28
They met in the corridor with the window seat and sat together, saying little and staring at an old tapestry of a unicorn resting its head on the lap of a virgin. It had looked so sweet when she was a girl. Now Giulietta knew what happened to the Maid, and what happened to the unicorn, too. It was killed, and its horn sawn off and sold. Her cousin, who sat beside her turning a letter over in his hands, had half a dozen unicorn horns in his cabinet of curiosities. She’d reached her first bleed before it occurred to her how sad that was.
A unicorn tapestry, a brazier against the cold, mice behind the panelling and a harpsichord untouched since Frederick last played it. Giulietta wished she’d learnt to play properly, but she’d never got beyond her scales and was too embarrassed and too sad to play, so she sat and waited.
Marco hadn’t exactly summoned her; more sent a note saying he was sure she knew there was a Council meeting that afternoon, and it would be kind if she could spare him a few minutes first. It was the gentleness of his rebuke that shocked her out of her misery. So she’d splashed cold water on her face, changed her clothes, brushed her hair for the first time in a week and gone to find him.
She almost wished she hadn’t.
Lady Giulietta was now Regent, she knew she was Regent, it was just . . . Oh God, it was just what, you idiot? You thought you wouldn’t have to take the meeting? You thought you’d just sit in your room issuing orders and sulking? You really thought they’d let Marco take the meeting himself?
“I’m sorry,” she said.
Marco shrugged her apology away. “You should r-read this.”
She expected the letter to be from his mother. Instead it was from the long-dead Marco Polo, il Millioni himself. The words were simple. The more Millioni sat on the throne of Venice the more inevitable it would seem. “You hold the throne because the people believe you hold the throne. Without this belief you have no throne to hold.”
“Like f-fire-eaters,” Marco said.
“Like . . .?” Giulietta was puzzled.
“We think fire-eating’s d-dangerous and throw them coins for their bravery. How many dead fire-eaters have you h-heard about?”
“None,” she admitted honestly.
“Exactly,” he said. “Fishermen drown every w-week but who’s impressed by fishermen? We b-buy their fish. Do we throw them coins for their b-bravery? Maybe we should.” Marco smiled. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s g-get this over.”
It was hard to know what outraged Lord Bribanzo most. That Lady Giulietta gave permission for the emperor’s bastard to stand at the back of a meeting of the Council of Ten or that she was the new Regent and in a position to make that decision. She suspected he didn’t know himself.
For once Marco sat upright and paid attention. Everyone in the room noticed this. Her cousin walked a tricky line between acting his old idiot and not admitting he’d always been sane. With Alonzo banished and his mother dead, Giulietta knew he itched to take control of the meeting and wished she knew what he would do differently.
The news from the world outside was worrying. Alonzo had offered homage to the Byzantine Empire in return for their emperor’s recognition of his claim to be duke of Venice, prince of Serenissima and duke of Montenegro. The tensions inside the city following Alexa’s murder were worse.
“My lords . . .”
“This is unworkable.” Bribanzo barely bothered to pretend he was addressing the throne. “With respect, Lady Giulietta is barely old enough to know her own mind never mind decide for others.”
Lady Giulietta knew her own thoughts well enough. Anyone who began with with respect was being rude; and being rude to her, and ignoring Marco, showed a worrying confidence on his part. She wondered how many others felt the same.
“W-what are you s-suggesting?”
Trust her cousin to cut to the heart of things.
Lord Bribanzo looked round the small chamber. Alonzo’s throne stood empty, Lord Atilo’s chair had not been filled on his death, and two other chairs were also empty, their owners apparently too ill to attend. Those two would go along with whatever the majority decided but wanted to avoid the taint of having decided themselves.
“My lords, Venice needs to be strong.”
Here it comes, thought Giulietta, digging her nails hard into the palms of her hands. The pain made her focus and she rested her hands carefully on her knees. She would not show anger or fear – that much she’d learnt from Aunt Alexa. The Regent’s job was to appear impassive and be above common weakness. Bribanzo was rich, and until the death of his daughter Desdaio he’d been ambitious, but he was gutless. What he wanted fought with his cowardice until even the mildest Council member began to look irritated by his hesitation. Leaning forward, Giulietta said, “My lord Bribanzo. You had something to say?”
