The Fallen Blade: Act One of the Assassini (31 page)

“That’s true?” Desdaio asked. She was blushing furiously. At the things he’d said about Afrior and the river, Tycho realised.

“It’s what I remember.”

“Does Atilo know?”

“No, my lady. He never asked.”

“You stepped into the flames of where you came from. To find yourself in my world?”

Tycho nodded.

Crossing herself, Desdaio scrambled to her feet and returned staggering under the weight of a leather-bound Bible. “This was my mother’s,” she said. “Take it from me. Use both hands.”

He did as she demanded. Watching her chew her lips.

“What did you think would happen?”

“I thought you’d go up in flames.”

“Why would I…?”

“If you were a demon you would catch fire. I thought…” She looked embarrassed. “It sounds as if you came from hell.”

“I thought
this
was hell,” Tycho told her truthfully. “When I first arrived. All these people crowded on to misty little islands. And the water here… In Bjornvin I’d swim when I could and it always made me happy. Here, simply crossing the canals sickens me. The air stinks of smoke and shit.”

“But you were starving. You said so. We have food here.”

“Some people have food here. And why shouldn’t there be food in hell for some. Do you think Satan lives in squalor?”

They sat in silence on a bench after that. Desdaio fed him wine and cake, which he barely drank and didn’t touch respectively. And, finally, she asked him where he went at night, on the occasions he accompanied my lord Atilo.

“Council meetings,” Tycho lied.

Dog days, full moons, his training kills. Tall scratches for men, shorter ones for women. A single dot for an infant, all that stood between Venice and an estate on the mainland, a dying count’s new grandson. The truth was scratched on his cellar wall. All of it, apart from Atilo’s visits to Duchess Alexa.

There were too many of those.

Nine deaths in total. Fewer than he expected. Lord Eric had killed more than that in a single battle. A dozen Skaelingar, their guts steaming and their eyes fresh for the crows. Almost all of Tycho’s kills had been clean. Atilo was impressed at first, worried later. More worried still when Tycho’s final kill in San Pietro di Castello proved so much bloodier than his previous eight.

During the year that Tycho trained Iacopo grew a beard. A soldier’s beard to make him look older, fiercer. He used masks less these days. No longer needing to hide his youthful softness in the company of others.

A tumbler of wine sat in front of him. The last of this year’s wages glinted on his chest. A steel breastplate in the Aragonese style. A scratch below its left armhole suggested its previous owner died in battle or was knifed in his sleep.

Iacopo wasn’t superstitious, and that sign of ill luck was enough to bring the armourer’s price down to something he could almost afford. Although it had taken a dagger borrowed from Atilo’s collection to seal the deal. The Schiavoni claimed the scratch was simply where the breastplate fell and the piece was worth double Iacopo’s final offer. But he spat on his hand and shook on it just the same.

“New?” someone asked.

Looking up, Iacopo saw Captain Roderigo. So he smiled modestly, and let the captain believe that if he wished. The last year had seen Venice split between Prince Alonzo and Duchess Alexa’s factions. Almost by accident, Roderigo found himself on
one side. And Atilo found himself on the other. Positions worsened after last week’s incident with T
m
r bin Taragay’s messenger.

A minor prince from T
m
r’s wife’s family, the Mongol refused to deliver his message to the Ten, talking only to the duchess and leaving immediately. No one knew what T
m
r’s message said. The duchess simply burnt it after reading and refused to say. So now, Prince Alonzo found himself trapped between caution and fury. Never a good place for someone like him to be.

“Captain.” Iacopo raised his glass. He saw no point in making unnecessary enemies. Life at Ca’ il Mauros was complicated enough. Lord Atilo and his betrothed keeping separate quarters. Everyone knew they would marry. No one knew when. Some said not until Atilo left the duchess’s bed. Others, that the Moor would be stupid to exchange vows if he had any chance of marrying Alexa instead.

And then there was the freak, with his strange spectacles, priest-coloured doublet and hateful silences. Tycho didn’t talk to Iacopo, he didn’t not talk to Iacopo. He barely noticed Iacopo’s existence. Desdaio and Amelia, on the other hand…

Iacopo sucked his teeth.

“Problems?” Captain Roderigo asked.

“Such is life,” Iacopo replied. Realising the captain was about to move on, he found his smile. “Let me buy you a drink, my lord.”

“It must be my turn.”

Iacopo looked surprised.

“After you won last year’s race. We drank at the Griffin behind St Bartholomew, remember?”

“How could I forget, my lord. I’m simply surprised you remembered yourself.” He’d overdone it. The captain was glancing round the tavern, not finding who he’d come to see, and framing reasons for refusing the offer. Iacopo could see it in his eyes. Although why a man like Captain Roderigo would bother to excuse himself to a servant like him…

Because that’s what he was, Iacopo thought bitterly.

A servant, for all he owned a breastplate and greaves and a sword. His training was secret, the tasks he performed for his master equally so. No one knew the secrets he carried. No one was allowed to know. There were days he found this harder to bear than others. “An honour to buy you a drink,” he said, forcing a smile. “An even bigger honour to leave you with a hangover.”

Captain Roderigo laughed.

“Who were you looking for, my lord?”

“My sergeant. He’s off duty but we have business tomorrow that needs discussing today.”

Iacopo nodded sagely.

He had an idea what that business might be and had sense enough to say nothing. Today was Maundy Thursday, one reason the tavern was full. Obviously enough, tomorrow was Good Friday, when the devout flogged themselves through the streets, and the rest avoided sex and gambling, and a long list of other vices the new patriarch had recently read from the pulpits.

It was to be the day of Tycho’s testing. Just as it had been the day of Iacopo’s testing. And Amelia’s, and all those who went before. All those who died nearly two years back in the slaughter at Cannaregio.

“Perhaps I will have a drink,” Captain Roderigo said.

“This might even be the real thing,” Iacopo said, wiping blood-like drops of wine from his beard. The tavern keeper claimed it was Barolo and it looked dark enough.

“I agree,” Roderigo said.

Iacopo had never tasted Barolo in his life.

“So,” Captain Roderigo said. “How are things with you?”

“Much the same. His lordship attends Council. Dotes on Lady Desdaio. Visits Duchess Alexa for advice.”

The captain grinned.

Iacopo thought he might.

“And how is Lady Desdaio?” Even if Iacopo hadn’t known the
captain for an ex-suitor, the careful nature of his question would have announced it.

“As sweet as ever.”

Roderigo took a sip of wine. “It’s none of my business, obviously. But what news of their marriage?”

“None I would know.”

“No,” Roderigo admitted. “I don’t suppose you would.” Holding his glass to the light, he examined the contents critically. “I’m not sure this is Barolo after all.” But he emptied it quickly enough. And Iacopo was careful to demand Barolo when he bought the next jug.

“Yes, my lord.”

Iacopo checked the tavern keeper wasn’t mocking him, but the man seemed serious enough. “Open a tab,” Atilo’s servant ordered. “I’ll send my man to settle tomorrow.”