by Patrick, Den
‘What’s happened?’ he whispered. ‘Did that messenger . . . did he hurt you?’
‘No, that was Nardo.’ Her mouth twisted, she stepped into the room and leaned against the wall, arms crossed over her stomach.
‘Take your time,’ he said, stepping close to her, one hand resting on her arm. She was trembling.
‘Nardo is the twin brother of Navilia, my best friend. No one’s seen her for three days, and House Fontein won’t spare more than a handful of guards to look for her.’ She sucked in a shuddering breath, and then the tears were streaming down her face as she shook with silent sobs. Lucien stared at her, frozen with surprise, before coming to his senses. He pulled her close without thinking, trying to ignore the warm scent of her hair. Suddenly he was self-conscious. The embrace was an awkward affair; she was still a few inches taller.
‘I’ll go and talk to the Majordomo,’ he said earnestly ‘Maybe he can put pressure on the capo to send out more men.’ He doubted the Domo’s acquiescence in light of what he knew. Rafaela nodded and blinked away tears, managing the slightest of smiles.
‘Thank you. I’ll come with you.’
‘Perhaps it’s better I go alone?’
She shook her head, one hand still clutching his arm.
The Majordomo had no quarters within any of the four houses and shunned the idea of an office. It was another point of interest on the castle’s long list of curiosities: the ancient aide didn’t appear to have rooms anywhere.
‘Probably so he can’t be killed in his sleep,’ muttered Lucien.
‘What?’ asked Rafaela.
‘Nothing. I was just thinking aloud.’
Lucien wondered if the Domo lived inside the King’s Keep itself. Perhaps the hooded dignitary haunted the corridors at night, keeping watch over the king’s subjects.
room, the grand hall, the granaries in the courtyard, even enquiring at Lord and Lady Contadino’s quarters. In desperation they knocked on Anea’s door, only to receive a hastily scribbled I don’t know, written in her leather-bound book. She flashed angry green eyes at Lucien from above a black veil. She’d barely opened the ancient oak door, peering through the narrowest of margins.
They moved on to House Erudito, where the scholars, Maestro Cherubini in particular, proved unhelpful or simply obtuse. The staff drifted into oft-given lectures on nothing of import before Lucien lost patience. He took Rafaela by the hand, leading her back to the dim circular corridor of the King’s Keep. The gate guards made none-too-subtle comments to each other, lascivious and hungry-eyed. Lucien flashed a warning look and the men fell silent.
‘Doesn’t it bother it you?’ asked Lucien, nettled.
‘Of course, but it’s the rule not the exception.’
‘Are there any exceptions?’
‘Well, I’ve high hopes for you.’ She nearly smiled but couldn’t manage it. He squeezed her hand and she returned the gesture.
Next was House Prospero. Lucien and Rafaela crossed workshops carpeted in sawdust and through sewing rooms, before finding a knot of tailors who revealed the Domo had passed through just recently, requesting the finest seamstresses and tailors for an impromptu fitting.
They located the Domo in the last place Lucien could have ever hoped to go, one of many places he’d never visited in the sprawling edifice. The Majordomo was in Golia’s apartment, in the heart of House Fontein. The guards here discarded even the pretence of respect, openly hostile. Two stood outside the apartment, the elder tensing to draw steel as Lucien approached.
‘Maybe we should go back?’ said Rafaela, squeezing his hand.
‘We’re here to see the Domo,’ said Lucien, his own hand resting on the pommel of his blade in open challenge. The guard weighed his options and nodded for them to enter.
It seemed everyone was in Golia’s apartment that afternoon, which made what happened next so much worse. Golia was standing on a low stool, his already looming presence now giant in the centre of the room. Two seamstresses and a tailor fussed around him, obviously irritated. None would give way to the other. They almost fell over each other, intent on their tasks like ravens fighting over a scrap of bread. Measuring and sizing, pinning scraps of fabric here and there, sketching with chalk. They grimaced polite smiles at each other while brandishing sharp elbows.
