The Boy with the Porcelain Blade (22 page)

‘Take him to the oubliette,’ ordered the Domo, slamming his staff against the floor for emphasis.

A few of the men gasped, but a few more smiled wickedly. Some laughed aloud. Lucien was grasped by calloused uncaring hands and taken to the very lowest levels of Demesne. His vision took in the stars above, then tracked back to the
sanatorio
itself, where Rafaela remained, once more behind a locked door.

22

Antigone, Achilles, and Agamemnon
LUCIEN’S APARTMENT
–
Febbraio
312

Lucien had done everything right, he was sure of it, and yet a feeling of sickness remained. An uncoiling, nameless thing, it was yet another worry he could do without. The morning had been consumed with wordless fretting. He could find no relief. Not in books, or in training, or his studies. A brief trip to the kitchens had seen him scurrying back to his apartment, anxious and afeared. There was simply no escaping the fact.

Perseus was dying.

Lucien crouched in the armchair, one hand pressed to his mouth. The drake had hardly been the most demonstrative of pets, but he couldn’t bear the idea of being without him. He’d fed him and nurtured him and been mindful to keep the reptile warm. Often he let the drake have the run of the apartment. Perseus would perch on the back of the couch while he read, or spend hours sunning himself in the window on warmer days. Inside the glass tank the cataphract drake lay still, looking uncomfortably bloated. The dun-brown scales were a healthy hue, the onyx eyes bright and alert, yet the drake refused to move. Lucien had changed his water, deposited crickets nearby, but no movement. The reptile looked different somehow, changed imperceptibly. Even the addition of a granite rock and small lamb skull had not aroused any interest. The drake sat perfectly immobile, soft belly submerged in the sand. Even blinking seemed a chore to the creature. How long did reptiles live anyway? And how much more life would this one cling to?

Lucien had dispatched Dino to find Virmyre and waited, nervously chewing his black fingernails. Dino had become a frequent visitor since the drake’s arrival, fascinated by the reptile, quietly jealous of such a prize. Lucien found the younger Orfano amusing company, which is not to say they did not have their disagreements. The name of the drake had been Dino’s suggestion, and he was thrilled when Lucien had agreed. Dino insisted on bringing mythology books from the House Erudito, smuggling them past Simonetti, the Archivist. Lucien had failed to read any of them, content to trust his young friend. Perseus had been a formidable warrior according to the younger Orfano, and that was good enough for Lucien.

Virmyre arrived without his teaching robe, attired in a heavy coat and grey britches. Lucien recalled the day he’d run away to the cemetery, how the
professore
had spent long moments in communion with his wife. He looked much as he did that day, windswept with a trace of unhappiness in the set of his eyes. Dino had followed as best he could, struggling to keep pace. He stumbled through the doorway out of breath and wide-eyed with anxiety. Virmyre swept his pale blue gaze from one boy to the other before exclaiming, ‘You two look more alike every day. If it wasn’t for the age gap I’d swear you were twins.’

Lucien scowled. He’d recently turned fourteen and had no wish to be compared to Dino, who was barely eight. Lucien was long resigned to the younger Orfano’s desire to emulate his every affectation. He’d tried deterring him, but was secretly glad when he failed.

‘And what appears to be the problem?’ Virmyre reached into the tank slowly.

‘Perseus just sits still all day. He doesn’t move, he hasn’t touched his water. He ignores the crickets I put in the tank. I don’t know what to do.’

‘Change the food perhaps?’

‘I tried nematodes, but they dried up before he’d even look at them.’

‘And you’ve kept your apartment warm, I trust?’

Lucien nodded and chewed his lip. Virmyre, never one to sully his features with an expression, looked as if he might break into a smile. Lucien realised he was holding his breath. Dino had grasped hold of the armchair, staring around the side of it with an expression so serious it verged on comical. Virmyre held up the drake, who didn’t curl into a hoop, as was its usual tactic when being handled. The
professore
probed at the reptile with one careful finger, the corners of his mouth turned down, struggling not to smile

‘I think I’ve determined the nature of the problem,’ he said.

‘What? What’s wrong with him?’

‘He’s having a slight problem with pregnancy.’ A flicker of amusement.

‘He’s pregnant?’ mumbled Dino.

