The Boy with the Porcelain Blade (18 page)

18

Crossed Words, Crossed Swords
HOUSE CONTADINO KITCHENS
–
Augusto
311

Lucien stood in the doorway leading to the kitchens of House Contadino, a mix of emotions surging through him. He’d spent a lot of time standing on this very spot during his thirteen summers. Usually he waited here until the porters were too busy to turn him away, then would accost Camelia, bringing her some bauble or fancy. Other times he sought tasks to keep him from his restless boredom. And his loneliness.

He was yet to form any friendships from his various lessons at House Erudito. The noble’s sons were keen to stay apart from him. He’d lost track of the last time he ventured out of his apartment without a dagger concealed in his boot, and two of the
professori
had barred him from lessons for fighting. This had the somewhat negative effect of freeing him to pursue more lessons at House Fontein. The irony was not lost on him. Virmyre refused to eject him from class, even at the cost of losing other students, students with fathers who paid into the House Erudito coffers.

Lucien brooded on this as he stood on the threshold of the Contadino kitchen. The flagstones under his feet had been worn smooth by countless feet spiriting innumerable dishes to the grand hall by numberless waiting staff. Lines in chalk on the door frame marked his increasing height, but he was still a long way behind Golia, now sixteen and fully the size of a man. The top of the doorway arched gracefully to a point, the wooden door itself removed long ago, more nuisance than useful barrier.

Lucien stood, not slouching or leaning as he usually did, but almost hiding, flattening himself against the wall. Staff had downed tools inside the vast but cluttered kitchens to regard Dino with amusement. He was still young enough to escape the prejudices some castle folk had for the Orfani. Lucien furrowed his brow and chewed his lip. He wondered at what point people traded in
bambini
for
streghe.
What act of mental alchemy transmuted feelings of affection into distrust?

Camelia, Rafaela and the staff had crowded around the seven-year-old, admiring his new suit. The jacket and britches were a splendid shade of maroon with a stark white dress shirt and matching tights. A scarf of black was tied at his throat, and the boy’s hair had been cut in such a way it remained long but did not look unkempt. Lucien scowled, smoothing down his own hair, which stuck up in all directions. He would need to get it trimmed soon, though the idea of letting anyone near him with scissors was abhorrent. Rafaela was laughing and clapping her hands with delight at some utterance from the younger boy. She was always radiant when smiling, a shimmer in her eyes that was difficult to ignore. Lucien swore under his breath. He simply could not fathom how a seven-year-old could captivate an entire kitchen of people.

‘There you are,’ said Rafaela brightly, a broad smile on her lips. Lucien tensed. She approached him. Her hair had come undone from her ponytail, loose corkscrews spiralling down each side of her face. Her skirt swished out behind her as she skipped across the room to him. Today she had chosen a demure powder-blue ensemble.

‘We were just saying how much he looks like you when you were his age.’ She wrapped an arm around Lucien’s shoulder, pulling him close, then ushered him into the kitchen. He felt his cheeks flush scarlet.

‘It’s uncanny really,’ said Camelia, favouring each of them with a warm smile. Dino stood in front of her, turning to face Lucien. He nodded, then flipped a lazy salute, adopting a relaxed posture, not quite slouching. Such a pose looked gauche and rehearsed on someone so young. Lucien would know, after all. He’d spent enough time smouldering in front of a full-length looking glass, affecting the same bored insouciance. Rafaela stifled a laugh behind her hand and exchanged a knowing glance with Camelia.

‘Seems they’ve got more than looks in common,’ said Camelia. ‘Right, come along. This venison won’t roast itself. Back to work.’ She clapped her hands twice. The kitchen sprang into life and some of the porters sighed and muttered as they stepped around the elder Orfano. Occasionally one would utter the word
strega
just loud enough for Lucien to hear. Even without ears he had no trouble discerning when he was being spoken about. Or when he was unwelcome.

Lucien resumed his spot by the door and realised Dino was no longer present. Somehow the boy had vanished amid the hustle of cooks and bustle of porters. A messenger entered by the side door, not more than eighteen years old, the same age as Rafaela. He wore House Contadino livery, soiled from the road. His tabard was frayed at the edges. Lucien guessed he’d inherited the garment from his father. Such roles in Demesne were passed down father to son and mother to daughter wherever possible. The messenger looked out of breath, his pallor suggesting he wasn’t in the best health. The newcomer beckoned Rafaela close, whispered urgently. Moments later she was gone, hurrying out of the kitchens with the ragged-looking messenger, her shawl thrown around her shoulders in haste, face troubled. Lucien found himself desperate to know what had been said.

