The Boy with the Porcelain Blade

by Patrick, Den

  ‘He’s awake,’ said the second voice. Older, perhaps wiser, this voice was more measured than the first. It would be this man that kept him alive. Lucien heard them approach, just a few steps, boot heels on floorboards. His captors could afford footwear at least.

  ‘Where is she then, eh?’ This from the younger man, who stood over him very close. Beer on his breath, cheap courage from a small barrel. A large shadow loomed beyond the gauze of the sackcloth.

  ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know who you mean. Look, about the sword. I realise I was being rude. You surprised me and—’

  ‘Ah, sounds like we’ve got one of Demesne’s dandies. Not so clever now, eh, your lordship?’

  ‘Actually I’m not a duke; I’m an Or—’ He didn’t finish the sentence. A fist clubbed him across the jaw, snapping his head to one side. The chair tipped and tilted, then settled again with a scrape and rattle.

  ‘Porca troia! You’ve got a smart mouth. Shame you’re tied up, eh? Not so funny now, my friend, eh?’

  ‘Where were you last night?’ The other voice now, the older of the two, off to his left. The reasonable one, he hoped.

  ‘I slept in the graveyard.’ Another strike. His bottom lip split, a bright pinprick of pain. He felt blood drip down his chin.

  ‘He asked you a question, funny man. Where did you sleep last night?’

  Lucien felt his head spin and struggled to breathe a second. The truth sounded ridiculous to him, but it was all he had.

  ‘I was made outcast. They threw me out of Demesne. There was a fire. I had nowhere else to go, so I slept in the House Prospero mausoleum.’

  There was a pause as if they were weighing each word.

  ‘This could take a long time,’ said the elder.

  ‘I can keep this up all night,’ said the younger, mock cheerful. There came the sound of knuckles popping and cracking. Lucien strained at the ropes on his wrists. He was tied fast.

  ‘Tell us about this graveyard then,’ said the younger.

  Lucien reached for the words, knowing they sounded untrue ‘It was very cold. When I woke this morning I saw a fire in the woods. An Orfa— a man had stolen my horse and was eating it. He showed me a secret graveyard, behind the cemetery.’

  ‘He’s either mad or simple,’ said the older voice.

  ‘The secret graveyard was full of Orfano graves. However, that’s just incidental. I was made exile and Professore Virmyre gave me his horse.’

  ‘He’s lying, eh?’ said the younger. ‘His horse wasn’t ate; he rode in on that white one. Secret graveyards. He’s full of it.’

  ‘I know it sounds far-fetched. I’m having a very bad couple of days. If you let me go I’ll help you find your friend, I promise.’

  ‘Find our friend, eh?’ roared the younger, ‘Buco del culo! You already know where she is. They’ve taken her to the castle. Just like they always do, eh? Then they lie about it and say the girl was mad, or the Unquiet Dead got her. It’s always the same, and they always lie.’

  The next strike wasn’t unexpected. The younger man had worked himself up to a fury; the outcome was inevitable. Knowing the punch was coming didn’t make it any less painful.

  ‘It’s not always the same,’ said the elder. ‘It’s different this time.’ And for a second his voice cracked with emotion.

  ‘Let’s take a moment,’ said the younger. ‘Come on. He’s not going anywhere, eh?’

  ‘You might get out of this alive if you tell them what they want to know.’ This in a low whisper. She grabbed his chin and wiped him down with a rag. The water was cool and welcome. His lips stung and he knew the dull ache in his face would be replaced by bruises of rich purple and black. He could feel the grit and mud being scoured away.

  ‘What is it they want to know?’

  ‘You need to stop being clever.’

  ‘Stop? I’m not sure I ever started.’

  She dipped the rag into the water and carried on cleaning him up. ‘We know you’re from Demesne. Why not just tell them.’ There was something about her voice. She was too well spoken to be a farmer’s daughter.

  ‘Wait.’ He couldn’t believe he’d been so stupid. ‘Someone’s been taken, right? A girl?’

  ‘Hardly a girl. My sister, as well you know.’

  ‘Where am I?’

  ‘You know very well where you are.’ She scrubbed at his face some more. ‘Why are you making this so difficult?’

  ‘I’m looking for the da Costa house. I’m looking for a maid who works at Demesne.’

  ‘That’s not funny.’

