The crypt was below the altar, down a cold spiral of steps that magnified Tycho’s careful tread into giant’s footsteps as he descended into a darkness his eyes swallowed and turned to light. A thousand ghosts plucked at the shadows’ edge. Here princes and statesmen had lain before they were buried. Because the ground was frozen hard and the attack on Leo was a secret, here lay a small child and the nurse who’d been looking after him.
Ice slicked the wall in a pottery glaze that made the walls look natural, not something built by man. The sluggish water around the island city was gelid, the canals snaking through its heart colder still. Old women were insisting the canals might freeze. It had happened before when they were children. Touching his fingers to the wall, Tycho believed it could happen again.
In a year when the world turned colder, and canals froze in Venice, blizzards smothered a town beyond a huge ocean no dragonship had crossed for more than a hundred years . . .
Tycho muttered the words so softly they might have been a prayer for the two cloth-covered bodies on slabs in front of him. They came from a book by Sir John Mandeville’s squire; a man who travelled to the world’s strangest places, where the dead walked and dragons lived and serpents spoke. It was the story of Bjornvin’s fall. The last battle of the Far West Warriors, the Viking conquerors of Vineland, whom Tycho remembered as drunken scum. But he’d been their slave, from a people far older, so he was hardly likely to remember them fondly.
The blizzard almost buried the woman approaching the gates of the last Viking settlement in Vineland. She had walked an ice bridge from Asia. Not this winter. Not even the one before.
She was at Bjornvin’s walls before the gate slave saw her. His orders were to admit no one. He would have obeyed, too. But she raised an angelic face framed by black hair. Even at that distance he could see she had amber-flecked eyes.
Without intending, he descended the ladder from the walls, removed the crossbar from the gate and opened it . . .
It was the amber-flecked eyes that made Tycho suspect the woman was his mother. The gate slave who descended the walls was his foster-father. Tycho could remember Bjornvin falling. He was the reason the town fell. He’d not been called Tycho then. He had no idea what he’d been called.
Thorns and wild roses probably grew over its remains; at least he hoped they did. The caribou, foxes and hares would have returned. He doubted even Bjornvin’s red-painted enemy, the Skaelingar, remembered it had existed.
Leo’s nurse and the dead infant lay under grave sheets on marble slabs that looked like cuts of some fatty meat. He could smell corruption in the air, so faint a trace he doubted anyone else could do the same. It was the corruption he’d expect from a corpse an hour or so dead. Alexa must have had them carried down here quickly. The cold had done the rest.
Pulling back the sheet revealed the naked body of a woman in her middle twenties. Her limbs were frozen as if rigor had set and remained rather than eased as it did naturally. Her skin had the sheen of glass and her flesh the translucence of alabaster. But nothing could make pretty the cut that revealed an icy twist of gut. He found what he wanted below her left teat.
A dagger wound. The blow was perfect.
The blade had slid between ribs and ruptured her heart. A blow so neat and a gut wound so brutal? Bending closer, Tycho found a twist of thread in the stab wound and blew on frozen flesh to free it. Red wool from an overgown, bloodied flax from an undergown beneath. The rip to her gut had no threads and its edges were bloodless and too straight. The original blow had bled her out and eventually killed her. The second was for show. She was already mortally wounded before the second cut was made . . .
“That way madness lies.”
“Your highness . . .” Tycho hastily covered the corpse.
Thin as a stick insect and gangly as a spider, Duke Marco stood in the doorway dressed in black. In his hand was a church candle. His doublet could have been Tycho’s own. “P-pretty angel,” Marco said, sounding for a moment like his idiot self. “So alone. So b-bemused. So unlike the rest of us. It was cruel, you k-know. To d-disappear like that. She thought you were g-gone for ever.”
“Lady Giulietta?”
“Who else? She t-told me, you know. About h-how you grew wings of f-fire. And then d-disappeared. She c-cried.” Marco’s mouth twisted in self-mockery. “I c-cried.”
“I had to help Rosalyn . . .”
“Who loved you so f-fiercely she couldn’t bear to s-stay in Venice? You learn so m-much as an idiot. People t-talk in front of you. They s-scheme, p-plan, p-plot and lust. After a while you become invisible. But no, I d-didn’t learn about her f-from g-gossip. Julie t-told me.”
“She gave Rosalyn an estate.”
“I know,” Marco said simply. “I signed the d-decree . . . Just write your name here as neatly as you can. Big letters will do.” His mimicry of his mother was exact. “It’s amazing h-how easy it is to w-write M-MARCO for the thousandth t-time if someone is holding your h-hand to h-help you. Did you love her?”
“No,” Tycho said firmly. “Only Giulietta.”
