The Boy with the Porcelain Blade

by Patrick, Den

  ‘Good. Go now. And be careful. They have been looking for you.’

  It was close to midnight when he finally found the cottage he was looking for. Three times he’d stopped to ask for directions. Once he’d been flatly ignored. The sky had cleared and he was able to guide the mare by starlight to his destination. His shoulder felt stiff, his backside had fared little better. He was bone-tired and famished.

  The cottage itself was a single-storey affair; likely there’d be a bedroom in the loft. The roof was thatched and the windows all bore shutters, now closed against the night. No light escaped the dwelling. Lucien hoped he’d found the right place.

  He knocked, the sound of his knuckles abrupt and loud in the night. No response. Not even the sound of grumbling and stirring from within. He drew back his fist to knock again and felt the sharp press of metal through his coat in the small of his back.

  ‘How about you hand over that fine sword in its scabbard and then we’ll have a chat,’ said a voice in the darkness behind him.

  ‘And supposing I don’t?’ asked Lucien, his tiredness and impatience getting the better of him. ‘Do you have any idea—’

  The blow was sudden and expert. Lucien sank to his knees and passed out in the mud.

  16

  The Cataphract Drake

  THE CEMETRY

  – Novembre 310

  Lucien pulled his hat down, hoping it might shield him from prying eyes. Ridiculous of course; there was no one on the road to see him. He was wearing a long oilskin coat, like the teamsters had. Stealing it from House Prospero had been fraught with problems but he’d managed. Being only twelve, as he was, the coat was too large, but it served his purpose.

  Three weeks had passed since La Festa, and there’d been no respite. Whispers followed his footsteps, people abruptly stopped speaking when he entered the room, girls laughed behind their fans. He’d never felt so self-conscious. Night after night he’d cursed his luck, cursed the porcelain ears for shattering, cursed Golia for gloating about it. At one low point he’d even cursed the unnamed artisan. Better to have not had the porcelain ears in the first place than suffer their loss so quickly. He’d wanted to blame Anea of course, but word reached him that she was sick with guilt. She’d spent two days locked in her apartment refusing to see anyone. Finally Professore Russo had gained entrance and persuaded the stricken girl to eat.

  Lucien had returned from a lesson with D’arzenta to find broken ears drawn on the flagstones outside his apartment in chalk. The crude graffito had reappeared three days later after he’d scrubbed the floor clean. It was unbearable.

  He’d packed saddlebags with some spare clothes, but the burden insisted on sliding from his shoulder. Not having a horse detracted from the disguise. The lack of a cart was also a problem, but he’d set out now and couldn’t turn back. He chided himself for a fool and bowed his head against the wind.

  ‘Some teamster I am,’ he complained.

  Half a sack of pilfered food bounced against the back of his leg. His arm ached from carrying it. He’d been up early to raid the kitchens, making his exit before the staff awoke. He wouldn’t be getting under their feet again.

  The wind picked up, making his coat snap and flutter. He clamped his jaws shut in an effort to keep his teeth from chattering. His destination was unknown; the desire to put Demesne firmly behind was all he needed. Perhaps they were looking for him already. Guards from House Fontein would be dispatched to check, sour complaints about searching for a spoilt strega on a winter’s day. His thoughts turned to Rafaela. Instantly he regretted not leaving a parting note. Or an apology for Anea. Suddenly he worried the veiled Orfano would blame herself for his departure. He was so engrossed in musing about his torments and failures he almost missed the ravens.

  There were over a dozen, all black as night except for their claws, which were mired in gore. He stared on and tried not gag, the bile in the back of his throat acrid and sharp. A cow lay dead at the side of the road. The carrion was being consumed in steely silence, beaks and beady eyes set fast on the flesh. Lucien wondered why they didn’t squabble and fight like gulls. There was an uncanny orderliness about them.

  ‘Better table manners than most of Giancarlo’s students,’ he grumbled.

  Seeing so many of the birds froze him in his tracks. If they could do this to a cow then what was to stop them turning on a twelve-year-old boy?