  ‘I swear to you. Please tell me where I am.’

  The blonde girl glowered at him. Tears sprang to her eyes.

  ‘You’ve no heart at all. The lies you tell! Better we kill you tonight.’

  the bucket of water.

  ‘No wait—’ was all he managed before she threw the contents over him. He felt his hair slicken and the final vestiges of mud sluice from his face. He gasped with the shock of the cold water, then there was a moment of silence.

  ‘What did you say your name was?’ she asked, voice suddenly calm, demeanor changed.

  ‘I didn’t get the chance. We skipped that part to get to the hitting. In the face.’

  She grabbed his hair, ignoring his protests, lifting the long tresses where they covered the place his right ear should be.

  ‘Oh, porca misèria,’ was all she said.

  Lucien watched her leave the room, trying to make his mind work. Something was right in front of him if he could only reach it through the fog of his pain and grasp it. He saw dust gathered in drifts in the corners of the room, firewood piled to his right, a hefty axe leaning against the wall near the door. A woodshed then. He hoped they’d keep hitting him with fists and not resort to the axe.

  The two men walked back in. Lucien recognised the eldest immediately. He was bald with hazel eyes and the leather apron of someone who worked with his hands. Someone who worked for House Prospero. The blonde girl followed, her brow furrowed, wringing her hands anxiously.

  ‘You,’ said Lucien and the elder in unison, the spark of shared recognition flashing in their eyes.

  ‘What’s going on here then, eh?’ said the younger. He was huge, barrel-chested, with a broad bat-like face and a snub nose. His eyes were like dull pennies. The barest traces of bruises could be seen on his knuckles, consequence of applying them to Lucien’s face. Sandy hair stood out on his skull like stunted corn.

  ‘You’re the artisan who made my ears, the porcelain ears, back when I was twelve.’ It was true. The elder man was the very same craftsman, his once-kindly eyes now red with grief. There were a good deal more lines on his face, which was paler than he remembered.

  ‘Lucien?’ said the craftsman to the girl. He shook his head, incredulous.

  ‘I didn’t recognise him with all the mud on his face,’ she said, ‘but when it came off . . .’

  ‘Will someone tell me who in nine hells this fop is, eh?’ said the younger.

  ‘You’ve been beating the face of Lucien “Sinistro” di Fontein, you great arse,’ said the girl. The man had the sense to pale. Even the workers in the fields of Landfall knew the names of the Orfani. More from fear rather than respect.

  ‘Actually I go by Esposito these days,’ said Lucien casually. ‘House Fontein declared me outcast.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean he’s not guilty,’ grunted the younger man, ‘outcast or no. He might still have done it. He’s a strega, eh? They get up to all sorts behind closed doors. They say Golia eats live goats, and Anea can cast spells now.’

  ‘Are you even paying attention?’ hissed the girl.

  ‘He’s a witchling,’ continued the man. ‘Why are you making excuses for him? He’s even more untrustworthy than the nobili.’

  ‘Who are you?’ said Lucien finally, his temper flaring. The cold water had sluiced away the muddiness of his mind. The big farmer made to lunge for him, but the craftsman laid one hand on his chest.

  �
��I’m Raul da Costa, father of Rafaela and Salvaggia.’ He indicated the blonde girl, ‘who you’ve already met. And this is my son-in-law Gian.’

  Lucien felt the pit of his stomach lurch and the room suddenly became unnaturally warm.

  ‘They’ve taken Ella,’ he mumbled, knowing instinctively he was right. The pieces all fell together at once. Raul and Salvaggia nodded mutely.

  ‘Who is Ella?’ said Gian, shuffling his feet.

  ‘Ella. Rafaela. My maid?’

  ‘We thought you were one of them,’ said Raul after a moment of silence, ‘come back to take Sal. It’s always girls of eighteen that are taken. Never women of Rafaela’s age.’

  Lucien nodded, seeing the sense of it. He was all too aware of which girls were taken. They haunted his nightmares.

  ‘It was your birthday a few days ago,’ he said, addressing Salvaggia.

  ‘Day before last,’ she replied, her mouth twisting with sadness.

  ‘I was asked to work late at Demesne last night,’ explained Raul, ‘asked to make more ears for you, they said. On account of you passing your final testing. I see now it was just a ruse.’

