The Boy Who Wept Blood (33 page)

Coda

The Best Revenge
–
19 Settembre
325

Three riders emerged from the Foresta Vecchia clad in cloaks filthy from the road. Both mounts and mounted were spattered with mud. Darker stains spoke of hardships greater than the weather, their journey paid for in sweat and sometimes blood. Pine needles clung to them, dark memories of the forest itself. The trees stretched into the skies, rustling in a wind that troubled their upper branches. The forest was an implacable wall of dark green, tall and sinister in the mist, which conspired to mute even the dull thuds of the horses’ hooves. The only other sound to break the hush was a plaintive call from a solitary raven looking down with interest at the newcomers.

The foremost of the riders was Durante Corvino; a quiet man, he had taken the veil of Santa Maria, a curious choice for one of his gender. He was never without his riding gloves or the matched swords that hung from each hip. His hood was pulled up to ward off the occasional showers, but in truth he preferred it that way. The town of San Marino was no stranger to him, and he urged his horse onward, made keen by the promise of a hot bath and clean sheets. These he could depend on, being as he was an
aiutante
to the man who rode a score of feet behind.

Delfino Datini dozed in his saddle. The last five weeks had been taxing ones; there was no resource he owned that hadn’t been strained. Patience, stamina, politeness, even his purse was much diminished. And, though he preferred not to admit it, his bravery had been put to the test also. He feared there would be a dash more grey to the salt and pepper of his hair, which was in great need of a cut. That he’d run out of moonleaf had further dampened his mood. He roused himself and looked to the horizon, where San Marino lay a half mile from the cliff tops.

‘We’re here, my lady,’ he said, a ghost of a smile touching his lips.

Lady Stephania Prospero might well have been a man. The ride had hardened muscles; any softness of feature had been scoured away by the ancient forest. Her plaited air was filthy from the journey. A sword with the pommel of a cataphract drake sat on her hip, meticulously clean despite the forest and the many nights she’d slept under the stars.

‘Is this it?’ She dared to let hope kindle inside her. ‘Is this finally it?’

‘Yes,’ said Datini with a single nod. ‘And I’ve never been happier to see it. San Marino.’

Stephania regarded the town with awe. It was unlike anything she had seen. It resembled nothing so much as three upturned saucers, each a pavilion a mile across at least. The huge structures glimmered in the autumn sunlight like seashells, cream and coffee brown, accents of iridescent cyan dancing on their curved surfaces. Masts reared into the sky at their rims, bearing sails in turquoise, brown, grey, black and white, each bearing seven triangles picked out in a contrasting colour. Not sails, she realised, but banners, the flags of Duke Lucien’s new houses.

‘Artigiano, Terreno, Scolari and Vedetta,’ said Datini.

Towering over the striated pavilions was a tower that defied logic. It looked skewed somehow, as if it were made of metal heated and twisted like the wrought-iron gates so familiar around Demesne. Sections of the building spooled away, becoming buttresses that nestled in the earth like the roots of some vast pale tree. Moss had adhered to the tower’s base and flourished, consuming the seashell colours in dull green. The tower tapered upward, terminating in four blunt points carved at sloping angles.

‘Is that the lighthouse?’

‘We don’t call it that any more,’ said Datini with a wary cast to eyes.

‘It must be over twelve storeys tall,’ she breathed.

Datini nodded. ‘Closer to fifteen.’

‘Does Lucien live there?’

Datini shook his head. ‘Nothing lives in the tower; it’s a place of ghosts.’

More familiar-looking buildings huddled beside the pavilions, these obviously built by human hands – townhouses and shops, taverns and stables. Each was painted a pastel hue, complementing its neighbours yet distinct all the same. Streams spanned by wooden walkways and bridges ran between the pavilions. Lanterns hung from sturdy poles. A trio of youths was in the process of lighting them for the night to come. The riders drew closer, consumed with equal parts relief and exhaustion.

‘It’s beautiful,’ breathed Stephania.

‘It’s more than beautiful,’ replied Datini; ‘it’s home.’

They rode on in silence, Stephania drinking in the sight of the town. So different to the drab streets of Santa Maria, free of the looming shadow of Demesne. How was it possible to feel like a foreigner on the same island? she wondered.

Corvino led them on, his horse circling the nearest of the pavilions, heading toward the one which lay closest to the cliff edge. The sea remained hidden beneath a dense fog.

