The Boy Who Wept Blood

by Den Patrick

  ‘I meant no offence, my lord. Today is hardly akin to sitting in an armchair during the small hours of the morning.’

  ‘No matter.’ The margravio waved off the misstep.

  ‘What happened to the sale of the villa?’ Dino was all too keen to change the subject. ‘Or did the transaction fall through when the duke died?’

  ‘Far from it.’ Margravio Contadino looked in the direction of the Schiaparelli estate, just visible in the distance. ‘Lady Allattamento took possession of a well appointed villa, then gave it up to an undisclosed party.’

  ‘How did you come by this information?’

  ‘The notary told me, for a price. He couldn’t tell me who owns the place now, only that it doesn’t belong to any of the great houses. Or any of the minor ones.’

  Dino sighed again. Another thread in the unravelling tapestry of Demesne, another mystery to distract him.

  ‘The money has been useful,’ continued Emilio, ‘but the affair was otherwise pointless. I should have listened to you, Dino. I fear you have a wiser head than I ever will.’ A pensive look crossed Margravio Contadino’s face. ‘Do you believe there’s any truth to the rumour that the duke was poisoned?’

  Aside from being responsible? Dino wanted to say.

  ‘I heard he was found abed with two empty wine glasses. The maid found a whore’s small clothes in the room. I think the duke enjoyed an exciting end –’ Dino shrugged ‘– but not a poisonous one.’

  ‘It’s a strange thing when so persistent a thorn is suddenly gone. I dare say I miss the bastardo vecchio.’ Emilio gave a rueful smile.

  ‘There are always more thorns, my lord,’ replied Dino.

  ‘And what thorns are troubling you?’ The margravio regarded Dino from the corner of his eye.

  ‘Thorns? The Domina for one. I’m trying to locate a conspirator of hers, someone who remains in the shadows.’ Dino paused to consider the consequences a moment. ‘Do you know of anyone calling themselves Erebus, my lord?’

  The margravio shook his head. ‘No. Is it possible the name’s a cover for someone we know?’

  ‘I suspect Lady Allattamento, but she lacks the finances to orchestrate a plot.’

  ‘Plot?’

  ‘I shouldn’t have mentioned it. For all I know Erebus might be riding beside me.’ Dino grinned, but the margravio didn’t return it. There was an uncomfortable pause. ‘I don’t really think—’ Dino started

  ‘Medea mentioned a possible marriage to Stephania.’

  Dino looked at the road, at the woodland that beckoned them onward; he looked anywhere but at the man riding at his side.

  ‘She also said you were less than keen. I can’t say I was pleased when Medea made her intentions clear, but she really has been the best possible influence on me. Don’t be too hasty to turn away someone who shows you kindness, Dino.’

  The Orfano smiled, a mask over his misery. ‘I don’t love her.’

  ‘Love thrives in all climates, and it grows in the most unlooked-for places.’

  ‘That we can agree on,’ muttered Dino.

  ‘Your heart belongs to someone else?’ pressed the margravio.

  ‘I’m not sleeping with Speranza. Why does everyone assume I’m sleeping with Speranza?’

  ‘It wasn’t Speranza I was thinking of.’ The margravio nodded up the dusty road to the riders in front, just four score feet away. Massimo, resplendent in white and scarlet, was chatting with Nardo, who scoured the countryside with a watchful gaze.

  ‘I’m not sure I follow you, my lord,’ said Dino, blushing.

  ‘If I’m right, and I think I am, you’ll need to be more careful in future.’ The margravio had never looked more serious. ‘Losing Cherubini was bad enough; losing the pair of you would be calamitous.’

  Abramo and Marcell dismounted and began leading their steeds toward the woodland off to the side of the road. Nardo waited on horseback.

  ‘Not coming with us?’ asked Dino

  ‘Huh. I’ll wait here to check you’re not followed. Not my idea. Margravio Contadino insisted.’

  ‘Keep safe,’ muttered Dino. Nardo nodded and fetched his pipe from a saddlebag. ‘It’s not me you need to worry about.’

