The Boy with the Porcelain Blade

by Patrick, Den

  ‘This is ridiculous,’ rumbled Virmyre. ‘Lucien is fourteen, Anea only eleven. Are you suggesting two children are fomenting rebellion? Pah! More likely it was for entirely more romantic reasons. Have you all forgotten what it is like to be in the first flush of puberty?’ He stared around accusingly at the assembled staff, who stiffened with embarrassment. Lucien had a hard time imagining any of them succumbing to lust.

  ‘Oh, good heavens,’ whined Mistress Corvo. She fanned herself, struggling to breathe in a bravura of histrionics. ‘How much more of this sham?’ Her beady eyes blinked several times as she realised she’d spoken slightly louder than she intended.

  Giancarlo was not so easily deterred, and Lucien’s apartment was searched with the Majordomo assenting. Lucien allowed himself a smile of satisfaction. Whoever sent the note had depended on him to keep it. He’d at least been possessed of enough wit to burn the damning letter.

  Finally he was allowed back into his room. Anea on the other hand was given temporary quarters in House Erudito, under guard. They were both confined to their rooms for a week, although no specific reason was given for their punishment.

  The following day Lucien lay on his couch reading an old novel, trying not to think about the wreckage of Anea’s apartment. Or her face. The corridors of House Contadino were full of commotion and the cursing of workmen. Artisans were tramping to and from Anea’s rooms two floors above. The long process of redecoration was already under way. Rumours were already circulating about the exacting nature of the silent Orfano.

  Bright sunlight shone through the latticed windows of Lucien’s sitting room, and it was almost impossible to remain in dour spirits. The first day of his polite imprisonment was largely a farce. He received more visitors that day than at any other time in his life. The guard on duty, forgetting his strict instructions from Giancarlo, was bribed with a platter of good things from the kitchens.

  D’arzenta appeared first, conducting an entire conversation without mentioning the fire or Anea once. The maestro di spada set Lucien a number of exercises that could be done during his confinement. Then D’arzenta departed without fuss or sentiment. But Lucien wouldn’t remain alone for long.

  Virmyre and Russo appeared on the pretext of checking the health of the drakes. That they brought water, wine, good bread, unsalted butter and a selection of olives rather betrayed their cover story. Lucien smiled cheerfully throughout the impromptu picnic, showing off his favourite books to his teachers. Both carefully avoided asking him why he’d been in Anea’s room, and Russo assured him that the silent Orfano was recovering from the ordeal.

  Lucien was sitting in the high-backed armchair feeding dead crickets to Antigone, Agamemnon and Achilles when Rafaela entered. Antigone had taken up her usual perch on his right shoulder, looking down imperiously on her offspring. Achilles’ drab olive and sepia form was entwined about Lucien’s right leg. The drake stared around balefully, champing on a mouthful of insect in a mechanical fashion.

  ‘Well, aren’t you all cosy?’ Rafaela flashed Lucien a grin.

  ‘There are worse punishments, I suppose.’

  ‘Are you well? I didn’t get the chance to ask you this morning. I still can’t believe you climbed all the way down from Anea’s room using bed sheets as rope. You must be mad.’

  ‘Probably. Still, it was that or be burned alive. I’m only glad we didn’t fall and break our necks.’

  ‘So, are you going to give Dino one of your drakes? It seems unfair that you should have three and he have none.’

  ‘Hmmm, I suppose I could,’ he said. ‘Trouble is, I like all them of them. Giving any of them up would be difficult. Especially Antigone, I love her the most.’

  Rafaela stared at him a moment, quite still, and then resumed hanging up the clean shirts she had brought from the laundry.

  ‘So, are you going to tell me what last night was about? The whole of Demesne has broken out in a rash of gossip. I’ve not heard anything like it since Camelia got pregnant before her wedding day.’

  Lucien rolled his eyes and went back to feeding the drakes. Camelia would no doubt hear about the fire in due course – she was currently at her family’s cottage following the birth of her son.

  ‘I’ll assume not then, Master Lucien?’ Rafaela said, pouting slightly.

  ‘If I tell you, do you promise to take me at my word and not tell a soul?’