  ‘It wasn’t your fault, Papa.’ Salvaggia laid one hand on her father’s arm. The old man shook with anger.

  ‘For God’s sake, untie him, will you?’ Raul growled. The farmer lumbered forward, busying himself with the rope, thick fingers fumbling at the knots.

  ‘They took her last night,’ said Lucien, his voice no more than a whisper. Salvaggia nodded.

  ‘Last night.’ He stood up, felt the room pitch slightly and took a moment to steady himself. He winced as pain spiked through his shoulder. Gian gave him a sheepish look. Lucien took a deep breath and exited the woodshed, finding himself in the living room of Raul da Costa.

  Ella had grown up here.

  It was small. Too small for three grown adults. A table and four chairs crowded together at the centre of the room; a well ordered kitchen was situated at one end. A ladder led up to the loft – he imagine a crowded space divided into two areas, simple mattresses, no beds. A small posy of dried flowers hung on the wall next to the window. A horseshoe hung from the door frame.

  Lucien washed his face and inspected his wounded shoulder. In spite of everything it remained resolutely uninfected. He drank a mug of water, then another, feeling his weakness wane.

  Salvaggia milled around, not knowing what to do. Gian lurked by the door to the woodshed looking deeply uncomfortable. The sword Lucien had stolen hung in its scabbard from a peg on the cottage door. He drew it and regarded the edge. He hefted the weight of it. So different to the ceramic ones he’d trained with all this time.

  ‘Can you bind this up, please?’ He indicated the wounded shoulder. Raul nodded and put a pot of water on the fire. Lucien wolfed down some bread and cheese while he waited for the water to heat up. No one spoke as Raul worked on his shoulder, the tiny cottage desolate with sadness. Salvaggia cleaned his split lip and added a dash of ointment to it.

  ‘It’s from Demesne,’ she explained. ‘Rafaela brought it.’

  Lucien stood and shrugged on the jacket he’d acquired. It was a fraction too large across the chest. No matter.

  ‘What will you do now?’ said Raul finally, his voice a cracked whisper again.

  ‘There’s not much I can do. I have to go back to Demesne.’ He belted the sword on his hip and looked at Gian. ‘Go saddle my horse – I’ll be right out.’ Lucien turned to Raul. ‘I’m going to get your daughter back.’

  ‘Can I come with you?’

  ‘Can you fight?’

  The old man looked at him, a sour turn to his mouth, a single shake of the head.

  ‘That’s what I thought. Best you stay here.’

  They followed him outside, watching him mount the white mare.

  ‘I’m sorry about the . . . uh.’ Gian gestured toward his face.

  ‘Don’t worry yourself with it. I’d have probably done the same in your place.’

  ‘What if she’s already dead?’ said Raul, barely able to get the words out. Salvaggia folded one arm around his shoulders protectively.

  ‘She’s not dead,’ said Lucien, although in truth he was trying to convince himself. Moments later he was galloping toward Demesne, morning sun staining the sky visceral red as purpled clouds lingered on the horizon. Ravens watched him pass from bare tree limbs, eyes of jet tracking his progress.

  18

  Crossed Words, Crossed Swords

  HOUSE CONTADINO KITCHENS

  – Augusto 311

  Lucien stood in the doorway leading to the kitchens of House Contadino, a mix of emotions surging through him. He’d spent a lot of time standing on this very spot during his thirteen summers. Usually he waited here until the porters were too busy to turn him away, then would accost Camelia, bringing her some bauble or fancy. Other times he sought tasks to keep him from his restless boredom. And his loneliness.

  He was yet to form any friendships from his various lessons at House Erudito. The noble’s sons were keen to stay apart from him. He’d lost track of the last time he ventured out of his apartment without a dagger concealed in his boot, and two of the professori had barred him from lessons for fighting. This had the somewhat negative effect of freeing him to pursue more lessons at House Fontein. The irony was not lost on him. Virmyre refused to eject him from class, even at the cost of losing other students, students with fathers who paid into the House Erudito coffers.

  Lucien brooded on this as he stood on the threshold of the Contadino kitchen. The flagstones under his feet had been worn smooth by countless feet spiriting innumerable dishes to the grand hall by numberless waiting staff. Lines in chalk on the door frame marked his increasing height, but he was still a long way behind Golia, now sixteen and fully the size of a man. The top of the doorway arched gracefully to a point, the wooden door itself removed long ago, more nuisance than useful barrier.

