The Fallen Blade: Act One of the Assassini (27 page)

“Well?” she asked.

“I studied with Lord Atilo.”

Desdaio sighed. “I know that. What did you study?”

“Ask him, my lady.”

“I’m asking you.” It was rare for her to frown. So rare her face looked wrong. Her nostrils flared and her lips thinned, lines appearing at the side of her mouth.

“My lady,” he said carefully. “I’m not allowed to tell you.”

“My lord Atilo said that?”

“Yes, my lady.” He’d told Tycho exactly what would happen if Desdaio discovered through him about the Assassini. Although that was something else Tycho was not allowed to say.

“Why are you here?” Desdaio asked.

Tycho was about to say, “You ordered me,” when he realised this was not what she meant. “Because I can’t leave.”

“You could run away,” she said, as if discussing a game. “Steal a boat and row to the mainland. Or escape on a ship.” Glancing towards a window, she said, “There are always ships.”

“Water hurts me.”

“Hurts?”

“It tried to kill me once. And I have other reasons.”

“Really,” Desdaio said. “What are they?”

“I’m looking for a girl…”

Laughing, Desdaio reached to cut cheese and tear a loaf to pieces. When she filled two glasses with wine from a jug in front of her, Tycho realised she intended to feed him. “My lady, I’ve eaten already.”

Her glance was sharp. “Amelia says not.”

Ah yes, Amelia of the silver braids and the double life. They were strangers to each other these days, as Amelia had said they must be.

“I ate with Lord Atilo, my lady.”

“Drink, then. Drink, and tell me your life. Who are your family? Where did you live before this? I want to know these things…”

“My lady, I’m a slave.” Tycho wondered if she knew he’d used a whole fifth of his precious pot of Dr. Crow’s ointment protecting himself from the weak sunset dribbling through her window. Of course not. And she knew next to nothing of her husband-to-be’s life, even less about his training methods.

Masters beat servants, journeymen beat apprentices; such was the nature of training. Atilo had shown him the whip he used to beat Amelia and Iacopo. Then the whip he would use on Tycho. This was leather and silver wire. The single lash he’d slashed into Tycho’s naked back that morning made Tycho piss himself with agony.

“I know all about Amelia,” Desdaio said brightly.

What could she know? He wondered how close it was to the truth. Reaching absent-mindedly for a glass, he looked up to find Desdaio smiling. She tapped the double seat in which she sat.

“Come here. And tell me all.”

The rule,
don’t show what you feel
; had kept him alive. But with Desdaio the temptation to tell her how he found himself here was overwhelming. And she might know who the girl in the basilica was.

That would be worth discovering.

“I don’t know my name,” Tycho said. “Not my real name. And what I remember changes. But I know I was born in a rotting town. With little food in summer and less in winter. Beyond the walls lived demons. Inside, a crippled lord and his drunken brother, their guards, their women and us. Their slaves.”

“You were a slave before?”

“I believe so… Until Duchess Alexa trapped me this may be the only time I’ve been free.”

“What does Alexa have to do with this?” A sudden bleakness wintered in Desdaio’s eyes.

“I was born a slave,” Tycho said quickly. “And became a dog. That much I’ve remembered.”

His words did what he wanted. The trouble fled her eyes. She smiled, laughed, wondered if he was serious and smiled again. “A dog?”

“A wolf dog… Wolf dogs kill wolves.”

Desdaio leant closer. The fire was warm, her face flushed. Leaning forward shifted her breasts under silk. Tycho watched them try to overspill the embroidered scoop of her gown. “How many wolves did you kill?”

“It’s hard to remember… I mean it,” he added, when Desdaio rolled her eyes. “I was… ill, when I arrived here. Remembering is hard.”

“Maybe you simply want to forget?”

“That’s possible.”

Atilo was away on Council business, Iacopo with him. Amelia? Who knew where she was? Fighting Nicoletti, probably. The cook was up in her kitchen, glad to have it to herself. There were only three people in the whole of Ca’ il Mauros, and one of those was pounding dough a floor above.