  Her eyes narrowed: clearly she’d not expected him to confide in her.

  ‘Of course.’ Rafaela closed the door to his apartment and locked it, then sat on the couch, hands clasped in her lap. Lucien thought she looked tense.

  ‘Say it,’ said Lucien, his eyes grave.

  ‘Say what?’

  ‘Say “I promise.” ’ He tried out his most commanding tone, spoiled by Antigone climbing atop his head at precisely that moment.

  ‘Very well,’ she sighed. ‘I promise.’

  Lucien told her in hushed tones how the note had arrived, complete with the key, and why he’d gone to Anea’s rooms. He edited out the exact contents of the missive and also the terrible sight of Anea’s face. He owed her that much.

  ‘I’m sure they got there before I did. They must have saturated the couch and curtains with lamp oil, then remained close by to bank up the fire. Perhaps they even started it while I was in her bedroom. Bastards.’

  ‘You think it was more than one?’ whispered Rafaela.

  ‘Difficult to know. Clearly they didn’t count on us climbing out the window.’

  A knock at the door caused them both to jump. Lucien felt his pulse loud in his ears. He was beginning to lose his appetite for unannounced visitors. Rafaela stood and moved to the door, but before she could turn the key Lucien laid one hand on her shoulder. She looked back to find him gripping his scabbard, eyes full of wariness. He pressed an index finger to his lips. They waited. The time stretched painfully as Lucien’s mind invented situations that included his assassination. If the Majordomo was out there he’d rather not open the door. The knock came again. Louder and more insistent. The door handle rattled as the person on the other side tested it.

  ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake.’

  ‘Camelia?’ Rafaela unlocked the door to find the cook with her son in the crook of her arm. Camelia stared at them both, adopting a cool expression.

  ‘And just what exactly was keeping you two from opening the door when I knocked the first time?’

  ‘Fear of assassination,’ Lucien said casually. He threw his sword onto the couch and crossed his arms, but only to stop his hands from shaking. He wasn’t sure where the paranoia had sprung from but had no wish to experience it again. It was then he noticed Rafaela blushing.

  ‘What?’ he asked.

  ‘Nothing.’ She shook her head. Lucien realised the nature of Camelia’s insinuation.

  ‘You’d better come in or the drakes will escape and end up dying in the corridors,’ he said as thoughts of Rafaela danced in his mind.

  Camelia entered and Rafaela soon forgot her blushes, helping the cook settle her newborn son on the couch. Camelia looked healthy, if tired in the way of new mothers, more happy than Lucien could ever remember her. This gnawed on his nerves for reasons he couldn’t fully articulate.

  ‘Can’t you find a home for this?’ said Rafaela, handing him the weapon. ‘I’m sick of nearly sitting on the thing.’ Lucien took it from her and stood mutely as the women fussed over the tiny boy. Rafaela began asking questions about the birth and ignored Lucien entirely. Camelia launched into a rather graphic and unsettling account of her labour. Lucien decided it was precisely that moment he needed to shelve some books that had been lurking near the couch. Then he decided the books would be best stored in his bedroom, absenting himself entirely.

  ‘What was that about?’

  Lucien looked up. His trousers were covered in dust and books were scattered across the floor. It was shaping up to be a big re-ordering of his collection. Rafaela was in the doorway, anger sketched on her features.<
br />
  ‘What was what about?’

  ‘Being so rude to Camelia. She came to see you.’

  ‘What? Has she left already?’ He stood up and brushed himself off. There was a lot of dust.

  ‘You’ve been here for over an hour. Yes, she’s gone, and she wasn’t very happy.’ Rafaela’s usually warm hazel eyes flashed with annoyance.

  ‘Sorry, I lost track of the time.’

  ‘You didn’t even ask her what her son’s name was.’

  Lucien bit his lip and scratched his hair, suddenly very warm. The events of the last twenty-four hours crashed down on him: the fire, Giancarlo’s accusation and finally Camelia bringing her son. His felt his lip tremble and hated himself for it. He tried to speak but the words stuck in his throat. Rafaela crossed the room and wrapped her arms around him. No longer angry, her expression was now one of concern.

  ‘You’re shaking,’ she whispered. He nodded back, unable to speak.