Mistress Corvo was there, smiling like a grinning skull, smoothing the hair at the back of her neck absent-mindedly with one hand. Her other hand was busy with a fan of stiff black card, odd and coquettish. She was talking to the new capo de custodia, who was much too young for the position. It was said his father, while not high in the line of succession of House Fontein, was fabulously wealthy. The new capo was famously attractive and had the mental capacity of a goldfish, according to Virmyre, who revelled in such character assassinations. Giancarlo stood to one side, regarding Golia like a fine sculpture. The superiore tossed asides to Ruggeri, who looked as if he might well cut his own throat to be spared the tiresome spectacle. Carmine skulked at the back but couldn’t mask his boredom.
And there at the back of the room, standing against a wall so as to be out from underfoot, was the Majordomo. His head was more bowed than usual under the hood. Lucien wondered if he’d fallen asleep. The hem of his robe looked more ragged, the tabaro on his shoulders more dusty. Even his staff, a sturdy length of oak topped by a piece of amber, looked rough and unvarnished that day. He was a study in atrophy, as if all his years had abraded him. Standing next to the looming Domo, barely reaching the height of his waist, was Dino, still striking in his maroon jacket and britches. The young Orfano’s eyes met Lucien’s and he nodded gravely.
Lucien strode across the room, brooking no interference from the assorted flunkies. One of the seamstresses squawked and clucked at him. Rafaela trailed in his wake, managing to look both awkward and guilty, tear-stained and exhausted.
‘Why in nine hells aren’t you sending out more guards to look for this missing girl?’ Lucien blurted.
‘Lucien!’ this from Rafaela, shocked. The room had turned as one to regard the unfolding commotion. The Domo roused himself, a shudder passing through him. A trio of flies took to wing, hovering above his head.
‘Lucien?’ He cleared his throat. ‘What? What girl?’
‘Navilia. She’s Rafaela’s best friend. No one’s seen her for days.’
The room was silent now, the atmosphere prickling at skin like a heat rash. One of the seamstresses absented herself, shedding pins as she left. Lucien stared into the face of the old man. The Majordomo’s mouth was set in a thin line. Salt-and-pepper stubble days old conspired to make him look particularly haggard.
‘I wasn’t aware of any missing girl,’ said the young capo, a sneer etched onto his too-perfect lips.
‘It is of no concern,’ droned the Domo, phlegmatic.
‘It’s of concern to me,’ replied Lucien, just slightly too loud. He turned to the capo. ‘Maybe you could see your way to doing some work for a change?’
There was a sharp intake of breath from Mistress Corvo, and Giancarlo stepped forward, but it was Ruggeri who spoke first.
‘Lucien, you forget yourself. You may be Orfano but you will give the capo the respect accorded to him by his rank.’ Lucien held the gaze of his teacher for a few seconds, his brow creased, lips curling to a sneer. Had the rebuke come from Giancarlo he’d already have had his blade out of its sheath. Finally he looked down at his feet.
‘There is no need, Guido,’ rasped the Domo. ‘She has already been missing for sometime. There is no point in deploying more men.’
Rafaela sobbed. Not a soul in the room could have failed to hear it. The tailor and the remaining seamstress stared at their feet, afraid to lift their gazes. Mistress Corvo had retreated behind the capo, pouting angrily. Giancarlo bristled, his blood up, but Lucien met his gaze and raised his chin.
The Domo drew himself up to his full height and began to exit the room, indifferent to the tension that swirled and eddied like a rip tide.
&n
bsp; ‘I have matters that need my attention,’ he said.
The last vestiges of Lucien’s patience dissolved. He found himself holding a fistful of dusty fabric, dragging the Domo around to face him. The larger man stumbled, looking ridiculous as he tottered over the teenager. The wooden staff clattered to the floor.
‘This is your work,’ hissed Lucien. ‘There’s conspiracy at work and you’re trying to cover it—’
He got no further with his accusation. He was flung bodily across the room into a table. When he staggered to his knees he found his tongue bleeding, adding to his chagrin. Rafaela had also fallen and was likewise finding her feet. Her eyes were dazed and she clutched one arm. Golia stood over both of them, grinning.
Lucien heard himself snarl and rushed toward the older Orfano, his hand going for his blade. Mistress Corvo screeched. The tailor passed out and the seamstress cowered behind the capo, clinging to his sword arm and preventing him from drawing his weapon.
