The Fallen Blade: Act One of the Assassini (45 page)

Looking round, Sir Richard realised enough of the crowd had seen it for rumours to raise the boy’s price still further.

“No,” the boy said. “I’m not.”

Sir Richard’s blue eyes narrowed.

“I’m not here to kill anybody. That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it? That I’m here to murder someone?” The boy’s voice was strained. His eyes sweeping the crowd as if looking for faces he recognised.

“Let’s get this over with,” Sir Richard said.

Leading the slave to the steps, he passed him to the slave master.

A fat Nubian with gold earrings, proudly protruding belly and a tatty gold waistcoat that barely covered his chest, Isak collected old manuscripts, carved ivory, read three languages and spoke five. His hooped gold earrings only came out on market day, like his waistcoat and oiled belly.

“It’s a good crowd,” Isak said.

“Given your advertising I’m not surprised.”

Proclamations had appeared on doors for those who could read. Everyone else had the words read to them or picked up the gossip in taverns. “A male slave of unsurpassing beauty, so rare his milk-white skin cannot stand sunlight, to be sold at midnight this coming Tuesday. The only sale of the day. No credit will be given.”

“You know he’s trained to kill?”

Isak grimaced. “Really? That’ll double his price with half tonight’s bidders and halve it with the rest. I need to decide what to say about that.”

In the event, Isak didn’t mention it.

He simply took the youth from Sir Richard, walked him to the top of the sandstone block and cut away the tatty doublet covering him. “You know what you’re buying,” he said. “Here he is.”

Turning the half-naked boy to face the crowd hemming in all four sides of the standing stone, Isak held a lamp close to the slave’s body, so they could see the whiteness of his skin, the fineness of his features, the strange silver-grey hair.

“The bidding starts at five hundred gold ducats.”

A stunned silence greeted the starting price, with some bidders mentally upping the level they’d set for their final bid, and others realising the auction was too rich for them but deciding to stay, anyway, to watch.

“Here,” a man said, raising his hand slightly.

Exactly who Isak expected to make the first bid. A silk merchant from Alexandria. He couldn’t afford the boy but was now known to have been in the bidding war. “Any advance on five hundred?”

A hand rose, a man nodded, a second hand twitched, and then a third and a fourth; someone scratched their nose near the back. When the frenzy stopped, the bidding stood at fifteen hundred gold ducats and the Alexandria merchant was shaking his head regretfully. Hangers-on were commiserating and telling him he was wise to stop there.

The man had money worries and trouble extending his line of credit. Having been seen to bid gold on a single slave he’d find credit easier. A man with money worries wouldn’t bid so highly, would he?

Isak smiled at the ways of the world.

“Any advance on fifteen hundred?”

A merchant bid an enemy up to two thousand and then dropped out, leaving his enemy to drop out two hundred ducats later. A Crucifer knight twitched his hand, and at the rear a young woman raised her whole arm, ignoring rules that suggested bidding be discreet. She was newly arrived and newly bidding.
Isak had memorised those who had bid already. And had identified a handful of those waiting for the auction to be reduced to serious bids only.

With her curling chestnut-dark hair, sweetly round face and ample bosom he would have remembered her anyway.

Glancing behind him, the previous bidder tried to discover who he was bidding against. But the woman now had her hand to her side. Obviously embarrassed to be the centre of attention of those around her.

“Your bid, my lord.”

The man was a simple knight, but Isak always found it helped inflate the bids if he inflated the bidder’s importance. This man, however, was not bidding for himself. No Crucifer, bound to chastity, poverty and charity, had that kind of money. Or, if they did, they were taking their vows laxly.

“Three thousand gold ducats.”

The crowd gasped in admiration at the way he’d cut straight from two thousand five hundred ducats to three without bothering to hit the hundreds between. You could fit out a galley for that money. Fit out a galley, or fill a brothel with the most beautiful slaves, even buy a small palace.

“Four thousand,” the young woman said.

The Crucifer knight turned to stare. She blushed, but didn’t take back her bid, although she looked at the ground, before raising her eyes to meet the scowling knight’s gaze, then blushed all over again.

“My lord, the bid is yours.”

Around the knight the crowd held its breath.

Why would anyone pay this for a single slave? Isak knew it stopped here. He could see that in the knight’s face. Either he’d reached the maximum he was ordered to bid; or he was buying for himself, which, given the fury in his eyes, seemed possible. If so, he’d reached what his forbidden purse would stand.

“
Four thousand five hundred ducats
.”

Isak wondered if the young woman pushing frantically through the crowd knew she was bidding against herself. He looked at the knight, who shook his head. The slave was doing the same. Staring at the young woman and shaking his head as she edged towards the sandstone block and her purchase.

Pushing past Isak, the woman grabbed a blanket from the dirt and wrapped it round the slave’s shoulders, covering his bare torso. The slave master noticed she was careful not to look at his body as she did so.

“My lady,” the boy said. “Does Lord Atilo know?”

The woman shook her head.

“Why are you even here?” he demanded. “Why aren’t you home?”

“Where’s home?” she said, tears in her eyes. “With my father, who won’t talk to me? Or at the Ca’ Ducale, my body and fortune at the Regent’s mercy, because staying alone at Ca’ il Mauros isn’t allowed?”

“And Pietro?” the boy asked.

The woman looked puzzled.

“The new apprentice?”

“Safe in Venice, with Iacopo and Amelia. They’re allowed to stay at Ca’ il Mauros, apparently.” Her complaint was loud enough to carry. Those who heard it would tell those who hadn’t. By morning, all Limassol would know. Although what they’d know would bear little resemblance to any truth. Isak had no idea who she was, but she worried him.

