The Boy with the Porcelain Blade

by Patrick, Den

  Lucien, Franco and Anea gazed up at the grille, baffled. They were rank with the oubliette’s foulness, their clothes ruined, hair matted with effluent. Above them came the sound of metal on metal, scraping and scoring, then a faint click. The process was repeated before the rusty grille was pulled to one side. There was a strained grunt; a dull clang followed. A rope slithered down, splashing into the water. The three prisoners regarded each other breathless with disbelief. One by one they emerged into the light, blinking, gasping down lungfuls of air, free of Demesne’s underworld. Before them stood Dino, a tiny smile playing on his lips.

  He was dressed in a charcoal-grey suit, the sleeves showing scarlet silk through tailored slashes. Achilles perched on his shoulder, all jagged dun-brown scales and beady black eyes. Dino grasped the sword cane in his right hand, a covered lantern in his left. Lucien swept him up and hugged him so hard the smaller boy squawked.

  ‘Get off me, you’re covered in shit,’ said Dino. ‘And mind Achilles, you great ass,’ Lucien released him, continuing to stare as if the younger boy might disappear like a figment. Dino set down the lantern, then pulled something from an inside pocket. He handed a leather-bound journal and a pencil to Anea. She took it from him gratefully, pausing to embrace him. Franco voiced his thanks, and Dino replied with his usual lazy salute. Anea was already writing something down. She turned to Lucien.

  The inscription in the book simply read Russo?

  ‘As far as I know, she’s in your apartment, locked in the bedroom,’ he replied. ‘I stopped two guards from hammering down the door. She was safe when I left her.’ He swallowed uneasily. Any number of guardsmen could have revisited Anea’s apartment since he’d left, preying on Russo easily, shocked and numb as she was. He turned to Dino, still struggling to believe the truth of it.

  ‘Everyone said you’d been killed in your sleep.’

  ‘I haven’t slept in my own bed in years.’ The smaller boy shrugged. ‘Not since the fire at Anea’s apartment. I’m not stupid.’ He pouted. ‘There’s a small storeroom in a tower nearby. I’ve made it quite cosy.’

  ‘But the guards—’

  ‘They did kill someone.’ Dino’s grey eyes were filled with regret. ‘Someone I’ve been letting use my apartment for some time now. He was stone dead when I got there. It was quick.’ The young Orfano plucked at his lip. ‘I hope it was quick,’ he whispered.

  ‘Who was it?’ pressed Lucien.

  ‘A baker’s apprentice from the Erudito kitchens, his name was . . .’ Dino swallowed and looked away.

  ‘It can’t be helped, boy,’ said Franco, laying one meaty hand on the Orfano’s shoulder. ‘These are dark times. We’d best leave here before we’re discovered.’

  ‘Where do we go?’ asked Dino. ‘We’re the most wanted people in Landfall.’

  Anea scratched down something in her journal and proffered it to them.

  House Erudito. Virmyre.

  They set out slowly, Dino scouting ahead. Of all of them he looked least like an escaped prisoner, although the drake on his shoulder and expensive tailoring made him conspicuous. Dino returned to them after several minutes of squatting in the darkness of a rarely used stairwell. Only the odd cat hunting mice dwelled in the corridors here. He led them to a side door of the House Fontein kitchens. It was midnight now. Nothing stirred outside the castle, and the muted stars looked cold and white. Grasses tugged at their boots, which still leaked fetid water from the oubliette. The chilly air and the pounding of their hearts kept them alert. Gladly they entered the warmer corridors of House Erudito.

  But only after Dino had disposed of the guard on duty.

  The tip of his sword cane entered the man’s skull, finding the soft depression below his ear. The guard writhed, went into spasm, collapsed.

  ‘It’s not right for you be so good at killing so young,’ grunted Franco.

  ‘There’s much that’s not right,’ replied Dino, wiping the blood from the blade with a rag.

  Franco took the dead guard’s halberd and his clothes, glad to be free of the stink of the oubliette. Silence pressed down on the small gatehouse. They waited. No one investigated the noises. No one was expecting any trouble, not with Anea and Lucien disposed of and the remaining Orfani dead. They entered House Erudito, Virmyre’s safety foremost in their minds. Franco followed last, clutching the halberd to his chest.

