The Boy with the Porcelain Blade

by Patrick, Den

  ‘And killing Dino in his bed? Was that just “following orders” too?’

  The short guardsman looked confused, while the taller of the two blanched and gripped his weapon tighter.

  ‘Don’t know anything about that.’

  ‘And what about me?’ whispered Lucien.

  ‘Well—’ the shorter guardsman swallowed nervously ‘—you burned down the stable and set fire to Viscount Contadino’s stallion. People are saying it were you that murdered the other Orfani.’

  ‘And you’re an exile,’ added his comrade, but the strength behind the words faltered.

  ‘That’s right. I’m the hunted exile returned,’ said Lucien. The taller of the two wilted, an perceptible slump of the shoulders. Lucien knew in that moment that they feared him. They feared him as an Orfano. They feared him as a swordsman. But most of all they feared him as an exile, no longer bound by Demesne’s stifling protocols and etiquette.

  The sword came free of the scabbard with a hiss. Lucien felt the tension flood out of him as the metal shone in the firelight. A smile flickered across his mouth, opening the split in his lip. He savoured the pain, almost delirious with it. Glass crunched beneath his boots. He’d need to be careful or he’d lose his footing. He imagined D’arzenta chiding him quietly, just over his shoulder, out of sight. His breathing was slow and deep, anger and blood a hot roil in his veins. Dino, just twelve years old, killed in his sleep. He imagined the younger Orfano in bed, unable to defend himself. And Festo succumbing to a similar fate, all of nine years old, snuffed out like a candle. Shocked moments of wakefulness and then pain. Then nothing.

  Lucien snarled, desperately wanting to hurt someone.

  The taller guardsman fell back, attempting to level his halberd. A foolish weapon to use indoors, it was ill suited to close-quarters fighting. Lucien stepped past the point of the pole-arm, grasping the haft with his right hand and unleashing the full force of his hatred. The metal flashed in the darkness.

  Once.

  Twice.

  Three times the blade fell in short brutal strikes.

  The guard lay on the floor gasping, face split open, shoulder shattered, a dull gleam of sickly red leaking through the black fabric of his tabard.

  ‘That was for Dino,’ hissed Lucien.

  The shorter guardsman dropped the sledgehammer and made to draw his sword, visibly shaken. Lucien swore. Only men of sergente rank or higher were given swords. This would be a harder fight. But only if the man could draw the blade from the scabbard.

  Lucien lunged murderously to find the sergente ducking out of the room, backing into the unlit corridor. Committed to the strike, Lucien was off balance. The weight of his body and the momentum of his fury embedded his blade in the shattered door frame.

  And held fast.

  Lucien swore, felt his anger diluted by panic. The sound of the sergente’s sword escaping its sheath reached his ears. Lucien tugged feverishly at the hilt of the sword. It refused to move. The door frame shuddered, and a shadow moved in the corridor, black on black. Lucien stumbled away, losing his footing and rolling back over his shoulder as D’arzenta had shown him. The broken glass snagged and bit at his shoulder through the fabric. He regained his feet searching for a weapon.

  The sergente surged through the door sensing victory, his blade held before him in a tight grip. His smug expression changed to one of shock as a burning book crashed into his face. Being a legal tome, it had considerable weight. Lucien continued pelting the sergente with burning books, ignoring the heat of his singed hands. Finally, the guard pressed into the room, heedless of the stream of fiery projectiles. He swung wildly, losing his footing on a shattered table. Lucien was already moving, stepping in close, past the arc of the blade, embracing the man with his right arm. They came together, close like lovers. The sergente looked back with stricken eyes, now realising the extent of his mistake. Lucien’s dagger thrust into the hollow behind his jaw. He tried to speak but the words that escaped were wet and crimson. He convulsed once, shook again, Lucien clinging to him savagely. The guard tried a futile slash, but the fight had left him, just as life was fleeing him with each surge and gush of blood from below his ear. Lucien swore, angling the blade up into what he hoped was the man’s brain. Another convulsion, another pitiful strike from the sword, no more than a dull slap. The sergente’s eyes became blank and he died silently, slipping to the floor amid the ruin.

