The Boy with the Porcelain Blade (5 page)

‘Perhaps he can be of some help. It occurs to me there may be a job he could perform admirably.’ And then the Domo turned abruptly, drifting from the kitchen, the hem of his dour robe sliding over flagstones, the staff resuming its plaintive clatter.

‘He’s a strange one,’ whispered Camelia. ‘They say he’s older than sin and twice as ugly.’

Lucien sniggered, caught himself for a moment, then resumed laughing anyway.

‘What do you think he meant? About performing a job, I mean.’ Lucien chewed his lip, suddenly anxious.

‘Who knows what goes on under that hood. Best not to wonder at it.’

‘What will I do when I grow up, Camelia?’

‘I’m not sure.’ She narrowed her eyes a second, hands resting on her hips. ‘I’ve always known about the Orfano, but Golia was the first I’d ever seen. People say there were more back in older times. Then you came along, and Anea, and Dino. And now we have Festo.’

‘But why?’

‘I couldn’t say. And we’re told not to ask.’ Camelia smiled, stifling a laugh behind one flour-dusted hand. She was looking at Dino, who was holding out a soggy crust of bread to Lucien.

‘Looks like you’ve made a new friend.’

Lucien nodded, noticing Dino’s shy smile.

‘Don’t you have somewhere to be? I’ll be in just as much trouble as you if your teachers find you down here.’

‘My testing isn’t until later.’

‘Well go and practise then, for goodness’ sake.’ She sighed. ‘You’ll be the death of me, Lucien Contadino.’

He shrugged awkwardly. He’d always hated that expression. He didn’t want to be the death of anyone, certainly not Camelia. She pulled him close, kissing him on the forehead, before shooing him out of the kitchens. Dino waved, at Camelia’s insistence, dropping the crust of bread on the floor in the process. Lucien waved back and headed through the arch, into the labyrinthine corridors beyond, and on to his testing.

5

Camelia’s Tears
HOUSE CONTADINO KITCHENS
–
Febbraio
315

Lucien walked down the corridors of House Fontein, hearing his own footsteps in a daze. A few novices noted his slashed jacket, opened at the shoulder and across the breast. They avoided him, not wanting to speak with a
strega
, the bastards of Landfall. He heard their whispering as he walked on. Speculation had been rampant in the run-up to the testing, but they could not have dared imagine Lucien’s expulsion. Word of his failing would find its way into every corner of every keep by nightfall. The women of House Prospero would chatter breathlessly from behind fans in well-appointed salons, while the
professori
of House Erudito would shrug and grumble in lecture halls laden with dust and age. Even now, the many novices and adepts of House Fontein’s three schools would be delirious with the telling and retelling of such disobedience. The least of the novices would be bullied into running to other houses, spreading the word and bringing back new details, fabricated or exaggerated. Few would care. Only the members of House Contadino might spare him sympathy. They knew him best, for better or worse.

Onwards he walked, into the chiaroscuro lamplight of King’s Keep, gliding dreamlike through the circuitous corridor linking the four houses. The wide passage was windowless, supported by thick columns, making it a claustrophobic nether world. Artisans from House Prospero hurried past, clogs sounding on the flagstones
toc toc toc
, aprons flapping at their knees, calloused fingers thrust into deep pockets. Scholars from House Erudito ambled toward private lessons for Demesne’s privileged few. The
professori
looked indistinct in their black gowns, pale faces standing out in the gloom. Some small few regarded Lucien with barely concealed distaste. Nothing new. Messengers bore scraps of parchment and lofty expressions, each trying to outdo the others with self-importance and pomposity. They stared each other down through white-powdered faces, pouting past beauty spots. They rushed as if the very stones of Demesne depended on their messages being delivered. Lucien was too stunned to give them one of his customary glares. The guards on the gateways mumbled to each other, shooting wary glances as Lucien approached. He barely noticed. His expulsion would mean an end to the indignities of Demesne.

Thirteen years of schooling. Almost daily education in blade and biology, classics and chemistry, philosophy and physics, art and, very rarely, assassination. He had been given the best of everything in Demesne as set down by the king’s edict, even when he’d not wanted it, which had been often. Now he would be bereft of everything, all thanks to Giancarlo. Worse still, Franco would be consigned back to the oubliette. The whole affair had been as pointless as it was futile. Lucien groped at the hilt of his bone-coloured blade and found the scabbard empty. He remembered the ceramic weapon shattering, shards exploding across the floor of the practice chamber, just as his life was now sundered into parts across Demesne. Lucien chewed his lip and fixed his eyes on the flagstones in front of his feet, walking mechanically. The candles guttered and flickered around him, making the way ahead unclear, threatening to drown him in Demesne’s deep darkness.

Finally he returned to House Contadino, his feet leading him back of their own accord. He tried to swallow and found his throat thick and uncomfortable. He was being thrown out. Exiled. He, an Orfano; the very idea of it.

