The Boy Who Wept Blood

by Den Patrick

  Giolla stiffened, eyes widening, then she snatched up her nightdress, hurrying back into it.

  ‘What did you just say?’

  ‘You. That’s where I’ve seen you before. You’re the girl in the painting.’

  ‘How do you know about the painting?’

  ‘Because I’ve seen the fucking thing.’ He glowered at her. ‘It looked a bit rushed, but it’s absolutely you. No question about that.’

  Giolla’s face became ashen. She gathered her shawl and busied herself with it before turning to him. ‘So it was you.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Dino shifted on the couch, pulling at his shirt. She said nothing, eyes accusatory, frown deepening, mouth a taut line. ‘What do you mean, “it was you”?’ he pressed.

  ‘Duke Fontein never let anyone into his chamber. He came here when he lay with Lady Allattamento. Even Duchess Fontein never visited his chamber. It was sacrosanct to him.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ But Dino knew it was too late.

  ‘Only four people know of the existence of that painting – myself, the duke, his maid and the painter, Delfino Datini.’

  Dino struggled to breathe. ‘I saw it after he died.’

  ‘No, you didn’t. Because I had the maid bring it to me.’

  ‘I …’ The words died on his lips. He was too drunk to lie, sick with deceit, too tired to maintain the pretence.

  ‘You poisoned him. Didn’t you?’

  Dino said nothing, shame a boulder on his chest, crushing the air from his lungs. He had left the duke’s stiletto on the mantelpiece as a marker of his guilt. He’d wanted to be found out, wanted blame and reprisal to absolve him. He’d staggered to House Allattamento to prove himself a man, finding only an assassin instead. And a drunk one at that.

  ‘I’d have done the same,’ Giolla said. ‘He planned to kill both you and your sister.’

  ‘You knew?’ whispered Dino, incredulous.

  ‘Of course. I knew him well. We were very close at the end.’

  ‘Were you lovers?’

  Another cruel smile, another dismissive snort. Dino wondered if she’d ever experienced happiness. The taint of cynicism lingered on her every word and expression.

  ‘Duke Fontein was my father.’

  Dino pressed his eyes shut and cursed himself for a fool. He pressed one fist to his mouth, unsure what words would spill from his lips next.

  ‘I suppose you’ll want revenge for what I did?’ He was aware of the knife hidden in his right boot, the sword sleeping in the scabbard, but he’d never killed a woman before. He had no wish to start tonight.

  ‘Revenge.’ The word was laced with futility. Giolla sat down, a sad smile crossing her face. ‘He sent my mother away to House Marco. We weren’t poor, but it was a far cry from life in Demesne. I had no idea who he was at first – just a stranger on a horse come to visit, and even then rarely. My mother adored him, of course.’ Giolla sighed. ‘And I despised her for it.’

  ‘How did you come to live in House Allattamento?’

  ‘My mother died when I was thirteen and the duke took me into the staff. I’d never been so lonely –’ she crossed her arms ‘– even surrounded by all the people in the castle. I was too common to be taken seriously, no good for anything but cooking and cleaning. But the duke paid for my tuition with House Erudito. Lady Allattamento taught me etiquette.’

  ‘When did you find out?’ Dino knew the pain of uncertainty all too well. ‘About your father, I mean?’

  ‘Four years ago. He told me one night – late, drunk, as you are now. Imagine, a poor girl from the countryside discovering her father is one of the most powerful men in Demesne. He promised me the world, of course, on condition Duchess Fontein never discovered my identity. He always thought he’d outlive her.’

  ‘Small chance of that. She’s like a gorse bush without the personality.’ This at least made Fontein’s daughter smile. Her shoulders were bowed, as if her confession weighed on her.

  ‘I’ll not tell a soul,’ offered Dino, wanting to make some small amends.

  ‘It’s no matter. I’m leaving tomorrow, and that will conclude the whole tawdry business.’ She shrugged and pouted. ‘House Fontein will die out and there’ll be few if any to mourn it.’

  ‘We’re still left with the fact that I killed your father.’ He sat forward, lacing his fingers. ‘Revenge is a staple of the nobili, vendetta their daily bread.’

  ‘True enough.’ She shrugged. ‘But what can I do to you that’s not been done already?’