  Lucien stepped back, cleaning his dagger on the rich brocade of a torn-down curtain. He re-sheathed it in his boot before wiping his bloody left hand on his trousers. His heart hammered in his chest as he eased the sword from the door frame. Killing the two guardsmen had done nothing to cool his anger. He wanted more. He wanted to find those responsible for the murder of the Orfani.

  ‘Rafaela, Anea,’ breathed Lucien. Elsewhere in Demesne someone screamed. Lucien sheathed the blade, nurturing his anger, fearing he would simply curl up in defeat if it left him.

  ‘Anger gets you so far and then it gets you dead,’ D’arzenta had said to him.

  Lucien hoped he was wrong.

  20

  The King’s Insistence

  VIRMYRE’S CLASSROOM

  – Settembre 311

  Lucien had spent much of the lesson staring through the arched windows of the classroom. Professore Virmyre was scribing in a large tome behind his desk, brow furrowed in concentration. The boys had been tasked with copying the table of elements into their own books. Lucien had given up even the pretence of transcribing the information. His mood had been uniformly sour during the six weeks since he’d come to blows with Golia. Even D’arzenta had excluded him from lessons. Lucien had spent much of the time in the kitchen, under the protection of Camelia’s maternal authority; the rest he spent in the library, where Archivist Simonetti warned him to behave himself.

  Lucien gazed out of the window, drowsing in the heat. People made tiny by distance were working in the fields. The sun was showing no sign of relenting, early autumn promising to be as stifling as high summer. It had been an airless sort of year, disappointing and frustrating in equal measure. He knew the number thirteen was unlucky; perhaps his fortunes and mood would improve come his fourteenth year. He hoped so.

  The classroom had a high ceiling, its plaster and white paint flaking. The wall behind the teacher’s desk was a vast array of shelves. Thick dust slept on ancient timbers crowded with curios and oddments. There were books in languages no one could decipher, jars of preserved body parts – many animal but a few human. There were diseased organs bloated with corruption and, more disturbingly, an urn full of ashes that Lucien had never summoned the courage to ask about. It was Virmyre’s practice to make unruly students clean the shelves on occasion, but he’d abadoned this recently, preferring to make the entire class run a lap of the castle ‘to work off excess exuberance’. Lucien found this enforced exercise pointless. Some of the boys simply idled and failed to return to the lesson; many gritted their teeth and ran doggedly. Lucien took it as a point of pride to beat every one of them, every time.

  The Orfano closed his eyes and listened to the scratch and scrape of quills on paper. They sounded like rats clawing at panelling, like stray thoughts wanting to enter the recesses of his mind. Thoughts of Giancarlo scuttled while Golia gnawed at Lucien’s nerves. His fears for the future swept about in a great swarm, and there was the ever present anxiety of his next testing.

  His thoughts drifted to Rafaela, who had only recently come back to herself. The disappearance of Navilia and the fiasco in Golia’s apartment had shaken her. He’d seen less of her since that day. She’d gained some additional duties that meant she lacked the time to lavish on one Orfano. Not that he minded; he didn’t need looking after like a child. Still, he missed the opportunity to speak to her, the curve of her smile, her wit. He missed the informality of her banter and the small encouragements she offered when he felt low. Which was often in the silence of his room, even with the drake for company.

  He
too was busier these days. It was a small luxury that he could decide his own timetable, although he always sought Camelia’s counsel. She did not comment that he implemented the majority of her suggestions, content to hear of his successes.

  ‘You must do what makes you happy, Lucien. You have such rare opportunities,’ she often said when not complaining about the great many duelling lessons he took. He was well acquainted with Ruggeri now, despite the uneven start to their relationship some four years gone. Cherubini and Russo also spared time for him, often coming to his apartment to tutor him.

  Sitting there in the classroom, consumed by the sunshine, he realised how he was just going through the motions, unsure of what he was trying to achieve. His aim of gaining the sponsorship of House Fontein was fading more with each passing year. He remembered his younger self, fascinated with the very idea of being ten years old and how exciting it would be. At thirteen he couldn’t be more bored or apathetic. He didn’t attend Ruggeri’s lessons to gain access to House Fontein; he attended Ruggeri’s lessons in order to survive.