  Lucien shivered and backed away a few steps, resisting the urge to turn back to Demesne. Cypress trees shook, the oaks nearby clutching at the skies with bare branches. Wild grasses bent in the wind, pointing away from the brooding architecture toward the endless patchwork fields and occasional farmstead. He was close to the cemetery. The black gates were wide open, hanging on rusted hinges, taken over by bindweed and ivy. Lucien looked back to the cow, which stared back with hollow sockets. One or two of the ravens glared at him. They hopped forward and cawed, the sound unpleasant and loud on the lonely road.

  With few choices, Lucien passed through the cemetery gates. The drystone wall, high as his head, did much to shelter him from the wind. He spent idle moments inspecting some of the more baroque statuary, before sequestering himself in a corner. He was glad to be free of the ravens’ belligerent gazes. He could still hear them, calling out in coarse and unlovely shrieks. He imagined them mocking him.

  There goes the boy without ears, too scared to pass the Corvidae on the road for fear we feast on his brains. What brains? Perhaps we’ll feast on his fears, an abundant crop assuredly.

  Small mercy the creatures couldn’t speak, Lucien decided.

  The morning dragged on as the clouds in their turn were dragged across the grey heavens. The sun was a white smear like a rheumy eye, and the wind continued gusting fitfully. Lucien worried at an apple, taking tiny bites only as a respite from the boredom. He ventured to the gates to discover the ravens still occupied the road. He slung the apple core at them in a moment of pique, earning savage stares. The black birds cawed outrage, flapped but refused to flee. Lucien resumed his position in the corner of the cemetery, resisting the urge to eat something else. He’d been up the whole night worried for his departure, now exhausted he was easy prey to slumber. Sleep overtook him in the deep silence of the cemetery.

  The sound of boots crunching crisply on gravel woke him. His fingers were pushed into the warm darkness of his armpits. His feet by contrast were frozen, run through with pins and needles. He looked out from under the tricorn, wondering how to escape. To his surprise and relief Virmyre appeared, clutching a bouquet of lilies wrapped in a piece of black silk. The professore was wrapped up for the weather, a formal black riding coat and sombre grey britches making the reason for his presence clear. This was no casual passing. His hair was beset by the wind, whipped up around his crown or falling into his eyes.

  Stranded by his own numbed feet, Lucien watched, hoping he might go unnoticed. There were plenty of hiding places, but there was small chance of passing through the gate unnoticed. Virmyre strode through the graveyard, past the unseeing gazes of stony angels, then turned away from Lucien. He picked his way through two rows of headstones before arriving at his destination. He knelt slowly, placing the flowers by the grave with care. Lucien watched, fascinated, curious to know who could inspire such devotion from the taciturn scholar. Virmyre remained kneeling for some time. Lucien couldn’t tell if he spoke aloud or paid his respects in silence. The trees ceased their breathy whispering, their respect measured in silence perhaps. A calm descended on the windswept cemetery for the first time that day. Finally Virmyre stood. He turned neatly on his heel, returning to the gravel path. He was almost at the iron gates when he looked up and turned to Lucien.

  ‘Good morning.’

  ‘Good morning, Professore.’ Lucien pulled himself to his leaden feet. He used the wall to steady himself.

  ‘Lucien? Master Lucien, is that you?’

  ‘Yes, Professore, it’s me.’ He tried to take a step forward but his legs disobeyed. He sw
ayed awkwardly.

  ‘Are you drunk, Master Lucien?’

  ‘No, Professore. I fell asleep in the cemetery and my feet have gone numb.’

  Virmyre considered this for a second, his hand straying to stroke his goatee.

  ‘Sounds entirely reasonable,’ he deadpanned.

  Lucien hobbled closer, feeling his cheeks flush.

  ‘And about to start a new career as a highwayman. How exciting. Mind if I join you?’

  ‘Oh no, Professore. I’m not going to be a highwayman.’

  ‘Pity. I could use some excitement.’ Virmyre sighed. ‘I shall have to remain a teacher then. So be it.’

  ‘I . . . I suppose you’re going to tell me off for hiding in the cemetery.’

  Virmyre looked around, taking in the mouldering stones, regarding the tumbledown wall at the rear of the graveyard. The trees overhead resumed their muted conversation.

  ‘Even you can’t get into trouble here, Lucien. Unless you’ve discovered a way to antagonise the dead.’

  ‘No, I wouldn’t do that.’

  ‘I’ll take great relief in that fact when I shuffle off this mortal coil.’

