Desdaio peered into the cellar. “Are you expecting Iacopo? she asked, sounding surprised.
“He was moving about earlier.”
Slipping inside, she left the door open and moonlight flooded in from above. The moon was full tonight, the sky bright with stars.
“My lady, shut the door.”
“We can’t all see in the dark.”
More moonlight filled the room as Desdaio obstinately opened it a little wider. Turning, she found Tycho facing the wall. “Leave,” he said. “Or close it.”
“Tycho…”
“Do it now.”
She shut the door with a bang.
“Go to that corner. Don’t come any closer…”
Kicking a wooden wedge under the door, Tycho found a candle, kindling and flints. The kindling was rag, the flints dropped by a cittadino too spoilt to retrieve them. “Candles cost,” said Desdaio, with the fervour of a rich woman who believes she is now poor.
“Moonlight hurts me,” Tycho said.
“That’s the sun.”
“A different kind of pain.”
Desdaio looked at him doubtfully. Moving closer, she seemed surprised he kept the candle between them. “I have things to tell you. And I want to sit.”
“On my mattress?”
“Do you see a chair?”
She smelt of roses and sweet wine, an undertaste of sweat, and a musk Tycho loved, loathed and found addictive. Every woman in the city between fifteen and thirty smelt the same.
“Are you all right?”
“No,” he said harshly. “I’m not.”
Desdaio was so shocked she stepped back. And for that Tycho was grateful. Her body still called to him, the pulse in her throat the beat of a drum summoning him to disaster. The skin of her neck glowed with youth and candlelight.
“Leave,” he told her. “Just go.”
“I thought you were my friend,” she said. “And then you talk to me like this.” Her eyes were huge with unspilt tears. “You can’t. It isn’t allowed.”
“Because I’m a slave?”
“It’s rude.”
“Some days,” he said, “I hate you.”
She sobbed. A single gulp in the back of her throat. “I thought if I was kind it might help. They say all slaves want to kill their owners. You’re meant to be different. You have a good heart,” Desdaio said fiercely. “Inside all your hate.”
Tycho’s smile made her shiver.
“You’re wrong, my lady. I doubt I have a—”
The knock interrupting his boast was abrupt and Desdaio’s eyes widened. Being found here was bad enough. To be found in her nightdress, a woollen shawl thrown over her shoulders and her feet bare…
“Maybe it’s Amelia. I’ll explain.”
“It’s Atilo,” said Tycho, as the knock repeated.
It came again, angrily. Atilo now knew the door was jammed, from trying its handle when his second knock wasn’t answered.
“How do you know?”
“His footsteps.”
Pulling aside his mattress, Tycho revealed a hole in the floor. An early and abandoned attempt to tunnel out. When Desdaio hesitated, Tycho lifted her—one hand under her knees, the other round her ribs—and dropped her in, before dragging his mattress back into place. From the look on her face she’d felt his hand come to rest under her breast too.
“Open this door.”
“My lord, if you could stop pushing.”
The pressure ceased and Tycho pulled away the wedge, moving just fast enough to avoid having his fingers crushed by Atilo’s furious entry. The old man glanced at the offcut in Tycho’s hands, then glared round the cellar, his eyes alighting on the candle. “Why do you need that?”
“My night sight’s not perfect,” Tycho lied.
“Where is she?” he demanded.
“Who, my lord?”
“Amelia.”
“Asleep in her bed, I imagine.”
The old man scowled. “She was meant to come to me tonight.” He sucked his teeth, deciding he’d said too much. “Iacopo is also missing. If they’re up to mischief together…”
“He returned a little earlier.”
“How do you know?”
“I heard him, my lord. His new breastplate scraped the wall above and he swore loud enough for me to hear.”
“Drunk, I imagine.” Dark eyes above a sharp beard watched Tycho. “You don’t miss much, do you?”
“I try not to, my lord.”
“And your locked door?”
“You know there are no bolts inside. But I found this above.” Holding up his offcut, Tycho said, “It keeps my door secure. You say we should secure our entries and exits. I’m simply obeying orders.”