Curiously, it was Dino who reached Golia first. The young Orfano charged, clutching a small dagger. Golia swung around, backhanding the boy to the ground with a club-like fist. Dino sailed back from the blow, crumpling in a heap on the floor. He twitched once and then remained still.
Ruggeri was already shouting at Golia to stand down while Giancarlo smiled. Both boys drew their blades at the same instant, Golia unleashing a series of strikes, blade held in both hands, no finesse. Lucien angled his sword to weather the storm, but the intensity of the attacks would not be parried for long. The ceramic blades fractured, then shattered altogether.
With the taste of his blood hot in his mouth, Lucien stepped within Golia’s guard, mashing a fist into the larger boy’s face. Golia’s head whipped to one side, but the larger Orfano dis-played no evidence of feeling the blow.
Suddenly they were surrounded by House Fontein guardsmen, a ring of halberds levelled at them. Two veterans stepped between the duelling teenagers, parting them with shields. Lucien dropped the remnant of his blade with resignation; Golia spat blood on the carpet.
The Domo had left of course, and Lucien had got nothing for his troubles except the sight of Giancarlo’s gloating smile. Lucien remained silent as the guards dragged him from the room. There would be consequences for this in the weeks ahead.
19
Demesne Revisited
THE SANATORIO
– Febbraio 315
Lucien was unaware of how long he’d been unconscious in Raul da Costa’s woodshed. His wrists still burned from the rope, his neck felt stiff, complaining with each surge of the horse beneath him. He worried at the split in his lip with his tongue. The thought of Rafaela in the hands of Giancarlo and the Majordomo consumed him entirely, alternately filling him with dread or impotent fury. Worse still were the thoughts of what Golia might do to her.
Had she already been consigned to the sanatorio? he wondered.
The dipping of the blood-red sun below the horizon marked his second day as an exile from Demesne. The sky stained itself pink, darkening to purple and deepest- blue as the first stars revealed themselves. The road stretched out ahead dusty and endless. He’d pushed the white mare hard, only noticing his single-mindedness when he began feeling faint. He’d barely eaten in two days. Chiding himself for a fool, he stopped at the cemetery, where he whispered apologies to his mount. The horse steamed in the chilly air, sweat lathered like foam on the creature’s pure hide. She looked almost spectral in the cemetery grounds. He offered her an apple, small compensation, he realised. Once the mare was calm, he threw a blanket over her and sated his own gnawing hunger with bread and cheese, now well past its best.
The hulking menace of Demesne waited on the horizon as he washed down his simple meal with wine. The sanatorio stood before it like a squat nightwatchman holding a vigil over the larger building. Slowly, more and more stars made themselves known. The night swallowed the last of the red and yellow brilliance from the sky. After a moment’s hesitation he left the mare in the cemetery, watched over by the sculpted angels. He was confident there was no one around to steal her. Losing one horse was unfortunate; losing two would be unforgivable.
He hurried on deft feet, feeling the night settle around him like a favourite cloak. He was grateful for it. A mist had rolled in from the sea over the lowlands. It would protect him from unwanted gazes in the hours ahead. He was close to Demesne now, the scents of the place keen to him. Woodsmoke and rotting food, horse manure and wood shavings. The pungent odours of the tannery at House Prospero. The smells remained the same but there was a subtle shift to the mood of the prodigious edifice. The hairs on his arms stood to attention; a chill passed down his spine. If Demesne did have a gaze, then it was surely directed inward, preoccupied with history, lost to reverie and perhaps regret. Many of the arched windows were shuttered, others remained unlit. Those rooms that were illuminated showed no occupants. He was pleased to note the guards were not outside the walls. A handful patrolled the battlements and rooftops, thinking themselves unnoticed so high up. They stamped their feet, cursing bitterly about the wind. Some lit pipes, making themselves conspicuous against the night. Lucien took them all in with a hunter’s eye. One by one he could dispose of them; en masse he’d be lost.
The Orfano ran to the sanatorio, pressing himself against the curving stone, his breath before him in small wisps. If Rafaela was in here he’d find her, even if he had to break the lock on every door to every cell. No sooner had he started to climb than he heard his name, harsh and insistent on the evening wind.
