- Book info
- Sample
- Media
- Author updates
- Lists
Synopsis
As the Byzantine and German emperors plot war, Venice's future rests in the hands of three unwilling individuals:
The newly knighted Sir Tycho. He defeated the Mamluk navy but he cannot make the woman he loves love him back. Tortured by secrets, afraid of the daylight, he sees no reason to save a city he hates.
The grieving Lady Giulietta. Virgin. Mother. Widow. All she wants is to retire from the poisonous world of the Venetian court to mourn her husband in peace. But her duty is to Venice: both emperors want her hand in marriage and an alliance with Europe's richest city. She must choose, knowing that whichever suitor she rejects will become Venice's bitterest enemy.
Lastly, a naked, mud-strewn girl who crawls from a paupers' grave on an island in the Venetian lagoon and begins by killing the men who buried her.
Between them, they will set the course of history.
Praise for The Fallen Blade:
"Grimwood creates a fascinating world and involving characters - most importantly, he makes us want to read the next two volumes" -- Independent
"Brings 15th Century Venice to luminous life . . . the writing is elegant, the dialogue razor sharp, the characters economically but well drawn, the action unrelenting" -- SciFi Now
Release date: March 26, 2012
Publisher: Orbit
Print pages: 464
* BingeBooks earns revenue from qualifying purchases as an Amazon Associate as well as from other retail partners.
Reader buzz
Please log in to recommend or discuss...
Author updates
Close
The Outcast Blade
Jon Courtenay Grimwood
Tycho, a seventeen-year-old boy with strange hungers
Marco IV, known as Marco the Simpleton, duke of Venice and Prince of Serenissima
Lady Giulietta di Millioni, his seventeen-year-old cousin, widow of Prince Leopold, mother of Leo. Ran away from Venice and is now returning
Duchess Alexa, the late duke’s widow, mother to Marco IV. A Mongol princess in her own right. She hates…
Prince Alonzo, Regent of Venice, who wants the throne
Lady Eleanor, Giulietta’s young cousin and lady-in-waiting
Marco III, known as Marco the Just. The late lamented duke of Venice, elder brother of Alonzo, godfather of Lady Giulietta and the ghost at every feast
Atilo il Mauros, once adviser to the late Marco III, and head of Venice’s secret assassins. Alexa’s lover and long-term supporter. Engaged to Lady Desdaio, daughter of…
Lord Bribanzo, member of the Council of Ten, the inner council that rules Venice. One of the richest men in the city, Bribanzo sides with Alonzo
Prince Leopold zum Bas Friedland. Now dead. Until lately leader of the krieghund, Emperor Sigismund’s werewolf shock troops. (His brother Frederick is the German emperor’s only remaining son)
Dr Hightown Crow, alchemist, astrologer and anatomist to the duke. Using a goose quill he inseminated Giulietta with Alonzo’s seed, leaving her with child
A’rial, the Duchess Alexa’s stregoi (her pet witch)
Iacopo, Atilo’s servant and member of the Assassini
Amelia, a Nubian slave and member of the Assassini
Pietro, an ex-street child, Assassini apprentice and sister to Rosalyn (now dead and buried on Pauper Island)
Lord Roderigo, Captain of the Dogana, Alonzo’s ally
Temujin, his half-Mongol sergeant
Sigismund, Holy Roman Emperor, King of Germany, Hungary and Croatia. Wants to add Lombardy and Venice to that list
John V Palaiologos, the Basilius, ruler of the Byzantine Empire (known as the Eastern Roman Empire), also wants Venice. He barely admits Sigismund is an emperor at all
Tamburlaine, Khan of Khans, ruler of the Mongols and newly created emperor of China. The most powerful man in the world and a distant cousin to Duchess Alexa. He regards Europe as a minor irritation
Incense filled the air inside Hagia Sophia, the largest and most famous cathedral in the world. Beneath its huge dome, small boys scattered rose petals on thousand-year-old marble mosaics, which would need scrubbing before nightfall to remove the stain.
Ahead of the shambling figure of John V Palaiologos – God’s ruler on Earth, Basilius of the Byzantine Empire – walked his cross bearer, carrying a huge crucifix with an icon of Christ in its centre. Had the crucifix been solid it would have been impossible to lift. But it was made from beaten silver, chased and fretted and hammered into shape over a light wooden frame.
Under the icon was a piece of the True Cross. There were a thousand such relics but the patriarch of Constantinople had judged this one real.
As the emperor approached, his courtiers fell to their knees.
The mind of the Basilius was old and as tired as his body; and his body ached on waking and hurt worse in the approach to sleep. He might claim his growing hatred of his empire came from a simple wish to find himself in the company of God. In his heart the Basilius knew he was tired of life.
He’d inherited the throne at nine, his German mother having pawned the imperial crown for 300,000 Venetian ducats two years before he was born. It was a miracle he survived his childhood. That only happened because he was more valuable alive than dead. At the age of seventeen – exhausted by uncertainty – he ordered the slaughter of both Regents, their staff and households. The coup was quick, brutal and performed by a tiny group of the imperial guard who’d grown disgusted by the empire’s chaos.
A revolt by the cousin of a Regent ended brutally. The army was purged of untrustworthy generals and the civil service reordered. Wealth found in the strongrooms of the Regents and the treasury master was returned to the treasury and taxes lowered. An action that brought John V Palaiologos the loyalty of Constantinople’s merchants. It was the first time taxes had been lowered in fifty years.
The new emperor watched and learnt. He identified his friends and his enemies, and those who pretended for whatever reason to be one when they were really the other. At the age of twenty-two, he slaughtered the son of the Seljuk king at Cinbi, after Prince Suleyman and thirty-nine of his father’s knights crossed the Hellespont in boats hired from Genoese merchants.
Having ordered the massacre of every family from Genoa in Constantinople, the Basilius led an attack on Sulyman’s father. The loss of lands, his sons and most of his army rendered King Orthan so desolate he sued for peace.
In the years that followed, the Byzantine emperor reconquered provinces thought lost for ever. Of course, if the Mamluks had not hated the Seljuks the outcome might have been different. Those were thoughts wise historians kept to themselves.
And so courtiers wearing armour whose design was a thousand years old knelt on mosaics even older and averted their eyes.
“Andronikos…”
The emperor’s mage stepped forward.
He was tall and thin, wearing simple robes that managed to look more striking than the gold-embroidered tunics of the governors, independent princes and courtiers around him. Many men in the East claimed to be mages. A few were charlatans, most could do simple magic, produce fire, read minds, rid houses of troublesome spirits. A handful could see the future as it would happen. Andronikos could see all futures, weigh them and make fate’s dice fall one way rather than another. The man had ridden at the emperor’s right hand the night they killed Suleyman Pasha and changed the tides of history.
