The Fallen Blade: Act One of the Assassini (18 page)

Such as it was her life lay open. The taste of food he’d never eaten, and memories of a rambling family home in Egypt, seen through her eyes as a child. Snatches of her language. Memories of a happy childhood turning sour as a father’s love hardened to anxiety. And the
fontego
that had been her world became her prison.

Tycho felt his dog teeth extend.

The night was his. The night, the city, the world… Everything was his and he moved freely through it. The water under the bridges barely troubled him as he flowed through the city at impossible speeds, streets unravelling as he printed them on his memory. Giving names to places he knew, learning locations for which he’d only known names. Behind him he left a crowd shocked into silence. Stunned guards and a prince open-mouthed with horror.

Tycho’s body hummed with power, his hearing was so sharp he surprised a hunting tom before the cat was aware of him. Time stretched and twisted and became malleable. Eventually moving so slowly he owned the spaces between seconds as well
as the seconds themselves. He knew the stars for tiny suns lighting a night sky to the brightness of day. Except this sky was red.

As was the rest of his world.

Red walls and water held within red canal banks. The underworld and the overworld and the world of the dead were finally one. To look at somewhere was to be there. He could kill, he could observe, he could touch. Drunken couples fucked in doorways, feet slipping on slush and snow. Masked thieves waited to rob elegant
cittadini
. Old men staggered halfway across the city with goods from the sacked building that they didn’t really want anyway. And light to their darkness, children played marbles by candlelight on dusty floors. A boy stroked the face of a girl and ventured a kiss, feeling daring. Little knowing how long she’d been waiting for him to make this move. The air stank of sweetness. It smelt sweetly of dung. He was God and the Devil in one.

It was close to dawn before his euphoria faded. Dangerously close.

Too late to return to his lair, he found an empty attic above a goldsmith, with tiles new enough to keep out sunlight and settled himself into one corner, folding one arm under his head to make a pillow and folding his knees to steady himself.

He felt stronger than before, no longer hungry. But he also remembered how he’d earned this God-like happiness. Opening his mouth, Tycho ran a finger across his teeth, finding them normal. The creature that moved so confidently through the night was gone. But memories of the creature’s power, speed and glory remained. He’d thought his greatest challenge was to remember who he was. And had been wrong, almost childishly so. Who he was paled before tonight’s slaughter. What he was… That was the real question.

The carved face of a lion between bat’s wings decorated the keystone of an arch over an old palace door. On the left bank of the Canalasso, below la Volta, to the left of San Gregal, the palace was being restored. Its position almost opposite the sacked Mamluk warehouse was a coincidence.

The bat-winged face was carved into a roundel.

A patera, of which there were several thousand in Venice, featuring hundreds of separate insignia. Everyone in the city could identify the lion reading a book. The lion was Venice, the book Saint Mark’s gospel. San Marco being their patron saint. So the patera
was
Venice, which was why it could be seen everywhere.

It marked the Dogana di Mar, the Palazzo Reale on one side of Piazza San Marco, where the city authorities gathered, and the Orseolo Hospice opposite. It marked the Zecca, which minted ducats, and the campanile, which doubled as a lighthouse, and a place from which traitors’ bodies could hang.

It practically smothered the
bucintoro
, Marco IV’s ceremonial barge. A vessel so impractical it could barely navigate the Grand Canal and so top heavy it could not survive open sea.

Palaces sported the badges of their owners.

The almshouses and guild schools had symbols of their own. As did the Arsenalotti, and even the Nicoletti and Castellani, whose patera became accepted simply through frequency of use. In a world where few could read, and churches used murals to tell improving tales, most Venetians could identify at least a dozen patera. Slightly fewer could identify two or three dozen. A handful of scholars could identify sixty or so without effort.

In the Street of Scribes, where Jewish letter writers mixed ink and sharpened quills and kept secret the letters they read in whispers for a single grosso, was a rabbi who could identify at least two hundred. But there were patera—flaking and rotted by wind, rain and sea salt—which remained obscure because the last scholar to know the answer was dust.