  ‘I’m sorry. It’s the fire, isn’t it? No wonder you’re acting strangely. Anyone else would be exactly the same.’ She squeezed him a little tighter.

  He broke the embrace. ‘It’s not that. Well, partly it’s that. But . . .’ A sigh. ‘It’s Camelia. She’s never here any more, and now she’s got the baby she’s no need for me.’ He looked away and chewed his lip before continuing, ‘She has her own son now.’

  ‘It’s not like that,’ said Rafaela. ‘She’ll always have time for you. But you can’t run and hide just because things haven’t turned out like you wanted. And besides, I’m still here, aren’t I?’ She squeezed his hand, her skin soft and warm.

  Lucien studied the floor intently. Rafaela stepped forward, pushing his face against the soft junction of her neck and shoulder. His arms found her waist, faltering at first. Then her hand gently smoothed the hair on the back of his head. He was suddenly beset by a riot of feelings, mainly fear of the fire, but also loss. He knew he was being irrational about Camelia’s new life. And there was Anea of course, and her secret, which he had resolved to protect. There was also something else. A yearning.

  He was suddenly aware of Rafaela in a way that had only been hinted at before. The smell of her hair was intoxicating, the way his arms felt wrapped about her. How was he nearly as tall as her? When had that happened? She brushed her lips against his temple, softer than anything he’d known.

  ‘It’ll be all right, Lucien. I promise. Camelia will be back soon. But you have to allow for things to change.’

  He looked at her, their faces inches apart. His mind reeled with the thought of her lips brushing against his own. He shivered, willing himself to discover that sensation.

  But she broke away, slowly but firmly. There was a shadow of mistrust in her eyes.

  ‘Don’t go now,’ he said, but the words tripped, stumbling on his teeth and tongue.

  ‘I have things to do. I should go.’ She eyed him, full of wariness, and left without another word. He got no sleep that night, wondering at the moment that had passed between them. He chided himself for driving her away, painfully aware he needed to see her again soon and feel her arms around him again.

  27

  The Domo’s Apprentice

  KING’S KEEP

  – Febbraio 315

  Lucien ran forward, remembering all the times he’d shrunk in the presence of Demesne’s most trusted servant. The long hours fearing the Domo’s visits to his apartment as a child. Every occasion the gaunt man had haunted his nightmares. The countless abducted women, Navilia among them, the starved and the lost. The outcast Orfani killed quietly, out of sight. Then the jarring recollection of the Domo sweeping him out of the sanatorio like vermin, sending him sprawling down the stairs, away from Rafaela. The sword in his hand cried out for violence, he would not deny it.

  He swung, blind rage taking him off balance, leaving him open. His lips had peeled back from his teeth in a snarl of reckless fury. The Domo responded with short jabs from the butt of his staff, forcing Lucien back, blunting his momentum. The silent roar of his rage drowned out any pain the Domo inflicted. Lucien swore, then blinked, coughed. The ever-present flies were thick in the air, thicker than he had realised in the darkness. They were a barely seen vapour, a drone of wings around him. The cloud of tiny bodies swarmed over the Domo’s opponent, the gaunt man apparently immune to their interference. Lucien batted and wiped his face. He was sure there was something in his mouth, writhing, crawling. The sound of them filled his ears. He faltered.

  The Domo stepped forward, opening with light, probing attacks, striking at unprotected shins, stabbing at knees with the butt of the staff. Lucien parried, the weight of the steel blade unfamiliar, his wounded shoulder tiring. He searched in vain for some clue where the next attack might come from, but the Domo’s face was inscrutable. The chin jutted out as if made from granite, the mouth was an unmoving line. Lucien knew all too well what lay hidden beneath the hood. What he lacked was a way to read his opponent.

  Suddenly he was pressed back against the wall, the Domo towering over him, feinting and striking, yet out of reach of his own attacks. Lucien coughed, feeling as if the flies had invaded the deep places of his lungs, were in his ears, in his throat, threatening to consume him from inside. With sparse room to parry, he wrenched a lantern from the wall, throwing it down at the feet of the Domo. The glass shattered, metal door sprang open. Lantern oil spilled across the flagstones, soaking up into the ash-grey vestments of the King’s steward. The Domo gave a grunt of irritation, tried to step back. Too late. The lantern had remained stubbornly alight.