“Tell me about the wolves,” Desdaio said impatiently.

*

Lord Eric’s wolf dog was old, its temper erratic. Tycho remembered that much. And in remembering this, remembered more…

Since there were no sheep left, owning a wolf dog was pointless. But the lords of Bjornvin arrived with wolf dogs and sheep, not to mention cattle, horses and slaves and their brats. All the things needed to settle a new land. Lessons had been learnt from earlier colonies. The lesson from Iceland was that, if you want families to come, don’t name it after the cold. So Greenland, which had far more claim to be
Iceland
than that country ever did, was named to sound welcoming.

Vineland had vines. It had green fields and clear streams and less harsh winters than either Greenland or Iceland, for all its winters turned brutal in later years. But after Greenland no one trusted settlers. So the Vikings and their families who should have come never did. And the founding families slowly lost land and the will to fight the wilderness. Bjornvin was the last town. When it fell, and no one but Lord Eric and his cousin Leif doubted it would, Vineland would be no more.

This is what the thralls whispered.

Silent and watchful, silver-haired even as a child, Tycho grew up among truths that couldn’t be said. Lord Eric was unable to father children but his bard still sang of glorious generations to come. Lord Leif fought drunk, because fear made him vomit when sober. But poems celebrated his battles with the Skaelingar…

“The wolves,” Desdaio demanded.

“First the wolf dog. Which was old, its temper erratic…” Realising he should have started somewhere else, Tycho stopped. “First me. A thrall the others avoided. For the first seven years I ran naked. I did so because my mother hated me too much to clothe me. At least, I thought she was my mother. Maybe she hoped the cold would kill me.”

It almost had. One winter he’d been saved by a drunken house carl who staggered from the great hall, found Tycho curled in a
little ball by an outhouse door locked against him, and thought it funny to piss on a sleeping child. A dozen other house carls staggered out to join the fun. He woke crusted in yellow slush and heaped with snow where they’d buried him. But he woke. Having been saved by the casual contempt of others.

He was three at the time.

The memory hurt less now Tycho knew Withered Arm wasn’t his mother. Back then, he believed if she hated him the fault was his. And his brothers followed her lead. Afrior, though, never hated him. She saved his life.

Half starved, his ribs sticks and hair so filthy house carls stopped calling him silver hair and simply started calling him
you
,
thing
,
shitface
, he’d been combing through a rubbish pile, searching for anything edible, food being scarcer than ever, when Afrior screamed his name. Looking up, he saw his brothers grinning.

The wolf dog’s chain was fixed to its post. The collar was fixed to the chain. The wolf dog wasn’t fixed to its collar. In that split second, Tycho understood what his brothers’ look meant. He dropped as the beast leapt from behind him, splattered by the creature’s drool as it passed overhead. Scrambling up, he ran. Cunning and hatred made him head straight for his brothers, who scattered. The wolf dog went after one of them instead.

Grabbing Afrior, he threw her through a gate.

The gate was huge, at least for him. But he pushed it shut anyway, heels dug into the dirt, expecting at any time to hear snarling behind him and feel jaws close on his hip. When he looked round, the dog had his eldest brother cornered by the log pile. The best anyone could say for what came next was that it was quick. Leaping, the beast bit the boy’s neck to bring him down, and ripped out his throat.

Throwing a stone at the dog was stupid. His other brother did it anyway.

And the beast would probably have killed again if Tycho—
aged seven, and naked—hadn’t grabbed a pottery shard from the rubbish and intercepted the beast. He didn’t do it to save his brother. He did it because Lord Eric was back from hunting, and Afrior had entered the gate behind him.

Driving the shard between the beast’s teeth, Tycho’s blow cut into its jaws until his shard hit bone with a jolt. The dog tried to bite but its jaw muscles were severed and the shard stopped its teeth from closing.

“You, step back…” Lord Eric’s shout brought all noise to a halt.