  The Orfano shook his head. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You’re all but abandoned by your sister, and the Domina is perhaps the least trustworthy person in Demesne right now.’

  He nodded, desolation mounting in his chest.

  ‘Your best friend has just been killed, if indeed you were only friends.’ She should have gloated over that but instead only managed to look sad. ‘The maestro has been exiled, Margravio Contadino killed, his wife on the edge of madness.’ She drew a bleak picture, and he could refute none of it. ‘And me? I’m just the bastard of a dead man who plotted against the throne. What do I care who lives or who dies? You call this nobility?’ Now she was sneering. ‘I call it a sham. There are cittadini in the fields who behave with more dignity and compassion than any bloodline of Demesne.’

  She stood, the truth of her words sharper than any blade, cutting him deep.

  ‘Take your nobility, take your vendetta, take your revenge. I want none of it. You want to be absolved? Forget me, forget everything you know about me. Let me disappear into the countryside tomorrow. Let me live out my days in peace.’

  Dino pushed himself to his feet, painfully sober, words foreign to him, silence his only friend.

  ‘And you.’ She looked at him with eyes full of pity. ‘You can stay here and suffer the consequences. That’s your punishment, my lord. As if losing Massimo wasn’t punishment enough.’ She went to her chamber and locked the door, leaving him wondering what new tragedies would be ushered in with the dawn. And if he would survive them.

  42

  The Domina’s Secret

  – 26 Agosto 325

  Dino stood atop the roof of House Erudito watching a cart meander along the eastern road. Landfall appeared reduced and toy-like from this vantage point, although the games that played out were anything but happy ones. Very few would be setting out from Demesne at such an early hour. The Orfano swallowed in a throat dry with hangover, temples a dull pain from the previous night’s excess. Dino knew with absolute certainty who drove the cart, diminished as he was. He knew exactly where Giolla di Leona was heading, just as he knew he’d never see her again. Her words from the previous night returned, a mocking echo.

  Let me guess. Too drunk, my lord? Or will you finally admit your true nature.

  A vision of Massimo came to him – among the roses, covered in blood, a serene smile touching his perfect lips.

  ‘Huh. Doesn’t seem so long since Cherubini headed out.’

  Dino hadn’t heard the messenger approach. He stood some twenty feet away, leaning against a chimney stack, fingers stuffing the bowl of his pipe with moonleaf.

  ‘It’s a month,’ said the Orfano, failing to keep the sadness from his voice. Dino turned his eyes back to the departing form of Giolla. ‘To the very day.’

  ‘Hell of a thing. Seems like we could use him right now.’ The messenger nodded at the cart on the road. ‘Friend of yours?’

  ‘No. Just the last of the Allattamento household leaving Demesne.’

  ‘Huh. Giolla.’ Not a question.

  Dino nodded. ‘Did you know her?’

  ‘Not really.’ Nardo shrugged. ‘Was told she was a distant cousin of mine when I was younger. Everyone seems to be joined by blood in Demesne.’

  ‘Blood shared or blood spilled.’ Dino’s eyes remained fixed on the cart.

  ‘Those two aren’t always so different.’ The messenger blew out a plume of grey smoke then nodded towar
d the horizon. ‘She was taken in by Lady Allattamento not long after she was brought to House Fontein. Not much reason to speak to her after that. Always an unhappy sort.’

  Dino shook his head. Duke Fontein had hidden his bastard right beneath their noses, even providing her with false relatives. A grim smile of grudging respect creased his lips.

  ‘How did you know I’d be up here?’

  Nardo shrugged. ‘Seems like a good place to come to get perspective on things. Quiet up here without the ravens, though.’ The messenger took a drag from the pipe, breathed out a mist of smoke and cleared his throat.

  ‘What happened to them?’

  ‘Fewer and fewer of them with each passing year after Lucien left. No one paid them much mind, and then they weren’t here any more.’

  ‘Seems the nobili are going the same way,’ replied the Orfano. Nardo dragged on his pipe and for a moment the two men were content to let the growing heat of the sun suffuse them. Though neither of them would confess it, the night’s chill had left them restless and out of sorts.

  ‘What was said at the taverna—’

  ‘I’d rather not talk about it, Nardo.’