‘Lucien? What’s happened? You’re as pale as a ghost.’ Camelia stood before him. He was standing in the kitchen. Several other cooks, maids and porters looked up from their labours, nudging each other and speaking in low voices. The news had not raced ahead of him, it seemed.

‘Are you hurt? Your jacket…’

‘I’m fine,’ he said, his own voice sounding distant. ‘Small cut on the shoulder,’ he added. It occurred to him he was still bleeding, but it was something unremarkable, as if it were happening to someone else.

The staff continued their work without a word, weaving between one another, vying for space on the long table. Lucien was no stranger to them, not always welcome but tolerated. He knew they thought him spoilt and privileged, just as he was aware there was an unspoken competitiveness between the staff of the four houses.

He may be Orfano, but he’s our Orfano
was the maxim. The nobles whined and complained about having the unwanted foundlings attached to their houses but couldn’t resist lapses of proprietorial braggadocio. The staff aped their attitudes in their own, less nuanced, fashion. Some even pretended to like him. Fewer still actually did, like Camelia.

Lucien had eavesdropped enough to know the staff had nicknames for the various witchlings. Time spent listening at doorways had revealed Golia was ‘the lug’, unsurprising on account of his great size and apparent dull-wittedness. Lucien had received the less insulting ‘Sinistro’ on account of his left-handedness. Dino was referred to as ‘little Luc’. Nobody called Anea anything other than her name, which itself was a shortened version of her birth name. And there was the woman who lived with House Prospero, the nameless recluse. Festo had yet to earn an epithet, still too young.

‘Well you can’t stand there all day,’ said Camelia. ‘You’ll get blood all over my floors for one thing. And you look like you’re about to pass out. Can someone get him some coffee?
Porca misèria
.’ She was doing her best not to sound flustered. She was doing well. ‘Come on. Time to see Dottore Angelicola.’

Lucien looked at Camelia, confusion crowding his features. How had he come to be here? Hadn’t he been going to his apartment to collect his things?

‘Camelia… I’m going to be exiled.’

‘What?’ The cook stared at him, eyes narrowed not comprehending.

‘I’m going to be exiled. I struck Superiore Giancarlo.’ The industry of the kitchen slowed. People were straining to hear. Somebody at the back of the room dropped a metal ladle which clattered on the floor. Lucien’s mind recalled his shattered blade – he flinched at the thought of it.

‘Well, isn’t that sort of the point?’ said Camelia. ‘You didn’t kill him?’ She swallowed. The silence in the kitchen was absolute. ‘Lucien, tell me you didn’t kill him.’

‘No. But he tried to make me kill people. I refused. He smashed my blade.’ Lucien delivered each word without emphasis, as if he were mumbling in his sleep. ‘Then I hit him.’ His gaze was locked on a point only he could see. In his mind he saw the criminal collapsing onto his own knife. That terrible shudder passing through his body, impaling himself after slipping on the bloodied flagstones.

‘I’m sure it’s just a misunderstanding,’ said Camelia, but she couldn’t keep the uncertainty out of her voice. By now the entire kitchen staff had gathered to listen, forming a wall of white jackets, caps clutched in anxious hands.

Into their midst came the Majordomo, towering over everyone. He looked more grim than usual, cheeks and chin almost grey beneath the heavy cowl. A quartet of flies circled him lazily, nestling within folds of fabric the colour of wet ashes. Lucien wondered if the garment was held together with cobwebs and dust. The Domo grasped his staff of office in a skeletal hand, the veins thick and vulgar, his nails frayed and chewed. The porters and cooks shrank back, as if afeared he might spread some nameless contagion. All except Camelia, who stepped forward and placed one arm protectively around Lucien’s shoulders.

‘Lucien. I have been informed of the situation,’ said the Domo in his dull monotone. ‘Most regrettable.’ Lucien stared up at him. A tiny spark of the rage he felt for Giancarlo kindled in his soul.

‘I imagine you’re delighted,’ he whispered harshly.

‘Nothing could be further from the truth, Lucien,’ replied the Domo. ‘No Orfano has ever been exiled. Something I hope to address this very moment. I will persuade Superiore Giancarlo to drop his petition.’

Lucien stared at the Domo. The darkness under the cowl was total, shielding the man’s eyes. Only the flat line of his mouth gave away any emotion, and there was precious little of that.

‘Liar,’ hissed Lucien. ‘You want me gone. You offered me a chance to fit into your grand scheme and I refused.
Vai al diavolo
. And Giancarlo with you.’

The cooks nearby flinched at this. Some had already slipped away, out through the side door from where they fled to other houses, keen to share the unfolding scandal. The Domo let out a breath; his grip tightened on the staff; the flies took to wing, agitated.

‘Lucien, you are upset—’

‘Upset? I’m a good deal more than just upset. What happened to first blood? And when did the Orfani become the executioners of Landfall?’

‘It is regrettable,’ the steward droned.