At the back of the room, Frederick smiled. He must have realised she was pretending to be her aunt. Bribanzo’s fat face hardened.
“We need a strong duke . . .” That was close to treason unless he trod carefully. It turned out he’d chosen his steps with extreme care. From the nodding heads around Bribanzo, he’d talked this through with friends, unless they simply agreed, which was more worrying still.
“Is this leading somewhere?”
“Yes, my lady. You now act for Duke Marco? Is that right?”
Lady Giulietta nodded. That was a simple way of looking at her responsibilities, but not wrong. She made decisions because Marco was unable to make them for himself, and when she gave orders they were in his name.
“Then you can abdicate on his behalf.”
“Why would I do that . . .?”
Lord Bribanzo sat back smugly, leaving Giulietta furious, mostly with herself. What was the use of pretending to be Aunt Alexa if she stopped at the critical point? She should have held her peace, been seen to think carefully before she spoke. Bribanzo’s smile worried her.
“My lady,” he said. “Venice needs a strong head and experience. With respect . . . You are seventeen and the duke has neither a strong head nor experience in matters of state.”
“This is treason,” Giulietta said.
“Not at all, my lady. I’m suggesting you abdicate on his behalf and the Council approach Prince Alonzo and offer the throne once held by his brother. Everyone knows the prince is experienced.” A couple of the Council smirked.
Typical, she thought. At a time like this they’re thinking of his other conquests.
“W-we will t-think about it.”
Lady Giulietta turned, shocked at the words from beside her. Marco’s face was still and his eyes guarded. He could have been thinking about murder or the weather. That is how I should have been.
“This meeting is at an end,” she said firmly.
She saw Bribanzo glance at his friends and noted who they were. Lords Dolphini and Corte. Since Dolphini was now Alonzo’s father-in-law and this would make his daughter duchess of Venice that was scarcely a surprise; and Corte came from one of the oldest families in Venice, famous for its hatred of foreigners and the late duchess in particular. That put him on Alonzo’s side. Marco’s enemies were rich and established. She realised, a second later, they were her enemies, too.
“We r-risk civil w-war.” Marco said it the moment the door shut behind the last councillor. “The C-Castellani will side with m-my uncle. Possibly the N-Nicoletti too. He will carry m-most of the cittadini with a p-promise of lower t-taxes and freer t-trade. We’ll k-keep the nobles and stallholders.”
“Cousin,” Frederick said. “There’s another problem.” He was no more Marco’s cousin than Lady Giulietta’s. It was a politeness between princes. Marco smiled to say he was listening. Frederick could speak. “My father . . .”
“Y-yes,” Marco said. His voice dry. “I c-can imagine.”
Sigismund would never let the Basilius claim Venice. He would move against the Byzantine emperor, and the war Duchess Alexa had spent so long trying to prevent would happen anyway. Of course, if Leo ever inherited the
Venetian throne then Sigismund would effectively gain Venice and the Basilius might feel compelled to react. But he was old and had yet to choose an heir, and, if Venice was lucky, his sons and grandsons would fight among themselves.
“Why did you say you’d think about abdicating?”
“To b-buy time, obviously.” He smiled. “So much is n-not what it seems. I’d have thought you both k-knew that by now.”
“You have a plan? Frederick asked.
“I have s-several.”
29
Upstairs on the internal balcony of the Red Cathedral Maria Dolphini screamed for hours, jagged shrieks of pain that regularly silenced those dining below. One of them, her husband, tried to visit more than once and was publicly thrown out by the local midwife. So he sat in front of untouched food and called for wine, although he drank less than usual, and certainly less than he pretended. And Tycho doubted any midwife could have kept Alonzo from his wife’s birthing chamber had he really wanted to enter. The balcony was open-sided and renegade Crucifers watched Lady Dolphini’s maids hurry back and forth with bowls of hot water.