“Majesty.” Bowing low, Andronikos adjusted his robe and struggled to stand. His bones were old and enough of them had been broken in battle to carry their ache into later life.
“What have you learnt?”
The mage ran through the city’s rumours, the assassinations and assignations, secret raptures and rapines. The Mithraic cult was gaining in strength. A slaughtered white bull had been found by the river. A Seljuk princeling had arrived in the city planning the Basilius’s death. There was always a Seljuk princeling planning the emperor’s death and the emperor suspected the Seljuk king used it as a cynical way to rid himself of troublesome younger sons.
“And Venice?”
Andronikos drew together his fingers.
“No need for masking spells. No one will hear us.” The emperor was right, of course. The chanting of plainsong and rustle of robes, the squeak of fans swinging overhead and the gasps of the slaves who dragged the ropes that worked the fans created their own masking spell.
“Good news and bad news…”
The emperor waited. He was used to men starting sentences and then hesitating to check if he wished to listen to the rest. Andronikos should be above such behaviour; but the emperor had once jailed him for speaking out of turn. Jailed him, confiscated his estates, co-opted his eldest son into the army and sent the boy south to die. The mage had been more cautious in his opinions since.
After a life of simplifying politics and hardening his empire’s boundaries, increasing trade, securing alliances and forging treaties that would last – all the while pretending to be interested only in God – John V Palaiologos had let the Mamluks transport a caged demon through his lands a year ago in return for the renewal of a minor treaty.
Wolf-grey-haired and white-skinned, the demon was kept captive in a cage with silver bars. That it could travel only at night should have warned him this was a bad idea. And though the emperor wouldn’t dream of admitting it, Andronikos had been right to advise against the Mamluk plan.
Only the fear of standing before the recording angel and being called to account for his sins stopped the Basilius from having the sycophants who’d agreed it was a good idea slaughtered.
Sacred checks and balances, his confessor said. They kept the scales almost level. If the world lost those it would be unbearable.
“Lady Giulietta…” Andronikos’s voice was carefully neutral.
These days the emperor called his granddaughters by their mothers’ names and his great-grandsons by the names of their fathers. Occasionally he called his librarian by the name of a slave who’d filled the post thirty years before. That was one advantage of surrounding himself with old men like Andronikos. The Basilius knew who they were. His mind would never decide they were someone else. He fought to remember the girl and failed.
“Well?” he said crossly.
“The late duke of Venice’s niece.”
“Zoë’s daughter? How is Zoë?”
“She was murdered by Republicans, majesty.”
“Ahh…” The emperor considered this. Decided he probably remembered that. And remembered something else. “Zoë married one of my nephews? Is that right?”
“Not a happy marriage.”
“Ahh… What about this daughter?”
“Her husband died in the recent battle off Cyprus.”
“We’ve discussed this, haven’t we?”
The mage nodded and kept his face impassive. “There’s a child,” he added. “And rumours about its parentage. We’ve touched on that, too.”
“The husband recognised it?”
“Yes, majesty. He named it his heir.”
“That’s all that matters.” Enough noble families had used natural sons or adopted children to continue their lines; it was an ancient Roman tradition, and since the Basilius was in a direct line from the Caesars, why would Andronikos expect him to be troubled by that? “Cut to the core.”
The emperor’s mage took a deep breath.
“Her husband was Sigismund’s favourite bastard…”
Sigismund was the German emperor… Well, technically he was the Holy Roman Emperor, King of Germany, Hungary and half a dozen other places of equal unimportance.
“And this matters why?”
“Majesty. The new duke of Venice shows no interest in women. We already know his mother’s threatened to have her co-Regent poisoned if he marries and produces an heir. So, all Prince Alonzo can have is bastards, and those can’t inherit the throne.”
“Why have we not discussed this?”
“We’ve touched on it,” said Andronikos, hurriedly adding, “but not in any depth. All this only matters now because Sigismund will offer Venice another of his bastards for Giulietta to marry.”
“Sigismund wants Venice?”
“Majesty, he’s always wanted it.”
“You know what I mean. I mean, he intends to have it? By marrying his natural son to Zoë’s daughter, then claiming Venice in the name of Leopold’s legitimate son when the time comes?”
“Yes, majesty.”
The emperor sighed.
“Shall I order the child killed?”
“Checks and balances, Andronikos. I’m too close to meeting God to want another infant on my conscience. And killing its mother won’t work either. We need a counter-proposal. A husband more suited to our needs.”
“Indeed, majesty.”
The emperor thought about it while plainsong halted and restarted, and fans swirled warm air down from the domed ceiling to be cooled by huge unglazed jars that wept bead-like tears. Around him, his entourage talked quietly, having fought hard for positions that required only their ability to show reverence. The emperor knew how ridiculous that was, and suspected Lord Andronikos knew how ridiculous that was, and imagined his courtiers knew also. They still fought for the positions, though. The empire had been like this for hundreds of years.
“Where’s Nikolaos?”
“On his estate, majesty. Under guard.”
“He is as he was?”
Born of a freed Varangian slave, Nikolaos was the handsomest of his sons, with blond hair and broad shoulders that might have come from a statue of Hercules. The youth was virile and charming, beautifully mannered to his women in public but savage in private. It was a woman who saw him exiled. A duke’s daughter, she’d been beautiful, talented, intelligent and obstinate in the face of his wooing.
A perfect target for his rage.
“Majesty, this might not be wise.”
“Giulietta’s the daughter of a Byzantine prince, her mother is the granddaughter of another, our blood flows in her veins, not Sigismund’s. We’ll send them Nikolaos. If Venice’s spies are any good they’ll know what they’re getting. Tell Duke Tiersius we’re exiling Nikolaos after all.”
“He wanted Nikolaos dead.”
“Death. Venice. It’s all the same.”
On the first of May, in the same hour of the night that the Basilius spoke to Lord Andronikos about the situation in Venice, the flagship of the Venetian fleet put into its home lagoon, its rails smashed by storms and its sides scarred by battle.
The San Marco was the fleet’s only survivor.
On board was the demon the Basilius regretted letting pass through his empire. Called Tycho, he hated being on board for three reasons: 1) being over deep water made him feel weak and sick, 2) he could not shake his nightmares from the battle, 3) the girl he loved had locked herself in her cabin and refused to come out. Not what he’d intended when he revealed his true nature to her.
“By yourself again, Sir Tycho?”
The demon scowled.
Arno Dolphini was one of the few crew members unimpressed by Tycho’s part in their recent victory. Mind you, even those who were impressed believed him recklessly ambitious. Why else would he risk courting a Millioni princess so soon after the death of her husband?