‘Regrettable? We’re killing common folk like cattle now, are we? Just so
nobili
can pass their testings?’

Several staff in the kitchen struggled not to stare open-mouthed at Lucien’s tirade.

‘He was determined to fail me, no matter how well I fought. You think I lack the stomach to kill?’ He stabbed one finger forward. ‘You’re wrong.’

The Domo said nothing, grimace deepening.

‘One day you’ll need to make good on all the secrets you’re harbouring,’ sneered Lucien. Suddenly his shoulder was throbbing with pain. The Domo remained motionless. The remaining kitchen staff receded further away, gazes averted, busying themselves at the other end of the room. The Domo opened his mouth to speak just as a messenger in House Fontein livery came through the kitchen door.

‘You are requested in the grand hall of House Fontein, Majordomo,’ panted the youth. He’d run directly from Giancarlo no doubt, who even at this moment would be marshalling support for Lucien’s expulsion. The Domo paused, then turned and followed the messenger.

Camelia laid her hand gently on Lucien’s shoulder, then pulled him close. Tears tumbling down her cheeks.

‘
Porca misèria
, Lucien. What will you do?’

‘I’ll leave. But first I need to find Rafaela. Do you know where she is?’

‘She’s at home. With her father. Her sister’s birthday is soon, possibly today, I think. She asked for some time off.’

Lucien growled a curse. He turned, making his way out of the kitchen.

‘Lucien, wait. I’ll bring you some food. For the road.’

‘Thank you, Camelia.’ He turned to her under the arch of the doorway, trying to smile but failing. He swept his gaze over the kitchen one last time, then stalked away into the dark corridors of House Contadino.

His ascent up the spiral staircase left him feeling weak, or perhaps it was the blood loss. Lucien opened the door to his apartment, looking over the deep armchairs where he’d spent so many winter’s nights, deep in sleep, deep in books and occasionally deep in conversation. Not nearly enough of the last. Pale grey light filtered in through the latticed windows. Outside promised chill winds and a threat of rain. He dragged fingertips across the spines of cloth-bound books. All were neatly ordered on custom-built shelves, the elegant craftsmanship of House Prospero. He turned his back on the sitting room and entered his bedroom. Warm clothes were pulled from a trunk and the bottom of his closet; thicker boots were pulled on. A waxed greatcoat he’d never worn was dragged out and tried on for size. He winced as the wound in his shoulder snagged and complained. He looked hideous, but it would have to do

‘Vanity is always the first casualty of survival,’ he mumbled before gathering up more items, small clothes mainly, stuffing them into a pillowcase. He swore as he again realised his sword was gone. The scabbard empty on his hip. A hollow vessel.

‘Headbutt, eh?’ It was Virmyre, pale blue eyes giving away nothing, his features glacial. The
professore
was famously as emotional as a rock. Virmyre leaned against the door frame with arms crossed over his chest, his black robes hanging like the folded wings of a great raven. He ran a hand through his black hair, shot through with stark white, then yawned expansively. ‘Not exactly in the syllabus, is it?’

‘Never was any good at following the rules,’ said Lucien. ‘Improvising always came more naturally.’

‘I had hoped we’d trained you to make your arguments in a more articulate fashion. Perhaps this failure is mine,’ said Virmyre, hand straying to his beard.

‘He set me up,’ growled Lucien. ‘He wanted me to kill people.’

‘You must be aware, Master Lucien, a sword isn’t just for show. What point in training you if you’ve not the will to use it?’

‘True enough. But I’ll not earn my place in Demesne killing farmers. Aren’t we supposed to give people trials?’

‘Only the
nobili
get trials,’ said Virmyre; ‘the commoners get—’

‘Murdered?’ Lucien eased himself out of the slashed undershirt, wincing. Transparent blood was weeping from his shoulder, turning blue after a few seconds.

‘Yes. Murdered.’ Virmyre let the word hang between them, then nodded.

‘I thought it was supposed to be a testing, not an execution.’

‘Giancarlo has a limited vocabulary; perhaps he muddled the two.’

Lucien shook his head, lip curled at the mention of the
maestro di spada
.

‘So tell me,’ continued Virmyre. ‘You didn’t give up your values today, even when forced, even when provoked, so who really failed?’

‘True enough, but I’m not being tested on my values,’ said Lucien. He inspected the wound and a wave of nausea overtook him.

‘When word gets around regarding what you did, about what you refused to do, I’m sure Giancarlo will be forced to reconsider failing you.’

‘Giancarlo not only failed me, he’s expelling me. I’ll be lucky if I can even leave the Contadino Estate.’ Lucien slumped down on the bed. ‘I’m a failure, I always have been.’

‘You’re not a failure, Lucien,’ said the
professore
.

‘My days out there are numbered. Golia will come looking for me, backed up by others. They’ll come by night and I won’t see the following dawn.’

‘Have you considered bleeding to death?’