The Boy with the Porcelain Blade

by Patrick, Den

  ‘If I become your novice, will you set her free?’

  The Domo paused; the vestigial arms on his chest twitched and writhed. Fingers on a skeletal hand flickered in agitation before returning to stillness. The only sound in the corridor was of laboured breathing, a deathly wheeze.

  ‘You’re too disobedient, Lucien. You have no thought for anyone or anything outside your own desires. You’re incapable of taking instruction.’

  ‘My own tower, you said?’

  ‘Yes. Wherever you wanted to live in Demesne.’

  ‘I could take instruction in return for my own tower.’

  ‘Perhaps. But you threw that chance away. I blame Giancarlo. He was always too keen to encourage this competition between you and Golia. This childish feud, this vendetta. Ridiculous. And Anea—’ the Domo’s mouth twisted in disgust ‘—is next to worthless. I ordered Golia to start that fire in her apartment, but he let Giancarlo in on the plan. Before I knew it they had found a way to eliminate both of you at the same time.’

  Lucien looked up at the Domo. He’d always suspected of course, but hearing the admission shook him.

  ‘But you survived, found a way out. And not only did you save yourself, but you saved Anea too. That’s when I realised how dangerous you were. You would have been a perfect Majordomo.’

  ‘And you’ll put an end to the king?’

  ‘Of course,’ said the Domo sourly. ‘His madness bleeds into the countryside, pollutes everything. Everyone.’

  ‘And the abductions will stop?’

  ‘Of course. Without the king there is no need for them to continue.’

  ‘I can set aside my disobedience if the abductions stop.’

  The Domo considered this, hand straying to his great jaw, his many eyes blinking at different times. He remained silent.

  ‘If you can persuade Golia to enter into this . . . this arrangement, I can become the Domo you’ve always planned for.’ Lucien struggled to his feet, hoping he didn’t pass out. It took him a while to stand, visibly shaking with the effort. The Domo didn’t move, didn’t speak. His six mismatched eyes gave away nothing. The silence was stifling.

  ‘Perhaps all is not lost,’ droned the Domo, finally. Lucien allowed a flicker of a smile to cross his features.

  ‘With the right sort of robes, no one need know it’s me. It can be our secret.’

  ‘We may need to remove Giancarlo.’ The Domo added a weight to the word that spoke volumes.

  ‘I’d happily perform that task – to prove my loyalty, of course.’

  ‘Yes. I can see how this could work,’ replied the Domo, ‘possibly better than I could have hoped.’

  ‘My own tower, and Rafaela safe and sound. That’s all I ask.’

  ‘I’m sure we can agree on satisfactory terms.’

  ‘And Dino and Anea given titles?’

  ‘As you wish. Although titles rarely mean power, as you will soon learn.’

  ‘There is one small problem,’ said Lucien, eyes narrowing.

  ‘Which is?’ grunted the Domo.

  ‘All the women you’ve taken, all the lives you’ve wrecked, the pain you’ve caused.’

  The Domo blinked, six eyes filled with confusion, saying nothing.

  ‘Crimes like that can’t go unpunished.’

  Lucien’s blade was already moving, but not toward the Domo, rather the staff as it stood vertically before him. The sword smashed into the wood, held fast by the crack in the floor. The noise was like one of Virmyre’s chemical detonations. Suddenly the Domo found himself clutching three feet of oak staff instead of six. The sundered end toppled to the floor and rolled away into the darkness.

  ‘Stop this, Lucien.’ The Domo’s voice wavered. ‘We are brothers.’

  Lucien didn’t pause, didn’t want to hear the words, didn’t want to unravel the lies spilling from the Domo’s lips.

  ‘Be quiet.’

  ‘You and I are Orfani.’

  ‘Be quiet!’

  ‘Just as Dino and Golia are.’ He staggered back, wheezing, holding out a placating hand. ‘Anea too. We are all the king’s children.’

  ‘BE QUIET!’ snarled Lucien, and the sword flickered through the Domo’s arm at the elbow.

  The hand spun away, severed, forearm trailing, hit the wall and came to rest on the floor, the blood transparent. The Domo hissed, his dry lips pulled back from his yellowing teeth in a dreadful rictus. He swung hard at Lucien’s face with the remains of his staff. Lucien dropped to one knee to avoid the crushing blow, using the momentum to slash at the Domo. The blade passed through the steward’s leg. Pain jolted through Lucien’s arms. The Domo looked down, mouth gaping, then he pitched over, landing hard and jarring, the staff clattering on the stone floor.