The old man snorted. “Get some sleep. Wake early, rested and ready, with your wits sharp. Much turns on tomorrow. Don’t let me down.”
“My lord?”
“Pray to your gods for success.”
There are no gods, Tycho almost said. Not for the likes of you and me. “I will, my lord. Goodnight.”
Kicking his door jamb back into place, Tycho dragged the mattress aside and hauled Desdaio from the hole beneath. She shook him off when he tried to brush earth from her gown. “That’s what I came to tell you. Atilo has a special job for you tomorrow. And I should have known…”
She hiccuped.
“Known what?”
“Amelia goes to his bed. I thought…”
That he confined himself to the duchess? That he kept his whoring for brothels? She couldn’t really believe that a man as powerful as Atilo il Mauros slept alone under his own roof? Even Desdaio wasn’t that naive.
Holding her tight as she cried, Tycho folded her in his arms, feeling her breasts press against him and her nipples harden. Her eyes went wide when he kissed her and for a second she responded. Then he was blocking a slap.
“You kissed me back.”
“I did not.”
“My lady…”
“Enough.” Her voice was furious. “We won’t talk of this again.”
43
“This had better be good…”
Atilo stood in his chamber door in a long-sleeved woollen robe, with scarlet slippers that curled at the toe. Even though Iacopo had given his name when knocking, the old man had a stiletto in one hand and a lamp in the other.
Oil thrown at an attacker was everyman’s mage fire. Ten years earlier a patrician died after a lamp was hurled by a servant whose daughter he’d raped, with the girl tossing a flaming torch after. Duke Marco let the two hang. He forbade the slitting or castrating, gutting and burning tradition demanded. A popular decision with everyone except the noble’s wife. And she was Genoese anyway.
“Well?” he demanded.
“May I enter, my lord?”
Atilo stepped aside grudgingly.
“Forgive my intrusion… You intend to test Tycho tomorrow?”
The old man’s face hardened and he sat on a wooden stool without inviting Iacopo to do the same. His eyes fixed on Iacopo’s face and held his gaze until the young man looked away. “Jealousy gets you killed.”
“I’m not jealous, my lord.” The young man shrugged. “Although I envy the speed with which he learns. And his night sight is useful. Guard dogs ignore him also. As if he wrapped himself in magic.”
“It’s not magic,” said Atilo. “He has no smell.”
Iacopo’s mouth fell open.
“You should have worked that out. Whatever sickness makes him day-blind denies him a scent. That’s why hounds never find his tracks. They’ve nothing to follow…”
A season’s lessons in how to double back, lay false scents and hide in water had been abandoned after a week. Tycho couldn’t hide in water even if he wanted to. And, since the dogs couldn’t find his scent in the first place, the rest of the lessons were irrelevant.
“No smell,” Iacopo said. “That must be useful.”
Atilo looked on him more kindly. “You’re drunk. Get some sleep and you’ll f
eel better. And make friends with him…” Atilo held up his hand, admitting the obvious. “Not easy for you, I know. But make the effort. Because he will join us if he passes tomorrow’s test.”
“You’re freeing him?”
“Separate the two,” Atilo said. “Training takes five years. He’s a slave. I free slaves when they complete training. If he succeeds tomorrow I free him. One follows the other.”
“No one can train in a year.”
“Are you saying I’m wrong? That I don’t know when an apprentice is ready to become a journeyman?” There was ice in the old man’s voice.
“No. Certainly not, my lord.”
“What are you saying?”
“He was trained already…” Iacopo considered his suggestion, obviously liked it. “He must have been. He came here to kill someone. To betray us. He could be working for the emperor.”
“Which one?”
“Either,” Iacopo said, warming to his theme. “German or Byzantine, it doesn’t matter. They both want Venice. How better to…”
“Iacopo!” Atilo’s tone was sharp.
“Sir?”