The bat-winged mask was one of these, supposedly.

The Moor who waited for his
gondolino
that Friday afternoon in January knew what it represented, and was glad others didn’t. He’d purchased the palace, which was near the Dogana, because it amused him that the house now called Ca’ il Mauros exhibited one of only two examples of the Assassini’s patera. At least, examples that could be publicly seen. The Assassini master who’d had that patera carved was long dead, and his descendants had struggled down the generations, without knowing what it represented. Only selling up, reluctantly and with bad grace, when repairs became too expensive for their pocket.

“You’ll be safe?”

“My dear…” Gathering his robes, Atilo kissed his beloved on both cheeks and smiled. “I’ll be fine.” When Desdaio raised her face, he let his lips touch hers before stepping back. “I’m going to the palace for a few hours. Nothing important.”

“You’re Ten, now…”

Atilo regarded his victory over the German fleet as far more important than anything that might come from talking with nine other men. But this was Venice. Although Duke Marco IV owned
the Istrian coast from Austria to Byzantium, his court looked inwards instinctively, being interested in their own reflection. The briefest glimpse of lovers, seen through the window of a candlelit room overlooking the Grand Canal, carried more interest than princes murdered on Venetian orders miles away. The world outside existed only as a place from which the city could make money. If a deal was good, that was enough. The circumstances, Venice regarded with mild curiosity at best, maybe not even that.

“I’ll be back for Compline.”

“You’ll eat then?”

Atilo sighed. There would be food at Ca’ Ducale should he be hungry, but Desdaio obviously wanted them to eat together. “Something light.”

“I’ll make something.”

“Desdaio. We have a cook.”

“It’s not the same…” Lord Bribanzo’s daughter had discovered the joy of dressing herself, brushing her own hair, washing her face and preparing food. Chores that had plagued Atilo’s mother, the unlucky bride of a star-gazing poet who wasted his money on instruments while his children ran wild and his estate ran to ruin.

Atilo found it strange and oddly touching. “Eggs, then.”

Despite the January cold she remained on the steps, splashed by spray, and with the occasional rough wave soaking her shoes, while Atilo settled back and Iacopo bowed low to Desdaio, his eyes sweeping her body. Then he grabbed his oar with a flourish, untied the ropes holding the
gondolino
steady, and pushed off into those tides that made steering difficult in the mouth of the Grand Canal. Those young man appeared to have focused on crossing the choppy water as swiftly as possible, but Desdaio couldn’t shake the thought he was still watching her.

If Iaco continued to make her uneasy, she’d ask Atilo to find him another job. Either that, or get rid of him altogether. Amelia,
however, she liked. Not beautiful but striking. That black skin, lean figure and braided hair with silver thimbles. She wondered if Atilo had… Feeling her stomach knot, Desdaio refused to finish the thought. Her future husband was known to have lived like a monk before he courted her. Everyone said so. She was sure they were right.

“Amelia, I need your help in the kitchen.”

“My lady?”

“Chopping things.”

The young Nubian’s eyes flicked to the window, where late afternoon had turned to early evening and the outlines of a dozen
gondolini
had blended so far into darkness as to become almost invisible. All she said was, “I thought you told me Lord Atilo wanted eggs, my lady.”

“I’ll include eggs.”

“If you make me chop things…” The girl hesitated, and then turned away, deciding her words best left unspoken.

They hadn’t really talked, Desdaio realised. A few hellos, the occasional good morning, and pretence at a curtsy from Amelia. Desdaio had no idea where her slave was born. Not even if she was Christian.

“Where are your parents?”

Amelia’s mouth shut with a snap. Muttering an apology, she turned away… And Desdaio grabbed her, feeling Amelia struggle, only to fall still when Desdaio pushed her cheek against the other girl’s face and refused to let go.

