The Fallen Blade: Act One of the Assassini

by Jon Courtenay Grimwood

  “Anything else?” Alexa asked.

  “An unflagged ship slipped through the sandbanks before dawn. Its oarsmen rowing against the tide.”

  “Galley slaves, you mean,” Alonzo said crossly.

  Serenissima’s galleys used freemen. The Mamluks and Moors, Byzantines, Cypriots and Genoese used slaves. Some Venetians captured at sea served the Barbary pirates. But they were few. Marco III had extracted such revenge for attacks on his fleets that fewer Venetians now languished under the whip than ever before.

  “How could you let this happen?”

  A question on which Roderigo’s life hung.

  Although Roderigo knew it was already lost if anyone discovered what had really happened out on the lagoon the night the Mamluk ship burnt. A Mamluk princess killed. Now a Millioni princess abducted in revenge. A new ship slipping away at night. Roderigo needed to avoid laying these strands at Duke Marco’s kicking feet. Only to have Prince Alonzo tie them neatly into a knot.

  “You saw this ship leave yourself?” Duchess Alexa sounded acid.

  “No, my lady. I was told.”

  “What nationality?”

  “We don’t know.” Roderigo swallowed.

  “Why not?” the Regent demanded. “What’s the point of a Dogana chief who doesn’t register vessels as they arrive in our lagoon?”

  “My lord, there are five hundred ships out there. It often takes us more than a day to give them a place in the quarantine line.”

  “I’m not interested in excuses.”

  “We can deal with details later.” Duchess Alexa was firm. “If Captain Roderigo has been lax he will be fined. If his men have failed they will be flogged. If treason is involved people will die. That is not the issue. Assume the Mamluks took Giulietta. Now ask, why?”

  “W-w-why why?” Duke Marco asked. “Even, w-why why why?”

  “Because,” his mother said patiently. “If we don’t know why they’ve taken her. How will we know what they want to give her back?”

  “She’s nice. Perhaps they’ll keep her.”

  “Does he have to be here?” Prince Alonzo hissed.

  “Without him there is no Council.”

  “Enter,” the duke shouted. “Sweet bird.”

  Prince Alonzo and the duchess were still glaring when a guard suddenly knocked and the door was thrown open. In bustled a soft-faced man in scarlet, dragging a dark-haired girl behind him. She dressed as one might for walking. Since she was plump, pink and healthy—and he was old—she obviously allowed herself to be dragged. Her embarrassed yet defiant expression suggested to Duchess Alexa that this was her father. She had some experience in such matters.

  “Lord Bribanzo…?”

  The old man let go long enough to bow, turning back as if expecting his captive to be sprinting for the door. “I’m sorry to be late.” He hesitated. “I have family problems of my own. Of course, if now is an inopportune time…”

  The smile Prince Alonzo fixed into place belonged to a man who had borrowed fifty thousand gold ducats from Lord Bribanzo and had yet to repay them. “For you, we always have time.”

  “And this is your daughter?” Alexa said.

  “It is, my lady.”

  Yes. She rather thought it was.

  “She’s joined our Council without my being told?”

  There was an edge to the duchess’s question. Even a man as distracted as Bribanzo understood that. “No, my lady. Of course not…”

  “But you consider her a matter for the Ten?”

  Being a matter for the Council was two-edged. They were the law in Venice, and in the city’s fiefs on the mainland and in her colonies beyond. They found in your favour. Or they found against you. There was no appeal.

  “I have been wronged,” Bribanzo said.

  “An unwelcome suitor, perhaps?”

  “That’s one way to put it…” Catching his temper, Bribanzo spread his hands apologetically. “This has political implications for the city, my lady. I’ve been in Milan, with Prince Alonzo’s permission.”

  Have you now?

  Alexa scowled “The Duke of Milan is our enemy.”

  “Alliances change,” said Alonzo. “Milan needs access to the Adriatic. We could use an ally in the north. The ill will between our cities makes little sense. To me it never has.” This was as close as he’d come to outright criticism of his late brother’s policies.

  “So you approved Lord Bribanzo’s journey?”

  “We gain an ally and lose an enemy. In Desdaio, Milan gains a duchess. A Venetian-born duchess,” Alonzo stressed. “Whose father is a member of the Ten.”