“Why don’t I let you street-brawl? Why aren’t you allowed to compete in sword competitions? Because you’d pick up bad habits. If Tycho had trained do you think I wouldn’t know? Every sword school boasts of a move—elegant or deadly—that only they teach. All lies, of course. Sword schools have styles. So do assassins. I’d know if Tycho had been trained. He has amazing reflexes and reactions. But he was untaught when I first met him…”
And there things might have remained if Atilo hadn’t stood, patted Iacopo on the shoulder and said, “He’s not here to betray us, my boy.”
“Not me certainly,” Iacopo agreed, turning for the door.
Fingers like claws locked him into place. He tried to twist free but he might as well have fought a gaff through his flesh. The old man’s fingers were immoveable. The utter stillness Atilo exhibited before a kill was in place.
“Explain yourself.”
“My lord…”
“Forget politeness.”
That in itself was warning. Atilo believed in the art of manners, because manners opened more doors than a crowbar. Just as a smile could kill more easily than frontal attack. Although it might hurt less to begin with and take the victim longer to die. Atilo was smiling.
That was the second warning.
I should have stayed silent, thought Iacopo, the truest thought he’d had all day. I should have stayed silent. I should have left when I could. Then I could have dealt with this in my own way.
“My lord, I’m sorry. But I saw Lady Desdaio leave Tycho’s cellar. She was dressed…” Iacopo bowed his head. “In nightclothes. A gown covered by a shawl. Her hair was down, my lord.” As an unmarried woman, Desdaio was allowed her hair down. She’d taken to pinning it up, however, the morning she joined Atilo’s household. None of his staff had seen her since with her hair untied.
“Really? When did you see this?”
“Just now, my lord. A few moments ago.”
“You swear this?”
Iacopo gulped. “Yes, my lord.”
Atilo moved so fast that no one, no matter how good, could have blocked him.
One second his stiletto was on a table beside him, the next its blade had slithered up Iacopo’s nostril and a single drop of blood ran down its edge.
Iacopo could feel the knife behind his face. To move was to slice the cavities of his face open. If Atilo pushed further Iacopo was dead. It would take little pressure to ease a blade that thin into his brain.
“Then you’re foresworn. A moment ago I was in Tycho’s room and he was alone. If you’d said Amelia, an hour ago.” When Atilo shrugged the trickle of blood from Iacopo’s nose grew thicker. “I’d have had Tycho whipped. But that wasn’t enough. You want me to sell him. And so you’re prepared to blacken…”
Iacopo thought the old man would kill him.
“Take it back,” Atilo snapped. “Withdraw your accusation. Admit you are foresworn and tried to blacken her name.”
“I would never…”
“You just did,” Atilo said coldly.
“My lord, I’m sorry. I must have misunderstood what I saw.”
The blade edged higher. He was standing on tiptoe, Iacopo realised. Drunk, with a stiletto nestling in one nostril. As if standing on tiptoe could keep the blade from entering his skull.
“I lied,” he said hastily. “I’m sorry.”
Atilo withdrew his stiletto. The next moment saw him slash it forward to open Iacopo’s cheek. Scarring him for life. “Everytime you look in a glass, remember you risked a woman’s good name to further your ambition.”
Stumbling, Iacopo turned for the door.
“Iacopo…”
He turned back.
“You sew that yourself, understand? You don’t wake Amelia. You do it yourself. And you will behave around Tycho.”
A knock at her door woke Desdaio to shame and spring moonlight. A single knock, almost hesitant. Amelia was out of her truckle bed within seconds, pulling a shawl around her and looking sleepily for orders.
“I’ll go,” Desdaio said.
She approached slowly. Her anger bright and with it her shame. He’d told the truth, damn him. She, Desdaio Bribanzo, had melted in the arms of… a strange and beautiful slave admittedly. One who read her thoughts and seemed to know her mind and understand the nature of her unhappiness.
“My lady, would you prefer…?”
“I said I’ll go,” Desdaio snapped. “Who is it?”
“Me,” said a deep voice. “Atilo.”