  The classroom was a ruin. The cat shark, Virmyre’s pride and joy, lay in a pool of shattered glass and pungent preservative. Once graceful and lithe, the creature was merely meat now, decomposing sadly. Lucien looked around, disgusted. All the curios and oddments had been scattered or broken. Books had been ripped and torn. There was evidence of an attempt at arson, but the fire raiser hadn’t taken sufficient care, and the blaze had failed to take hold. Desks had been overturned, stools smashed. Lucien clenched his fists and chewed his lip, then let out a stream of invective.

  ‘Well, he’s not here,’ said Dino, ‘and he’s not in the oubliette.’

  ‘Let’s try his apartment,’ said Lucien, afraid of what they might find. The four hurried through night-shrouded corridors, Dino’s lantern throwing long and sinister shadows along the walls.

  They arrived at Virmyre’s door just as Angelicola was letting himself out. He looked more ragged than usual, wisps of his messy grey hair falling into his face. His jacket was ripped, his eyes puffy, dark. The dottore froze, a horrified expression seeping in behind his eyes. The Orfani before him had truly become the things of ghost stories and witchcraft. Lucien in particular looked the essence of a vengeful revenant; Anea appeared no better. Dino held up the lantern, looking the rumpled dottore in the eye. Achilles gazed balefully at the old man.

  ‘Dino?’ choked Angelicola.

  ‘Spare me.’ The youngest of the Orfani rolled his eyes. ‘You never liked us. So don’t tell me how glad you are I’m still drawing breath.’

  Lucien was impressed by how much venom the boy injected into each word.

  ‘Is Virmyre here?’ asked Franco. The dottore looked up, as if seeing him for the first time.

  ‘What? Oh, yes. He’s in his rooms. He’s rather unwell. Giancarlo . . . Well, you can see for yourselves. He gave a brief awkward bow, then made his excuses and disappeared into the darkness.

  ‘That bastard needs a bath and a new tailor,’ muttered Dino.

  ‘He’s not the only one,’ deadpanned Lucien. Anea pushed past them and turned the handle, opening the door.

  They entered to find Virmyre lying on a couch, eyes shut, breathing hard. His jacket had been slung over a chair, one boot had found its way under his dining table, the other remained on his foot, unbuckled. Three wine bottles, now empty, had been discarded on the floor, one of them smashed. A glass rested on its side, the contents soaking into the cream rug.

  ‘Porca troia,’ mumbled Franco.

  Virmyre’s shirt was stained, although how much was blood and how much was red wine was academic. His right eye was swollen shut, bottom lip split. Stubble adorned his cheeks, making his usually immaculate goatee indistinct. His hair was matted with blood in places.

  ‘That’s it,’ he slurred to no one in particular. ‘All done now. Doomed to a life of teaching idiot nobili, and doing the requisite amount of arse-kissing to avoid being murdered in the night. Murdered,’ he repeated in a harsh whisper.

  ‘You’d best find some water,’ said Franco. ‘He’s as drunk as a lord.’

  ‘Two lords, most likely,’ replied Dino.

  Franco positioned himself inside the door, keeping watch on the corridor beyond. He’d taken to the uniform of the dead guardsman quickly. Lucien noticed he handled the halberd in a competent fashion – perhaps there was more to the old farmer. Anea walked the room, taking in the vast numbers of books, her gaze settling on the sword resting above the mantelpiece. She tugged Lucien’s sleeve and pointed.

  Dino tried to make Virmyre drink some water, which went badly.

  ‘Get off me! Can’t a man be drunk once in a w
hile? I ask you. Tonight of all nights.’

  ‘We’re not dead,’ said Lucien impatiently. Virmyre lurched upright, eyes wide open as if woken from a terrible dream.

  ‘Lucien? Porca misèria! How? Anea? I don’t understand.’

  Lucien looked into Virmyre’s face. He’d been made to suffer, but even Giancarlo wouldn’t dare assassinate eminent members of House Erudito. Killing Orfani was one thing, but eliminating household staff would invite reprisals. A beating was message enough.

  ‘Nice rooms,’ said Lucien, realising he’d never entered Virmyre’s apartment before. ‘Shame about the wine stain on the rug.’

  The professore shuffled his feet, taking a moment to compose himself. There was a dreadful moment when Lucien thought he might lose his stomach, but Virmyre remained standing, if somewhat green.

  ‘Go, get some new clothes on,’ said Virmyre. ‘You’ll catch your death in those sodden things.’ He gestured to his bedroom. ‘I’ll send for an undertaker, and we can arrange a cremation for those dreadful rags.’