‘Perseus is a girl?’ said Lucien, failing to hide the disdain in his voice.

Dino dropped to his knees and dissolved into giggles, then gave up the pretence entirely, slumping to the floor and howling with laughter.

‘Perseus, the unfortunately named,’ said Virmyre, ‘is a female and likely to give birth very soon, quite possibly in the next few hours.’

‘I don’t want a female reptile. Can’t you give it to Anea? I bet she’d love to have a drake.’

‘She’s rather taken with her new kitten actually,’ replied Virmyre, placing Perseus back in the tank with the utmost care. ‘And I’m not sure kittens and drakes are terribly compatible.’

Dino was almost crying with laughter by now.

‘Why did you give me a female lizard?’ Lucien sneered, visibly nettled by Dino’s mirth.

‘I didn’t think to sex her,’ Virmyre rumbled in his rich baritone, ‘nor did I predict you’d be so squeamish, Master Lucien.’

‘I’ll have her,’ said Dino breathlessly. He pushed himself to his feet and flicked hair out of his face.

‘You’re not old enough,’ snapped Lucien. ‘I guess I’d better look after them. No one else knows as much about cataphract drakes as I do.’

‘Quite. You’re a veritable bastion of knowledge when it comes to the order of reptiles,’ said Virmyre.

Lucien blushed and chewed his lip again. Virmyre said nothing more and swept from the room.

‘You’re an idiot,’ muttered Dino. ‘I’m going to see Festo.’ He poked his tongue out, then flicked his fingertips from under his chin for good measure.

Lucien continued to crouch in his armchair, a gargoyle in his slate-grey jacket and britches. He caught sight of himself in the reflection of the glass tank and shivered. The drake sat motionless, full of potential. How many tiny lives would emerge? Would they be males or females? He considered giving one to Dino before discarding the idea.

Lucien drowsed in the chair, idly leafing through one of Dino’s many hardbacks on mythology, the paper pleasing to the touch, the leather jacket reassuring. His new-found interest for the subject made the wait more bearable. He settled on Antigone to replace the now inapt Perseus, purely because he liked the sound of it. A knock at the door surprised him and the book hit the floor with a thud. He lurched out of the chair and spun round, scabbard in hand. Camelia entered the room, bringing a tray of hot food and a jug of water. Her blonde hair was a mess and she was rosy-cheeked, humming to herself pleasantly.

‘I heard the news. Seems I’m not the only one expecting.’ She beamed at Lucien and he smiled back, not knowing what to say. Camelia’s generous hourglass figure was noticeably more rounded. She positively radiated contentment and vitality. The cook eased herself onto the couch and set the tray aside.

‘I brought you some dinner. I guessed you’d not want to leave her. Never know when they might appear, eh? You must be excited.’

‘Of course,’ he managed, helping himself to some bread. ‘How did you know?’

‘Dino came down and told me all about it.’

Lucien forced another smile and poured a glass of water. He remembered Camelia at the last moment and offered it to her before filling another.

‘Thank you,’ she replied ‘What have you been up to today?’

‘Not much.’ He sat beside her on the couch. ‘I found a new name for the drake. I’ve decided on Antigone.’

‘And the little ones?’

‘I don’t know. I like Achilles and Agamemnon.’

‘You didn’t get past the
A
section of the index, did you?’

‘Ah. No, I didn’t.’ He gave a shrug. ‘But Achilles
was
invincible.’

‘Oh well, in that case…’ Camelia smiled and ruffled his hair, a gesture that would surely be abandoned soon; he was much too old for that sort of thing now.

‘And you’ll give one of the babies to Dino.’ This in a tone that didn’t invite refusal. Lucien knew it all too well.

‘Of course,’ he managed and forced a smile. His eyes caught the wedding ring on her finger, a slim band of gold. It seemed she’d been married only months before the House Contadino kitchens were filled with congratulations. The buzzing of gossip about her pregnancy had been a welcome respite from the darker rumours that circulated Demesne. Lucien felt spectacularly left out. He stared at the offending bump, the tiny unborn usurper.

‘Have you chosen a name yet?’ he asked. He’d seen adults ask the same question and assumed it was customary.