  ‘It’s like pulling the legs from a spider,’ whispered Lucien in sick fascination. ‘You don’t die, just keep crawling.’ The Domo gazed up at Lucien, cold fury in his many eyes.

  ‘Finish it, you bastard child!’ It was the first time Lucien had ever heard the Majordomo shout.

  ‘Give me the key,’ growled Lucien, desperately wanting to plunge his blade into the Domo’s chest, keen to rid Landfall of his presence once and for all. The Domo responded by swinging the remnants of the staff at his knee. Lucien stepped back and parried on instinct, his blade sliding under the wood, severing the Domo’s other hand at the wrist.

  His howling filled the corridor, subsiding into cursing, then unintelligible sounds that might have been the old tongue.

  ‘Give me the key,’ whispered Lucien, sickened at the carnage. The floor was awash with pale blue blood.

  Slowly, tremulously, the atrophied arms that crossed the Domo’s chest unfolded. Clutched in one tiny deformed hand was the blackened key. It was a cruel thing, two-pronged and bearing jagged teeth. Lucien reached down warily, snatching it away. The Domo wheezed and cursed quietly under his breath, a furious catechism.

  ‘Finish it! Finish it, you hateful child.’

  ‘I’ve meted out more than enough death. I’m sick of it. No reason why you should get such an easy way out.’

  ‘They’ll hunt you down. You’ll die for the murder of the Orfani.’

  Lucien smiled. ‘Too bad Dino survived.’

  The thin lips opened, the face, so unreadable all these years, aghast.

  ‘You failed, Domo.’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘It was Dino who rescued Anea and I from the oubliette. You underestimated him.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’ Lucien almost felt sorry for the hideous creature at his feet, shorn of limbs and now his towering self-assurance.

  ‘Dino had a double. He hasn’t slept in his own room since the night of the fire you ordered to kill Anea.’

  The Domo said nothing, watching with impotent rage as Lucien walked away to stand beneath the heavily decorated arch leading to the king’s chambers. A moment’s hesitation, then he was pushing the key into the hole – a turn, a click. The sound of chains scraping against metal filled his ears. The ancient wood opened inward, scuffing on the worn flagstones. Lucien took a moment to free another lantern from its hook on the wall.

  ‘You will not survive this night, Lucien, if you pass through that door.’

  Lucien looked at the ruin of a man, a grotesque, bleeding blue and convulsing. ‘You’re a monster,’ he said sadly.

  ‘Greater monsters than I await you.’

  Lucien turned his back and entered the king’s chambers. The doors boomed shut behind him just seconds later, drowning out the stream of curses the Majordomo uttered in his wake.

  28

  Prospero’s Politics

  HOUSE FONTEIN

  – Febbraio 313

  The sound of Lucien’s boot heels reverberated down the stark corridors of House Contadino. He wore a midnight-blue doublet, brass buttons gleaming dimly in the sparse lantern light of Demesne’s passages. Rafaela followed at his shoulder, wearing a sober grey bodice laced at the front. A matching skirt reached her ankle
s, moving in graceful sweeps and swishes. The cream blouse revealed her supple neck and the smooth olive skin of her shoulders. Dark brown tresses fell in ringlets on each side of her face, the rest of her hair tucked under a richly embroidered cap.

  Lucien’s thoughts lingered on the night he had wanted to kiss her, over a year and half ago now. He revisited that memory more than he was keen to admit. But the awkwardness of that embrace had been smoothed over with the passage of time. Ella had quickly resumed her unique role as maid, friend and confidante.

  ‘I’m not sure why you want to see this through,’ she whispered. ‘It’s not like Giancarlo is going to welcome you with open arms.’

  ‘I’ve just turned sixteen so I can apply for adoption. You know that.’

  ‘But you don’t have to apply to House Fontein.’

  ‘I’ve dreamed of being a soldier in House Fontein for as long as I can remember,’ he replied.

  Rafaela snorted behind him, failing to mask her disdain. He stopped abruptly and turned to face her. Her hazel eyes were full of mischief until she saw the angry expression on his face.

  ‘What? What’s so funny?’

