The Fallen Blade: Act One of the Assassini

by Jon Courtenay Grimwood

  “Too pretty for his own good,” a gaoler laughed. “Dee, then Blue. After that Federico. The others later.”

  “He’s only there two days.”

  “Long enough,” the voice said. A fist caught Tycho in the back and he stumbled, ankles burning as he took three quick steps to regain his balance.

  “Here we go.”

  A clang told Tycho a hatch was opening.

  “Don’t fight it,” a voice muttered in his ear, sounding almost sympathetic. “It’s going to happen anyway. So soak it up, and work out who you can take your revenge on later.”

  “What are you telling him?”

  “That he’s going to get his good.”

  “Damn right. All that sweet flesh. Too bad I only like slit…”

  “And this one’s so pretty,” said another voice. “Put him in a dress and you couldn’t tell the difference.” The man guffawed. “Like to try it. Dee would be good for gold.” He stopped, realised what he’d said. Waited for the inevitable question.

  “You saying Dee’s still got coin?”

  “He’s got friends. They’ve got coin.”

  Hands gripped Tycho’s shoulders and walked him to the edge. A gaoler dragged free his blindfold and Tycho twisted, avoiding a vicious jab to his side. He’d seen someone liver-punched. If all you did was vomit, shit yourself and black out briefly you were doing well.

  “Slippery bastard, isn’t he?”

  “Yeah,” said Tycho, juggling numbers. Three gaolers here, four guards at the top of the stairs, two levels and three doors between him and freedom. Acceptable odds, if he could change. Against that, he was shackled with silver wire, stark naked and it was daylight if he made it as far as outside.

  And he deserved to be here. All the same, he planned on evening the odds. Grabbing a rusting dagger from a gaoler’s belt, Tycho stepped backwards and dropped into hell, falling for two seconds before hitting something soft, which swore, and dislocated.

  “Fuck,” it snarled.

  Tycho had landed in an oubliette.

  Flooded, except for a tiny island on which three men huddled. Half of the remaining prisoners crouched in stinking water, some of them up to their waists, others to their necks. Against a wall, a huge treadwheel was turned by the rest, who swore and whimpered as they worked. A single torch lit the fetid pit from the far side of a grate high above. That was the trapdoor.

  “Which one’s Dee?” Tycho demanded.

  “I am, you fuck. And you’re going to die hideously.”

  If Prince Alonzo got his way Tycho’s death would undoubtedly be hideous. Since he mended fast and died slowly it would be more hideous than the Regent realised. The man with the dislocated shoulder intended to get there first, however…

  “And Blue?”

  “What’s it to you?” said a man behind Dee, answering Tycho’s question anyway.

  “I guess that makes you Federico?”

  The third man scowled in the half darkness. Instinctively, he’d shifted into a street fighter’s stance. He was younger than Dee and Blue, his muscles less wasted and his skin healthier.

  “Keep the wheel turning, you bastards…”

  Dee’s order had the pump working again. Prisoners climbing from step to step, their chains clanking as the wheel kept the water from rising further and the small island from being drowned.

  “I’ll fix your shoulder, boss,” Blue told Dee. “Then you should get some rest. Give your muscles a chance to mend.”

  “If you think,” Dee said, “I’ll fall for that. You get some sleep and I’ll just break him in for you. You think I’m shitting stupid?”

  “Don’t think you’re stupid at all, boss.”

  “No,” Federico said. “We don’t think that.” The slipperiness in his voice suggested others did.

  “Bugger this.” Slamming his palm into his twisted shoulder, Dee grunted as his arm slid into its socket. “That’s better. Now bring him here. I’ll show you who’s stupid.”

  The bucintoro, Marco’s ceremonial barge, was scrubbed, painted and newly gilded. Its hull was free of barnacles, the caulking between its planks freshly tarred. New-woven ropes guided its triangular sail, and the lion flag of Serenissima flapped high above. The flag was the height of a man, with St Mark’s winged lion picked out in gold on a white background.

  When not flying above the bucintoro, the flag lived in a jewelled case behind the altar of San Marco. The duke’s annual marriage to the sea, and his leading an army into battle, were the only reasons to remove it.