Maria di Millioni, Tycho reminded himself.
She was Princess Maria di Millioni. If Alonzo had his way, she’d become duchess of Venice and sit beside him on the ducal throne. Their son – the boy being born, who was born already and over a year old – would take the throne after Alonzo, and was his son in truth, for all Maria would have to lie. Tycho wondered what Alonzo had offered the local midwife, and his wife’s maids, for going through with this charade. Unless letting them keep their lives was reward enough.
Alonzo would need to keep Leo hidden for a few months, if not longer; even supposedly monastic knights and heathen archers could tell the difference between a newborn and an infant. A particularly long scream had Alonzo emptying his goblet and shouting even louder for wine.
“Gods,” he said. “And I thought war was brutal.”
The next scream ended in the wail of a child, and Tycho immediately wondered how they’d kept Leo quiet these past few weeks. But around him men were rising to their feet to toast Alonzo, and he hurriedly joined them.
“Congratulations, your highness,” Roderigo said.
Alonzo said. “Not so fast. It might have a cunny.”
Someone laughed and he pulled a face. “It’s happened to better men than me. Better go and check its bits, I suppose.” He strode away and took the stairs with surprising ease for someone supposedly so drunk. A moment later he appeared on the balcony and shouted, “Balls and a prick . . .”
As a cheer went up he vanished inside again.
“She wants to rest,” he said, when he returned. “She deserves to rest. I’ll let her be for a few days and see how she does after that.” He might have been talking about a horse or his falcon. His voice proud, but leaving no doubt both woman and child belonged to him as much as his horse did. The man was grinning as he returned to his seat and demanded more wine. And why not? That little charade with the screaming would bring him the throne.
Tycho said. “You must be relieved.”
Alonzo squinted at him suspiciously.
“Birth can be a tricky time for a woman.”
“And for a man,” Alonzo said, emptying his goblet and grabbing a hunk of bread, which he chewed like a man who’d just realised he was hungry. “You wouldn’t believe how bad-tempered she was by the end.”
“With carrying the child?”
“What else?” Alonzo demanded crossly.
“Indeed,” Tycho said. “What else. Highness, the Nubian woman who was with me when I first arrived . . .”
“I sent her south with Tiresias.”
“Why? Highness?”
Alonzo looked surprised. “He wanted her.”
And is probably already dead from greed, Tycho thought, wondering how long Amelia had waited before killing the Byzantine duke. She’d have to slaughter his servants, too, to make her escape, unless she made do with disabling them. Somehow that didn’t sound like Amelia.
The evening passed, as most did in the Red Cathedral, with drinking and laughter and the occasional fight. They were an army waiting for battle. But it was an army made of three parts, none that perfect a fit. Tycho thought this as he watched the renegade Crucifers wander outside alone to use the privies, or drag serving girls outside to use them instead. The wild archers kept to themselves. They ate Alonzo’s food but refused his drink and ignored the women. And where the Crucifers used their weapons only in drunken anger, the archers trained daily with their bows, firing and retrieving their arrows for hour after hour. When not practising their archery they tended their horses, which they treated with greater kindness than they showed each other. The last part of Alonzo’s forces was his immediate followers. Venetians, like the man now walking determinedly towards Tycho.
Lord Roderigo looked out of place among the wild archers and renegade knights who crowded the cathedral floor around them. Of course, empires were conquered with men like these and Roderigo knew that, but he looked as uncomfortable as any Venetian noble dumped in a rotting church on an island in the middle of nowhere with two hundred men who hadn’t washed for a month. Tycho knew his being there made it worse.
“Enjoying yourself?” Roderigo demanded.
“As much as you, I’m certain.”
Scowling, Roderigo snapped his fingers at a serving girl, who came scurrying. He’d never be so coarse back home so maybe the crudeness of those around him was rubbing off or he was too drunk to care. When he slapped her arse as she left Tycho knew it was the latter. “That bitch is really dead?”
Tycho nodded. He hoped his face was impassive.