Except I loved her first, he thought bitterly.
And she’d been the one to seek him out on the night deck of the San Marco, dressed as no newly widowed woman should be in a thin undergown made clingy with sweat. The mere memory made Tycho’s throat tighten. “My lady is upset.”
“Screaming baby and dead husband? I’m not surprised. Still, no doubt her family will choose her another prince soon enough.”
Curling his hands into fists, Tycho stared at lights on the shore, willing himself not to hit Dolphini. The young man was a bully and an idiot, the spoilt heir to a massive fortune. The real reason he wanted to rip out Dolphini’s throat, however, was that he spoke the truth.
“Come on. You’re missing the fun.”
On arrival, the San Marco had been ordered to join the quarantine line like any other newly arrived ship. Lord Atilo, its captain, was not the kind of man who felt he should be made to wait.
“You dare tell me what to do?”
Don’t show panic, Tycho thought.
But the messenger was already measuring his drop to the dark lagoon behind. If he reached the rails he might be able to jump before Atilo struck. Only then the Regent would have him hung for cowardice. The look on the messenger’s face said he knew he was doomed either way.
“Those are the Council’s orders, my lord.”
“Damn the Council. I’m coming ashore.”
“You’ll be arrested.”
Even Lord Atilo looked shocked at that.
“I’ve just sunk the Mamluk fleet. Saved Cyprus from capture and protected our trade routes. Do you really think anyone would dare?”
“My lord. Your orders…”
Atilo il Mauros wanted to say that no one gave him orders. Except that wasn’t true: Duchess Alexa did; her son would have done had he not been simple. And Prince Alonzo, the Regent of Venice, also had the right.
“I’ve fought storms for three days. My ship is battered. My crew are exhausted. I did this to bring you news of our victory.”
“We have the news already, my lord.”
“How could you possibly…?”
“It was announced last Sunday.”
So cross was the old Moorish admiral that he growled in fury. It would have been funny if he hadn’t also fallen into a fighter’s stance the messenger was too ignorant to recognise. Atilo’s temper was about to boil over. When it did he would strike for the man’s heart.
The night air would fill with the stink of blood, and Tycho would have to fight his hungers. He was exhausted, sick from days at sea, and uncertain he could stop himself from becoming the beast he was on the night of the battle.
“Let it go,” he said.
Atilo swung round, seeking his one-time slave. “You dare question my authority?” The messenger was forgotten and all Atilo’s attention on the perceived insult. When Atilo gripped the handle of his sword, Tycho wondered how far the old man would take this…
“There will be no fighting.”
The voice from behind Tycho sounded less confident than its command suggested. And the red-headed girl who pushed past as if he didn’t exist was shaking with anger, nerves or tiredness. At Lady Giulietta’s breast was an infant, half covered by a Maltese shawl.
“Tell the mainland I accept quarantine. I do not, however, accept being confined to this ship with idiots. The Council of Ten will find another solution. You may use my name when you send this.”
The messenger bowed low.
And Giulietta di Millioni, Prince Leopold’s widow and mother to his heir, turned for her cabin secure in the knowledge she would be obeyed. The Millioni were good at that. Assuming others would carry out their wishes without question.
So good, that they always were.
Tycho slept through the next day in the darkened hold of the San Marco on earth he’d brought aboard at Ragusa, a port on the Adriatic coast. The sun hurt him, being above water made him sick, daylight blinded him. His illness was well known.
The sailors avoided him. Everyone avoided him.
Atilo’s officers were careful to give him the courtesy his recent knighthood demanded. And his friendship with Lady Giulietta, complex as it was, made them more uneasy still. Only Lord Atilo’s betrothed, Lady Desdaio Bribanzo, came and went as if nothing had changed.
“Tycho…”
Rolling to his feet, Tycho only realised a dagger was in his hand when Desdaio said, “Is that really necessary?”
“My apologies, lady.”
She looked doubtfully round the hold.
His walls were crates, his floor space made by pushing those crates apart. A square of old canvas over the top kept out any sunlight that might filter through a hatch above. His thin mattress rested on red earth.
“It makes me feel less sick.”
“You always know what I’m thinking.”
“Some days I know what everyone thinks. Your thoughts are usually more pleasant.” He watched her blush in the gloom, turning aside to hide her embarrassment at his words.
“I came to say Lady Giulietta’s message has been answered.”
“My lord Atilo sent you?”
Desdaio almost lied out of loyalty to the man she was to marry, then shook her head because honesty was in her nature. “I thought you’d want…”
A snort above made them both look up.
Giulietta stood at the top of the steps, with Leo asleep in her arms and a starlit sky behind her. She wore a scowl, and a black gown bought in Ragusa. Both scowl and gown had become armour in recent days.
Tycho only just caught up with her.
“What did you come to tell me?” he asked.
“That Lord Roderigo is here.”
“Captain Roderigo?”
“He’s a baron now. My uncle’s doing. I’m surprised your little heiress didn’t tell you that. You seemed to be having a friendly chat.”
“It’s not…”
“Like that? Isn’t it? What is it like then?”
“My lady, we need to talk.”
“We have nothing to talk about. You should know I plan to leave Venice the moment I get the Council’s permission.”
“Where will you go?”
“What business is that of yours?”
“I simply wondered, my lady.”
“To my mother’s estate at Alta Mofacon. Leo will be happy there and I’ll be away from this sewer of a city.”
And from you. Tycho knew what she was saying.
Across his shoulder Lord Roderigo wore a sash with the lion of St Mark, signifying he was here in his capacity of head of the Venetian customs service.
“My lord,” Lady Giulietta said.
Roderigo bowed. Looking beyond her, he let his jaw drop at the richness of Tycho’s doublet. Although what stunned him was the half-sword at Tycho’s hip.
“He’s been knighted.” Atilo’s tone was disapproving.
“For his part in the battle?”
“Before that.”
“He was a slave.”
“Indeed,” Atilo said.
“I was knighted for what I would do.” Tycho’s smile was bland. “King Janus believed I might be of some small help.”
“And were you?”
“He won the battle for us,” Giulietta said flatly.
“How did he do that, my lady?”
“No idea. We were sent below.”
Lord Roderigo believed he saw a boy pretending to be a man. An ex-slave pretending to be a knight. Tycho was happy to let him think this since Roderigo was Prince Alonzo’s man and it was Alonzo who had Tycho sold into slavery.
“When do we go ashore?”
“Who said anything about going ashore?”
“You’re here. I doubt you’d come in person if we had to remain aboard. So, since you’re here, we’re going ashore.”
Roderigo’s stare was thoughtful. “Food has been landed at San Lazar,” he admitted. “Also wine, ale and new clothes. Because of Lord Atilo’s great victory the Council have shortened quarantine to ten days.”