  ‘Well, you own a lot of books for an aspiring soldier. I doubt Golia sits around reading stories and feeding drakes.’

  ‘Are you saying I’m not good enough?’

  ‘No, of course not—’ she pursed her lips thoughtfully ‘—just, well, you don’t seem like a natural soldier. There’s a bit more poetry to you than that.’

  Lucien fell into silence. In one simple sentence she had calmed him, reining in his petulance. Poetry . . . ? His shoulders slumped a fraction.

  ‘And after the way they’ve treated you all this time, are you sure House Fontein is the best place for you?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he mumbled. ‘I’m on edge, that’s all.’

  ‘Just make sure this is what you really want, Lucien,’ she said quietly, smoothing down his collar. ‘Orfani are given choices that most folk only dream about.’

  They stood at the gateway where House Contadino joined the King’s Keep. All that separated him from achieving his most cherished goal was several metres of sprawling corridor, twenty minutes, and the Rite of Adoption.

  ‘But Golia is House Fontein. I’m always being compared to him. What else am I supposed to do?’

  ‘Virmyre isn’t a soldier—’ she shrugged ‘—and he’s a perfect gentleman. Or he would be if he ever let himself smile.’

  ‘But I’m an Orfano.’

  ‘And what of the other Orfani, those in the past? Perhaps they thought the way you do now? Where are they?’

  Lucien looked around, painfully aware Rafaela was breaching one of Demesne’s taboos. The fate of previous generation’s Orfani remained unspoken.

  ‘Suppose they all trained as soldiers?’ she continued. ‘What if all that training bought them was an early death?’

  ‘I can’t back down now.’

  ‘I know; I’m just saying you’re not Golia. What’s good for him may not suit you.’

  She leaned forward. For a second Lucien’s heart stopped in his chest – it was as if time itself had slowed to a crawl. He tried to swallow and couldn’t. Rafaela rested her fingertips lightly on his shoulders and then raised herself onto her toes, kissing him gently on the forehead. Disappointment settled about him like a damp coat. He bowed his head so she wouldn’t see his downcast expression.

  ‘Come on,’ she said, taking his arm. ‘We’ll be late.’

  As it turned out, lateness was the least of Lucien’s worries.

  The House Fontein chapel was crowded with every functionary who could claim any standing. Pages and messengers, soldiers and sergenti, artisans and aides all shuffled their feet, waiting in the chill air. The minor houses – Marco, Datini, Di Toro, Elemosina, Sciaparelli, Allatamento, Martello and even House Albero – had representatives present. Archivist Simonetti favoured Lucien with a nod and a smile. The sun streamed through the stained-glass windows, casting snatches of multicoloured light over the throng. The pews of the rarely used room had been pushed aside. The guests stood expectantly, some elbowing their way forward for the best vantage point.

  The three noble families were present. Lucien bowed to each in turn. Rafaela presented Duchess Fontein with a bouquet of flowers as was the custom. Anea was present in a splendid white gown that left her arms and shoulders bare. A huge ultramarine headdress swept back from her forehead, decorated with gold thread. Her veil and shawl were made from the same fabric, intricately embroidered. She was far more regal than any of the ladies of the court despite being just thirteen. Lucien bowed politely and she curtseyed in return, drawing raised eyebrows from the assembled nobles. A wash of half-whispered comments issued through the crowd. Duke and Duchess Prospero in particular exchanged concerned glances.

  Dino had also gained entrance, standing with Rafaela, who was beaming a bright and generous smile. Dino flicked a lazy salute and Lucien matched it, a smile twisting his lips. Festo stood beside him, a small smile playing on his lips, his thatch of unruly hair smoothed down. Of all the Orfani he was the most handsome.

  Virmyre and Russo headed the contingent of dusty teachers, resembling a murder of stuffed crows in their black gowns. Dottore Angelicola lurked near the House Erudito teaching staff, complaining just loudly enough to be heard over the din of the crowd. Lucien approached and grabbed him by his large aquiline nose, pulling him into the centre of the chamber. Conversations died in throats and all eyes turned to the upstart Orfano.

  ‘If you spoil today for me with your incessant whining I’ll take you outside and kill you myself,’ growled Lucien. ‘Do you understand?’