‘Is the weather always this gloomy?’ asked Stephania with a note of pique.

‘Winter’s arrived early,’ replied Datini. ‘It’s cooler than usual for the time of year.’

They passed under the broad roof of the pavilion. None of the buildings inside was higher than three storeys, strange after the height and bulk of Demesne. Sisters of Santa Maria went on their way in groups of three or four.
Cittadini
called out to the riders, greeting them warmly, waving at Datini with enthusiasm.

‘Are you well known here?’ asked Stephania.

‘I’d hope so: I used to lead House Vedetta.’

Stephania regarded him and shook her head. ‘I thought you said were a painter?’

‘I did. And I am.’ Another smile, an almost apologetic shrug.

‘And House Vedetta …’

‘Are Lucien’s scouts.’

‘And you led them?’

‘I did. Then I became bored.’

Stephania rolled her eyes. The man was infuriating. They approached the centre of the pavilion, a clearing among the houses and shops. A profusion of archways and alleys led off in all directions. In the middle was a vast dais with words carved on its side in letters longer than her arm. A circular table surrounded by scores of high-backed chairs dominated the platform. Men and women were locked in discussion, the finery of their robes displaying their wealth or flamboyance.

‘This is how Lucien rules?’ Stephania could not bring herself to believe it.

‘This is the main assembly,’ said Datini, dismounting. ‘We do things differently by the coast.’ Another smile. Stephania found herself keen to be shown to somewhere private where she could finally be free of the man. She dismounted slowly, legs stiff, back aching. Corvino took the reins of her horse, nodded politely, then led the mounts away.

‘Doesn’t it get cold?’ she enquired.

‘You’d be amazed how quickly meetings conclude when people would rather be indoors.’ The voice, one she’d not heard for a decade, came from behind her. The words they’d parted with had been unkind at best. She corrected herself. The unkind words had belonged to her. His had been of explanation, and apology.

Lady Stephania Prospero turned with a leaden heart.

Standing before her was Duke Lucien Marino, long hair concealing the absence of ears. His pale blue eyes were as haunting as ever, a look of concern creasing his brow above a straight nose and fine cheekbones. He wore an immaculate frock coat of deep brown with turquoise embroidery, trousers of the same. A short sword rested at his hip, medals adorned his breast, and his jaw was clean-shaven. No wonder Stephania had been keen to marry him, yet the woman who owned his heart stood just behind Lucien.

Rafaela wore her years with ease – she had a handful more than her husband, though none would guess it. Dark hair was caught in a circlet of silver run through with beads that twinkled in the light. Her skirt, a rich turquoise that complemented the short jacket she wore in a deep brown, reached her ankles. Rafaela gave a tight smile and nodded politely.

And behind her was the great bulk of Franco, a large man made more impressive still by the breastplate he wore and the great halberd he clutched. His hair was still the same iron grey she remembered, his face a rich tracery of creases, most of them laughter lines. He beamed at Stephania.

‘Welcome to San Marino,’ said Lucien. ‘I wish you were here under happier circumstances.’

‘As do I,’ she replied, a twist of grief on her lips.

Lucien looked to Datini and then back to Stephania. ‘Where is Dino?’

She shook her head, a tightness in her chest she was all too familiar with.

‘Where is he?’ Lucien’s urgent tone caused heads to turn nearby and the main assembly to cease their chatter.

‘My lord –’ Datini stepped forward ‘– Lord Dino was lost before we could reach Demesne. We had word he died amid a dozen of the enemy.’

‘The enemy?’ repeated Lucien, full of incredulity. ‘Who is the enemy?’

‘Anea is, and she has an army,’ supplied Datini.

‘Is this true?’ Lucien stepped closer to Stephania. She nodded, felt the sting of tears. The road had given her an abundance of time to grieve and yet tears for Dino remained. She unbuckled the sword and handed it to Lucien.

‘Virmyre had this made for him. Dino called it Achilles. He’d want you to have it, I’m sure.’

Lucien took the weapon, fingers trembling as they gripped the scabbard. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing emerged.

‘He died fighting so I might escape.’

‘Killed by my sister’s own men?’ Lucien, always pale, blanched. Rafaela pressed one hand to her mouth, eyes stricken. Franco laid an arm about her shoulders.