That was an impressive concession.
“But it’s a leper island,” Desdaio protested.
“My lady, no leper has been there in fifty years. Nowadays, the White Crucifers treat those wounded in battle. Since there have been no battles in Venice for twenty years,” Roderigo shrugged, “they have time enough for prayer. My lady Giulietta, if you’ll take the first boat…?”
She smiled graciously.
“And, Sir Tycho, if you’ll travel with her?”
Lady Giulietta’s smile turned to a scowl.
Stone steps disappearing under dark waves were a common occurrence in Venice, where such runs helped adjust for tidal differences. Most of the water steps in the island city were algae-green and slippery underfoot. The steps up to the fondamenta, the stone-lined embankment at San Lazar, had been scrubbed so clean on the Prior’s orders that the chisel marks of the original masons could be seen.
“My lady.” The Prior bowed.
“Lord Prior.”
His knights wore mail under their cloaks and carried swords. Their mail looked unscrubbed and almost rusty, but the recently sharpened edges of their blades glittered in the torchlight.
“This is an unusual honour, my lady.”
Giulietta’s mouth twisted and she was about to say something rude when Tycho stepped forward. “I’m Sir Tycho.”
The Prior stared doubtfully.
“Lord Atilo will be here soon.” Tycho still found it hard not to say my master. Although that relationship was done and its ashes sour in both their mouths. “He presents his compliments, and thanks you for your hospitality. In particular, the hospitality you extend to Lady Giulietta and Lady Desdaio. He knows…”
“It’s true, Desdaio Bribanzo is with him?”
“Yes,” Tycho said.
The Prior pursed his lips. “They will be given separate quarters.”
“I doubt she’d have it any other way,” Giulietta said tartly. “And if she did I doubt my lord Atilo would allow it.”
The Prior kept his disapproval to himself after that.
White Crucifers dedicated themselves to poverty, chastity and protecting pilgrims on the journey to Jerusalem. They avoided the company of women whenever possible, and it had been over a century since the last one set foot on St Lazar. It being well known that the female sex carried the taint of sin. And so, five hundred young monks prayed, worked their gardens, practised their weapons and did their best to ignore Lady Giulietta’s presence on their island.
Sitting in her room, Giulietta twisted the ring Leopold had put on her finger until her finger was raw enough to hurt. She’d like to be able to ignore herself too. And how could she disagree with the Crucifers’ opinion?
She wasn’t sure which disgusted her more.
What she’d let Tycho do on the deck of the San Marco. Or that she’d sought him out so soon after Leopold’s death. She loved her husband. Leopold was a good man.
Had been a good man.
When she was at her most desolate, scared of being recaptured and already pregnant, Leopold zum Friedland found her on the quayside after she’d been turned away from the patriarch’s palace. He reduced her to tears with kindness.
Something she didn’t expect from men.
It was a strange love; but no one had a fiercer friend, and he married her for all he never tried to take her to his bed. He stood father to her child. He died so she could live. Tears backed up in Giulietta’s eyes.
Leopold made her feel safe
And Tycho…?
She swallowed hard.
If she felt guilty it was Tycho’s fault.
On the deck of the San Marco he’d taken advantage of her sadness, and then told her terrible lies. He’d used what happened eighteen months before, when they first met in the cathedral, when he took the blade from her hands… He should have let her kill herself; before she met Leopold, before she had Leo, before she met him.
She hated him for it.
Lady Giulietta repeated that to herself.
He was nothing. Merely an ex-slave for all he had the face of an angel and a fear of God’s light more suited to a creature from hell. Her nurse had warned her about men like him.
Staring across the lagoon to Venice beyond, Giulietta came to a decision and made herself a promise. It didn’t matter that he made her feel… Lady Giulietta refused to put how Tycho made her feel into words. She would ignore him from now on. And she would behave like the Millioni princess she was.
Leopold’s widow.
She had responsibilities, a child and a reputation to protect. How dare he assume there was room in her life for him?
Princes ruled countries according to the rule of God. So Lady Giulietta had been taught. Within these countries their word was the law, quite literally. But there were several Orders of Knighthood where the Grand Prior’s word was law within the Order, wherever the knights might be. She should have realised the Prior would want a chance to impress the princess he’d taken in so unwillingly.
“Must I…?”
Lord Atilo smiled. “My lady. It would be rude not to.”
“God forbid…”
Trestle tables were laid in the monastery hall.
The Prior sat himself in the middle of the top table with her to his right, her baby in a basket at her feet. Atilo sat to the Prior’s left. Next to Atilo sat Desdaio, with Tycho on her far side.
The Under Prior took Atilo’s place on Giulietta’s side of the table, meaning Lord Roderigo had the seat beyond. In placing his deputy above the captain of the Venetian customs, the Prior was stressing his Order’s independence.
But for all the Prior’s manners were questionable his feast was magnificent. Barolo wine darker than velvet. Whites from Germany made sweet by letting their grapes rot on the vine. The Order brewed its own ale and provided barrels of it. The food was equally impressive. Fresh bread from the kitchens, pickles and salted vegetables from the gardens, dried mutton soaked until it was salt free, and skimmed until the fat was gone. Carp from the pond, fried anchovies from the lagoon and grilled eel with fennel.
Everyone ate on huge rounds of stale bread.
Those at the high table left theirs to be cleared away. Those on the lower tables ate their rounds softened with the juices from the meat. After the pies came puddings, mounds of sweetmeats and candied fruit, fresh dates and plums. Wine and ale flowed so freely a glass only had to be a little empty to be filled.
“You don’t like wine?”
Tycho shook his head at Desdaio’s question. He’d grown sick of wine that Easter, when he had to drink his way from tavern to tavern on a trail that led him to Alexa and Alonzo. He failed the task they set.
The memory of being ordered to kill Prince Leopold made Tycho glance along the table towards Lady Giulietta. So he caught the moment a man appeared in a doorway beyond. Temujin was Roderigo’s sergeant, and the blood between the sergeant and Tycho bad enough for each to want the other dead.
Since Temujin had not arrived with Roderigo he had to be newly landed. A supposition strengthened when Lord Roderigo pushed back his chair, muttered some excuse to the Under Prior, finished his wine in a single gulp and headed for the exit. At the doorway, Roderigo turned back and saw Tycho watching. His expression was unreadable.
Returning his attention to Desdaio, Tycho froze.
“You’re staring,” she protested.
How could he not? Her face had become translucent, and, beneath it, bone glistened yellow. Her eyes, famous for their beauty, were empty hollows. The skull beneath the skin…
Death stared at him from her face.
“Tycho… What’s wrong?”
