The Exiled Blade (The Assassini)

28





They met in the corridor with the window seat and sat together, saying little and staring at an old tapestry of a unicorn resting its head on the lap of a virgin. It had looked so sweet when she was a girl. Now Giulietta knew what happened to the Maid, and what happened to the unicorn, too. It was killed, and its horn sawn off and sold. Her cousin, who sat beside her turning a letter over in his hands, had half a dozen unicorn horns in his cabinet of curiosities. She’d reached her first bleed before it occurred to her how sad that was.

A unicorn tapestry, a brazier against the cold, mice behind the panelling and a harpsichord untouched since Frederick last played it. Giulietta wished she’d learnt to play properly, but she’d never got beyond her scales and was too embarrassed and too sad to play, so she sat and waited.

Marco hadn’t exactly summoned her; more sent a note saying he was sure she knew there was a Council meeting that afternoon, and it would be kind if she could spare him a few minutes first. It was the gentleness of his rebuke that shocked her out of her misery. So she’d splashed cold water on her face, changed her clothes, brushed her hair for the first time in a week and gone to find him.

She almost wished she hadn’t.

Lady Giulietta was now Regent, she knew she was Regent, it was just . . . Oh God, it was just what, you idiot? You thought you wouldn’t have to take the meeting? You thought you’d just sit in your room issuing orders and sulking? You really thought they’d let Marco take the meeting himself?

“I’m sorry,” she said.

Marco shrugged her apology away. “You should r-read this.”

She expected the letter to be from his mother. Instead it was from the long-dead Marco Polo, il Millioni himself. The words were simple. The more Millioni sat on the throne of Venice the more inevitable it would seem. “You hold the throne because the people believe you hold the throne. Without this belief you have no throne to hold.”

“Like f-fire-eaters,” Marco said.

“Like . . .?” Giulietta was puzzled.

“We think fire-eating’s d-dangerous and throw them coins for their bravery. How many dead fire-eaters have you h-heard about?”

“None,” she admitted honestly.

“Exactly,” he said. “Fishermen drown every w-week but who’s impressed by fishermen? We b-buy their fish. Do we throw them coins for their b-bravery? Maybe we should.” Marco smiled. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s g-get this over.”

It was hard to know what outraged Lord Bribanzo most. That Lady Giulietta gave permission for the emperor’s bastard to stand at the back of a meeting of the Council of Ten or that she was the new Regent and in a position to make that decision. She suspected he didn’t know himself.

For once Marco sat upright and paid attention. Everyone in the room noticed this. Her cousin walked a tricky line between acting his old idiot and not admitting he’d always been sane. With Alonzo banished and his mother dead, Giulietta knew he itched to take control of the meeting and wished she knew what he would do differently.

The news from the world outside was worrying. Alonzo had offered homage to the Byzantine Empire in return for their emperor’s recognition of his claim to be duke of Venice, prince of Serenissima and duke of Montenegro. The tensions inside the city following Alexa’s murder were worse.

“My lords . . .”

“This is unworkable.” Bribanzo barely bothered to pretend he was addressing the throne. “With respect, Lady Giulietta is barely old enough to know her own mind never mind decide for others.”

Lady Giulietta knew her own thoughts well enough. Anyone who began with with respect was being rude; and being rude to her, and ignoring Marco, showed a worrying confidence on his part. She wondered how many others felt the same.

“W-what are you s-suggesting?”

Trust her cousin to cut to the heart of things.

Lord Bribanzo looked round the small chamber. Alonzo’s throne stood empty, Lord Atilo’s chair had not been filled on his death, and two other chairs were also empty, their owners apparently too ill to attend. Those two would go along with whatever the majority decided but wanted to avoid the taint of having decided themselves.

“My lords, Venice needs to be strong.”

Here it comes, thought Giulietta, digging her nails hard into the palms of her hands. The pain made her focus and she rested her hands carefully on her knees. She would not show anger or fear – that much she’d learnt from Aunt Alexa. The Regent’s job was to appear impassive and be above common weakness. Bribanzo was rich, and until the death of his daughter Desdaio he’d been ambitious, but he was gutless. What he wanted fought with his cowardice until even the mildest Council member began to look irritated by his hesitation. Leaning forward, Giulietta said, “My lord Bribanzo. You had something to say?”

At the back of the room, Frederick smiled. He must have realised she was pretending to be her aunt. Bribanzo’s fat face hardened.

“We need a strong duke . . .” That was close to treason unless he trod carefully. It turned out he’d chosen his steps with extreme care. From the nodding heads around Bribanzo, he’d talked this through with friends, unless they simply agreed, which was more worrying still.

“Is this leading somewhere?”

“Yes, my lady. You now act for Duke Marco? Is that right?”

Lady Giulietta nodded. That was a simple way of looking at her responsibilities, but not wrong. She made decisions because Marco was unable to make them for himself, and when she gave orders they were in his name.

“Then you can abdicate on his behalf.”

“Why would I do that . . .?”

Lord Bribanzo sat back smugly, leaving Giulietta furious, mostly with herself. What was the use of pretending to be Aunt Alexa if she stopped at the critical point? She should have held her peace, been seen to think carefully before she spoke. Bribanzo’s smile worried her.

“My lady,” he said. “Venice needs a strong head and experience. With respect . . . You are seventeen and the duke has neither a strong head nor experience in matters of state.”

“This is treason,” Giulietta said.

“Not at all, my lady. I’m suggesting you abdicate on his behalf and the Council approach Prince Alonzo and offer the throne once held by his brother. Everyone knows the prince is experienced.” A couple of the Council smirked.

Typical, she thought. At a time like this they’re thinking of his other conquests.

“W-we will t-think about it.”

Lady Giulietta turned, shocked at the words from beside her. Marco’s face was still and his eyes guarded. He could have been thinking about murder or the weather. That is how I should have been.

“This meeting is at an end,” she said firmly.

She saw Bribanzo glance at his friends and noted who they were. Lords Dolphini and Corte. Since Dolphini was now Alonzo’s father-in-law and this would make his daughter duchess of Venice that was scarcely a surprise; and Corte came from one of the oldest families in Venice, famous for its hatred of foreigners and the late duchess in particular. That put him on Alonzo’s side. Marco’s enemies were rich and established. She realised, a second later, they were her enemies, too.

“We r-risk civil w-war.” Marco said it the moment the door shut behind the last councillor. “The C-Castellani will side with m-my uncle. Possibly the N-Nicoletti too. He will carry m-most of the cittadini with a p-promise of lower t-taxes and freer t-trade. We’ll k-keep the nobles and stallholders.”

“Cousin,” Frederick said. “There’s another problem.” He was no more Marco’s cousin than Lady Giulietta’s. It was a politeness between princes. Marco smiled to say he was listening. Frederick could speak. “My father . . .”

“Y-yes,” Marco said. His voice dry. “I c-can imagine.”

Sigismund would never let the Basilius claim Venice. He would move against the Byzantine emperor, and the war Duchess Alexa had spent so long trying to prevent would happen anyway. Of course, if Leo ever inherited the Venetian throne then Sigismund would effectively gain Venice and the Basilius might feel compelled to react. But he was old and had yet to choose an heir, and, if Venice was lucky, his sons and grandsons would fight among themselves.

“Why did you say you’d think about abdicating?”

“To b-buy time, obviously.” He smiled. “So much is n-not what it seems. I’d have thought you both k-knew that by now.”

“You have a plan? Frederick asked.

“I have s-several.”