“I want to hear you say it,” Roderigo said. “Say it.”
“She’s dead.”
“How? Tell me that. How did you get past her witchcraft?”
“She was old,” Tycho said. “Her magic was mostly gossip and rumour. Maybe she could see a little in the future and I don’t doubt she knew her poisons . . .”
“She was a witch,” Roderigo muttered. “His highness should have had her burnt. The Pope would have loved us then. Anyway, Alonzo was always the real duke.”
So was history rewritten. If Alonzo succeeded, then Marco the Simple’s brief reign would become a glitch in the city’s glorious history. A weak pretender, unfit to rule, put on the throne by his scheming mother and removed by the rightful heir. Looking up, Tycho realised he’d missed something. “I’m sorry . . .?”
“Venetians won’t stand for Giulietta being Regent, and Frederick as co-Regent would only make it worse. They’ll turn out in their thousands to welcome Alonzo home.”
Frederick as co-Regent?
The man opposite wore a smile that said his mention of Frederick was intended to hit home. “Haven’t you heard? Alonzo’s had news from Bribanzo in the city. Frederick sits in the Council meetings now. They were friends before, apparently. But now . . . Alexa’s death, you know. It brought them together.”
Tycho’s mouth filled with bile.
“Going somewhere?”
He’d stood without realising. “I need the privies,” Tycho said shortly. He hoped Roderigo was drunk enough to take several minutes to realise he wasn’t coming back. In the centre of the floor, a hulking renegade and an archer circled, stripped to the waist, with knives in one hand and their other wrists tied. The archer was female, her teats tiny, her torso hard as oak and dark as walnut. She was grinning at the blood running from a cut on her opponent’s shoulder.
“Five gold on the woman . . .” Tycho found no takers.
Heading for the balcony, he passed between a knight who was smiling and a servitor who wasn’t. Her protest that she was a maiden followed Tycho up the stairs; as did the ex-Crucifer’s promise to change that. By tomorrow she’d need another tune to sing. Reaching Maria Dolphini’s door, Tycho knocked heavily.
“Who’s there?”
“His highness sent me.”
On the far side of the door a bolt slid i
n its clasp, then another and another, three in all. The door opened slightly. The eyes of the midwife widened as a knife touched her throat. “Who is it?” someone asked
Tycho put his finger to his lips.
The midwife backed herself into the room and Tycho eased the door shut, then reached behind him to fasten the bolts. He was planning to slide their handles into their safety slots when he had a better idea. Gripping, he twisted hard and metal sheared. The other two handles followed and he dropped the broken bits on the floor.
“What was that?” The voice was querulous, spiteful.
“Nothing, my lady . . .” The midwife’s eyes never left the dagger in Tycho’s hand and when he pointed at a chair she sat without protest. Ripping her scarf in two, he used half to tie her hands, and stuffed the rest into her mouth to gag her; then, feeling guilty, smashed his dagger’s hilt into her skull, high above her hairline. Knocking her out now might stop Alonzo killing her later.
“I said, what was that?”
An inner door opened and Tycho flowed through, finding himself face to face with Maria Dolphini. She looked older than he remembered, her hair faded to a dull blonde and her eyes puffy. The room was shrouded in hangings and piled with cushions, the air hot from a brazier in the corner. Maria covered her breast and Tycho realised she’d been trying to feed the child. He expected her to yell; instead she grabbed a fruit knife from a table and stood in front of the cot. “You,” she said, her voice hoarse from all the screaming earlier.
Tycho nodded.
“You were the ghost.”
He nodded again – remembering the night he went to Ca’ Dolphini intending to kill Alonzo, and found Alonzo snoring and Maria Dolphini pinned beneath him. Her wedding night if he remembered right. Life would be much simpler if he’d done what he’d gone to do, instead of trying to do what was right. “The incense and bells didn’t work,” he said. “So here I am again.”
“You’re not harming my baby.”
Tycho looked at her. There was such determination in her eyes, and a fierce love that made her grip the knife harder.
The Exiled Blade: Act Three of the Assassini Page 17