For a second he felt like a man drowning. Without asking, he downed her wine and stared around him, shocked by the skulls staring back. Not just the high table but row upon row of Crucifer knights with skeleton faces. Their flesh was there. But death showed beneath. “Leave here,” he told Desdaio. She would have replied but he was already gone. Giulietta blinked, finding Tycho beside her.
“How did you…?”
“No time.” Jerking Leo from his cradle, Tycho grabbed Giulietta’s wrist and dragged her upright, sending her chair tumbling backwards. The clatter halted conversation around them. “Move.”
“Give me Leo…”
“You have to come with me.”
“Tycho, give me my son.”
“You want him to die?”
A few of the more observant Crucifers on the lower tables had their bodies angled to show they knew something was wrong without knowing wha
Marco IV, known as Marco the Simpleton, duke of Venice and Prince of Serenissima
Lady Giulietta di Millioni, his seventeen-year-old cousin, widow of Prince Leopold, mother of Leo. Ran away from Venice and is now returning
Duchess Alexa, the late duke’s widow, mother to Marco IV. A Mongol princess in her own right. She hates…
Prince Alonzo, Regent of Venice, who wants the throne
Lady Eleanor, Giulietta’s young cousin and lady-in-waiting
Marco III, known as Marco the Just. The late lamented duke of Venice, elder brother of Alonzo, godfather of Lady Giulietta and the ghost at every feast
Atilo il Mauros, once adviser to the late Marco III, and head of Venice’s secret assassins. Alexa’s lover and long-term supporter. Engaged to Lady Desdaio, daughter of…
Lord Bribanzo, member of the Council of Ten, the inner council that rules Venice. One of the richest men in the city, Bribanzo sides with Alonzo
Prince Leopold zum Bas Friedland. Now dead. Until lately leader of the krieghund, Emperor Sigismund’s werewolf shock troops. (His brother Frederick is the German emperor’s only remaining son)
Dr Hightown Crow, alchemist, astrologer and anatomist to the duke. Using a goose quill he inseminated Giulietta with Alonzo’s seed, leaving her with child
A’rial, the Duchess Alexa’s stregoi (her pet witch)
Iacopo, Atilo’s servant and member of the Assassini
Amelia, a Nubian slave and member of the Assassini
Pietro, an ex-street child, Assassini apprentice and sister to Rosalyn (now dead and buried on Pauper Island)
Lord Roderigo, Captain of the Dogana, Alonzo’s ally
Temujin, his half-Mongol sergeant
Sigismund, Holy Roman Emperor, King of Germany, Hungary and Croatia. Wants to add Lombardy and Venice to that list
John V Palaiologos, the Basilius, ruler of the Byzantine Empire (known as the Eastern Roman Empire), also wants Venice. He barely admits Sigismund is an emperor at all
Tamburlaine, Khan of Khans, ruler of the Mongols and newly created emperor of China. The most powerful man in the world and a distant cousin to Duchess Alexa. He regards Europe as a minor irritation
Incense filled the air inside Hagia Sophia, the largest and most famous cathedral in the world. Beneath its huge dome, small boys scattered rose petals on thousand-year-old marble mosaics, which would need scrubbing before nightfall to remove the stain.
Ahead of the shambling figure of John V Palaiologos – God’s ruler on Earth, Basilius of the Byzantine Empire – walked his cross bearer, carrying a huge crucifix with an icon of Christ in its centre. Had the crucifix been solid it would have been impossible to lift. But it was made from beaten silver, chased and fretted and hammered into shape over a light wooden frame.
Under the icon was a piece of the True Cross. There were a thousand such relics but the patriarch of Constantinople had judged this one real.
As the emperor approached, his courtiers fell to their knees.
The mind of the Basilius was old and as tired as his body; and his body ached on waking and hurt worse in the approach to sleep. He might claim his growing hatred of his empire came from a simple wish to find himself in the company of God. In his heart the Basilius knew he was tired of life.
He’d inherited the throne at nine, his German mother having pawned the imperial crown for 300,000 Venetian ducats two years before he was born. It was a miracle he survived his childhood. That only happened because he was more valuable alive than dead. At the age of seventeen – exhausted by uncertainty – he ordered the slaughter of both Regents, their staff and households. The coup was quick, brutal and performed by a tiny group of the imperial guard who’d grown disgusted by the empire’s chaos.
A revolt by the cousin of a Regent ended brutally. The army was purged of untrustworthy generals and the civil service reordered. Wealth found in the strongrooms of the Regents and the treasury master was returned to the treasury and taxes lowered. An action that brought John V Palaiologos the loyalty of Constantinople’s merchants. It was the first time taxes had been lowered in fifty years.
The new emperor watched and learnt. He identified his friends and his enemies, and those who pretended for whatever reason to be one when they were really the other. At the age of twenty-two, he slaughtered the son of the Seljuk king at Cinbi, after Prince Suleyman and thirty-nine of his father’s knights crossed the Hellespont in boats hired from Genoese merchants.
Having ordered the massacre of every family from Genoa in Constantinople, the Basilius led an attack on Sulyman’s father. The loss of lands, his sons and most of his army rendered King Orthan so desolate he sued for peace.
In the years that followed, the Byzantine emperor reconquered provinces thought lost for ever. Of course, if the Mamluks had not hated the Seljuks the outcome might have been different. Those were thoughts wise historians kept to themselves.
And so courtiers wearing armour whose design was a thousand years old knelt on mosaics even older and averted their eyes.
“Andronikos…”
The emperor’s mage stepped forward.
He was tall and thin, wearing simple robes that managed to look more striking than the gold-embroidered tunics of the governors, independent princes and courtiers around him. Many men in the East claimed to be mages. A few were charlatans, most could do simple magic, produce fire, read minds, rid houses of troublesome spirits. A handful could see the future as it would happen. Andronikos could see all futures, weigh them and make fate’s dice fall one way rather than another. The man had ridden at the emperor’s right hand the night they killed Suleyman Pasha and changed the tides of history.
“Majesty.” Bowing low, Andronikos adjusted his robe and struggled to stand. His bones were old and enough of them had been broken in battle to carry their ache into later life.
“What have you learnt?”
The mage ran through the city’s rumours, the assassinations and assignations, secret raptures and rapines. The Mithraic cult was gaining in strength. A slaughtered white bull had been found by the river. A Seljuk princeling had arrived in the city planning the Basilius’s death. There was always a Seljuk princeling planning the emperor’s death and the emperor suspected the Seljuk king used it as a cynical way to rid himself of troublesome younger sons.
“And Venice?”
Andronikos drew together his fingers.
“No need for masking spells. No one will hear us.” The emperor was right, of course. The chanting of plainsong and rustle of robes, the squeak of fans swinging overhead and the gasps of the slaves who dragged the ropes that worked the fans created their own masking spell.