  Lucien felt increasingly ridiculous in the oversize coat. The wind snatched his tricorn from his head. He flapped about awkwardly before reclaiming it. They stood unspeaking as the wind continued to snare and pull at their coats.

  ‘Who were the flowers for?’

  ‘My wife,’ said Virmyre. ‘She died some time ago. Today is her birthday. I . . . always come. You must think me foolish.’

  ‘No, no,’ blurted Lucien, but in truth he was unsure what to think. ‘I don’t know any dead people.’

  ‘I don’t advise it. They’re terrible conversationalists.’

  For a second Lucien thought the professore might smile, but he gave a sly wink instead.

  ‘How would you like to continue this conversation on the way back to Demesne? I’d rather not catch my death of cold visiting the cemetery. That’s a touch too ironic, even for my taste.’

  ‘Seeing as we’re not going to be highwaymen, perhaps we can plan a career as pirates? What do you say?’

  Lucien snorted a laugh and nodded with enthusiasm.

  ‘We’d best start with a ship.’

  ‘How large will it be.’

  ‘Big enough for two, at least.’

  They passed through the gates and Lucien wrinkled his nose at the ravens, still tearing at the fallen cow.

  ‘Gah. I hate those wretched things.’

  ‘Really?’ Virmyre regarded the corvids. ‘I find them fascinating.’

  ‘But look at what they’re doing.’

  ‘Not a sight for the faint of heart, I’ll grant you. I’ve not seen them eat carrion before. How curious.’ Virmyre sniffed.

  Lucien turned his back on the grim spectacle and they walked at a steady pace toward the grey bulk of Demesne. The sanatorio haunted the castle, a sentinel on the road before reaching the destination itself.

  ‘How did she die?’ His curiosity gnawed at him.

  ‘In childbirth.’ Virmyre clasped his hands behind his back, tucking in his chin. He regarded the road, concentrating on avoiding the worst of the potholes. The wind shrieked around Demesne and Lucien willed himself to stop asking questions.

  ‘Couldn’t Dottore Angelicola help?’

  that night.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘These things happen,’ said Virmyre. He looked away to the horizon.

  ‘Do you ever wish you could just forget?’ asked Lucien quietly. ‘Forget painful things, I mean?’

  Virmyre considered this for a while.

  ‘Pain is a great teacher, Lucien. If you encounter pain, and remember that pain, then you stand a chance of avoiding it in future.’

  ‘I wish I could forget about La Festa. And Giancarlo.’

  ‘Some things can’t be avoided.’

  ‘Perhaps I’ll invent a medicine that makes people forget things.’

  ‘That already exists, Lucien. It’s called wine.’

  ‘No, I mean really forget.’

  ‘What happens when you meet someone who can remember the thing you’ve forgotten?’

  Lucien looked crestfallen. ‘They remind you of it, I suppose.’

  ‘Exactly. The truth has a habit of coming to the fore, even if we wish otherwise.’ Virmyre looked up from the road and regarded the castle a moment before turning to his pupil.

  ‘A rumour persists that there is a dungeon beneath Demesne, a dungeon where the water is knee deep. People say if the prisoners drink the water they lose all trace of their memory. After enough time, and enough water, the prisoners even forget their identity, becoming dumb beasts.’

  Lucien said nothing, chewing his lip.

  ‘I sometimes wonder if House Fontein spend a few days in there each month.’

  Lucien sniggered but kept his silence.

  ‘Perhaps the Majordomo will throw you in this fabled oubliette, if you ask nicely.’

  ‘I hope not,’ mumbled Lucien. ‘I’m not keen on the dark.’

  ‘Few are.’

  ‘Besides, I don’t want to forget everything.’

  ‘Then you must learn to not dwell on the past, as I have done.’

  They continued up the road, anxiety fraying Lucien’s nerves.

  ‘Will I be in much trouble when we return?’

  ‘I don’t see why.’ Virmyre glanced down at Lucien from the corner of his eye. ‘You came with me to the cemetery. I was paying my respects to my wife. You offered to carry the flowers. I forgot to inform Rafaela. The trouble will rest on my shoulders. That’s how it happened. Yes?’

  ‘Ah. Yes, Professore.’ Lucien smiled.