‘Not yet, we’re still deciding. Would you like to feel it?’

Lucien knelt down on the rug, holding forth a tentative hand. Camelia smiled, folding his hand in her own, pressing it against her abdomen. He was just beginning to get bored when he felt something push back through the elastic confines of her stomach.

‘That’s disgusting!’ he blurted. Camelia burst into a rich chuckle and tears appeared at the corners of her eyes.

‘Sorry. I mean, ah, it took me by surprise. Did it hurt? Are you unwell?’

‘No, it didn’t hurt. You are funny, Lucien.’

He fell silent and noticed the drake had rolled over onto her side. He sprang up from the floor and pressed his fingers against the glass.

‘Camelia. Look, she’s… ah…’

‘Gone into labour,’ she supplied. With great effort Camelia knelt down next to him and they watched a tiny face appear from the drake’s soft underside.

‘Strange, isn’t it?’ breathed Lucien. ‘Most reptiles lay eggs but these ones are different.’

The infant drake slithered out of its mother and lay panting on the warm sand. It was slick and wet, each scale perfect and tiny. Antigone seemed to be ignoring the newborn.

‘Perhaps she’ll only have one. Professore Virmyre said they never have more than two.’

‘Just as well,’ said Camelia. ‘So is that one Achilles or Agamemnon?’

Lucien considered this for a moment and scratched his hair. He chewed his lip thoughtfully.

‘Achilles wasn’t really invulnerable, was he?’

‘I’m afraid not. He had a weak spot on his heel.’

‘Maybe I should call that one Agamemnon then.’

Seconds later another tiny face appeared. Antigone then scurried away behind a rock, leaving the two juveniles to dry out. After a moment or two the mother returned, feeding ripped-up portions of a cricket to the newborn. Neither seemed to be in the mood to eat. Lucien and Camelia watched the tiny creatures with wordless reverence, then she told him to get ready for bed.

‘How long will you be away for, you know, after your baby comes?’

‘Oh, probably about a year and a half.’

‘A year and a half?’ He surprised himself with how loud his voice was. ‘Why so long?’

‘Babies need a lot of looking after. You were the same when we first got you.’

Lucien climbed into bed; he’d absent-mindedly taken the mythology book with him. He slipped it under the pillow meaning to read it after Camelia left.

‘Did you know Antigone was born out of an incestuous relationship? Her father Oedipus accidentally slept with his own mother.’ He was sitting up in bed, doing his best not to yawn.

‘I’ve heard of Oedipus, but I never realised he had a daughter. That sounds very confusing for everyone.’ She folded up his suit and hung it in his closet, then retrieved his boots from where he’d kicked them off, placing them neatly under the mantelpiece.

‘Do you think that’s what happened with me?’ Lucien said in a small voice. Camelia turned to him, then approached the bed. She sat down with eyes full of concern.

‘I don’t know Lucien, I honestly don’t.’

‘But it would make a certain kind of sense, wouldn’t it? You said yourself, it would be confusing for everyone. The best way to solve the problem would be to get rid of the baby.’

‘Lucien, you can’t spend your time thinking about this type of thing. It’ll do you no good.’

‘But I do think about it.’

‘All I know is that I’m glad I met you, Lucien.’ She smoothed back his hair from his forehead. ‘Every day you grow up a little bit more, and I’m proud to have helped make that happen.’ She smiled. ‘Not to say you don’t have a few rough edges, mind.’

He smiled and tried a laugh, but tears arrived instead. He blinked them away.

‘Will you still talk to me, you know, after the baby comes?’

‘Of course I will, foolish boy. You’ll be like an older brother, no doubt. Or an uncle at any rate.’ She leaned forward and clutched him tightly. Lucien couldn’t help another sob escaping.

‘Why didn’t my mother want to keep me the way you want to keep your baby, Camelia? It doesn’t make any sense.’

‘No, my beautiful boy, it doesn’t,’ she whispered, still holding him.

‘Do you think I’ll ever meet her?’

‘I wouldn’t pin any hopes on it. Hush now, go to sleep. Don’t spend the night worrying at it.’

He cried some more, tiring himself with the effort of his upset, before exhaustion overtook him. Camelia remained until the candle flames were noticeably lower before making her way out. She brushed away tears of her own, pulling the door closed behind her.