“Good news and bad news…”
The emperor waited. He was used to men starting sentences and then hesitating to check if he wished to listen to the rest. Andronikos should be above such behaviour; but the emperor had once jailed him for speaking out of turn. Jailed him, confiscated his estates, co-opted his eldest son into the army and sent the boy south to die. The mage had been more cautious in his opinions since.
After a life of simplifying politics and hardening his empire’s boundaries, increasing trade, securing alliances and forging treaties that would last – all the while pretending to be interested only in God – John V Palaiologos had let the Mamluks transport a caged demon through his lands a year ago in return for the renewal of a minor treaty.
Wolf-grey-haired and white-skinned, the demon was kept captive in a cage with silver bars. That it could travel only at night should have warned him this was a bad idea. And though the emperor wouldn’t dream of admitting it, Andronikos had been right to advise against the Mamluk plan.
Only the fear of standing before the recording angel and being called to account for his sins stopped the Basilius from having the sycophants who’d agreed it was a good idea slaughtered.
Sacred checks and balances, his confessor said. They kept the scales almost level. If the world lost those it would be unbearable.
“Lady Giulietta…” Andronikos’s voice was carefully neutral.
These days the emperor called his granddaughters by their mothers’ names and his great-grandsons by the names of their fathers. Occasionally he called his librarian by the name of a slave who’d filled the post thirty years before. That was one advantage of surrounding himself with old men like Andronikos. The Basilius knew who they were. His mind would never decide they were someone else. He fought to remember the girl and failed.
“Well?” he said crossly.
“The late duke of Venice’s niece.”
“Zoë’s daughter? How is Zoë?”
“She was murdered by Republicans, majesty.”
“Ahh…” The emperor considered this. Decided he probably remembered that. And remembered something else. “Zoë married one of my nephews? Is that right?”
“Not a happy marriage.”
“Ahh… What about this daughter?”
“Her husband died in the recent battle off Cyprus.”
“We’ve discussed this, haven’t we?”
The mage nodded and kept his face impassive. “There’s a child,” he added. “And rumours about its parentage. We’ve touched on that, too.”
“The husband recognised it?”
“Yes, majesty. He named it his heir.”
“That’s all that matters.” Enough noble families had used natural sons or adopted children to continue their lines; it was an ancient Roman tradition, and since the Basilius was in a direct line from the Caesars, why would Andronikos expect him to be troubled by that? “Cut to the core.”
The emperor’s mage took a deep breath.
“Her husband was Sigismund’s favourite bastard…”
Sigismund was the German emperor… Well, technically he was the Holy Roman Emperor, King of Germany, Hungary and half a dozen other places of equal unimportance.
“And this matters why?”
“Majesty. The new duke of Venice shows no interest in women. We already know his mother’s threatened to have her co-Regent poisoned if he marries and produces an heir. So, all Prince Alonzo can have is bastards, and those can’t inherit the throne.”
“Why have we not discussed this?”
“We’ve touched on it,” said Andronikos, hurriedly adding, “but not in any depth. All this only matters now because Sigismund will offer Venice another of his bastards for Giulietta to marry.”
“Sigismund wants Venice?”
“Majesty, he’s always wanted it.”
“You know what I mean. I mean, he intends to have it? By marrying his natural son to Zoë’s daughter, then claiming Venice in the name of Leopold’s legitimate son when the time comes?”
“Yes, majesty.”
The emperor sighed.
“Shall I order the child killed?”
“Checks and balances, Andronikos. I’m too close to meeting God to want another infant on my conscience. And killing its mother won’t work either. We need a counter-proposal. A husband more suited to our needs.”
“Indeed, majesty.”
The emperor thought about it while plainsong halted and restarted, and fans swirled warm air down from the domed ceiling to be cooled by huge unglazed jars that wept bead-like tears. Around him, his entourage talked quietly, having fought hard for positions that required only their ability to show reverence. The emperor knew how ridiculous that was, and suspected Lord Andronikos knew how ridiculous that was, and imagined his courtiers knew also. They still fought for the positions, though. The empire had been like this for hundreds of years.
“Where’s Nikolaos?”
“On his estate, majesty. Under guard.”
“He is as he was?”
Born of a freed Varangian slave, Nikolaos was the handsomest of his sons, with blond hair and broad shoulders that might have come from a statue of Hercules. The youth was virile and charming, beautifully mannered to his women in public but savage in private. It was a woman who saw him exiled. A duke’s daughter, she’d been beautiful, talented, intelligent and obstinate in the face of his wooing.
A perfect target for his rage.
“Majesty, this might not be wise.”
“Giulietta’s the daughter of a Byzantine prince, her mother is the granddaughter of another, our blood flows in her veins, not Sigismund’s. We’ll send them Nikolaos. If Venice’s spies are any good they’ll know what they’re getting. Tell Duke Tiersius we’re exiling Nikolaos after all.”
“He wanted Nikolaos dead.”
“Death. Venice. It’s all the same.”
On the first of May, in the same hour of the night that the Basilius spoke to Lord Andronikos about the situation in Venice, the flagship of the Venetian fleet put into its home lagoon, its rails smashed by storms and its sides scarred by battle.
The San Marco was the fleet’s only survivor.
On board was the demon the Basilius regretted letting pass through his empire. Called Tycho, he hated being on board for three reasons: 1) being over deep water made him feel weak and sick, 2) he could not shake his nightmares from the battle, 3) the girl he loved had locked herself in her cabin and refused to come out. Not what he’d intended when he revealed his true nature to her.
“By yourself again, Sir Tycho?”
The demon scowled.
Arno Dolphini was one of the few crew members unimpressed by Tycho’s part in their recent victory. Mind you, even those who were impressed believed him recklessly ambitious. Why else would he risk courting a Millioni princess so soon after the death of her husband?
Except I loved her first, he thought bitterly.
And she’d been the one to seek him out on the night deck of the San Marco, dressed as no newly widowed woman should be in a thin undergown made clingy with sweat. The mere memory made Tycho’s throat tighten. “My lady is upset.”
“Screaming baby and dead husband? I’m not surprised. Still, no doubt her family will choose her another prince soon enough.”
Curling his hands into fists, Tycho stared at lights on the shore, willing himself not to hit Dolphini. The young man was a bully and an idiot, the spoilt heir to a massive fortune. The real reason he wanted to rip out Dolphini’s throat, however, was that he spoke the truth.
“Come on. You’re missing the fun.”
On arrival, the San Marco had been ordered to join the quarantine line like any other newly arrived ship. Lord Atilo, its captain, was not the kind of man who felt he should be made to wait.
“You dare tell me what to do?”