  Duchess Prospero had given instructions to meet in what was known as the secret graveyard, no longer a secret since Lucien’s discovery of it. The graveyard lay behind the walled cemetery, hidden by trees. It was the final resting place of scores of Orfani, the Majordomo’s dumping ground for those too twisted to live. Dino had visited it long ago with Virmyre, vowing never to return. So many lives ruined by the old king’s meddling. It was no more than a clearing, with rude markers announcing each unfortunate life long since passed from memory. The graveyard was also the resting place of those Orfani who had died in vendettas over the centuries. Far better to be buried in obscurity than suffer a defaced headstone. The people of Landfall had rarely taken to the streghe, only tolerating their existence at the express wishes of the king.

  The men entered the clearing, weeping willows providing a curtain of pale green. Taller oaks stood behind them, aged and verdant.

  Abramo grinned back at Dino. ‘I’ve been thinking.’

  ‘Always a pastime fraught with peril,’ said Dino.

  ‘I’m sure I could accommodate Duchess Prospero if she needs a new lover.’

  ‘Anyone is an improvement on the capo,’ replied the Orfano, glad of the banter. Tension seared through him. The men pressed in among the grave markers, hands on weapons.

  ‘I’ll show her a real man, not like that pretty boy,’ continued Abramo.

  He stopped suddenly and shuddered. Dino frowned, thinking the man convulsing with laughter. Abramo turned to him, a knife hilt protruding from his neck. The swordsman slumped down onto the long grass and Dino ran to him, kneeling among the grave markers. The strength ebbed from Abramo as Dino clutched his hand, disbelief shocking him to stillness.

  The veiled attacker from the courtyard emerged from the willows’ languorous limbs. Other men in grey appeared from the trees, all armed, all eyes intent on the margravio.

  ‘It seems I failed to heed your advice one time too many, Dino,’ said Emilio, drawing his blade. The Orfano did likewise, counting their opponents. At least three to one by his reckoning. Massimo and Marcell fell in alongside their lord, Massimo sparing a glance for Dino.

  ‘There are always more thorns, my lord,’ repeated Dino.

  The grey men advanced into the the graveyard.

  ‘Into the teeth of the wolf,’ said Massimo. Any hope in the swordsman’s eyes dwindled as the Orfano shook his head.

  37

  Remembrance

  – Novembre 321

  Dino knelt before the dais of the Ravenscourt, one arm resting on his raised knee, the opposite hand holding his scabbard lest it scrape on the chequerboard flagstones. Squares of white and black surrounded him, making him a lone playing piece in a game he was still gaining the measure of. The nobles had gathered, dwarfed by the columns at the sides of the chamber. Those in the gallery were made small by the vast dome of the ceiling. The sun shone through the windows with a weak lambency; winter had done much to reduce even that mighty orb. Dino knew what it was to feel small. He closed his eyes, listening to the droning ceremony. The Domina’s voice was the only sound, a sheet of dog-eared parchment clutched in her hands.

  It was the eleventh day of novembre, Dino’s foundling day. This fact had precipitated Anea’s decision. Orfani did not enjoy birthdays like ordinary people; how could they? It was a staple of the Orfano legend that misshapen babies arrived, unbidden, on the steps of the great houses. Except Dino had not been found at the gatehouse of Fontein or Erudito or Prospero or even Contadino. Eighteen years ago today he’d been found, a small bundle of swaddling clothes and deformities, outside the King’s Keep – as it had been known back then. This twist had added to his personal legend.

  Little Luc they’d called him at first, on account of his keenness to emulate Lucien. He’d
grown out of this stage, his legend becoming distinctly unique. He was Dino of the poisonous spines, Dino of the bloody tears, Dino the grey, on account of the suits he wore. And, more important still, Dino the prodigy – few his age had mastered the blade with such finesse.

  Anxiety surged through him. Things would never be the same after today, the threshold of adulthood vast and imposing. True, all Orfani were children for a span of their lives, but no one dared call what they experienced a childhood. Perhaps adulthood would bring some surprises or just a continuance of a life already lived at the sharp edge of politics and intrigue. Before now he had simply been Orfano. With no other responsibilities, his only duty was of care for Anea, one he performed tirelessly. Now he was to have a role. Just as he’d moved out from Lucien’s shadow, now, today, he would stand free of Anea’s. The thought pleased him, and yet still he felt small.

  Recently this smallness had manifested itself in other ways. Not in his physicality, how could it? Now eighteen and tempered by war, he’d never be a large man, but his days as a stripling were long past. Instead he endured a smallness of spirit, eroded by guilt. Why had he survived the Verde Guerra when so many hadn’t? Eighteen long months of uncertainty beneath the trees, by turns freezing and sweltering in the shadows of those ancient pines. So many dead had spilt their blood to nourish those roots, dead like the sons of House Datini.