“My lady, you might want to have this conversation somewhere private. Let us settle, and you can take your purchase.” He scanned the crowd for her retinue. Looking for her major domo or whoever kept her purse.

“I’m alone,” she said.

Isak’s smile froze. His rules were money on the nail, no credit and no taking the goods without payment. The knight’s three
thousand coins were better, paid now, than substantially more, paid sometime in the future, if at all…

“I’m Desdaio Bribanzo,” she said. “This is Tycho.”

The slave nodded ruefully.

Dragging a jewelled bracelet from her arm, she said. “Take this as payment. It cost five thousand ducats.”

Very fine indeed. Filigree gold inlaid with cameos, carnelians, pearls, emeralds and rubies. Its weight alone made Isak wonder she didn’t tire wearing the thing. “Venetian made?”

“Milanese. A present from the duke.”

“Of Milan?” Isak asked, keeping his face impassive.

“As opposed to Venice, you mean?”

Isak turned the gold bracelet over in his hand, and nodded. Yes, that was exactly what he meant. And it really was very beautiful indeed. He wondered what she would have to do to earn this.

“Marco wanted to marry me too. But Alexa wouldn’t let him. Well, I was told he wanted to marry me. I suspect it was Alonzo’s idea.”

That was the point Isak decided he needed to bring this conversation to a swift close. The bracelet had quality and was made for a duke. That would add value when it sold. All the same, the rules existed. If he broke them this time…

Mind you, with a Mamluk fleet approaching who knew what would happen? Mamluks needed slaves as much as the next lot. But they distrusted Nubians, and Isak had heard Byzantium was a fine place to sell slaves. Maybe even a fine place to retire. And her bracelet was portable. Useful should he need to leave in a hurry. In the time it took Isak to think this, Desdaio dragged free her earrings.

“Take these as well…”

And then she added a brooch to the collection. At first Isak thought the earrings were amethyst. Then he realised they were pale and flawless rubies. “Also from the Duke of Milan?”

“From Lord Dolphino.”

Isak blinked.

He wanted to be away from this young woman with her impressive breasts and huge eyes, and seemingly inexhaustible supply of priceless jewellery. A woman who tossed around the names of admirals, and
condottieri
, and dukes and princes as if they were her closest neighbours.

“You should take your slave and flee.”

“Why?” Desdaio asked.

“The Mamluks will be here within the week.”

“Tomorrow, probably. Maybe the day after. But Cyprus is safe.”

“How can it be?” asked Isak, stunned by her certainty.

“Because my future husband, Lord Atilo il Mauros, leads the fleet against them.”

“You gave your mother’s brooch? Dolphino’s earrings. The bracelet Gian Maria sent you…?” Atilo’s mouth was a tight line. He put one hand to his dagger, although that was for Tycho, who stood to one side.

They were in an upper chamber of the Priory.

A stark and coldly decorated room, made hot by Atilo’s anger and a night wind smelling of smoke and herbs. Sheep were roasting over pits outside. Food for the Crucifers who would fight tomorrow’s battle.

Every ship in the Cypriot fleet would carry a mix of galley slaves and free sailors. Also Crucifer knights, crossbowmen, soldiers and pikemen. Those vessels carrying mage fire needed masters to fire the flame, work the bellows and keep the deadly mixture from killing those it should protect.

Mage fire won battles.

Stealing its secret from Byzantium had been the Crucifers’ making. It also explained the hatred existing between them. Mage fire won battles and it lost them. Ships had been destroyed by the fire they carried before. They would be again.

None of that concerned Atilo now.

“How could you?” The pain in his voice was so raw that Desdaio blinked, tears filling her eyes and her bottom lip quivering. Atilo barely noticed. “I said I’d deal with it. After I talked to King Janus.”

“They were selling him…”

“I’d have bought him back. You went
alone
to a slave market. You gave your own jewels for a disgraced slave.” He shot a vicious glance at Tycho, who stayed silent.

“
You have no idea.
”

“No idea what?”

“What it feels like to be for sale.”

“And you have?”

“Of course I have.” Desdaio was furious. For a second, Atilo feared she would hit him. Should he let her? Or catch her wrist? How hard should he grip?

“Listen to me,” she shouted. “Don’t do that with your face. I don’t want to know you’re
thinking
. I want to know you’re
listening
to me…”

Tears rolled down her cheeks.

“You went into his room,” Atilo said, a statement of fact.

“
Yes
,” she said. “
I went into his room
. To warn him about the test.
Nothing happened
. He told me to leave.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Look at yourself,” she said. “Standing there with your hand on your dagger. Why do you think I didn’t tell you?”

Tycho caught the moment the Moor’s gaze shifted from Desdaio to where he stood a couple of paces behind her. Barefoot, half-starved, draped in the discarded blanket with which she’d wrapped him at the market.

“Is that all you’re good for?” Atilo hissed. “Hiding behind a girl?”

“Give me a knife, old man. We’ll see.”

Atilo’s mouth fell open.

“Even weak like this,” said Tycho. “I can kill you.”

“You dare…?”

“You’re past it.” Tycho’s voice was cold. “You’ve lost your strength, your nerve, your reflexes. All you’ve got left are your skills and they’re not what they were, are they?” He could see the truth in Atilo’s eyes. The man didn’t believe all that was true. But he was worried it might be.

“Not yet ready for your grave?”

Turning his back on his old master, Tycho glanced at the darkness outside. Past midnight by an hour or so. He had two hours, maybe three, before he needed to protect himself against daylight.

And the sad thing, the thing that twisted Tycho up inside, was that he missed the sun. Missed its warmth and its brightness, its warmth on water and the smell it gave to bare skin. Memories of sunlight reminded him of the boy he used to be… Every time he changed the sun scared him a little more. Without his doublet and without Dr. Crow’s ointment he had no choice but to hide.