  ‘No business of mine who you lie with.’ The messenger looked down at his pipe, a wisp of smoke twisting and coiling. ‘I’m just … I just find it strange. You’ve always been a friend to me, and we’ve always carried out our duties. No reason we can’t be friends still.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘But there’s other people who won’t see it the same way. They’ll try and make you leave just the same as Cherubini.’ He nodded toward the cart trundling east. Dino’s mouth twisted in response, sadness pressing against his sternum like a fist.

  ‘Anea won’t let them send me away,’ he said after a pause, but there was little if any conviction to the words.

  ‘What will you do now?’

  ‘I’m still a maestro di spada. I should go and teach, although I doubt any of House Fontein will be pleased to see me.’

  ‘Huh. Into the teeth of the wolf,’ said the messenger.

  ‘And knock them out, every one,’ replied Dino, eyes lingering on Giolla di Leona’s cart.

  Demesne had altered, a subtle alchemy, a shifting of architecture. Perhaps the very air had been transmuted in some way? Emilio Contadino’s death had ushered in an age of darkness despite the summer’s glare.

  Guards in Fontein livery stood to attention at street junctions and gatehouses, slouching postures replaced with alert poses. Those who had been transparently bored wore looks of stern wariness. None of the soldiers had ever taken to Dino, who was too much the product of privilege, too strange as an Orfano yet envied for his position. Added to this list of sins was the rumour.

  Invertito.

  The slur was spoken aloud in darkened corridors as he passed, but when he turned he found only empty space. The authors of the insult were already drifting beyond another corner, another door, another curve of House Fontein’s dark walls. The rumours would settle down in time. The tormentors would soon tire of their game. He hoped.

  The capo emerged from a door many feet ahead, immaculate as ever and bearing a look of contentment. He greeted a trio of guards on their way to morning practice and joined them. Dino slowed to remain undetected. Today might be the very occasion Guido drew steel against him. There would be no allies to stand beside the Orfano, no one to risk his life for the rumoured invertito. The doorway led to a place indistinct in Dino’s memory, if he’d ever bothered to investigate it before.

  It was an unremarkable-looking portal: sturdy oak, frame stout, handle, lock and studs all cast in black iron. More unremarkable still for remaining unlocked, an opportunity afforded by Guido’s lack of attention. Simply because he couldn’t remember what was on the other side, Dino unhooked a lantern from the wall and went through. The corridor beyond was merely a landing, steps falling away into gloom. Whatever business had occupied the capo lay underground. It was damp here, despite the best efforts of the blazing sun and the drought that besieged the castle. There was a rank note on the air that spoke of things dying; Dino hoped he’d encounter nothing more sinister than decomposing rats.

  A sliver of gold light ran across the floor ahead showing every imperfection of the rough flagstones, a sliver that escaped from under a door. Dino slowed his pace and lifted his heels lest his boots announce him. The lantern was switched to his left hand and held behind, while his right reached across his waist to curl about the drake-headed hilt of his sword. A soft mumble of conversation reached his ears. He urged himself closer, straining to hear. A score of ants scurried about, throwing tiny shadows across the light emerging under the door. They had no task other than foraging, as far as Dino could tell, yet they moved with steely assertion. And they were large, far larger than any ants he’d seen in the long months of drought and infestation. The Orfano resisted the urge to capture a specimen, rewarded with the words of the Domina, heard despite the heavy oak of the door between them.

  ‘As you can see, I’ve put the money Lord Erebus provided to good use.’ There was a pause before she continued: ‘I had to pay five of House Fontein’s finest blacksmiths in order to be ready in time. I also needed to buy their silence, one of Demesne’s more expensive commodities.’

  Dino waited, expecting another voice to reply, but nothing came. His mind raced, wondering what lay beyond the door. Something undoubtedly made of metal, but what? And shown to whom?

  ‘Now that we have this many we can tell the Ravenscourt. There will be some unrest, but I’m confident we can contain it.’

  The Domina’s one-sided conversation was odd. Was her companion someone who needed no words?

  ‘Anea. What have you done?’ he breathed, wanting to draw back, wanting to retreat to the stairs and the door that waited at their summit. He should be outside in the sun, teaching the blade, not trapped here underground, new secrets threatening to swallow him like a landslide.