  ‘Quite. Of course you’ll need to lose that ridiculous outfit. But I can’t be responsible for solving all your problems.’

  Virmyre circled Demesne, taking Lucien in through the House Erudito courtyard. They disposed of the coat and saddlebags in the stable and made their way to Lucien’s apartment.

  Dino, Festo and Rafaela were standing in the sitting room chatting excitedly. A long glass case sat on a low table made from mahogany. On the floor of the case was a layer of sand three fingers deep. Driftwood occupied one end of the case, and a lizard perched on it with a haughty look.

  ‘Lucien. There you are,’ said Rafaela. We’ve been looking everywhere for you.’ There was a flicker of annoyance in her eyes before she realised Virmyre was with him.

  ‘He was quite safe, I can assure you. We took a walk around the castle.’

  ‘Where did the reptile come from?’ asked Dino.

  ‘Drake. It’s a cataphract drake,’ supplied Virmyre. ‘I heard about what happened at La Festa del Ringraziamento—’

  ‘It’s nothing,’ said Lucien. ‘I was . . . I acted badly.’ He shrugged and chewed his lip, thinking of Anea.

  ‘Well, in any case, I thought you could use something to take your mind off the whole wretched business. And you’re old enough to have a pet now.’

  The professore reached into the tank and lifted the drake. The creature coiled itself, staring at Lucien from black-within-brown eyes as it gripped its tail between its jaws. The head was a blunt wedge, the body covered in armoured scales of dark olive and dun brown.

  ‘He’s currently curled in a loop to protect his soft underside. It’s a defence mechanism. They’re rather far down the food chain, but they’ve become adept at protecting themselves from larger foes. Myself in this demonstration.’

  ‘I wish I could curl into a loop,’ exclaimed Dino.

  eplied Virmyre.

  ‘Loop,’ repeated Festo and resumed sucking his thumb. Lucien laughed. It was the first time he’d done so since La Festa.

  ‘What do they eat?’ asked Dino breathlessly.

  ‘Mainly worms and insects,’ supplied Virmyre.

  ‘Oh, that’s disgusting.’ Rafaela wrinkled her nose.

  ‘Clearly you’ve never dined at House Erudito,’ he replied.

  �
�D’gusting,’ added Festo and nodded with a grave expression on his cherubic face.

  ‘Of course you’ll need to feed him,’ said Virmyre. ‘I have some dead crickets. Or you can catch live ones, if any remain at this time of year.’

  ‘Excellent.’ Lucien grinned.

  ‘Excellent,’ repeated Dino.

  ‘Crickets!’ exclaimed Festo.

  The professore lowered the drake into the glass tank, regarding the coiled creature a moment with unblinking eyes. Lucien pressed his nose to the glass. Gradually the drake straightened out, revealing itself to be around a foot long, perhaps a few inches more.

  ‘He’s amazing,’ whispered Lucien, smiling at Virmyre. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I’m glad you think so.’ The professore straightened up and clasped his hands behind his back, suddenly looking very formal. ‘I’ve written a list of instructions for you. You’ll need to pay close attention. And you’ll need to keep him warm. It’s a good thing your room is south facing. Now I must take my leave.’

  Rafaela left not long afterwards, taking the younger Orfani with her. Lucien watched them depart and turned back to the drake, speaking to it in hushed tones like a long-lost friend.

  17

  Blunt Questions

  THE CONTADINO ESTATE

  – Febbraio 315

  ‘I tell you, they took the wrong one. Then they sent someone back for Sal.’ The voice was gruff and spoke in the old dialect. It was the voice of a farmer, grizzled and sure, sounding not more than thirty years old to Lucien’s ears.

  ‘We can’t know that for sure.’

  ‘Leave this to me. I’ll fix him. He’ll sell his own mother to crawl out of here alive. Figlio di puttana.’

  Lucien was bound, arms behind his back, ankles secured to the legs of the chair he was sitting on. A sack had been placed over his head, which let in vague light, nothing discernible. His head throbbed at the base of his skull; his shoulder joined in, complaining bitterly. Mud encrusted his face where he’d fallen in the yard, his mouth was dry and gritty with the taste of earth. The room smelled of woodsmoke, a faint tang of sweat underneath it. Lucien drew in a shuddering breath, trying to force the pain out of his mind.