Puzzled, he slunk off to his apartment, trailing fingers over the rough stonework of the corridor walls, savouring the abrasion. He practised some exercises Ruggeri had set him before becoming bored. He discarded the blade in its scabbard on the armchair, still haunted by the spectre of the crow. None of the books on the crowded shelves offered him any comfort; the drake dozed in its glass case, and his deck was missing two cards, making any game of
solitario
futile from the outset.

Suddenly, the door to his apartment opened and Lucien leaped to his feet. Two quick steps and he was across the sitting room, curiosity verging on panic. His sword was already out of the scabbard before he’d even registered who stood in the doorway. The tip of the ceramic blade hovered inches away from a startled face

‘Rafaela? I thought you were one of Giancarlo’s thugs come to cut some new scars into me.’ He forced a smile, then returned the blade to the scabbard with a flourish. Rafaela said nothing, hazel eyes downcast, no longer shimmering with amusement.

‘What’s happened?’ he whispered. ‘Did that messenger… did he hurt you?’

‘No, that was Nardo.’ Her mouth twisted, she stepped into the room and leaned against the wall, arms crossed over her stomach.

‘Take your time,’ he said, stepping close to her, one hand resting on her arm. She was trembling.

‘Nardo is the twin brother of Navilia, my best friend. No one’s seen her for three days, and House Fontein won’t spare more than a handful of guards to look for her.’ She sucked in a shuddering breath, and then the tears were streaming down her face as she shook with silent sobs. Lucien stared at her, frozen with surprise, before coming to his senses. He pulled her close without thinking, trying to ignore the warm scent of her hair. Suddenly he was self-conscious. The embrace was an awkward affair; she was still a few inches taller.

‘I’ll go and talk to the Majordomo,’ he said earnestly ‘Maybe he can put pressure on the
capo
to send out more men.’ He doubted the Domo’s acquiescence in light of what he knew. Rafaela nodded and blinked away tears, managing the slightest of smiles.

‘Thank you. I’ll come with you.’

‘Perhaps it’s better I go alone?’

She shook her head, one hand still clutching his arm.

The Majordomo had no quarters within any of the four houses and shunned the idea of an office. It was another point of interest on the castle’s long list of curiosities: the ancient aide didn’t appear to have rooms anywhere.

‘Probably so he can’t be killed in his sleep,’ muttered Lucien.

‘What?’ asked Rafaela.

‘Nothing. I was just thinking aloud.’

Lucien wondered if the Domo lived inside the King’s Keep itself. Perhaps the hooded dignitary haunted the corridors at night, keeping watch over the king’s subjects.

They started in House Contadino. The kitchen, the sitting room, the grand hall, the granaries in the courtyard, even enquiring at Lord and Lady Contadino’s quarters. In desperation they knocked on Anea’s door, only to receive a hastily scribbled
I don’t know
, written in her leather-bound book. She flashed angry green eyes at Lucien from above a black veil. She’d barely opened the ancient oak door, peering through the narrowest of margins.

They moved on to House Erudito, where the scholars, Maestro Cherubini in particular, proved unhelpful or simply obtuse. The staff drifted into oft-given lectures on nothing of import before Lucien lost patience. He took Rafaela by the hand, leading her back to the dim circular corridor of the King’s Keep. The gate guards made none-too-subtle comments to each other, lascivious and hungry-eyed. Lucien flashed a warning look and the men fell silent.

‘Doesn’t it bother it you?’ asked Lucien, nettled.

‘Of course, but it’s the rule not the exception.’

‘Are there any exceptions?’

‘Well, I’ve high hopes for you.’ She nearly smiled but couldn’t manage it. He squeezed her hand and she returned the gesture.

Next was House Prospero. Lucien and Rafaela crossed workshops carpeted in sawdust and through sewing rooms, before finding a knot of tailors who revealed the Domo had passed through just recently, requesting the finest seamstresses and tailors for an impromptu fitting.

They located the Domo in the last place Lucien could have ever hoped to go, one of many places he’d never visited in the sprawling edifice. The Majordomo was in Golia’s apartment, in the heart of House Fontein. The guards here discarded even the pretence of respect, openly hostile. Two stood outside the apartment, the elder tensing to draw steel as Lucien approached.