  And Duke Gian Maria Visconti gains Desdaio’s dowry?

  Nothing else would persuade Milan’s new duke to agree. Gian Maria had just fought a ruinously expensive war. So Bribanzo’s gold would be welcome. His daughter’s links to Venice less so.

  “Months of negotiation,” Bribanzo protested. “Weeks on the finer points.” He meant how much Gian Maria wanted for making Desdaio a duchess. “All wasted unless we can hush this up.”

  “Hush what up?” asked Alexa.

  “A heathen has ruined her. Stolen the flower of my pride and…” Bribanzo stopped, unable to finish.

  “Wronged her? Or wronged you?”

  The young woman was staring at the floor, blushing to the roots of her curling chestnut hair. She was pretty in a lush way. Breasts young men would like, full and firm. Wide hips and a soft stomach. Alexa had no doubt her bottom wiggled as she walked.

  “They are betrothed,” her father said furiously.

  The duchess could see how that might upset him. Lord Bribanzo’s strongroom was apparently so stuffed with gold ducats that his palace had needed new foundations. As well gold didn’t tarnish in salt water. Since Ca’ Bribanzo was as prone to flooding as the next house.

  “Gian Maria Visconti was your idea?”

  “Or Cosimo de’ Medici. He’d do.”

  Someone snorted and Bribanzo’s chin went up. He was unapologetic about his ambition. How had Cosimo’s father secured Florence if not by being rich and ruthless?

  “You don’t think Venice has young men to offer?”

  Lord Bribanzo knew he’d strayed on to treacherous ground. This time he took longer to answer, and his voice was calmer when he did. “My lady, many worthy Venetians have wished for a union. Any one of them would have been preferable to this… Mamluk.”

  “He’s not a Mamluk.” These were the first words Lady Desdaio uttered. “And I’m not ruined…”

  “What is he then?” Alonzo asked.

  She dropped the Regent a curtsy. “A Moor, my lord.”

  Alonzo snorted. “Not much difference. They’re all more trouble than is wise. It’s time we reminded the heathens of our power. Venice is a great city. A kind city. A good city…” He glanced round, checking he had the court’s attention. Bribanzo and Count Cove were nodding. Even the guards at the door looked attentive. Despite tradition demanding they hear nothing. “But we don’t want our kindness mistaken for weakness.” Opening her mouth to refute him, Alexa decided not to bother. She’d heard it all before.

  “You’ll punish him?”

  Lord Bribanzo wanted more than his daughter back. He wanted his pound of flesh for the insult to his ambitions. He wanted a warning issued to anyone else who thought they could trick their way to his fortune. “A public flogging at the least?”

  “Guards,” Alonzo said. “Fetch this man!”

  “My lord…” Bribanzo was meant to look grateful not embarrassed by this gesture of support from the Regent. “I’ve already sent for him.”

  The Regent considered this. Lord Bribanzo was within his rights. Any member of the Ten could demand the attention of anyone in the city.

  “Then we wait,” Alonzo said.

  The grounding of spears on marble outside the chamber announced that guards had crossed their halberds, barring entrance to the prisoner and his escort.

  Alexa heard one demand their business
.

  The answer had metal creaking, as a guard turned the huge handle of the council chamber door. That was when Alexa realised her son was grinning. Sprawled like a skinny black spider across his throne, Marco had one leg dangling over its gilded arm, his shoulder twisted at an ugly angle, and was grinning fit to burst.

  When his mother looked worried, he winked.

  “Marco…?”

  The duke nodded towards the door.

  The old man entering wore a Moorish gown, a turban round his head, and turned-up leather slippers. A silver sheath jutted from his belt, but its blade was gone, removed on his arrest. His beard was dyed, although grey flecked his temples.

  “Atilo…”

  The duchess was on her feet before common sense kicked in. Sitting, she gripped her chair.

  Prince Alonzo smiled.

  “You knew about this?” she asked angrily.

  “About what?” Turning to Bribanzo, he said, “Are you saying this is the villain responsible…?”

  Atilo stepped forward.

  “Later,” Prince Alonzo snapped. “You will be told when to speak. I am addressing Lord Bribanzo. Well?”