  On the black throne of the Millioni, Duke Marco IV hummed softly, watching the seagulls that followed his barge. The gulls were hungry for the scraps and fish guts usually found in the wake of fleets this size.

  For once the Regent was not centre stage.

  He had no right to marry the sea. And Alexa, being a woman, could not. Marco IV would marry the sea for them, and for the whole city and its empire beyond. His mother doubted her son even realised the ring on his little finger, the one he would toss into the Adriatic at a nod from her, was fake.

  A good fake, of course.

  The lapis was real and the gold pure. The design exact. Even the scratches around the old-fashioned Byzantine setting and across the shank were lovingly recreated. Fake only in that it wasn’t the original. Alexa regretted having to kill one of Venice’s finest jewellers but regarded it as a price worth paying. Her only worry about offering the sea a perfect replica was that the sea might reject it.

  The problem with Westerners was that they fulfilled their rituals carefully, without understanding the reasons behind them. Half of the nobles thought this day stupid superstition. The other half imagined it a gaudy display designed to overawe the cittadini and keep the Arsenalotti in their place. None considered what the sea’s rejection of this marriage might mean… Fierce storms at the very least. Ships lost at sea and fishermen returning with their nets empty.

  At the lagoon’s mouth, the surrounding flotilla slowed its pace and came to a halt, the oarsmen holding their place against the pull and push of the tide. Only the bucintoro went on.

  “You have the list of prisoners?” Alonzo asked.

  “Yes, my lord.” Roderigo’s voice rang clear across the deck. Tradition demanded Marco free one prisoner in honour of his marriage. Vast sums changed hands, with families desperate to buy freedom for one of their own. Sometimes the money went to someone who could actually influence the choice. More often than not, it made no difference.

  “Read it, then.”

  The captain bowed. Being one of the Regent’s favourites was a double-edged sword, and sometimes even the handle was too dangerous to hold.

  “Federico, an expert forger and murderer. Who claims to have sometimes given aid to this city…” As close as anyone would get to admitting he was a spy. “Giovanni Cisco, salt dealer. Murdered his wife, wrongly. She was not cuckolding him as he suspected. Lord Gandolfo, accused by his enemies of false witness.”

  Captain Roderigo’s money was on Gandolfo.

  Not literally. He was too close to the Regent to find anyone willing to take his bet. Even old friends assumed he knew something they didn’t.

  “Those are the names?”

  Tradition demanded three. So three was what they got. Tradition also demanded that question. And that Captain Roderigo answer it. “Those are the names, my lords.”

  “Then let our duke show justice.”

  Roderigo was thinking how hard Alonzo found it to say those words, acknowledging his nephew’s rule as they did. And wondering whether Marco would be able to repeat the name his mother had just whispered to him, when a sob broke the uneasy silence.

  “You have something to say?”

  Everyone looked at Duke Marco in shock. Their gazes flicking to the sobbing Desdaio a moment later. Every patrician there knew who she was. Not one had acknowledged her on arrival, although they’d all been careful to recognise Atilo. He was one of the Ten. And, quite possibly, Duchess Alexa’s lover.
A fact that might help explain the stiffness between Atilo and the woman beside him.

  “Well?” Alexa said.

  “Tycho should be included.”

  Prince Alonzo raised one eyebrow. “Who?” he said.

  “The boy you sent to…”

  “Do what? We sent where?” Duchess Alexa’s gaze settled on Atilo. He shook his head slightly.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Atilo’s slave is charged with treason.” Alonzo’s voice was firm. “The sentence for treason is death. It cannot be revoked.”

  “Slaves can’t commit treason.”

  Someone gasped. Technically, it was true. Slaves could commit murder, rape and steal. All of these counted as treason against their master. But they could not commit treason against the state. This was the act of freemen. Such acts belonged to their masters.

  “Do you understand what you’re saying?” Alexa asked.

  If treason was proved and the penalty was death, and Atilo’s slave could not be held responsible, then the only person who could was Atilo.

  “Yes,” Desdaio said.