Don’t show panic, Tycho thought.
But the messenger was already measuring his drop to the dark lagoon behind. If he reached the rails he might be able to jump before Atilo struck. Only then the Regent would have him hung for cowardice. The look on the messenger’s face said he knew he was doomed either way.
“Those are the Council’s orders, my lord.”
“Damn the Council. I’m coming ashore.”
“You’ll be arrested.”
Even Lord Atilo looked shocked at that.
“I’ve just sunk the Mamluk fleet. Saved Cyprus from capture and protected our trade routes. Do you really think anyone would dare?”
“My lord. Your orders…”
Atilo il Mauros wanted to say that no one gave him orders. Except that wasn’t true: Duchess Alexa did; her son would have done had he not been simple. And Prince Alonzo, the Regent of Venice, also had the right.
“I’ve fought storms for three days. My ship is battered. My crew are exhausted. I did this to bring you news of our victory.”
“We have the news already, my lord.”
“How could you possibly…?”
“It was announced last Sunday.”
So cross was the old Moorish admiral that he growled in fury. It would have been funny if he hadn’t also fallen into a fighter’s stance the messenger was too ignorant to recognise. Atilo’s temper was about to boil over. When it did he would strike for the man’s heart.
The night air would fill with the stink of blood, and Tycho would have to fight his hungers. He was exhausted, sick from days at sea, and uncertain he could stop himself from becoming the beast he was on the night of the battle.
“Let it go,” he said.
Atilo swung round, seeking his one-time slave. “You dare question my authority?” The messenger was forgotten and all Atilo’s attention on the perceived insult. When Atilo gripped the handle of his sword, Tycho wondered how far the old man would take this…
“There will be no fighting.”
The voice from behind Tycho sounded less confident than its command suggested. And the red-headed girl who pushed past as if he didn’t exist was shaking with anger, nerves or tiredness. At Lady Giulietta’s breast was an infant, half covered by a Maltese shawl.
“Tell the mainland I accept quarantine. I do not, however, accept being confined to this ship with idiots. The Council of Ten will find another solution. You may use my name when you send this.”
The messenger bowed low.
And Giulietta di Millioni, Prince Leopold’s widow and mother to his heir, turned for her cabin secure in the knowledge she would be obeyed. The Millioni were good at that. Assuming others would carry out their wishes without question.
So good, that they always were.
Tycho slept through the next day in the darkened hold of the San Marco on earth he’d brought aboard at Ragusa, a port on the Adriatic coast. The sun hurt him, being above water made him sick, daylight blinded him. His illness was well known.
The sailors avoided him. Everyone avoided him.
Atilo’s officers were careful to give him the courtesy his recent knighthood demanded. And his friendship with Lady Giulietta, complex as it was, made them more uneasy still. Only Lord Atilo’s betrothed, Lady Desdaio Bribanzo, came and went as if nothing had changed.
“Tycho…”
Rolling to his feet, Tycho only realised a dagger was in his hand when Desdaio said, “Is that really necessary?”
“My apologies, lady.”
She looked doubtfully round the hold.
His walls were crates, his floor space made by pushing those crates apart. A square of old canvas over the top kept out any sunlight that might filter through a hatch above. His thin mattress rested on red earth.
“It makes me feel less sick.”
“You always know what I’m thinking.”
“Some days I know what everyone thinks. Your thoughts are usually more pleasant.” He watched her blush in the gloom, turning aside to hide her embarrassment at his words.
“I came to say Lady Giulietta’s message has been answered.”
“My lord Atilo sent you?”
Desdaio almost lied out of loyalty to the man she was to marry, then shook her head because honesty was in her nature. “I thought you’d want…”
A snort above made them both look up.
Giulietta stood at the top of the steps, with Leo asleep in her arms and a starlit sky behind her. She wore a scowl, and a black gown bought in Ragusa. Both scowl and gown had become armour in recent days.
Tycho only just caught up with her.
“What did you come to tell me?” he asked.
“That Lord Roderigo is here.”
“Captain Roderigo?”
“He’s a baron now. My uncle’s doing. I’m surprised your little heiress didn’t tell you that. You seemed to be having a friendly chat.”
“It’s not…”
“Like that? Isn’t it? What is it like then?”
“My lady, we need to talk.”
“We have nothing to talk about. You should know I plan to leave Venice the moment I get the Council’s permission.”
“Where will you go?”
“What business is that of yours?”
“I simply wondered, my lady.”
“To my mother’s estate at Alta Mofacon. Leo will be happy there and I’ll be away from this sewer of a city.”
And from you. Tycho knew what she was saying.
Across his shoulder Lord Roderigo wore a sash with the lion of St Mark, signifying he was here in his capacity of head of the Venetian customs service.
“My lord,” Lady Giulietta said.
Roderigo bowed. Looking beyond her, he let his jaw drop at the richness of Tycho’s doublet. Although what stunned him was the half-sword at Tycho’s hip.
“He’s been knighted.” Atilo’s tone was disapproving.
“For his part in the battle?”
“Before that.”
“He was a slave.”
“Indeed,” Atilo said.
“I was knighted for what I would do.” Tycho’s smile was bland. “King Janus believed I might be of some small help.”
“And were you?”
“He won the battle for us,” Giulietta said flatly.
“How did he do that, my lady?”
“No idea. We were sent below.”
Lord Roderigo believed he saw a boy pretending to be a man. An ex-slave pretending to be a knight. Tycho was happy to let him think this since Roderigo was Prince Alonzo’s man and it was Alonzo who had Tycho sold into slavery.
“When do we go ashore?”
“Who said anything about going ashore?”
“You’re here. I doubt you’d come in person if we had to remain aboard. So, since you’re here, we’re going ashore.”
Roderigo’s stare was thoughtful. “Food has been landed at San Lazar,” he admitted. “Also wine, ale and new clothes. Because of Lord Atilo’s great victory the Council have shortened quarantine to ten days.”
That was an impressive concession.
“But it’s a leper island,” Desdaio protested.
“My lady, no leper has been there in fifty years. Nowadays, the White Crucifers treat those wounded in battle. Since there have been no battles in Venice for twenty years,” Roderigo shrugged, “they have time enough for prayer. My lady Giulietta, if you’ll take the first boat…?”
She smiled graciously.
“And, Sir Tycho, if you’ll travel with her?”
Lady Giulietta’s smile turned to a scowl.
Stone steps disappearing under dark waves were a common occurrence in Venice, where such runs helped adjust for tidal differences. Most of the water steps in the island city were algae-green and slippery underfoot. The steps up to the fondamenta, the stone-lined embankment at San Lazar, had been scrubbed so clean on the Prior’s orders that the chisel marks of the original masons could be seen.
