The fallen blade at-1

by Jon Courtenay Grimwood

  "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."

  56

  "You gave your mother's br
ooch? 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.

  "Face me," Atilo said.

  "Why would I bother?"

  Closing the gap in three steps, Atilo slapped him.

  Tycho laughed. So Atilo backhanded him hard, obviously expecting the boy to go down. But Tycho stood his ground, grinning through bloody lips. "Is that the best you can do?"

  The third time Atilo struck, Tycho caught his hand, held it briefly and then tossed it away, as if discarding rubbish.

  "Don't you mock me," Atilo hissed.

  "Someone has to."

  Drawing his dagger in a single sweep, Atilo put its point to Tycho's chin, where a blade can pass through muscle, tongue and palate, entering the cavities behind the nose to pierce the brain.

  "I let you do that."

  The dagger's point jabbed tighter. "No, you didn't."

  "Are you sure?" The question earned Tycho the dagger point digging through skin until blood ran sluggish and black down the outside of his throat.

  "Feel that?" Tycho asked.

  And Atilo did. Tycho could see that from the old man's stillness and his widening eyes. Atilo's spare dagger was at his own balls. Tycho had removed it from his belt without the old man even noticing.

  "Do they still work?"

  "Stop it," Desdaio shouted.

  Tycho had no idea which of them she was talking to. Nor did Atilo from his face. That thought only made the man angrier. The Moor's eyes were cold, his mouth above his sharp beard set hard. He wanted to hurt Tycho. Wanted to punch his blade into Tycho's brain. But the dagger at his groin froze his courage. And Desdaio's presence prevented him.

  "Am I interrupting something?" said a voice from the doorway.

  "You… Here?"

  Tycho could have killed Atilo then. Instead, he stepped back, shooting the newcomer a twisted grin. While Atilo was still staring, Tycho returned the spare dagger to Atilo's belt with a flourish and gave their guest a bow.

  Prince Leopold laughed.

  "You must be Lady Desdaio. As beautiful as rumour says…"

  She was staring from Tycho to Atilo, and then at the elegantly dressed stranger, wondering who he was and why the man she hoped to marry hated him even more than the boy he'd just wanted to kill.

  "Tell me what's going on," Desdaio demanded.

  Sweeping her a bow, Prince Leopold zum Bas Friedland introduced himself by name, late of Venice and recently of Cyprus. "Three killers, one innocent. Unless there are things about you I don't know…?"

  Prince Leopold smiled.

  "No? Thought not."

  "Atilo's a soldier," Desdaio protested.

  "Some wars are honourable," said Prince Leopold. "Others less so. He fights a darker war. As do I. If we fight the other type it's by accident. As for him…" He nodded towards Tycho. "His war's so dark he barely knows what it is."

  "He's my slave," Atilo said dismissively.

  Prince Leopold raised his eyebrows. His gaze slid to Desdaio, who'd gone tight-lipped. "I think your beloved might disagree. I hear she gave her mother's jewellery to buy him."

  "Among other things," Atilo said. "I'll buy it back."

  On Desdaio's face was an expression Tycho hadn't seen before. Somewhere between anger, stubbornness and irritation. Although her stance, feet planted as if she'd just stepped up to the mark on a punta di Puglia, suggested determination too. Meeting her eyes, Prince Leopold grinned.

  "Tycho's nobody's," she said crossly. "I bought him. I freed him."

  "We'll discuss this later."

  Nobody saw Tycho move. One second he faced Atilo, the next he was stood behind the man, his finger drawing a line across Atilo's throat. Smiling, he stepped back and sketched another bow.

  "You lose," he said.

  "No," Leopold said. "He wins. He told Alonzo you had potential. Told Alexa too…" The prince shrugged apologetically. For mentioning Atilo's lover in front of his beloved probably.

  57

  A night of clarity and wonder. The kind that only comes before a major battle or the start of a siege. When everyone knows plague, fire and famine are saddling their horses and life's rules no longer apply. The end of the world will probably feel like this.

  Although Bjornvin's burning, which ended his last world, felt different, Tycho hadn't known what was coming then until it did. He was someone different now. Now he could taste blood on the wind before it was spilt. Blood, and his own longing. If Prince Leopold was in Cyprus then so was Lady Giulietta. The thought
made Tycho shiver.

  He'd thought he'd never see her again. So the need had become a dull ache, a frostbite of the mind that ate his hope little by little, turning everything to ice. Until the hope of seeing her cracked it open.

  The first surprise was King Janus sending for him.

  Janus, also called John, stood in a hastily arranged chamber that had been a tower room until given grander duties. A wooden chair with a tapestry over it made do for a throne. Beside him stood the Prior of the White Crucifers. The king was thin and clean shaven, Prior Ignacio taller and even thinner, dressed in white robes. Both men had once been handsome. Having returned Desdaio's jewellery, King Janus confirmed Tycho's freedom, commended his courage and ordered him to kneel, drawing his sword to dub him a knight.

  "Your majesty!" Atilo protested.

  "He will save Cyprus," Prior Ignacio explained.

  Atilo looked troubled. "You've seen this, my lord?"

  "We detest predivination, as we detest all forms of magic," the Prior said firmly. Which wasn't answering the question. Everyone in the tower room knew this was his stated position. No one believed it for a minute. The rumours of Crucifer power were too open and too commonplace.

  "I told them," Prince Leopold said.

  "Then it's a trap," Atilo's voice rose. "My slave betrayed me because of this man. The prince killed a dozen of… my servants," he ended, realising followers might invite awkward questions.

  "And you a dozen of his," King Janus said.

  "Oh yes," said the Prior. "We know all about that. Prince Leopold is here at the king's invitation. And under Crucifer protection." Anyone who didn't know this had just been warned. The sour expression on Atilo's face said he understood this. And knew the person being warned was him.

  "This boy," King Janus said, "has done me service already."

  Catching Tycho's gaze, Prince Leopold smiled, his eyes flicking to the gallery above where women watched discreetly from behind a fretworked screen.