  “It is, excellence.”

  “Then the betrothal is void. You cannot have a betrothal where marriage is banned. Suitable candidates for Lady Desdaio’s hand include foreign princes and families in the Golden Book. Lord Atilo is neither a recognised prince nor in the Book. We do not grant permission.”

  By we he meant the Ten. At least, Alexa hoped he did.

  “However,” Alonzo added. “My brother, the late duke, had faith in this man’s abilities. Because of that he will be spared public punishment.”

  Lord Bribanzo scowled. A quick scowl, speedily swallowed. “No punishment at all, my lord?”

  “He has done my city some small favours.”

  Your city? Small favours?

  The duchess was glad to have a veil to hide her anger.

  Atilo had won a dozen battles. Never mind the services he rendered as head of the Assassini. And hadn’t he sacrificed almost every one of his men to keep Giulietta out of the hands of the Wolf Brothers? What more did Alonzo want?

  Alexa wished she’d followed her instincts the morning the late duke died, and had Alonzo killed immediately. If only her husband hadn’t made her promise to let him live. Marco III had been known as the Just and the Wise. In this, she doubted both his justice and wisdom.

  “I am right,” Alonzo was saying. “Your name isn’t in the Book?”

  “No, my lord.” Atilo shook his head, his face tightening behind his beard.

  “Then this matter is done. Lord Bribanzo may take his daughter. And you can be grateful for our mercy. Now let the Ten consider more important business.”

  “You can’t make me.”

  Desdaio’s protest echoed off wood-panelled walls. Both her father, and Atilo, moved to comfort her and stopped, glaring at each other. While Desdaio stood uncomforted between them, her shoulders shaking with sobs.

  Little idiot, Alexa thought.

  But a buxom little idiot. Of the kind Venetians find irresistible, burning themselves like moths against her need. Looking into the eyes of her late husband’s favourite, the duchess saw real pain. Atilo il Mauros, the man who turned back German cavalry on the marshes of the Veneto, had fallen for the ephemeral charms of a woman a third his age.

  Duchess Alexa sighed.

  Throwing herself at the feet of Duke Marco’s throne, Desdaio gripped its carved legs as if guards were already trying to drag her free. “Please,” she begged. “Help me.”

  The duke kicked his heel hard. He glared at his mother. He glared at Atilo. He glared at a spare chair. An empty, gilded chair. Sitting back, he rammed his thumb into his mouth, scratched his crotch openly and scrunched his eyes.

  “I think…” Alonzo began to say.

  But the duchess was standing. Moving swiftly, she stopped opposite Atilo as the court pushed back their chairs, hurrying to stand in their turn. Pausing just long enough to heighten their expectations, she clapped Atilo on the shoulder.

  “There is my choice,” she said loudly. “My husband’s old adviser, this city’s faithful servant for the Tenth Chair.”

  Utter silence filled the room.

  “Alexa…” Prince Alonzo hesitated. Obviously choosing his words with care. “This is not wise. You know there are reasons why…”

  “It’s my turn.”

  “No,” said Bribanzo. His fleshy face red with the effort of controlling his temper. “You can’t.”

  “My lord…” Alexa’s voice was icy. And Bribanzo went stock still. He might only be five years older than Atilo, but there the likeness ended. Lord Bribanzo was a coward, albeit an ambitious one.

  “You presume to tell me what I may do?”

  After Bribanzo had grovelled, Alexa glared round the room, daring anyone else to disagree and, for a second, her gaze halted at the sight of her son smiling sweetly. She could swear he blew Desdaio a kiss.

  “Do you accept the chair?” Alexa asked Atilo.

  “My lady…”

  “Do you?”

  Sinking to his knees, Atilo il Mauros kissed the ring her husband had placed on her finger on their wedding day years earlier. “As always, I am yours to command.” Amending this, he said. “As the duke, the Regent and you command.”

  “Delighted to hear it,” Alonzo said.

  Turning to a scribe, Alexa said. “Have Lord Atilo’s name entered in the Golden Book immediately. He will lead the hunt for my niece.”

  “Roderigo will accompany him.” Prince Alonzo’s voice was firm.