  Lucien stood, not slouching or leaning as he usually did, but almost hiding, flattening himself against the wall. Staff had downed tools inside the vast but cluttered kitchens to regard Dino with amusement. He was still young enough to escape the prejudices some castle folk had for the Orfani. Lucien furrowed his brow and chewed his lip. He wondered at what point people traded in bambini for streghe. What act of mental alchemy transmuted feelings of affection into distrust?

  Camelia, Rafaela and the staff had crowded around the seven-year-old, admiring his new suit. The jacket and britches were a splendid shade of maroon with a stark white dress shirt and matching tights. A scarf of black was tied at his throat, and the boy’s hair had been cut in such a way it remained long but did not look unkempt. Lucien scowled, smoothing down his own hair, which stuck up in all directions. He would need to get it trimmed soon, though the idea of letting anyone near him with scissors was abhorrent. Rafaela was laughing and clapping her hands with delight at some utterance from the younger boy. She was always radiant when smiling, a shimmer in her eyes that was difficult to ignore. Lucien swore under his breath. He simply could not fathom how a seven-year-old could captivate an entire kitchen of people.

  ‘There you are,’ said Rafaela brightly, a broad smile on her lips. Lucien tensed. She approached him. Her hair had come undone from her ponytail, loose corkscrews spiralling down each side of her face. Her skirt swished out behind her as she skipped across the room to him. Today she had chosen a demure powder-blue ensemble.

  ‘We were just saying how much he looks like you when you were his age.’ She wrapped an arm around Lucien’s shoulder, pulling him close, then ushered him into the kitchen. He felt his cheeks flush scarlet.

  ‘It’s uncanny really,’ said Camelia, favouring each of them with a warm smile. Dino stood in front of her, turning to face Lucien. He nodded, then flipped a lazy salute, adopting a relaxed posture, not quite slouching. Such a pose looked gauche and rehearsed on someone so young. Lucien would know, after all. He’d spent enough time smouldering in front of a full-length looking glass, affe
cting the same bored insouciance. Rafaela stifled a laugh behind her hand and exchanged a knowing glance with Camelia.

  ‘Right, come along. This venison won’t roast itself. Back to work.’ She clapped her hands twice. The kitchen sprang into life and some of the porters sighed and muttered as they stepped around the elder Orfano. Occasionally one would utter the word strega just loud enough for Lucien to hear. Even without ears he had no trouble discerning when he was being spoken about. Or when he was unwelcome.

  Lucien resumed his spot by the door and realised Dino was no longer present. Somehow the boy had vanished amid the hustle of cooks and bustle of porters. A messenger entered by the side door, not more than eighteen years old, the same age as Rafaela. He wore House Contadino livery, soiled from the road. His tabard was frayed at the edges. Lucien guessed he’d inherited the garment from his father. Such roles in Demesne were passed down father to son and mother to daughter wherever possible. The messenger looked out of breath, his pallor suggesting he wasn’t in the best health. The newcomer beckoned Rafaela close, whispered urgently. Moments later she was gone, hurrying out of the kitchens with the ragged-looking messenger, her shawl thrown around her shoulders in haste, face troubled. Lucien found himself desperate to know what had been said.

  Puzzled, he slunk off to his apartment, trailing fingers over the rough stonework of the corridor walls, savouring the abrasion. He practised some exercises Ruggeri had set him before becoming bored. He discarded the blade in its scabbard on the armchair, still haunted by the spectre of the crow. None of the books on the crowded shelves offered him any comfort; the drake dozed in its glass case, and his deck was missing two cards, making any game of solitario futile from the outset.

  Suddenly, the door to his apartment opened and Lucien leaped to his feet. Two quick steps and he was across the sitting room, curiosity verging on panic. His sword was already out of the scabbard before he’d even registered who stood in the doorway. The tip of the ceramic blade hovered inches away from a startled face

  ‘Rafaela? I thought you were one of Giancarlo’s thugs come to cut some new scars into me.’ He forced a smile, then returned the blade to the scabbard with a flourish. Rafaela said nothing, hazel eyes downcast, no longer shimmering with amusement.