‘Anea is not who she once was,’ explained Stephania. ‘She’s under the influence of one called Erebus, but you’d know him better as the Majordomo.’

‘That’s impossible,’ muttered Lucien, but the words lacked conviction and all who heard them witnessed his discomfort.

‘You said you killed him that day,’ pressed Stephania.

‘I did. I … No man could have survived the wounds I inflicted.’ Lucien shook his head in disbelief. ‘I did everything but run him through the heart.’

‘Well, I’ve seen him with my own eyes.’ Stephania took an uneasy breath, the memory unsettling her. ‘He lives beneath Demesne like a growth, like an infection, and Anea and the Domina are both in his power.’

‘And the people?’ asked Rafaela, her voice thick with emotion.

‘The people suffer, those who haven’t fled to the countryside. I wonder how many have lost their lives trying to journey through the forest.’

No one answered her.

‘Is there anyone I love still alive?’ said Lucien in a quiet voice.

‘When I left, yes. But for how long?’ She shrugged. ‘Nardo suggested you take a few score soldiers to Demesne, but I’d say you’ll need more than that to restore it to sanity.’

‘Is that the course we’re on?’ asked Lucien. ‘War?’

‘That’s up to you,’ she replied. ‘I told Dino that the best revenge is to live well. And that’s what I’m going to do, though I worry for everyone I left behind.’

Stephania bobbed a curtsy and turned away, not knowing what direction she was heading in or even where she would spend the night, losing herself in the concentric streets of San Marino. In time she settled on a bench outside a
taverna
, killing time with a bottle of red from the Previdente vineyards. Achilles, who’d slept most of the journey in the hood of her cloak, chose that moment to rouse himself.

‘Don’t look at me like that,’ muttered Stephania. ‘If you were human you’d be drinking too.’ Achilles blinked and scuttled into her lap.

The evening unwound, Stephania lost to remembering the Orfano who’d given his life to save hers. What would Dino say now, were he idling at the
taverna
, celebrating the end of a long journey? Thoughts turned to friends distant, friends alive and those passed on. The
cittadini
of San Marino avoided her, favouring the stranger and her reptile with a wary looks when they bothered to notice her at all. She kept drinking, one finger tracing the rim of her cup. Strange to be out in the street by night and not see the sky. The pearlescent pavilion provided shelter from the rain, heard faintly, but did nothing to take the chill from the sea breeze.

Datini appeared across the street, a tender look in his hazel eyes, concern in the set of his mouth. She nodded to him, and he approached, still grimy from the road.

‘I’ll show you around tomorrow, but what say we get you into a hot bath?’ he said. ‘Then we’ll find somewhere for you to bed down?’

She nodded, throat too constricted by grief to agree.

‘I know I’m hardly your first choice for a friend,’ he continued, ‘but I reckon I’m all you’ve got.’

Achilles abandoned her lap and clambered up Datini’s leg until the scout lifted the drake onto his shoulder.

‘You’ll do just fine,’ she said, forcing a smile. ‘Just don’t go rushing off to get yourself killed. I’ve had quite enough of that lately.’

‘I think I can keep a promise like that.’ Datini smiled and offered his hand. Stephania stood and took a deep breath, linking her arm with his, following him to where her life might begin again.

Acknowledgements

Huge gratitude to Matt Rowan for level-headed support and Matt Lyons for meticulous test reading.

Thanks to Simon Spanton, Gillian Redfearn, Sophie Calder, Charlie Panayiotou and all at Gollancz for their hard work and friendliness.

Leopard-print kudos to my agent Juliet Mushens and thanks to Sarah Manning and the Agency Group.

I’ve crossed paths with many authors in the last year, inspirations, imbibers of intoxicants, and fine folk: John Hornor Jacobs, Edward Cox, James Oswald, Joe Abercrombie, Rebecca Levene, Daniel Polansky, Scott Lynch, Elizabeth Bear, Jon Wallace, and, as ever, Tom Pollock and Jen Williams.

Many thanks to Goldsboro Books for making me feel so welcome, Forbidden Planet Southampton, and the many Waterstone’s book sellers who chose
The Boy with the Porcelain Blade
as a recommended read.

Also by Den Patrick from Gollancz:

The Naer Evain Chronicles

Orcs War-Fighting Manual

Elves War-Fighting Manual

Dwarves War-Fighting Manual

The Erebus Sequence

The Boy with the Porcelain Blade