“Stupid,” Desdaio said. “That’s me. I’m sorry.”

Amelia laughed through her tears. “My lady. Iacopo and I… We’re orphans. All of the Admiral’s servants are.”

“Even Francesca the cook?”

“Yes, my lady,” Amelia nodded.

“What were you going to say? About chopping things?”

“Francesca lets you in the kitchen, because…”

“She can’t refuse?”

“Yes, my lady. You are the mistress of this house. Me, I’m not welcome in her kitchen. No one is. Francesca’s been with Lord Atilo for a long time. Even he knocks before he enters.”

“Then we’ll knock too,” Desdaio said brightly.

For the second time in days Giulietta felt smothered by the Persian rug in which she’d been rolled. She’d never felt so helpless. Not even when the
abadessa
held her wrists, Dr. Crow froze her tongue and Mistress Scarlett forced her knees apart…

Hot tears filled her throat. All that did was make it hard to breathe when her nose started running. And it was hard enough to breathe wrapped in a carpet anyway. She tried to concentrate on what was happening outside. She was in a boat of some kind. But whether it was a small boat or a large galley…

How would she know?

When she heard the keel grate on gravel she realised they’d reached land and she had her answer. A small boat and a short ride. Having been carried ashore, her smothering prison was tossed down and picked up just as quickly when someone hissed with anger. “It’s Persian. I’m not paying you to get shit on it.”

The men answering sounded Schiavoni.

Hoisting the carpet on to their shoulders, they began to carry her up a slight incline. While inside, now gagged, and with her hands trapped by the carpet’s tightness, Giulietta heard the curses of men struggling through mudflats. Her journeys had been so
brief she suspected she was back where she had started. In Venice, or on the Venetian mainland. But not, it seemed, near the Riva degli Schiavoni.

Uncle Alonzo? Aunt Alexa? Patriarch Theodore?

Who would do this to her and why?

Were the men who stole her from the basilica the ones who delivered her to the little temple in the walled garden? If so, who were these? And why were they in league with
krieghund
?

Lady Giulietta had wanted excitement her entire life. She’d wanted it through Fra Diomedes’s lessons, Sunday services in San Marco, formal meals with her family. Something more real than ritual and gossip. Now that she had it, she wanted her own boring life back.

Somewhere behind her… In the ruined furniture of a little temple’s hallway, on a leather divan in the Sala de Tortura, on a stinking road through Cannaregio, in a throwaway comment that she’d kill her husband if not allowed to kill herself, were the pieces of her broken childhood.

Unable to help herself, Giulietta started sobbing.

The old man had died instantly. His throat torn out in a sweep of claws from the monster in the doorway. The
krieghund
’s second blow removed his head, the squelch of it landing still sounded in her ears. The old woman had clapped hand to her own mouth, looking hideously sick. Then turned abruptly to Lady Giulietta.

“
Hide…
” The word was silent. When she didn’t move, the old woman pushed Giulietta towards her bedroom.

You can survive rape.

You can’t survive what
krieghund
do to you
.

The old man’s death, Atilo’s brutal words and her own terror made her scrabble as she grabbed the key from the lock, slammed her bedroom door behind her and locked and bolted it from inside. She dragged a chest in front of the door, then her bed in front of that. And, finally, she looked round her.

She had her bed, her blanket, her mattress. A bowl of water
to wash her face, which would do for drinking. A bucket for pissing. And a thick door between her and the danger beyond. Nothing she could use as a weapon.

Hammering began at the door.

“Go away,” she shouted. “Go away…”

By then there was no one left to hear but the monster outside.

A night of sobbing, raging and promises to God on Lady Giulietta’s part gave way in the morning to surprise when, after an hour or so’s silence, someone knocked softly at her bedroom door. The voice accompanying the knock was also soft, and very human. The man on the other side offered her safety. All she had to do was turn the key and undo her bolts, lie face down on the floor and shut her eyes.