  As Federico and Blue advanced, Tycho glanced behind to see a squat man reach for his ankle. Kicking back, he broke the dwarf’s nose and heard a splash. Next time he risked a glance two boys were holding the dwarf underwater, while bubbles rippled the water’s dark surface.

  “Look,” said Dee. “Fighting just makes it harder.”

  “Depends how well you fight.” Whipping the blade from behind his back, Tycho slashed it across Blue’s throat, stabbed Federico in the guts and threw it at Dee in a single moment. Dee had a hand to his eye, already sinking to his knees, when Tycho stepped forward and drove the dagger home.

  He wiped his blade on Dee’s face for effect, though he doubted many could see, the light being so bad. Hooking his toe under Dee’s body, he rolled it into the water. The other two he simply picked up and threw. Those in the shallowest water were obviously stronger or meaner than those behind. So they were his greatest threat. Letting them see his contempt was simple common sense.

  “Anyone else want to fight?”

  There were growls of anger and snarled insults, but no one stepped up to the challenge.

  “Well?” Tycho said.

  In the shallows the dwarf stopped struggling. An old man who’d tried to save him was being shuffled into deeper water, while the boys moved forward to take his place. “Wait till you’re hungry,” someone muttered.

  Tycho looked for the voice.

  “And then?”

  “We’ll see how tough you are.”

  A bear of a Mamluk with a matted beard and a belly that jutted like a boat’s prow. He was chest deep in water, but only because he crouched down.

  “Man’s got a knife.”

  The Mamluk snorted. “He’s gotta sleep sometime. We’d all be tough if we had a knife.”

  “He’s tough without, believe me.” A boy’s voice came from deep water. “You ain’t seen nothing like it. Moves like lightning. Kills just as fast.”

  “You,” Tycho said. “Come here.”

  “He’s just a kid,” a voice hissed.

  “Like that ever stopped Dee and Blue,” someone else answered.

  Hands bundled the boy towards the island. Where he stood naked, hands clenched into fists, his ribs thin as twigs. His eyes never left Tycho’s face in the half-darkness. “It’s you,” Tycho said.

  Pietro nodded.

  “I’m sorry…” Tycho made himself say it. “I’m sorry about your sister.”

  “Not your fault,” Pietro said flatly.

  Tycho wished he could agree with him. “Here,” he said. “Hold the knife for me.”

  The small boy gaped, then grabbed the dagger by its hilt and stepped back. He swung the blade at the first man to grab for it.

  “Anyone tries to take that from Pietro they answer to me.”

  Heads turned to fix on Tycho in the darkness. He pointed to the barrel-chested Mamluk, gesturing him closer. “The island’s his if he can take it.”

  The challenge was enough. The treadmill stopped. Only starting when people began shouting. “It’s time to change shifts,” whispered Pietro. “Only Dee’s dead. Maybe you’d better tell them?” He made the last part a question. In case Tycho grew angry.

  “Change shifts,” Tycho ordered.

  The wheel worked a pump that stopped the pit from drowning its inhabitants. As long as people worked the wheel every hour of every day, the level stayed low. At least, low enough for the island to remain visible and the slopes to be shallow enough for most to stand and a few to kneel.

  “Right,” Tycho said. “Want to try your luck?”

  “I’ll be having that knife,” the Mamluk warned Pietro. “If you’ve got any sense you’ll give it up without fuss.”

  Stepping forward, Tycho kicked the man in the balls.

  There was nothing subtle about his move. He waited until the Mamluk was ashore, stepped forward and kicked hard. The shackle around his ankle crushed the man’s bollocks. Both of Tycho’s ankles ripping as the linking chain snapped tight. His curse was lost under the Mamluk’s scream.

  Breaking the man’s neck with a twist, Tycho kicked his body into the shallows. “The knife,” someone begged. “Lend me your knife.”

  “Why?”

  “So I can fillet him quickly. Please. In this heat he’ll be rotting by tomorrow. Believe me, I know. I used to be a butcher.”

  “How long?” Tycho asked.

  “Months,” the man said. “Years, tens of years. How can one tell time in hell? Will you lend me your knife?”

  “No,” Tycho said.