  To Bribanzo, the duchess said, “Make your peace. My niece must be found and this seat needs filling. Atilo is a trusted servant. As are you.” The compliment sounded hollow even to her.

  It would help if she could put warmth in it. Give Bribanzo a smile he could interpret as the promise of her future favour. Unfortunately, she loathed the man. Alexa liked her favourites lean and hungry.

  “My daughter?”

  “Milan will not take her now,” Alexa said flatly. “As for other suitors…” If they have any sense, she thought, they’ll accept defeat to avoid upsetting the Ten’s newest member; a man dangerous in ways most didn’t know.

  An ignorance that came close to bliss.

  “You may g-g-go,” the duke said. He’d taken his thumb out of his mouth and was pointing at Bribanzo. “N-n-now.”

  At the door, Lord Bribanzo turned, and his words were heard by those in the chamber, and by those in the corridor outside. By nightfall, they were known everywhere in the city. A declaration of hatred for Atilo, although he directed his venom at his daughter.

  “You, I disown.”

  His voice was the hiss of a snake. His eyes flat, beyond fury, in a state where he would kill her without regret. “You were never mine. It is not that you died for me this day. You were never born.”

  19

  News of Bribanzo’s feud with Atilo was overshadowed by rumours that the Mamluks had abducted Lady Giulietta il Millioni to prevent her marrying King Janus, because an alliance with Cyprus would have given Venice the mouth of the Nile. Rumours that grew from abducting, to abducting and probably raping, and then to abducting undoubtedly, raping and probably murdering, as days turned into weeks.

  The Cypriot ambassador said goodbye.

  Regretful but implacable, Sir Richard Glanville boarded his ship and hoisted his king’s colours, and the colours of his Priory, and slipped through the sandbanks at the mouth of the lagoon into the Adriatic beyond.

  His was the only vessel allowed to leave.

  The ship that had sneaked from the lagoon was chased, stopped and boarded. It turned out to be Mamluk, but Lady Giulietta was not aboard. And its crew swore they had not put ashore since leaving Venice. Their captain died under questioning, still protesting he knew nothing about an abduction. He was a simple smuggler.

  Trade ceased on the lagoon for the first time since Marco the Cruel
overthrew the Rebel Republic fifty years earlier. Gulls still swept the waves, cormorants dived from posts holding fishing nets. They were the only movement. Food piled up on the mainland. Night soil was not collected. Cittadini made deputations citing loss of profits. Leaving shocked by Prince Alonzo’s contempt for their worries.

  The city’s fishing nets, as famous as San Marco itself, hung from crossed poles, dry and unused. The small boats that should have collected the dawn catch remained beached on Venice’s mudflats. Ships at anchor remained there. Those waiting to enter stayed beyond the lagoon or found another port. Salt barges were refused leave to set out for the mainland. New barges, loaded with dried fish, salted beef and wizened fruit stored the previous summer remained on their mainland moorings, their produce slowly rotting.

  “You must show yourself,” Duchess Alexa told the Regent. “Let the people see you. Reassure them.”

  “You show yourself.”

  “I’m in mourning.”

  “It’s three years,” he said crossly. “Enough of the hiding in darkened rooms and refusing to appear in public. Take Marco and let the city see you.”

  “Impossible,” the duchess said. “You know…”

  “He can’t be let out in public?”

  “Alonzo…”

  “It’s the truth. And, speaking of truth, are you behind this?”

  “Behind what?”

  “Giulietta’s abduction?”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Answer me.”

  “If you remember,” Alexa said tightly, “I suggested her marriage to Janus. We need Cyprus to secure our trade routes. In fact, our future wealth depends on it. You seem over-friendly with the sultan’s ambassador. Should I be asking you the same?”

  “Believe me, that’s changing.”

  Stamping to the balcony, Alonzo glared through fretted shutters at a crowd on the Molo, the palace’s water terrace. Beyond them, to his left, the Riva degli Schiavoni was equally thronged. Most of those gathering were Arsenalotti. “Venice needs a duke who can control it,” he said.

  “You, you mean?”

  “It can’t be you.”

  “Because I’m a woman?”

  “And a Mongol. You know how they feel about that.”