“My lady.” The Prior bowed.
“Lord Prior.”
His knights wore mail under their cloaks and carried swords. Their mail looked unscrubbed and almost rusty, but the recently sharpened edges of their blades glittered in the torchlight.
“This is an unusual honour, my lady.”
Giulietta’s mouth twisted and she was about to say something rude when Tycho stepped forward. “I’m Sir Tycho.”
The Prior stared doubtfully.
“Lord Atilo will be here soon.” Tycho still found it hard not to say my master. Although that relationship was done and its ashes sour in both their mouths. “He presents his compliments, and thanks you for your hospitality. In particular, the hospitality you extend to Lady Giulietta and Lady Desdaio. He knows…”
“It’s true, Desdaio Bribanzo is with him?”
“Yes,” Tycho said.
The Prior pursed his lips. “They will be given separate quarters.”
“I doubt she’d have it any other way,” Giulietta said tartly. “And if she did I doubt my lord Atilo would allow it.”
The Prior kept his disapproval to himself after that.
White Crucifers dedicated themselves to poverty, chastity and protecting pilgrims on the journey to Jerusalem. They avoided the company of women whenever possible, and it had been over a century since the last one set foot on St Lazar. It being well known that the female sex carried the taint of sin. And so, five hundred young monks prayed, worked their gardens, practised their weapons and did their best to ignore Lady Giulietta’s presence on their island.
Sitting in her room, Giulietta twisted the ring Leopold had put on her finger until her finger was raw enough to hurt. She’d like to be able to ignore herself too. And how could she disagree with the Crucifers’ opinion?
She wasn’t sure which disgusted her more.
What she’d let Tycho do on the deck of the San Marco. Or that she’d sought him out so soon after Leopold’s death. She loved her husband. Leopold was a good man.
Had been a good man.
When she was at her most desolate, scared of being recaptured and already pregnant, Leopold zum Friedland found her on the quayside after she’d been turned away from the patriarch’s palace. He reduced her to tears with kindness.
Something she didn’t expect from men.
It was a strange love; but no one had a fiercer friend, and he married her for all he never tried to take her to his bed. He stood father to her child. He died so she could live. Tears backed up in Giulietta’s eyes.
Leopold made her feel safe
And Tycho…?
She swallowed hard.
If she felt guilty it was Tycho’s fault.
On the deck of the San Marco he’d taken advantage of her sadness, and then told her terrible lies. He’d used what happened eighteen months before, when they first met in the cathedral, when he took the blade from her hands… He should have let her kill herself; before she met Leopold, before she had Leo, before she met him.
She hated him for it.
Lady Giulietta repeated that to herself.
He was nothing. Merely an ex-slave for all he had the face of an angel and a fear of God’s light more suited to a creature from hell. Her nurse had warned her about men like him.
Staring across the lagoon to Venice beyond, Giulietta came to a decision and made herself a promise. It didn’t matter that he made her feel… Lady Giulietta refused to put how Tycho made her feel into words. She would ignore him from now on. And she would behave like the Millioni princess she was.
Leopold’s widow.
She had responsibilities, a child and a reputation to protect. How dare he assume there was room in her life for him?
Princes ruled countries according to the rule of God. So Lady Giulietta had been taught. Within these countries their word was the law, quite literally. But there were several Orders of Knighthood where the Grand Prior’s word was law within the Order, wherever the knights might be. She should have realised the Prior would want a chance to impress the princess he’d taken in so unwillingly.
“Must I…?”
Lord Atilo smiled. “My lady. It would be rude not to.”
“God forbid…”
Trestle tables were laid in the monastery hall.
The Prior sat himself in the middle of the top table with her to his right, her baby in a basket at her feet. Atilo sat to the Prior’s left. Next to Atilo sat Desdaio, with Tycho on her far side.
The Under Prior took Atilo’s place on Giulietta’s side of the table, meaning Lord Roderigo had the seat beyond. In placing his deputy above the captain of the Venetian customs, the Prior was stressing his Order’s independence.
But for all the Prior’s manners were questionable his feast was magnificent. Barolo wine darker than velvet. Whites from Germany made sweet by letting their grapes rot on the vine. The Order brewed its own ale and provided barrels of it. The food was equally impressive. Fresh bread from the kitchens, pickles and salted vegetables from the gardens, dried mutton soaked until it was salt free, and skimmed until the fat was gone. Carp from the pond, fried anchovies from the lagoon and grilled eel with fennel.
Everyone ate on huge rounds of stale bread.
Those at the high table left theirs to be cleared away. Those on the lower tables ate their rounds softened with the juices from the meat. After the pies came puddings, mounds of sweetmeats and candied fruit, fresh dates and plums. Wine and ale flowed so freely a glass only had to be a little empty to be filled.
“You don’t like wine?”
Tycho shook his head at Desdaio’s question. He’d grown sick of wine that Easter, when he had to drink his way from tavern to tavern on a trail that led him to Alexa and Alonzo. He failed the task they set.
The memory of being ordered to kill Prince Leopold made Tycho glance along the table towards Lady Giulietta. So he caught the moment a man appeared in a doorway beyond. Temujin was Roderigo’s sergeant, and the blood between the sergeant and Tycho bad enough for each to want the other dead.
Since Temujin had not arrived with Roderigo he had to be newly landed. A supposition strengthened when Lord Roderigo pushed back his chair, muttered some excuse to the Under Prior, finished his wine in a single gulp and headed for the exit. At the doorway, Roderigo turned back and saw Tycho watching. His expression was unreadable.
Returning his attention to Desdaio, Tycho froze.
“You’re staring,” she protested.
How could he not? Her face had become translucent, and, beneath it, bone glistened yellow. Her eyes, famous for their beauty, were empty hollows. The skull beneath the skin…
Death stared at him from her face.
“Tycho… What’s wrong?”
For a second he felt like a man drowning. Without asking, he downed her wine and stared around him, shocked by the skulls staring back. Not just the high table but row upon row of Crucifer knights with skeleton faces. Their flesh was there. But death showed beneath. “Leave here,” he told Desdaio. She would have replied but he was already gone. Giulietta blinked, finding Tycho beside her.
“How did you…?”
“No time.” Jerking Leo from his cradle, Tycho grabbed Giulietta’s wrist and dragged her upright, sending her chair tumbling backwards. The clatter halted conversation around them. “Move.”
“Give me Leo…”
“You have to come with me.”
“Tycho, give me my son.”
“You want him to die?”
A few of the more observant Crucifers on the lower tables had their bodies angled to show they knew something was wrong without knowing wha
We hope you are enjoying the book so far. To continue reading...
The Outcast Blade
Jon Courtenay Grimwood
Copyright © 2024 All Rights Reserved