23

The Fall
HOUSE FONTEIN
–
Febbraio
315

They carried him from the
sanatorio
to the King’s Keep. Ten of them at first, rough hands like manacles on his limbs. His head throbbed from where it had struck the steps during his tumble-down descent. Terrible pain emanated from his chest where the Majordomo had struck him. His eyes wouldn’t focus, snatches of vision coming to him sometimes blurry, other times with jagged intensity. The distance between Lucien and Ella grew with every step the guards took.

His heart sank.

The men carrying him spat and cursed, calling him a ‘filthy Orfano’, ‘
strega
’, ‘
buco del culo
’, ‘
figlio di puttana
’ and worse. He’d heard all the insults before of course, just never to his face. The age of the Orfano was over, and Golia was on course to be its lone survivor.

The curving corridor of King’s Keep merged into another part of the castle. Ten men became eight, then two more peeled off for other duties. Two more stopped as they passed through what Lucien thought he recognised as an armoury in House Fontein. His mind lurched and drifted, struggling to maintain lucidity. There was a low murmuring, subdued congratulations, then quiet crowded in once more. Now it was just four men carrying him. He was still limp, mind foggy, body unresponsive despite his wishes to the contrary. The corridors were almost pitch-black in this part of Demesne. Strange that he should be carried by four men now. Four men. Eight legs. Like a spider. He was the mindless body being stolen away by marching limbs, ever onward.

Everyone knew about the oubliette. Mothers mentioned it to scare children into obedience; criminals were cast down into it, never to be seen again. As infamous as it was mysterious, few knew where the entrance to the oubliette lay, only the most trusted of House Fontein or those set to discover what lurked beneath. Just as Lucien’s head was clearing he was placed on his feet. He swayed a moment, then the rough hands held him fast. He looked down at the front of his jacket. The knife remained lodged in the lining. For the moment.

Guido, the
capo de custodia
, stood to one side, regarding a rusting grille set in the floor. He’d foregone his usual livery for a suit of sombre black.

‘Do you remember what you said to me the day of the duke’s funeral?’ the
capo
asked, a smirk playing on his lips. The two guards held Lucien firm, arms pinioned behind his back.

‘All of our conversations are so riveting I have trouble discerning one from the other.’

The
capo
stiffened, lips curling into a sneer.

‘You told me you’d chop my head off.’

‘Really?’ said Lucien casually. ‘That doesn’t sound like me. You must have been
very
naughty that day.’ One of the guards at the door of the chamber failed to stifle his amusement. A laugh escaped him before he had the sense to feign a coughing fit. The glowered at the man, then wrenched up the grille. He cast it to one side of the room where it hit the floor with a bell-like clang.

Lucien took stock of his situation. They were below House Fontein. In a basement under the bustle of the kitchens and the silence of the pantries. Two guards on the door, two holding him fast, and the smug face of the
capo
in front of him. There was no way he could overpower all of them. The knife inside his jacket was slowly cutting through the lining, shredding the silk, threatening to fall out at any moment. Before him, four feet wide and yawning darkness, was the entrance to the oubliette.

And oblivion.

‘Say hello to Salvaza for me, next time you’re balls deep in her.’ Lucien winked at the
capo.
Using Lady Prospero’s first name was bound to rile him.

‘She can’t wait to be rid of you,’ grated Guido from between clenched teeth. ‘Giancarlo’s assassins have put paid to almost all of you degenerate Orfano filth. Only Golia remains now, and he won’t last for ever.’

Lucien suppressed a grimace. He’d not needed a reminder of Dino and Festo’s deaths. Still, interesting to learn Lady Prospero’s ambitions were not aligned with the Majordomo’s schemes.

‘Good luck trying to separate Giancarlo from his favourite animal. I think you’ll come unstuck there, Guido.’

‘Throw him in,’ grated the
capo
. ‘I’m sick of the sight of him.’

And with that Lucien was cast down into the darkness.

He had at various times of his life tried to picture what the oubliette might be like. He’d read various accounts of such places in his ghost stories and dreadfuls. What followed was much more subtle than he could have imagined.