  A handbell rang from somewhere deep in House Erudito, and the boys looked up at Virmyre expectantly. Stools scraped on the wooden floorboards impatiently. A few daring souls were already beginning to pack their writing kits away. Two boys began an animated conversation. The professore did not look up from his labour.

  ‘Just because I am old does not mean I am deaf, you insolent wretches.’ Virmyre’s rich baritone carried across the classroom easily.

  The boys fell silent, some not daring to breathe. Just because the lesson was over did not mean they might not earn themselves a punitive run.

  ‘Away you go, gentlemen,’ said Virmyre, not bothering to meet their gazes, his pen continuing to scratch out a line of spidery script. ‘Onwards to your destinies.’ The stools resumed their scrape and groan; there was a clatter and a stifled curse as one boy dropped his satchel. Virmyre looked up and skewered the boy with a piercing glance but said nothing.

  Lucien received a sharp elbow to the ribs as a larger boy by the name of Paolo passed him.

  ‘Figlio di troia.’

  He locked eyes with the curly-haired student and sneered, his lips twisting with distaste. The other boys stared on, wondering if the pair would fight. It would not be the first time.

  ‘They say Golia will cut your head off and use your skull to piss in.’

  Lucien said nothing, lacing his fingers in front of him but not looking away from the smirking Paolo, who was forced to break eye contact in order to exit the room. Detached and watchful, Lucien regarded his classmates leaving. Some pushing and shoving occurred, but the boys left the class quickly and quietly in the main.

  The word strega drifted in from the corridor beyond and Lucien sighed.

  Silence pressed into the room, almost tangible, a calming and welcome presence. Lucien sat, enjoying the motes orbiting each other in the thick shafts of extraordinary autumn light streaming through the windows. He wondered if the tiny particles ever collided with each other. No mean intention, just blundering into one another due to circumstances beyond their control. Not like Paolo and his intentional shove, more akin to his own missteps, inadvertent breaches of etiquette.

  ‘Master Lucien,’ Virmyre’s rich baritone again, ‘is it not strange that you’ve done your level best to be an unwilling student in my class for the last sixty minutes? And now, when the session is done, I find myself enjoying your august presence?’

  Lucien smiled.

  ‘It is strange, I grant you.’ He stood, gathering his things and dumping them unceremoniously into his satchel, before approaching the platform on which Virmyre’s desk stood.

  ‘Do you think me lonely perhaps?’

  ‘Not overly so, Professore.’

  ‘Not overly?’

  ‘No more than anyone else in Demesne.’

  ‘Ah, the teenager has discovered his inner poet. Such sentiment in one so young.’

  Lucien’s mouth creased in a lopsided smile. Virmyre’s chiding was legendary throughout Demesne, but he couldn’t help but enjoy being the target.

  ‘So, aren’t we overdue for one of your youthful displays of boundary-testing?’ asked Virmyre, setting down his quill. Lucien felt those cold eyes on him but stared back unperturbed.

  ‘I’m sorry, Professore, I don’t follow you.’

  ‘Some scandal or flourish of shocking behaviour. I think you are overdue for some trouble or nonsense.’ Just for a second Lucien thought the corners of Virmyre’s mouth might turn up; instead the professore’s eyes twinkled with mischief.

  ‘Wasn’t the brawl in Golia’s apartment exciting enough for you?’

  a pause ‘—spirited.’

  Lucien struggled to keep the smile from his face and shook his head, feeling ridiculous. He still couldn’t believe he’d marched into Golia’s apartment and accosted the Domo. He’d need to keep a tighter leash on his temper.

  ‘It may come as a shock to you, Professore, but my actions lack any premeditated spite. I just have a particular gift for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.’

  ‘And what happens when you find yourself in the right place at the right time, Master Lucien? Will you still rail against your elders and Demesne? What then?’

  Lucien floundered, unsure what the professore was driving at.

  ‘How will I know it’s this right time you speak of?’

  ‘Instinct. It’s what sets you apart, Lucien. It’s why you’ll succeed where all the others have failed.’

