The Exiled Blade (The Assassini)

24





The sound of Lady Giulietta’s tantrum brought Marco from his chamber to find Pietro crouched across her doorway. “Y-you shouldn’t be here.”

The boy scrambled to his feet. He was thin and tousled-haired, still a child. Better fed, however, than when Marco first spared his life. Finding his courage, the boy said, “Lord Tycho . . .”

“Said you s-should l-look after her?”

Tycho’s page nodded.

“Then, of c-course, you m-must.”

Turning the corner into this conversation, Duchess Alexa smiled. It was exactly what she expected Marco to say. He seemed so much clearer about what was going on around him since his uncle had gone. It would be terrible to discover Marco’s idiocy . . .

I’m not even going to finish that thought. Alexa had always prided herself on facing difficult truths head on, but tonight was different. Neither her son nor Pietro knew how different, and how could she tell them? “What is he doing here?” she demanded.

The page choked on his answer.

“H-he’s with me,” said Marco, earning a glance so grateful Alexa knew the duke had a follower for life.

“In that case . . .” Alexa ruffled the child’s hair.

The boy would remember that, too. No matter how old he grew or what he became in later life he would remember the night the duke of Venice lied for him, and the duke’s fearsome mother ruffled his hair. Of such tiny memories were lives made.

The night was so cold that frost bloomed inside the glass, and all the fire did was fill the corridor with smoke and make their clothes smell.

“You must to bed,” she told Marco. “Tomorrow will be a hard day, take my word for it.” Leaning forward, she kissed him, whispering sorry as her mouth touched his ear. Let him decide what for. Going to Alonzo’s bed had been a mistake. Not realising Alonzo would take the act as proof they’d formed an alliance and kill her husband was a worse one.

“I’m glad you’re getting better.”

Marco’s eyes went huge as he considered this. His father had been a simple man. His nickname the Just a tribute to his ability to see everything as black or white. She doubted her son had ever seen the world in anything except complex shades of grey. She’d come to realise he’d seen too much.

“Bed now,” she insisted.

Leaning forward, he kissed her back. He was intuitive enough to know something was wrong and discreet enough not to ask what, although he would know soon enough. Sighing, Alexa watched her son return to his room, humming some ditty about icy hearts and frosted thighs. It was a plea to reluctant maids to give what they held dear, since the world was ending and what use were honour and virginity now . . . Half the young men in the city were singing it. Where did he learn these things given that some days he barely left his room?

“Sit by the window,” she told the boy.

The first time Alexa knocked Giulietta didn’t hear. At least, her sobbing didn’t stop or her sniffing change pitch. So Alexa knocked harder and heard Giulietta groan, “Go away.”

She was seventeen, Alexa reminded herself. At seventeen, she’d been as unhappy as this, that was the truth of it. Some girls were born happy and remained so through their storm years – the late Lady Desdaio, for example – but Alexa had not been one of them and neither was her niece.

“Giulietta . . .”

“I said go away.”

At which Alexa knocked hard enough to make her knuckles hurt, and loudly enough to have two guards come running. In a final act of kindness she decided to give them their lives, although she doubted they’d understand this was what she’d done or believe it of her. “Leave,” she said. “Do not return.”

They hesitated.

“Did you hear me?”

The men glanced at each other, some thought passing in a flicker, and they bowed, leaving quickly and not glancing back. They would report her order to their sergeant who would wake their lieutenant, who would wake Captain Weimer, who now commanded the palace guard. That would take time, which was good because she needed time. Only a little of it to be sure, because that was all she had left anyway. Just enough to do what needed to be done. Knocking harder, Alexa heard sudden silence and imagined Giulietta was wondering if she dared tell her aunt to go away a third time.

Alexa was the duchess. Sole Regent now Alonzo was gone.

When the bolt on the door shot back, Alexa felt almost sorry that her niece had surrendered so easily. Childhood obedience was a hard habit to break and one she would need to break if she was to rule well. Being impressed because people were older, because they were male, because they were impressed with themselves made a bad foundation for choosing friends and a worse one for choosing advisers. Her niece would be surrounded with flatterers. Alexa just wished there was a way to make the next few days easier for the young woman now opening her door, the scowl on her face sulky enough to suit a twelve-year-old.

“May I come in?”

Giulietta looked surprised.

So Alexa waited until her niece stepped back, opened the door a little further and waved her aunt inside. A brazier burnt in the corner, and one window was wide open. She knew she should say something about wasting coal but couldn’t bring herself to. Giulietta would discover how little was left in her own time.

“Are you all right?” Giulietta said.

Alexa smiled sadly. “I should be asking you that but I already know the answer.” Reaching forward, she wiped a half-dried tear from Giulietta’s face. “What did Frederick say to you?”

“How do you know it was Frederick?”

“Who else would it be?”

“He said that Tycho had offered his loyalty to Uncle Alonzo. To Uncle Alonzo. How could Frederick even imagine . . . He said he’d offered him the Blade.”

“It’s true.”

Lady Giulietta froze.

“I’ve had those reports, too.” The duchess hesitated, torn between being lying and the truth, between being harsh and being kind. She was happy to lie on matters of state but tried not to lie to her own family unless necessary. Who knew what was kind where Giulietta was concerned? Her pretty if vapid mother killed, her father a monster. Her late husband only happy to bed boys. As for her would-be second husband, he was another problem altogether. And then there was Frederick.