Not Sinistro, as the guards would call, but his real name.
He looked around, trying to locate the source. Sweat prickled at his brow, ears straining. Fearing discovery he flattened himself against the wall, willing himself to become just another patch of darkness. After a moment of confusion his eye was drawn to Anea’s window. Russo was shaking a white pillow case at him, flagging frantically for his attention.
He ran, bent low at a sprint until he reached the familiar grey stone of Demesne. The burgundy ivy trembled in the breeze. He climbed without thinking, fingers mechanically seeking each handhold, feet seemingly moving of their own accord. His shoulder held fast under the tight bandage despite grumbled whisperings of pain.
‘It’s me, Lucien.’ There was a pause, and then a key scraped in the lock. The door opened a fraction. Russo’s incredulous, red-rimmed eye stared out from the gap.
‘Why are you here?’ she whispered.
‘You summoned me – with the pillow case?’
‘Did I? Oh, I thought I was someone else.’ Russo opened the door. She was alone. Her jacket had been ripped at the shoulder. The corner of her mouth was bruised, a splash of blood dried at the corner, her customary purple lipstick now faded.
‘You mean you thought I was someone else’’
The professore forced a weak smile onto her face and blinked slowly.
‘Russo? Who did this to you?’
But she was staring into the middle distance. She wrung her hands with a dreamlike slowness. A lantern on the nightstand behind gave a tawny light. She looked faint, insubstantial.
‘Can you tell me what’s going on?’
‘Dino and Festo were found slain in their beds this morning and Anea’s been arrested. I tried to stop them but . . .’
‘What?’ whispered Lucien, clutching the hilt of his sword, sickness yawing in his gut.
‘We think Golia killed the other Orfani. Even the very young ones didn’t escape.’ Russo shivered and clutched herself. ‘He’s blaming you. You didn’t do it though, did you?’
‘Of course not! It’s me, Lucien, I—’
‘No one dares to contradict him,’ she continued, ‘in case they’re killed too. Like Festo.’
‘And Dino is really . . .’
‘Gone. All gone.’ She stared at him with glassy eyes. ‘Killed in his sleep.’ A sigh escaped her and then she swept the dust from her riding skirt.
‘Professore?’
‘Oh, hello
, Lucien. When did you get here?’
‘You were telling me about Golia, and the Orfani.’
‘Yes.’ Her eyes snapped back into focus. ‘No one knows what to think. We’ve barely heard from the Majordomo since all this began.’ She began to cry. ‘Giancarlo is never seen without at least four bodyguards.’
‘This whole thing has the stench of a coup.’
Lucien walked to the window of the sitting room, gaze set on the sanatorio, shaking with fury, breathless with it.
‘What will you do?’ asked Russo, her voice no more than a cracked whisper.
‘I’ll go to the place where Demesne deposits all of its wayward unwanted women; I’ll go to the sanatorio.’ He turned to her. ‘Stay here. Lock the door.’ He surveyed the damage. ‘For all the use it will do.’
The sound of booted feet came from the corridor beyond. Russo flinched instinctively, eyes widening with panic.
‘Lock the door,’ repeated Lucien, taking a deep breath. He turned to find two guardsmen in the ruin of the doorway, their tabards bearing the scarlet and black of House Fontein. The shorter of the two bore a sledgehammer, likely the perpetrator of the earlier damage. He was in his thirties and sported two days’ worth of stubble and a broken nose. The taller of the two was a sour sort that Lucien recognised. Their dirty faces betrayed their shock at finding him.
‘Hunting Orfani, are we?’ said Lucien, his voice low. ‘Looks like you struck gold.’ He held his arms out at his sides, beckoning them in.
‘We’re just following orders,’ grunted the shorter guard. ‘Giancarlo said Mistress Anea was part of a plot against the king.’
‘And that bruise on Professore Russo’s mouth. Was that “following orders” too?’
The guardsmen looked at each other, but if either felt any guilt they didn’t show it. They’d not miss the chance to strike at both an Orfano and an eminent member of a rival house; it was simply too tempting.