  He lurched a few feet and gestured at Dino comically.

  ‘Why can’t you be more like him? He’s got a nice suit. He’s got a drake on his shoulder. He’s got a sword cane. Really, Lucien, you’ve let the side down. This getting-thrown-into-the-oubliette business is beneath you.’

  Lucien exchanged looks with Anea, who in spite of everything was struggling to contain her laughter. Her shoulders shook soundlessly. Lucien went through into the bedroom and after some searching around found some clothes that nearly fit him. The riding boots were perfect. He emerged back into the sitting room to discover Virmyre lecturing the others passionately about influenza and pneumonia. Anea looked out from under a blanket in which she had been bundled up in an expert fashion.

  ‘I don’t suppose you still have that horse?’ said Virmyre.

  ‘Don’t ask,’ replied Lucien, remembering the roan. ‘Why do you have a sword above your mantelpiece?’

  Franco looked round at this, clearly as interested as anyone else. Dino had perched in an armchair nearby, looking exhausted.

  ‘I wasn’t always a teacher. It may trouble you to know that I, too, was young once. I was the son of a farmer on the Contadino estate. I received a scholarship for the academy at House Fontein. But I hated it. Whenever I had any free time I’d sneak off to lessons with House Erudito. They chased me off at first. Then they let me in as long as I sat at the back and kept my mouth shut. A few years of that and I was offered a job as an assistant.’ Virmyre slumped down on the couch. ‘I suppose you want to borrow the bloody thing.’ He gestured at the sword.

  ‘The thought had crossed my mind,’ said Lucien.

  ‘You owe me a horse.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘And the clothes you’re wearing.’

  ‘True enough.’

  ‘Promise me you’ll get that lovely girl out of the sanatorio.’

  Lucien met Virmyre’s gaze.

  ‘I promise,’ he replied, taking the sword down from the mantelpiece. It was dusty and needed sharpening. He turned to Franco.

  ‘A favour?’

  ‘Name it, my boy.’

  ‘Look after our drunken friend here. Don’t let him leave the room.’

  ‘I’m drunk, not deaf, you insolent swine,’ slurred Virmyre. ‘I’m right here.’ He made to stand, then slumped back on the couch and passed out.

  Anea shook Dino gently by the shoulder and showed him something in her journal. He nodded his head, rising to his feet and rolling his shoulders.

  ‘Where are you two going?’ Lucien asked peevishly. He was having a hard time keeping everyone he cared about from harm.

  ‘We’re going to Anea’s apartment to get Professore Russo,’ said Dino.

  ‘But—’

  ‘We’ll be fine,’ the younger boy said. ‘House Contadino rarely has any guards on duty. Besides, they think we’re all dead, or under lock and key. Or both.’

  ‘Can’t you wait here?’ Lucien was annoyed now. ‘Just until I get back?’

  Anea stood in front of him, green eyes glowering above the veil.

  ‘Look,’ said Dino. ‘I’m not standing here all night refereeing an argument between you two. She wants to get Russo and I’m going with her. Besides, where are you going? I just rescued you, and now you’re dashing off to get captured again. Or killed.’

  ‘It would seem Dino has a point,’ said Franco with a slow smile.

  ‘Fine,’ said Lucien. ‘Do what you like. Just meet me here afterwards. Please?’

  Dino nodded; Anea relaxed.

  ‘Where are you going anyway?’ pressed Franco.

  ‘I’m going to see the king. I’m betting he’s the only one with a spare set of keys to the sanatorio. Without those I can’t get to Rafaela. They’ll have blocked up the window I smashed in by now. I won’t get in that way again.’

  ‘The king?’ said Dino, growing pale.

  ‘It’s not like I have a choice,’ replied Lucien. ‘Besides, he’s an old man. How much trouble can he be?’ He clutched at the hilt of Virmyre’s sword, more to stop his hands shaking than out of any reassurance he might gain from being armed.

  Anea stepped forward and hugged Lucien, before taking Dino by the hand and heading out the door. Dino had turned the lantern down to avoid attention.

  ‘You ready for this?’ Franco asked Lucien.

  ‘I need to get her back.’

  ‘That you do, boy. That you do. Go on then – time’s wasting.’