She saw no problem with Giulietta being in love with two people at once. Men did that all the time. She’d loved Marco, and loved Lord Atilo. The Regent had been a mistake. Her going to his bed a simple attempt to protect her son. Looking up, the duchess realised her niece was still waiting for her to speak. “Your uncle and Tycho met in a forest near the Red Cathedral.”

“You knew?” Giulietta looked as if she’d been slapped.

“Look at strange objects from all sides before deciding what they are.”

“That was one of my uncle’s sayings.” She meant Marco the Just.

“Exactly. Tycho might have his reasons.”

“Oh, he’s got his reasons all right. He leaves without telling me and then I discover he’s changed sides. I’m never going to get Leo back.”

“Listen to me . . .” Alexa’s voice was so sharp Giulietta stiffened and Alexa sighed. This is impossible . . . I’ve made her too like me, Alexa realised. Saying goodbye to Marco had been simple. A kiss, a sorry, he’d know she’d loved him. In the red-haired girl standing in front of her, Alexa saw herself. Her hair was the wrong colour, her skin too olive, her eyes had those strange Western folds. She was scrawny where Alexa had been lithe, her hips sharp against her nightgown, but staring from those pale eyes . . . She’d proved, to her own satisfaction, it was who brought the child up, not who the parents were, that mattered.

“I have always loved you,” Alexa said.

Giulietta looked stunned.

“As much as if you were my own daughter. If I could have made you my daughter I would have done. Marco wouldn’t allow it.” She smiled sourly. “He said it would turn the Arsenalotti and the Nicoletti against you. They would say it was because I wanted to train you in poisons and witchcraft.”

Wide eyes watched Alexa.

Oh, you’ll remember this night. For the wrong reasons at first, and later, if Alexa was lucky, for the right ones. That would make a difference in the years to come. She needed the girl to be a good Regent, to continue doing the things Alexa had always done; smoothing the way to treaties and removing obstacles when necessary. So many threads for Alexa to tie off, so little time left for tying.

“You were a difficult child.”

Giulietta smiled.

“That you’re proud of it is just one of the reasons you remind me of me.” Yes, she thought that would surprise Giulietta. “I’ve tried to teach you what you need to know.”

“Tycho asked if you’d trained me.”

“In what?”

Giulietta coloured. “I thought he meant the arts of love. They say . . .”

“Of course they do.” Alexa was meant to have kept the late duke enslaved and in her power with unspeakable skills. As if a man like Marco couldn’t simply fall in love with his wife once the wedding and bedding were done. Marco could recognise good advice, even when it came from a woman and a foreigner. “What did he mean?”

“Shielding my thoughts, I think.”

“Of course I taught you,” Alexa said. “How could you survive in this cesspit if you couldn’t shield your thoughts? How could anyone survive? Some lessons you don’t learn by sitting at a desk with books in front of you. In fact, most lessons that matter you don’t learn like that.” Leaning forward, Alexa kissed her niece on both cheeks and then on the forehead. “Sleep well, my dear.”

“And you,” Giulietta said.

“I intend to . . .”

The corridor outside was empty of guards so Alexa guessed the sergeant was still trying to wake the lieutenant or the lieutenant wake the captain. Either way, no one saw her climb the stairs to where Tycho’s page waited by her study door. “What’s your name again?”

“Pietro, my lady.”

“Stay there.” Vanishing inside, Alexa returned with a lizard the height of a small cat, although longer. The boy’s eyes widened as the creature turned its baleful orange gaze on him and ruffled its neck frill in irritation. A second later, it spread leathery wings and Pietro gasped. “He’s just showing off,” said Alexa, as she put the dragonet into the boy’s arms. “You’ll find he does that a lot. Now, touch your forehead to his.”

The boy shook his head.

“Pietro . . .”

He flushed, torn between two fears.

“It’s how they make friends,” she said, which was close to the truth in that it wasn’t exactly a lie, more a massive simplification. “Do it now.”

The boy put his head to the dragon’s and flinched.

“His name’s dracul, which means little dragon in my mother’s language. He’s yours,” she added. “Tell Duke Marco I said that. He’s yours to keep.” She ushered the page along the corridor and told him to sit with the dragonet in the window seat overlooking the Molo. “If anybody asks you have orders from me to sit there. In a while dracul will grow restless and want to fly. You will wait for his return.”

“Will he want to fly every night?”

She smiled at his mixture of wonder and worry. “Only tonight,” she promised. “He has one last job for me. After that he belongs only to you.” She patted the boy’s shoulder, scratched dracul under his chin and left them there. How old was he? Nine, ten . . .? She doubted the boy was eleven. With those born into poverty it was hard to tell. Old enough to be a reliable witness, though. And she’d made him invaluable; she hoped Lord Tycho appreciated the gesture. Pietro would become the duke’s eyes for as long as the dragonet lived, and they lived for a very long time. He would be the perfect spy.

It was time, or as close as made no difference.

Afraid? Of course she was. Who wouldn’t be? Alexa poured rainwater from a silver jug into her jade bowl with as much care and solemnity as if conducting a final tea ceremony, and she was proud of how little her fingers shook and how steadily she poured. Closing her eyes, she concentrated on what she wanted to see, pinned the figure in her mind and waited. It was a while before she heard the scratch of a knife at her window.

“Come in,” she said. “It’s unlocked.”