She opened her door slowly, knowing he’d never visited her chamber before. It was her demand that Amelia slept in a truckle at the end of her bed. A demand Desdaio made when she understood her wedding would not be immediate. A way of saying Atilo could not come to her bed without a marriage contract. Except he’d never even tried to come to her bed.
Amelia’s late nights looked like the reason why.
“My lord?”
He looked like a man undecided what to say. One whose ideas and actions and words had fallen out of step with each other.
“Is there trouble?”
“That’s it. I thought I heard someone on the stairs.”
“Iacopo, perhaps?”
“No,” said Atilo. “We’ve been talking.”
“I heard nothing, my lord.”
He was still apologising when Desdaio shut the door firmly.
Amelia had simply come in later than expected, Atilo decided, listening to bolts slide into place. Any suggestion Desdaio had been with Tycho was unworthy. Yet he was troubled by the anger in her eyes.
44
Tycho drank small beer for breakfast in a shuttered house in Cannaregio, in the hour before daylight. The last intoxicating drink he’d touch all day. Small beer was only intoxicating in the way a blunt knife was dangerous. You could do yourself damage if you tried hard enough. But everyone would think you a fool and it would take weeks to live down.
Cutting a small chunk of bread, he trimmed rind from a ewe’s cheese before slicing himself a waxy sliver. It looked like wax, and smelt and tasted only marginally better. Hunger for food was not something he recognised any more.
A locally made candle burnt in front of him.
The buildings around here were greasy with smoke from tallow vats that boiled day and night, rendering fat for cheap candles. White candles, the expensive ones used in churches and the ducal palace, were made elsewhere. These were candles that cobblers used to do their work. Which burnt in brothels and taverns and the hovels of the almost poor.
Beer, cheese, bread, candle and flint…
All had been waiting in the upstairs room of a deserted leather boiler’s shop north of the Grand Canal’s upper entrance. A hundred paces from the church of Santa Lucia, patron saint of assassins and the blind. The table on which these sat was wooden and old. As were the floor, the shutters, the walls and the ro
of. All of them were old, and wooden. Except for two upstairs windows, which were both shuttered and lined with waxed paper. It was a while before Tycho realised how quickly the building would burn. Perhaps that was the point. A single flame to one of the waxed windows would reduce all this to ash.
His heart had sunk on entering. All this wood reminded him of Bjornvin.
Most buildings in Venice were brick or stone. Even huts with wooden frames or wattle and daub walls were plastered. This was bare wood, except for a chimney rising three floors to exit from a small fumaiolo, one of those conical flues common in this city. The chimney was brick. The fire in it had heated the shop’s cauldron, the one used to boil and shape leather.
Over the fireplace a lion’s face was flanked by bat’s wings.
This said he’d come to the right place. If that wasn’t enough, the weapons on the table told him anyway. A Florentine stiletto, thin enough to slide from armpit to heart, or enter the anus and destroy vital organs without leaving a mark. The sword Dr. Crow gave him, not seen since the day Tycho arrived at Ca’ il Mauros.
Climbing hooks, which Tycho didn’t bother to examine. He wouldn’t be taking or needing those. Rope, which he also ignored. Focusing instead on the steel span, wooden stock and intricate trigger of a tiny hand-held crossbow.
Assembling it quickly, without mistake, he wished Atilo was there to see it. Time and again he’d fumbled slightly when watched by the man. Five silver-tipped arrows came with the bow and these made him shudder.
The silver would hurt if he touched it. Tycho knew that well enough. He also knew Atilo reserved this crossbow for krieghund. And most of those were meant to have been driven from the city. It made him wonder about that night’s assignment.
The final gift was three throwing blades.
Lifting one, Tycho flicked his wrist and put the blade between the teeth of the lion mask across the room. Five other knives had found its mouth over the years. Several dozen had missed. He hoped this was a good omen, and forebore to throw again in case he risked his luck.
Tycho oiled the little bow, checked the edge of his sword, which was sharp enough to shave him, and carefully wrapped the silver arrows. The balance of the stiletto was faultless. Pivoting on his first finger at the point where the blade met the handle.
The Fallen Blade: Act One of the Assassini Page 23