The fall lasted agonising seconds, terminating in fetid water. The mud beneath it clung to him like clay. For a moment he was submerged, the filthy water seeping into his ears and washing over his eyes. He gagged, gulping a mouthful, then another, then pushing himself to the surface, hacking and spluttering. Wet to the skin, he struggled to stand, flailing, failing to find his footing. A taste in his mouth registered itself, like the scent of the air before a summer storm and yet…

Shattered furniture bobbed on the foul water, food scraps like flotsam on the rank tide. All about were shadowy presences, pressed up against the walls, ash-grey outlines drawn on the darkness itself. He checked himself and found nothing broken. The knife hadn’t bitten into him under his jacket. It seemed like a strange place to keep a knife, as if he’d been hiding it. He wondered where he’d left his sword. The stagnant water lapped over the top of his boots, swilling around his toes, chilling him. Above came the sound of the metal grille being hefted back into place. Tiny clicks signalled padlocks securing his fate. He’d done something wrong, something to warrant being thrown down here, but try as he might he couldn’t think what. He dimly remembered a stable on fire and a stallion screaming, flames consuming it as it ran through the night. And there had been the secret graveyard of course. Perhaps he’d been trespassing. Above him, the sounds of the
capo
and the guards receded into the distance, echoes down hollow corridors becoming more faint with each second.

The rib-vaulted ceiling arched above him, just beyond his reach. He stood in a nimbus of light which cascaded down through the grille. One of the guards had seen fit to leave a lantern in the chamber above. The oil would not last for ever, then he’d be plunged into a deeper darkness. He’d been expecting a cramped and chaotic cell full of the doomed, instead he found a warren-like layer of Demesne he’d not known existed. Additional chambers led away from the one he stood in, visible through broad peaked archways. Cobwebs hung from the corners of the room, like bedsheets left to dry. All around was the sickly reek of decay.

The light from the lantern above dipped and wavered. There couldn’t be much oil left. And yet he needed to be free, he needed to get to the building outside, the place where they kept the insane. He groped about for the name of it, his mind as dark as the chamber he found himself in.

Nothing.

He couldn’t recall it, only that leering stone faces looked down from the roof. There was someone locked inside he wanted to see very much. Someone locked inside, just as he was locked inside. Rafaela. He’d been trying to save Rafaela. He called out her name in the darkness, hoping the sound of it would wake his cloudy mind.

As the light above grew dimmer, Lucien sank to his knees, feeling the mud ooze and cling. The shadows at the edges of the room crept forward hesitantly, managing to move through the water without disturbing it. Cautiously, Lucien reached for the hilt of the knife. He’d not be able to fight all of them, but if he could make an example of one them he might stand a chance. They surrounded him entirely, at least a dozen, lurking at the edge of the lantern light as it shone down through the grille. Their curiosity and impatience were tangible.

Finally they swarmed forward, pressing up against him. Lucien struggled not to cry out. Hands poked and teased at his hair; fingers pinched at the fabric of his jacket. Guttural voices exchanged syllables and hisses. They wore hooded half-cloaks for the most part. Any trousers they owned had rotted away below the knee. Many of them were hunched, either with age or deformity, it was difficult to tell. Emaciated arms bore claw-like hands, broken nails blackened by the mire. Each one of the shadows was an echo of the Majordomo. Here a strong jaw. Another with thin and downturned lips. All of them had the Domo’s skeletal hands and kept their eyes hidden beneath cowls. The robes were a uniform ash-grey. Lucien wondered what else they shared with the Domo.

The prisoners’ interest in the newcomer waned. Lucien was left alone, the nimbus fading, the lantern oil nearly spent. Hope was extinguished, tiny increments of time slipping away. He’d told Rafaela’s father he’d find her. Or had he just dreamed that part? It was so very difficult to remember. The shadows cast by the grille above became indistinct and diffuse. The other prisoners congregated in small groups, finding patches of earth above the water. Others lurked in corners pawing and groping each other, consensually or otherwise.

‘Rafaela,’ he said again, his voice wavering. Around him the prisoners looked up and paused what they were doing.

‘Rafaela,’ he said again, weakly now, no more than a croak. Above the light dimmed further. The world grew dark.

‘Ella,’ he droned. And in his voice he heard the dreary monotone of the Majordomo himself. Turning down the novitiate had been a poor decision, he realised.