  Lucien’s eyes narrowed, suspecting some sort of game or trap. Virmyre was seldom this talkative.

  ‘Others? You mean other Orfani?’ he whispered. Virmyre nodded, his brow creased intently

  ‘How long has this been going on? This business with the Orfani?’ asked Lucien, clutching the edge of the professore’s desk with both hands.

  ‘How long do you think?’ said Virmyre, stroking his chin with one ink-stained thumb.

  ‘At least as long as the Majordomo has been alive, obviously,’ Lucien replied. ‘He may well have been the first of the Orfani, but I doubt it.’

  ‘A reasonable deduction.’

  Virmyre sat back and sighed, dropping his gaze. For a second Lucien took this for disappointment and assumed the conversation had come to a close.

  ‘See the shark in the tank behind me?’ said the professore. Lucien couldn’t miss it. The specimen was not overlarge, barely three feet long, but it was the focal point of the various strangenesses Virmyre had piled on his shelves. The creature inside the glass tank was preserved in some foul-smelling yet clear fluid. Lucien stepped around the desk, past his teacher, and approached the body, trapped in chemicals and held in time. The skin was a faint and dappled beige with speckles of darker brown. The eyes were elongated and delicate. There was not an ounce of excess flesh on the slender form; every curve of every fin spoke of efficient movement. Virmyre turned on his stool, clearing his throat.

  ‘Some sharks can increase their girth by two or three times. They make themselves larger to make predators think twice about attacking. It’s an impressive tactic, one that must have evolved over a very long time.’

  lightly against the glass casket, attention on the dead creature.

  ‘Because you’re not going to be able to adopt that tactic, Lucien. You’re not going to be able to scare off the competition with a show of size or bravado. The shark in the tank is a cat shark, not dangerous, not large. It’s Dino. It’s Festo. Small, inoffensive, easily bested.’

  Lucien turned to his grave teacher and waited for him to continue.

  ‘Golia on the other hand is a great white. He is force and aggression, he is a perfect killer. I sometimes wonder if Golia is human at all.’

  ‘And what shark should I be?’

  ‘That I can’t tell you. Some things you have to decipher yourself.’

  Lucien turned his back on his teacher, pressing his fingers against the glass once more. The delicate eyes put him in mind of An
ea, not piercing green like hers, but a pleasing shape.

  ‘What of Anea? Is she to be a shark too?’

  ‘She certainly has the intelligence for it. Did you know many sharks have a similar brain mass to that of the large land mammals. It’s not impossible to theorise they might have admirable problem-solving skills, just like Anea.’

  ‘Why do you admire them so?’ Lucien looked back over his shoulder, noting the wistful look behind his teacher’s eyes. He’d seen it before when discussing the very same topic.

  ‘They’re not slowed or weighed down by this construct we call morality. They act, they survive, and they’re incredibly aware of their environment, of their surroundings. They are, for the most part, solitary too, which is something we have in common. They rarely stop swimming. Some scholars think they have to keep moving in order to breathe.’

  ‘Breathe?’

  ‘Yes, the act of water passing over their gills allows them to draw in a tiny amount of oxygen from the water. This constant movement, this restlessness, is another thing we have in common. And you too, Lucien. I see the shark in you, the restlessness, the hunger, the instinct. There are going to be times where you have to put aside the niceties and etiquette of Orfano life and become a killer. And you’re perfect for it, but you don’t see it in yourself. Or you choose not to see it.’ Virmyre stood, clasping his hands behind his back. ‘That’s why so many of your teachers fear you: they know your instincts make you difficult to control.’

  The word shook Lucien as if the professore had grasped him by the shoulders and performed the action itself. Control. Even the thought of it left a sour taste in his mouth.

  ‘What is all this about?’ said Lucien, gesturing vaguely, his curiosity aflame.

  ‘You mean the scheming? The internecine nonsense that pervades these crumbling walls? The Domo’s agenda for the favoured Orfani?’

  At last Virmyre smiled, but there was little warmth to it. ‘That’s a very telling and unique perspective, Master Lucien.’

  ‘It’s upon the king’s insistence, isn’t it? The Orfani are being trained for some role, some task.’