  Dino regarded the remainder of that much-reduced house from the corner of his eye, feeling the familiar pang. Why had he been spared? Why had the war, which had killed indiscriminately, decided that two brave men should die and be missed by their parents? Dino watched them now. Viscount Datini was a white-haired man with a perpetually downturned mouth beneath a blunt beak of a nose. His mien declared there was not one thing in creation that pleased him. Certainly the deaths of his sons had not improved his demeanour. His eyes were so deeply sunken as to be likened to holes punched through the canvas of night, where even stars didn’t dare shine. In his prime he’d been a swordsman the equal of Duke Fontein; now in his twilight he clenched his hands behind his back lest people see how much they shake. Viscount Datini had been made small by time and the fractured pride he clung to.

  Viscountess Datini was a wizened yet curiously smiling woman, as cheerful as her husband was dour. There was a gentle kindness to her eyes but she joined conversations infrequently. Many thought her deaf, yet she always affected the highest interest in others, nodding pleasantly to any who spoke to her. Viscountess Datini’s ever-present smile had wavered in recent times. She had been lessened by the passing of her sons: two in the grave and the third outcast by his father. Dino wished there was something he could do for the viscountess. The fate of her sons had rested in the hands of the capo, who had fumbled the duty, diminishing himself in the theatre of war.

  In one night Guido di Fontein had been reduced from fearless leader to inept popinjay, though few were surprised by the unmasking. That the two Datini brothers and a score of household troops died for this truth to emerge made a tragedy of the commedia that was the capo’s life. Had he been less drunk, less arrogant, less casual, he may well have sent reinforcements. Instead the capo had waited until the following day, claiming one more night amid the silent pines would not harm their chances. Except he’d been wrong, and now the sons of Datini were no more. Guido di Fontein, made small by his own incompetence.

  All of these thoughts swam amidst the roil and swell of Dino’s mind. The Domina reached the end of her peroration and bade him stand. She tied a sash of deepest scarlet around his waist once he’d gained his feet. Dino turned to face his peers. The Domina presented the new maestro superiore di spada to the Ravenscourt. Many had known this day would come, and many had been opposed to the appointment, not least Duke Fontein. Dino made eye contact with the man and nodded, a pretence of respect that none in the Ravenscourt believed. The duke made disparaging remarks behind his hand to Lady Allattamento. Duchess Prospero pouted and fussed at the capo, torn between frustration and chagrin in equal measure.

  Anea stepped down from the dais and embraced Dino, fixing a silver medal in the shape of a star to his jacket. The silver bore an amethyst stone at the centre.

  For bravery, she signed with her clever fingers, then pressed her veiled cheek to his in the semblance of a kiss. Dino’s heart swelled and he embraced her in return. This moment was broken by the fluster and bustle of Duchess Fontein. She’d been acid in her disapproval of Anea’s appointment. That an Orfano should hold a rank in House Fontein was not welcome, especially with Anea’s plans for a republic advancing with each passing year.

  The nobles approached the new maestro superiore di spada to congratulate him, meaningfully or otherwise. Viscount Datini was the first, his wife following him. She embraced Dino in a break with etiquette that was remarked on for weeks after. Massimo, bearing a silver star of his own upon his jacket, also embraced him. They grinned at each other, scarcely able to believe they’d not been friends but two years ago. Now they were all but inseparable.

  Viscount Simonetti loomed over the assembled well-wishers, a gentle smile and a warm handshake confirming his pleasure at the appointment. The library’s archivist gave a small leather-bound book to the Orfano, a primer on tactics. Lady Allattamento performed a curtsy so small Dino wondered if she’d caught her heel on her gown. He smiled in response, ignoring the insincerity that fell from her lips, her words pretty and meaningless.

  Maestro Cherubini clucked and cooed. He beamed with pride, entreating all to fete the young superiore.

  ‘Hasn’t he grown while away in the south?’ pointed out the maestro. ‘Hasn’t he filled out into a fine young man?’ They all agreed he had while carefully avoiding any mention of the war itself or the many lost souls who had failed to return.

  Margravio Contadino bowed and managed a gruff smile.

  ‘It’s long past time you had some proper duties. One day we’ll look back on when you were a mere aiutante with a smile.’