‘Ella,’ he whispered. He couldn’t remember why he hadn’t accepted the position. The Domo was involved in something he’d not cared for. If he’d become the Domo’s novice the girl in the madhouse would be safe. The girl in the madhouse. What was her name?

Her name.

Her name was Ra…

Above him the light winked out.

‘It was coming from this direction,’ said a voice. A tiny spark of hope kindled inside the Orfano. That voice. He knew that voice. Older than himself certainly, full of dependability.

‘I think he’s here, my lady, where they threw him,’ said the man. The lady, whoever she was, decided not to answer.

The water rippled and swirled around the Orfano – someone was coming closer. Tiny waves of scum and filth washed over him. He was still slumped down on his knees, jaw slack, idiot gaze staring blankly at the darkness.

‘Looks like he’s had a good mouthful or two of the water. We’ll have to hope it’s not permanent.’

The Orfano had heard that voice before but could not place it. It was a voice from his childhood. Something about cider? He couldn’t organise or focus his attention. His thoughts flapped and hopped like agitated birds, never settling.

‘Lucien?’

Lucien. That was a nice name. He wondered who it belonged to. With a name like that a man could be important and respected. A man like that might live in his own apartment and have fine swords crafted for him.

‘Lucien, my boy.’ Calloused hands grabbed his head and searched his scalp roughly.

‘Lucien, I know it’s you – you haven’t got any ears.’

He cried out in shock, then fell back in the water, away from the hands in the darkness.

‘My… my ears?’

‘You never had any, boy. You’re Lucien “Sinistro” di Fontein, and you haven’t got any ears. That’s why you grow your hair long, like me,’ said the voice from childhood.

Lucien breathed, with each intake of air he came back to himself.

‘I am… Lucien “Sinistro” di Fontein.’ He had lived in an apartment. He had owned finely crafted swords. Another breath. It was Golia that had set fire to the stables by accident, Viscount Contadino’s prize horse immolated. He’d not been trespassing in the graveyard, rather he’d been shown it by another outcast Orfano. He pushed himself to his feet. The Domo had thrown him down here. He was an exile, returned to Demesne to… He dragged in another shuddering breath. The building outside was called the
sanatorio
, the girl, Rafaela. Beautiful Rafaela. Taken by mistake, instead of her sister, just turned eighteen.

‘I am Lucien, although I don’t care too much for House Fontein these days.’

‘I’ll say,’ grunted the voice in the darkness.

‘Franco?’

‘Yes, it’s me. They threw me down here after the testing. After you refused to kill me. I thought Giancarlo would do for me himself, but you really shook him. Tell me, how long have I been down here?’

‘Two days, going on for three now.’ Lucien couldn’t see him, the darkness was total, but there were worse people to be locked up with. The farmer with the shoulder-length iron-grey hair. He owned a farm and a cider press, always had a kind word for the awkward Orfano who scampered and lurked at the House Contadino kitchens.

‘It’s good you’ve regained your wits, boy. The water does strange things down here,’ said Franco.

‘Is anyone else here with you?’

‘Anea is right beside me,’ said Franco, sounding pleased with himself. She was thrown in earlier. Don’t ask me how much earlier.’

‘Anea? Where?’

‘Right here, boy. She’s not in the habit of saying too much.’

A hand slipped into Lucien’s own, small but strong, the fingers long and clever. A body pressed against his in the darkness, then an arm slipped around his waist. The body was slight; the body was Anea. He felt a surge of relief pass through him and hugged her back.

‘You’re unharmed. I looked for you in the
sanatorio
. They have Rafaela in there.’

Her hand squeezed his in the darkness. She was alive, if only to starve to death in the oubliette, or be forced to drink the water and forget herself.

‘We’re the last of the Orfani now,’ murmured Lucien, ‘except for Golia, but he’s no more than Giancarlo’s hound. I don’t know what the Majordomo is planning, but I know I need to stop it.’

‘I admire your optimism,’ replied Franco.

‘I have to try. I can’t leave her in there.’

Anea hugged him closer. It wasn’t the embrace he’d shared with Rafaela, having more in common with the way he’d held Camelia, the way she’d held him when he was smaller.