  ‘The assassin is no longer in my employ. His fortunes are in decline, and his position becomes more precarious by the day.’

  Dino’s blood ran cold. In decline.

  ‘He’ll be a vocal opponent in the times ahead, but he’s a maestro di spada, nothing more.’

  The Domina had no need to iterate Dino’s title to Anea. Whoever she spoke to couldn’t be her.

  ‘I’d rather consult Lord Erebus before acting with haste. There’s always a chance he’ll come over to our side.’

  Another pause.

  ‘Stranger things have happened in Landfall.’

  The golden sliver of light faded from beneath the door, leaving the Orfano with only the company of ants. The Domina and her silent accomplice had left by another exit unknown to him. Dino waited for long minutes before trying the handle with a cautious hand. It was locked, of course, likely bolted. The Domina’s secret would remain so for a little longer at least. Frustrated, the Orfano headed to a training chamber and practised alone. He’d need his skills soon, of that he had no doubt.

  ‘I’ll show you decline,’ he said as he concluded each exercise.

  43

  The Myrmidons

  – 27 Agosto 325

  Nardo found him the following morning, occupying the same perch above House Erudito. The Orfano sat cross-legged on a sloping roof beneath an eggshell-blue sky stained with gold. Achilles dozed in his lap, basking in the rising sun.

  ‘Someone else leaving?’ asked the messenger.

  ‘I couldn’t sleep.’ The dark circles beneath Dino’s eyes spoke the truth of it. He’d spent most of the night failing to discover what the Domina was hiding behind lock and key. ‘I came to watch the sun rise.’

  ‘You were missed at House Fontein yesterday.’

  ‘I doubt it.’

  Nardo shrugged.

  ‘Not smoking your pipe?’

  ‘Huh. No time. We have to go.’ The messenger nodded toward the great dome at Demesne’s centre. ‘The Ravenscourt is coming to session.’

  Dino raised h
is eyebrows but said nothing. Achilles yawned and stared around, expression flinty.

  The Ravenscourt was as full as Dino had ever seen it. The gallery teemed with cittadini, all focused on their betters below. The court itself contained representatives from every house. All ranks were present, from the lowliest messengers and pages to those with titles and illustrious family histories. The capo, surrounded by four bravos wearing House Fontein colours, regarded Dino with a drowsy smile.

  ‘Huh. What’s got him so smug?’

  ‘I think we’ll know by the time this session is done.’

  ‘No Duchess Fontein,’ remarked the messenger.

  ‘Perhaps she’s drowning her sorrows, or her self-pity.’ Dino couldn’t keep the bitterness from his tone. His regret for the dead duke had faded, as if Giolla had scoured the guilt from him. It was no absolution, but that she understood his motive made the burden easier to bear.

  ‘You could have dressed for the occasion,’ grunted Nardo.

  Several courtiers stared, openly gossiping. Dino silenced them with a glare. His appearance – jacket unbuttoned, shirt rucked, hair messy – was attracting attention. Daggers peeked from the tops of his boots; the scabbard he wore was an open invitation to the careless or the brave. A sombre suit of black damask indicated his mood, only the sash of turquoise at his waist declared his loyalty. In truth he found it harder to wear Anea’s colour with each passing day.

  ‘Not so many friendly faces,’ said Nardo.

  ‘Those divided and those ruled,’ commented Dino. The new maestro of House Erudito was present, but Dino couldn’t recall the man’s name. A swarm of professori stood harrumphing, all stilted small talk and awkward asides. Dino felt another pang of regret for the outcast Cherubini.

  Stephania, flanked by her messenger and maid, offered a curt nod. The disciple of Santa Maria stood close, mismatched eyes calm above her veil. Her fingers counted out rosewood beads in a measured, unhurried fashion. Dino forced the sneer from his lips. She was only alive due to Massimo’s efforts.

  Camelia stood with Nardo’s wife, Maria, doing their best to represent the much-depleted House Contadino. The Orfano and messenger approached, and Camelia took a moment to kiss Dino on each cheek. A few nobles spluttered, muttering under their breaths, becoming close-mouthed under Dino’s unflinching gaze. His hand on the pommel of the drake-headed blade was ample incentive to fall silent.