  ‘I hope so,’ said Dino, but it would be many years until he could speak of the war lightly.

  ‘We can all sleep a little easier in the years to come knowing you’ll be teaching future generations to fight,’ said the margravio. This turned out to be a false prophecy: just six months later Dino would be almost fully occupied keeping Anea safe. Attending lessons and teaching students would take but a small part of his time.

  Medea embraced him lightly, favouring him with a kiss on each cheek. She had to rise to her toes to do so. She’d adopted him in all but name since his return from the Verde Guerra. Luc Contadino, just seven years old but in full possession of his father’s gravity, bowed deeply and fell in beside his mother.

  Medea smiled. ‘Perhaps one day you’ll learn the blade from Dino,’ she said to her son. The young noble stared at the new maestro superiore di spada with a strange expression. Dino imagined he saw mistrust in the boy’s eyes. It seemed even the title of superiore would not rid him of the Orfani’s dire associations.

  The moment of unease was undone by Virmyre. ‘If a layabout wine-supping noble has to be awarded the position of superiore then it’s best it’s you, I suppose.’

  ‘Those of House Erudito, well known for their love of wine, should not be so hasty to cast aspersions on others.’ Dino smiled. ‘Least of all those going about their daily business armed.’ This brought a polite ripple of laughter from the crowd.

  The nobles filtered away from the Ravencourt to a feast hosted by the Contadinos. Massimo sat beside him making jokes while the margravio regaled the guests with tales of Dino’s time as his aiutante. But not company nor wine, not the medal nor the title, could dislodge the discomfort Dino felt. While the Verde Guerra was at an end, there would be no real peace. This simple truth had been written large like graffiti in Luc Contadino’s eyes. Anea’s plans to make Demesne anew would be met with hostility. Violence and madness would make the very greatest of them small given time.

  38

  Esposito Lost

  – 18
Agosto 325

  The men in grey had gained much from their raids on Demesne. Many were armed with halberds liberated from fallen guardsmen.

  ‘Fall back,’ grunted Marcell, but it was a futile suggestion. There was no safe path of retreat, no place to fall back to. They were surrounded.

  ‘I’ll kill Salvaza Prospero for this myself,’ grated Dino from between clenched teeth. He batted aside a clumsy thrust from a pole-arm.

  ‘You may not get the chance,’ replied Margravio Contadino.

  Marcell had downed an opponent and was parrying strikes from two more. The quiet clearing was now alive with the sound of steel ringing on steel, urgent grunts of exertion, the wheezing rasps of the dying.

  ‘Mass, get behind me,’ said Dino, eyeing his friend’s wounded shoulder.

  ‘I’m fine,’ came the terse response. The swordsman threw up a weak parry, narrowly avoiding a halberd heading for his vitals. Dino sized up their opponents, looking for a gap in the circle they might break through. Hope was in poor supply.

  ‘What do you want?’ bellowed the margravio, but no one replied, least of all the veiled and hooded attacker from the courtyard, who appeared to be directing the grey men. He stood on a fallen tree, staring at the four swordsmen with glowering intensity. The previous attacks had been predicated on the need for food. The only outcome sought today was death.

  Margravio Contadino’s party was now hard pressed on all sides, in a small circle, fending off a ceaseless number of savage swings. Abramo lay several feet away, face down, the grass around his throat slick with blood. Marcell succumbed next, taking not one but two halberds to the shoulders. Dino heard rather than saw it. Stifled disbelieving grunts shaken from the veteran, collarbones shattered. Dino dared a glance over his shoulder to see Marcell sink to his knees, unable to parry the next attack, and the next. His head was split asunder, coming apart in a shower of gore.

  Dino cursed.

  Another attacker used the moment of Dino’s distraction. The Orfano turned back to find a halberd levelled at his chest, blurring forward. His left arm snapped out, the bound forearm meeting the wooden shaft at an angle, the tines providing a measure of armour. He knocked the blade up and aside, his hand closing down on the weapon, clamping shut even as his right hand thrust his sword forward. There was an agonised yelp as the sword emerged from the ragged man’s back. Dino felt steel grate on ribs, knowing it was lodged fast in the man’s chest. He relinquished his grip on the blade, spinning the halberd around his hand in a blur. Another attacker found himself bereft of his head a heartbeat later. Dino lunged forward, abandoning the margravio and Massimo, breaking free of the encirclement. The attackers faltered, unsure how to proceed.