  The man sighed, dragged the Mamluk towards the shallows, and collected Dee, Blue and Federico as well. He left the dwarf floating. “We’d better eat what we can then.”

  Everyone fed.

  The deck of the bucintoro remained in silence except for sails creaking, the hum of the hawsers and slap of the waves. Even Duke Marco stopped drumming his heels, mesmerised by the twisted expression on Atilo’s face.

  Lords who hadn’t met her gaze in a year, their ladies, who’d spent time looking through her, stared openly at Desdaio. And the young woman stood there, wide-faced and innocent, her body soft, her breasts heavy and her smile gentle. But there was steel in her eyes.

  Duchess Alexa was impressed.

  “Let me get this right.” The Regent’s grin was that of a cat that had got both the cream and the canary, and had just discovered seconds. His hatred of Atilo was well known. “You’re accusing your lover of treason?”

  “He’s not my lover,” Desdaio snapped.

  Atilo stared at his feet.

  “Really?”

  “We’re to be married. Sometime.” There was a world of bitterness in Desdaio’s last word and her eyes filled. Raising her chin, she ignored them. “Until then I remain a virgin. I swear it.”

  The duchess smiled behind her veil. “If,” she said, “you’re accusing your beloved of treason I doubt there will be a wedding or a bedding.”

  “I’m not, my lady.”

  “That’s what it sounds like to me.”

  “I’m not saying Lord Atilo is guilty. I’m saying his slave is innocent. Tycho wouldn’t commit treason any more than my lord would. There must be a mistake. What can he have done that is so bad?”

  The nobles began looking at their wives.

  Everyone knew patrician women sometimes had affairs with servants. Young wives with old husbands had to find comfort somewhere. As did women married to men more interested in men. Sometimes the wives were simply bored, or married to weak men who accepted it. A few women ended poisoned, returned to their fathers or locked in their rooms. Mostly, the servants were found floating with their throats cut.

  But this young woman had just publicly sworn herself a virgin.

  “You don’t believe he’s guilty, do you?”

  Iacopo shuffled his feet, obviously stunned to be thrown so publicly to the lions by Desdaio’s
question. He was only there as Atilo’s bodyguard. It might be Easter, a day of peace and celebration, but nobles still took sensible precautions.

  “My lady,” he said. “I’m hardly in a position…”

  “Yes, you are.” Atilo’s voice deep and slow. He was, those who knew him realised, in battle mode. His face was stern, his eyes steady. “And I’m interested to know your answer. Tell me. Do you believe my slave guilty of any treason?”

  Maybe Alexa imagined the stress on any.

  “How can I…” Iacopo stumbled to a halt. “I’m a servant. If I say no the lords think I lie. If I say yes, the lords might think I lie anyway. These are matters far above…”

  “Your highness.” Desdaio’s voice cut through the excuses. “May I have leave to talk privately with my lord Atilo?” It took Alexa a second to realise she was talking to the duke. Marco stopped looking at the seagulls.

  “I don’t see why not,” he said.

  Nicolò Dolphino gasped, and then flushed under Alexa’s glare. It didn’t matter that the duchess wore a veil, she was obviously glaring. And it didn’t matter that most days Duke Marco could barely string two words together. Everyone was to pretend he ruled. Expressing surprise that he’d managed two sentences in one day slighted that.

  Desdaio walked Atilo to the stern of the bucintoro. Ahead of her, podgy wooden cherubim, painted gold rather than gilded, gambolled and rolled and exposed tiny genitals and even more unlikely wings. She dismissed a year of a master carver’s life with a single sniff.

  “Do you love me?”

  Hard eyes looked at her. She’d never seen his face so cold or severe. He wore his age and experience like armour. She felt stupidly young and not worthy of him.

  “Answer me,” she demanded crossly.

  He let his silence stretch to the point of cruelty.

  “I love you,” she said, feeling her eyes fill. She was furious with herself, furious with him. Furious that fifty people who’d spent a year ignoring her were now openly staring. “I love you more than life.”

  “I’ll ask you again,” Atilo said. “Did you go to his room?”

  “That’s what this is about? You’re accusing me of…” She glared at him. “What are you accusing me of?”

  He just looked at her.