He should have obeyed. He should have let go of the shard, leaving it lodged in the dog’s jaws, and stepped back. Instead, he pulled the shard free and slashed it hard across the beast’s throat, feeling hair drag and flesh open. It was blind luck that he found an artery and bled the dog out.

Grabbing the boy’s shard, Lord Eric looked at it.

It was a quarter of a broken bowl, with the bowl’s rim making a handle and the break and glaze creating a razor edge. Even so, the shard had chipped where it crunched into the bones of the wolf dog’s jaw. For a moment, it looked as if Lord Eric would use it on him. Instead, he pointed at the collar in the dirt.

“Fetch that,” he ordered.

The boy did so.

“Who undid this?” Lord Eric demanded, his face hard and his eyes furious. Afrior glanced at her middle brother, and the boy saw Tycho notice.

“My brother did,” the boy said, pointing to the corpse by the log pile.

Lord Eric grunted.

When Withered Arm arrived she began keening for her eldest son, until the master glared at her and she felling into hiccupping silence and swallowed sobs instead. The look she shot Tycho was brutal.

“This is your boy?” said Lord Eric, pointing at him.

She stayed silent until the Viking grabbed her and twisted her face to look into his. “When I ask you a question you answer.” His voice was quiet and dangerous. “Is he your son?”

“Yes, my lord.”

There was something unnerving in Lord Eric’s gaze. When he released her face, Withered Arm stared at the ground.

“Well,” Lord Eric said, buckling the collar round Tycho’s neck. “Now he’s my wolf dog…”

“And what happened to Afrior?” Desdaio asked.

She looked at Tycho’s drained face and his barely drunk glass of wine. When she touched his hand, he flinched. “Another time,” she agreed. “You can tell me about it another time.” Hesitating on the edge of saying something, she shrugged. “I think you’re better off here. Such things could never happen.”

Remembering Atilo’s silver whip, his warning of what would happen if Tycho was ever sent to a Venetian prison, and the Mamluk girl nailed to a tree in the
fondak
garden, Tycho kept his silence. On the way out, he suggested Desdaio lock him back in and not tell Atilo they’d talked. It would upset him.

Tycho took back to his cellar the thought that Atilo now owed him two lives: Rosalyn’s, and the one he’d just refused to take.

There were a dozen pig shambles in Venice. The one Tycho was delivered to by Amelia on a hot summer night was on the city’s northern edge; ten minutes west of della Misericordia and almost opposite the island of San Michele. Like all slaughterhouses it was as far away from human habitation as possible. Which translated as far away as possible from anyone rich.

So it stood on the lagoon’s edge, with a gently sloping floor that let the bricks be sluiced and the filth be washed into the sea. Although little was left after butchering. Outside, in a stinking pen, pigs milled and snuffled and slopped up to their knees in their own dirt, or the dirt of meat before them. They were jointed according to Guild rules; not to be sold within twenty-four hours of slaughter or longer than ten days after. Their blood, guts and viscera made sausages. The skin became leather, and the hooves and long bones, once split for their marrow, boiled down to glue.

Even individual vertebra provided soup. The method used by Master Robusta involving two cuts, one either side of the backbone, instead of the more common single cut that split the spine down the middle.

Most of the pork was salted and sold to ships moored in the
Bacino di San Marco, since they needed to revictua for their journeys south. The better cuts ended up on stalls in the Rialto market, and pork sausages fed the poor across the city. Master Robusta’s place stank. It was a shambles after all. But it stank no worse than other slaughterhouses and smelt far better than the tanneries. And, unlike the iron foundries to the west, it was unlikely to kill you with air poison while you slept.

“What brings you back here…?”

Amelia jerked her thumb at Tycho, scowling as Master Robusta grinned at his silvery braids and white skin. “Don’t say it.”

“You have a letter?”

She gave him Atilo’s note, waiting while he broke its seal, read the contents and held the single sheet of paper over a flame, letting it burn to his fingers before letting go and watching embers dance away.