  For every startled gasp there was a peal of unrestrained laughter. It appeared the dottore had fewer friends in Demesne that Lucien had imagined. Angelicola fell silent, blanching in the face of Lucien’s threat. Behind them the Majordomo cleared his throat, smashing the foot of his staff against the floor, signalling his readiness for the ceremony. Lucien released the dottore, who did his best to look affronted under his bushy eyebrows. He pressed his fingers tenderly to his beaky nose and retreated into the congregation.

  The Domo stood beneath the pulpit of the chapel, his great staff of office clutched in his near-skeletal fingers, gaunt frame swathed in splendid crimson. It was a welcome change to the mass of moth-eaten rags he usually wore. D’arzenta and Ruggeri stood beside him.

  Giancarlo was conspicuously absent.

  Lucien broke protocol a moment to turn his back on the Majordomo, searching the masses for Giancarlo’s slab-like visage. Realisation of his absence crept through the assembly; a susurrus of whispering became an audible muttering.

  Lucien forced himself to turn back to the Domo, biting down his frustration. The crowd fell silent, the soporific drone of Demesne’s chief steward lulling them into a stupor. Lucien remained painfully alert, his throat dry, pulse hammering with indignation. Not a soul living within the crumbling walls would take today’s Rite of Adoption seriously. The edict would be as hollow and meaningless as the chapel they stood in.

  Dino stepped forward and presented Lucien with a bouquet of lilies, a symbol that his old name was now dead. Then Anea stepped forward, gracefully offering him a smaller posy of snowdrops. Lucien bowed, took the flowers. They were fake of course, made from coloured glass. His mind strayed to the night he’d been presented with the porcelain ears, then recoiled and refocused.

  Finally, after Lucien had felt the last of his patience run out, D’arzenta and Ruggeri stepped forward, each tying a sash of silk around his arm above the elbow. D’arzenta’s sash was black velvet, while Ruggeri tied on a sash of scarlet. Lucien saluted his instructors, bowed to the Majordomo and turned to the audience, who had roused themselves in order to applaud. He nodded politely to the few people he could bear to make eye contact with, failing to produce any sort of smile. The whole event had been a sham. He stalked from the chamber and headed directly back to House Contadino, leaving a near-silent chapel to
decipher what had happened.

  He was slumped in his armchair when they came, still brooding and cursing from the humiliation at the Rite. The snowdrops lay forgotten on the mantel. He almost ignored the knock on the door, then called out he was not receiving visitors. The sound came again, the door opened. Rafaela slipped in, gesturing frantically to him to get up.

  ‘What? What are you doing? I said I’m not receiv—’

  ‘It’s not me visiting,’ she replied, ‘it’s Duke and Duchess Prospero. Why are your boots in the fireplace?’

  ‘Because I threw them there.’ He frowned, refusing to rise from the armchair.

  ‘Stand up. And for goodness’ sake, grow up. If you don’t make yourself presentable I’ll resign this very minute.’ There was nothing in her tone to suggest she was bluffing. Lucien climbed into his boots, pushing a small pile of books under the couch before whispering a quick apology. Rafaela opened the door and his guests entered the apartment.

  They were an odd pair. Duke Stephano of House Prospero was barely five foot seven and as round as a barrel. He possessed a chin so weak as to be an extension of his blubbery neck. His finery, if it could be referred to as such, looked distinctly threadbare and dusty. Any hair he had possessed was now but a memory; a liver-spotted pate told of his advancing age. Lucien placed him in his late sixties. Duchess Prospero stood six inches over her husband, her corsetry exaggerating an hourglass figure. A fine black gown exposed her supple shoulders and décolletage to a scandalous degree. Her hair was piled atop her head, an abundance of lustrous curls and coils.

  Lucien bowed, Rafaela curtseyed and closed the door. There was an awkward moment of silence. All the etiquette Lucien had ever learned fled his mind. He realised he was blushing furiously.

  ‘Please, take a seat,’ he indicated the couch. Agamemnon glowered before slinking off to the floor.

  ‘What fascinating pets you have, Master Lucien,’ purred Duchess Prospero.

  ‘Thank you.’ Lucien shot an anxious glance at Rafaela, who remained calm and composed. ‘Would either of you care for a drink?’

  ‘That would be the very thing! A very fine thing!’ boomed the duke and sat down with a thump on the couch. Rafaela curtseyed again and headed off to the kitchens to seek refreshments.