  A wordless howl escaped the warden’s lips as his robes caught. Flies singed, spiralling down to the floor. The Domo staggered back, stumbling into the wall, ricocheted back into the centre of the corridor, where he clawed at himself. The skeleton-thin hands beat at the flames, wrenched at the fabric. Lucien looked on aghast. The memory of Anea’s apartment burned brightly in his mind. The smell of oil, the mindless panic, the terrible heat. The descent from the window and the taste of smoke in the back of his throat.

  Burned and soot-stained, the Domo sprang forward, horribly fast, the staff drawn back to strike. Lucien acted purely on instinct, every parry, every sidestep, every feint and strike he’d ever learned now the product of reaction alone. The Majordomo’s assault was relentless. Lucien wove the sword around himself in a nimbus of steel, the blade flashing in the lantern light with each sweep, but the staff slipped through his defences. He gasped in dismay as the staff cracked against his ribs, then he felt his knee go numb as it was smashed on one side. Next his right shoulder was buffeted, sending him back, hammering into the wall behind. The impact numbed his left arm, leaving him unable to parry. The butt of the staff slammed into Lucien’s forehead. The ceiling above spun and pitched around. Lanterns hanging from pitons on the walls trailed light across his vision, to be replaced by tiny sparks of white dancing before his eyes. He found himself with his cheek resting on the cool flagstones of the corridor.

  He tried to speak.

  Then nothing.

  Lucien blinked, his breathing shallow and faint. He didn’t know how long he’d been unconscious. Flies with scorched wings scuttled around him.

  ‘I could have given you everything,’ droned the Majordomo, somewhere out of sight. ‘Golia was only ever meant to be a puppet, someone we could use to scare the populace – and the houses – into obedience. As the new Majordomo you could have had whatever you wanted. You would have been the real power in Demesne.’

  Lucien rolled onto his back. His body was a choir of pain, the various wounds and bruises competing in volume. All the voices discordant. He tried to concentrate.

  ‘Me? Majordomo?’

  ‘You would have been responsible for the day-to-day running of Demesne, for the entire island, all the people of Landfall.’ The Domo paused, drawing in a wheezing breath. ‘This role does not come without certain advantages. If one has the mind to exploit them.’

  The Domo was standing across the corridor
from him, wearing a ragged kilt he’d fashioned for himself out of the ruins of his robes. Somehow the rope belt had survived the flames. His staff rested on the floor, clutched in soot-stained hands, the end sunk in a crack between the flagstones.

  ‘Your own tower. Rafaela. Anea. Stephania. Whoever you wanted. All the tailors at your beck and call, the finest meals, the finest swords, the rarest books. Anything you wanted. You, Lucien, you could have shaped Demesne.’ The Domo coughed, a prolonged racking that left him speechless. Spittle emerged flecked with black, stretched, dripped to the flagstones. The Domo took a moment to compose himself.

  ‘You were never going to offer me your position,’ Lucien sneered.

  ‘Then who? Anea? Hardly a public speaker. I don’t have the luxury of time. I can’t wait for Dino to grow up. You were always the perfect choice. Why else do you think I intervened at your testing?’

  ‘I see,’ mumbled Lucien.

  ‘Think of it. You would have been able to influence every house. Replace that idiot capo de custodia, suggest a new professore to Maestro Cherubini. Push for better wages for the farmers – whatever you desired. You and Golia were supposed to herald a new age after three centuries of the king’s insanity.’

  Lucien coughed, propping himself up on his elbows, then slithered away from the Domo. He slumped against the wall, head lolling to one side, dizziness lapping against him in nauseous waves.

  ‘You were supposed to be a new beginning for these old stones,’ continued the Domo, a mourning tone in his flat voice. ‘Instead you only sought to pull them down around you. I’m not sure why I expected different: angry children only ever seek to destroy.’

  ‘Rafaela,’ murmured Lucien, sounding drunk even to himself. The Domo remained silent, his horrific visage looking down at the crumpled Orfano.