‘Maybe we should go back?’ said Rafaela, squeezing his hand.

‘We’re here to see the Domo,’ said Lucien, his own hand resting on the pommel of his blade in open challenge. The guard weighed his options and nodded for them to enter.

It seemed everyone was in Golia’s apartment that afternoon, which made what happened next so much worse. Golia was standing on a low stool, his already looming presence now giant in the centre of the room. Two seamstresses and a tailor fussed around him, obviously irritated. None would give way to the other. They almost fell over each other, intent on their tasks like ravens fighting over a scrap of bread. Measuring and sizing, pinning scraps of fabric here and there, sketching with chalk. They grimaced polite smiles at each other while brandishing sharp elbows.

Mistress Corvo was there, smiling like a grinning skull, smoothing the hair at the back of her neck absent-mindedly with one hand. Her other hand was busy with a fan of stiff black card, odd and coquettish. She was talking to the new
capo de custodia
, who was much too young for the position. It was said his father, while not high in the line of succession of House Fontein, was fabulously wealthy. The new
capo
was famously attractive and had the mental capacity of a goldfish, according to Virmyre, who revelled in such character assassinations. Giancarlo stood to one side, regarding Golia like a fine sculpture. The
superiore
tossed asides to Ruggeri, who looked as if he might well cut his own throat to be spared the tiresome spectacle. Carmine skulked at the back but couldn’t mask his boredom.

And there at the back of the room, standing against a wall so as to be out from underfoot, was the Majordomo. His head was more bowed than usual under the hood. Lucien wondered if he’d fallen asleep. The hem of his robe looked more ragged, the
tabaro
on his shoulders more dusty. Even his staff, a sturdy length of oak topped by a piece of amber, looked rough and unvarnished that day. He was a study in atrophy, as if all his years had abraded him. Standing next to the looming Domo, barely reaching the height of his waist, was Dino, still striking in his maroon jacket and britches. The young Orfano’s eyes met Lucien’s and he nodded gravely.

Lucien strode across the room, brooking no interference from the assorted flunkies. One of the seamstresses squawked and clucked at him. Rafaela trailed in his wake, managing to look both awkward and guilty, tear-stained and exhausted.

‘Why in nine hells aren’t you sending out more guards to look for this missing girl?’ Lucien blurted.

‘Lucien!’ this from Rafaela, shocked. The room had turned as one to regard the unfolding commotion. The Domo roused himself, a shudder passing through him. A trio of flies took to wing, hovering above his head.

‘Lucien?’ He cleared his throat. ‘What? What girl?’

‘Navilia. She’s Rafaela’s best friend. No one’s seen her for days.’

The room was silent now, the atmosphere prickling at skin like a heat rash. One of the seamstresses absented herself, shedding pins as she left. Lucien stared into the face of the old man. The Majordomo’s mouth was set in a thin line. Salt-and-pepper stubble days old conspired to make him look particularly haggard.

‘I wasn’t aware of any missing girl,’ said the young
capo
, a sneer etched onto his too-perfect lips.

‘It is of no concern,’ droned the Domo, phlegmatic.

‘It’s of concern to me,’ replied Lucien, just slightly too loud. He turned to the
capo.
‘Maybe you could see your way to doing some work for a change?’

There was a sharp intake of breath from Mistress Corvo, and Giancarlo stepped forward, but it was Ruggeri who spoke first.

‘Lucien, you forget yourself. You may be Orfano but you will give the
capo
the respect accorded to him by his rank.’ Lucien held the gaze of his teacher for a few seconds, his brow creased, lips curling to a sneer. Had the rebuke come from Giancarlo he’d already have had his blade out of its sheath. Finally he looked down at his feet.

‘Apologies, Capo de Custodia. If you could mobilise additional guards for the search effort I would be indebted to you.’

‘There is no need, Guido,’ rasped the Domo. ‘She has already been missing for sometime. There is no point in deploying more men.’

Rafaela sobbed. Not a soul in the room could have failed to hear it. The tailor and the remaining seamstress stared at their feet, afraid to lift their gazes. Mistress Corvo had retreated behind the
capo
, pouting angrily. Giancarlo bristled, his blood up, but Lucien met his gaze and raised his chin.