  Lucien exited Virmyre’s room, fumbling, hands held out like a blind man. His eyes adjusted to the dark and he set off, his toes sliding over the flagstones. Once or twice he paused at junctions, wary of sounds coming from deep in the castle. Nervous sweat broke out and quickly chilled, leaving him cold. He pressed on, coming to the circuitous corridor of the King’s Keep, the many ribs and supports casting shadows in the lantern light. Lucien looked around, puzzled. There were never this many lanterns lit in the King’s Keep. He rounded the curve of the corridor to where the great double doors to the king’s chambers awaited him. Statue-still, head bowed, clutching his staff with both hands, was the Majordomo. His ashen robes covered him from head to toe; only his emaciated hands and jutting chin were visible. A miasma of flies enveloped him, their droning audible.

  ‘Ah, Lucien. Such a shame you won’t die. You’re the very model of disobedience – something I intend to beat out of you this very night.’

  Lucien flinched, the need to run back to Virmyre’s room overtaking him. His defeat in the sanatorio had been simple work for the Domo, and he was barely recovered from it. The Domo chuckled. It was a filthy, unpleasant sound that filled the corridor. It was the pompous laughter of one who thought victory assured.

  Lucien’s blood pounded, roaring in his ears.

  ‘Disobedience? I’ll show you disobedience. I’m just getting started.’

  He drew Virmyre’s sword, a snarl twisting his lips.

  26

  After the Fire

  LUCIEN’S APRTMENT

  – Augusto 312

  Lucien was unable to explain why he’d been present in Anea’s apartment when the fire broke out. Giancarlo, D’arzenta, Ruggeri, the capo, Mistress Corvo, Virmyre and Russo had all been roused from their beds. They presided over the lengthy interrogation of the two soot-stained and shivering Orfani, eyes narrow with suspicion. Lucien had never seen so many people crowded into his sitting room, feeling grateful his apartment had been spared from the flames.

  Dottore Angelicola was also present, fussing over them in a brusque fashion. His untamed eyebrows were drawn together in a furious frown. He managed to look more slovenly than usual. Lucien noticed that Virmyre kept his distance from the ragged tousled-haired man. Finally Angelicola declared the Orfani in good health and went on his way. His muttering that he ‘had better things to attend to than spoilt pyromaniac witchlings’ could be heard in the corridor long after his departure. Rafaela stood near the doorway, attempting to be
invisible. Not difficult as the teaching staff tended to ignore the more menial house staff.

  ‘Is it not possible that Lucien did in fact go to Anea’s apartment to start the fire,’ said Giancarlo, ‘and then became trapped when the blaze took hold.’

  This drew a startled gasp from Mistress Corvo. Anea stamped her foot and glowered at the instructor with unrestrained venom. Her green eyes were especially piercing, red-rimmed from smoke, tears and frustration. She scribbled down a riposte to Giancarlo’s accusation on a scrap of paper and passed it to Russo.

  ‘She says if it had not been for Lucien she would most certainly be dead. Furthermore, she views this incident as “nothing short of an attack on her person” and would ask you to not make baseless allegations.’

  The room fell silent and the air around Anea crackled with tension. She still wore the makeshift veil Lucien had fashioned from his sleeve. Attired in dirt and grime, Lucien thought she resembled the unquiet dead of his horror stories, then realised he looked much the same.

  ‘It seems to me that if Lucien was not there to burn Anea’s apartment then perhaps he was there for another reason. To conspire, for instance.’

  The other instructors and teaching staff shuffled their feet. D’arzenta folded his arms and looked away. Russo flicked her auburn hair over one shoulder and flashed a warning glare at Giancarlo, who chose to ignore it.

  ‘Oh, come on,’ said Russo. ‘You need to set aside this vendetta against Lucien and start acting like a superiore.’

  ‘And I would remind you to act like a woman, one who knows her place.’

  ‘My place is bringing enlightenment and education, something you wouldn’t know about.’

  Giancarlo bristled. Russo held his gaze and threw up her chin defiantly, placing her hands on her hips.

  ‘You would do well to confine your opinions to the classroom,’ said Giancarlo quietly, ‘where they are welcome, Mistress Russo.’

  ‘That’s Professore Russo to you.’ The room had become taut with the exchange.

  ‘You would be more able to build a case if some proof of this conspiracy could be acquired, Superiore.’ This last came from the darkness of the doorway, the corridor beyond unlit. Detaching himself from the shadows, solidifying in the light, the Majordomo stepped inside. Rafaela flinched as the grey-wrapped functionary entered the room. Flies followed in his wake, trailing him lazily.