Nothing. I waited until dawn and chanced on the compassione of those who had served me. In the end, compassione saved me. It is compassione that people do not like to speak of. They think it a weakness. Never turn your back on compassione; to do so sends you along a road few return from.’
Lucien remembered his own flight from the castle, the Erudito stables consumed with flames, Viscount Contadino’s horse the same. The panic, the sickening feeling of unfolding chaos like a stormy sea. And despite all of this he found he missed the place.
‘Do you regret not staying?’
‘Many times.’ The old man forced a smile, a faded, tired thing.
‘Why?’
‘The Domo, he offered me a chance, a chance to succeed him.’ The old man paused, his mouth remained downturned. A wheeze. ‘Imagine the power.’
Lucien nodded. It was a fantasy he’d entertained all too often over the years since the Domo had collapsed in the King’s Keep. The voice of the king, the new Majordomo. No one would question him. Pure authority, but at what price? There was something maddening about it, a thought that settled like a bird, sharp beak picking at the thought over and over.
Tap. Tap tap.
‘With that power,’ the old man wheezed, visibly tiring, ‘we would have been rich. Not counting denari to buy firewood and going hungry in the winter. That power,’ he whispered, ‘I could have saved my famiglia. Imagine, me the Domo. Dottori would have fallen over themselves to attend. My daughter . . .’ The words caught in his throat; the corner of one milky eye became wet. The tear tracked down his lined face to be lost amid the white of his beard. ‘And now, nothing. The same patetico charade. The players change, but the game is always the same. Death and ambition. And for nothing.’
Lucien eased himself off the bed, testing his legs, not convinced they’d bear his weight. He stood, taking a breath, feeling the strength return to him.
‘What will you do?’ said the old man.
‘I don’t know. If I go back they’ll kill me. If I stay away, they’ll kill Dino, Anea too most likely. I need to find Rafaela, stop her from returning.’
‘A girl.’
Lucien smiled. ‘A girl,’ he agreed.
‘That was why I left Demesne, to protect a girl,’ said the old man, a ghost of smile stealing over his lips.
‘I thought you said you hid in a
barrel?’
‘I did, but in the months that followed many staff that served Orfani disappeared. Some retired to the countryside and were not seen or heard of again. It was only because my staff fled with me they were spared. We all took different names. No one came to look for us. The four houses bury their secrets completely.’
‘All the four houses?’
‘Only Contadino has some semblance of morality.’ The old man shrugged. ‘The other three are slick with the blood of murderous pasts. Go now, go to your girl. The other Orfani are not bambini, they will defend themselves if they are able. Perhaps in time they will find you.’
‘Thank you for finding me, and your kindness,’ said Lucien.
‘Bah! What are grandsons for if not to bring back scraps from the road?’
‘Scraps?’
‘You were little more when we found you. An Orfano sleeping in the rain.’
Lucien smiled, just a scrap from the roadside.
‘What should I call you?’
‘Names?’ The old man wheezed out a derisive laugh. ‘What are names to the Orfani? A pretty thing to cast aside when we change our allegiances. Names do not interest me.’
Lucien turned up the lantern light and retrieved his jacket from the chair. His vest and shirt lay beneath. He shrugged them on, taking care with his shoulder.
‘I’d rather call you by something, else I’ll have to give you a name of my choosing.’ He crossed to the door and fetched down the scabbard, started looping the belt around his waist. He drew a few inches of steel from the scabbard, reassured by the glint of the blade.
‘You may call me Terminus. A fitting name. I am the end of my generation.’
‘Terminus?’
‘Yes. And I would have it that you come back, tell me what happens. Introduce this girl of yours. You will do that?’
‘It would be my honour.’