“Are you s-sure?”
“We were too alike . . .”
Marco nodded at that. “What b-brings you here?”
“This,” Tycho said, lifting the woman’s cloth. He scraped his nail along the edge of her stab wound, collecting blood that had begun to dry before it was frozen. Without allowing himself to hesitate he tasted it.
Vomit rose in his throat.
He spat at the foulness of its taste and scrubbed the back of his hand against his mouth. When he’d finished spitting, Marco held up his candle and stared at him, fierce intelligence in his eyes. “Well?”
“She has Millioni blood.”
“My mother would say that’s impossible.”
“Highness. I can taste it. She and Giulietta share . . .”
Marco’s nod was abrupt and Tycho realised that being told the intricacies of Tycho’s and Giulietta’s relationship by Giulietta was one thing; having it confirmed by Tycho was another. The duke took a moment to find his thoughts. “There’s no doubt?”
“None, highness.”
“Well,” he said. “She’s not Alonzo’s. He’d never be able to keep a daughter hidden from my mother. She’s obviously not mine. Which makes her my father’s . . . You realise this means Alonzo knows more about you than you thought?”
Yes, Tycho did.
“The n-night you found Leo dead. What h-happened?”
That was the question. He’d run into the nursery, smelt Millioni blood and known Leo was dead. Only, what if he wasn’t? What if an imposter, a changeling, was dead in Leo’s place? Everything suddenly made sense. The Regent’s sudden marriage and willingness to accept exile, his almost perverse enthusiasm for the tasks the Council had set him. How long would Alonzo need to stay away?
Three years, four . . .?
Would anyone really notice if Maria Dolphini’s son looked a little more grown up than he should? At five he would be precocious. At nine less so. At thirteen . . . Who would notice? Alonzo could pass Leo off as his son.
A new heir for Venice.
The twisted brilliance was that Leo was Alonzo’s son. He was Alonzo’s son because Alonzo had his niece impregnated with his seed using a goose quill. The late Dr Crow had ensured the seed quickened into a boy.
“Fiendish, isn’t it?” Marco said.
Tycho nodded.
“My uncle k-kills my half-sister to make you think he’d k-killed my nephew. What a f-family.” The duke sounded like he meant it. “We’d b-better look at the other h-half of his t-trick.”
Across the infant’s chest was a short, slightly ragged scar that had healed at both ends. It was newer than Leo’s scar, it had to be. Leo and Giulietta had returned to Venice over six months before and Leo was just over a year old. Was this Dr Crow’s work? Tycho wondered. The scar on the imposter was so precise someone had to have examined Leo closely and made drawings.
This was not a
new plan.
By now Tycho knew the dead infant was a stranger’s child but he still tasted its blood, knowing how vile it would be. Once again he spat, gagged and wiped his mouth. Then pulled up the grave sheet and stood while Marco recited a prayer. “Someone’s d-daughter. Someone’s s-son,” Marco finished, when his prayer was done. “You must tell Giulietta and my mother. Leave me being here out of it.”
“Highness?”
“I am my father’s ghost. Far less visible than my uncle’s ambition or my mother’s guilt . . . Like you, I am here and not here. Like you, I live for the shadows.” With that, he was gone. A swirl of black cloak, a toss of his head and Marco, duke of Venice and prince of Serenissima, blew out his candle and disappeared into the dark twist of stairs beyond. Tycho suspected he was being mocked.
11
The guard on Alexa’s door was unwilling to knock, uncertain if he was allowed to let Tycho do so and afraid of making the wrong decision. No doubt he had a wife, children, and a house that was falling down and in need of repair. Pretty much every man in Venice did. Tycho sighed. “State business.”
The words were enough to make the soldier step back.
The duchess was famously unforgiving about being disturbed without satisfactory reason. A servant of Alexa’s came to the door, realised it was Tycho who wanted entry and vanished again. A few seconds later the door opened for a second time and the servant slid through it, hastily dressed in a thick cloak.
“The duchess is waiting inside . . .”
Tycho should know the girl’s name. He should know the name of all Alexa’s staff, but since she called them you – and they looked interchangeable, being soft-faced and wide-eyed and scared of him – Tycho hadn’t bothered. He knew them by sight. If he was honest, he knew them by smell and the waves of interest and doubt they left in the air as he walked past them.
“Come in then.”
Tycho shut the door behind him.
“This had better be good,” Alexa said. On her table were maps of the Mediterranean, a jade bowl of water, and what Tycho realised was the duchess’s own notebook. A quill pen stood in an inkpot next to it.
“Did your husband have bastards?”
Alexa slapped him. She had to cross the room to do it.
“Is that a yes?”
“Tell me why you ask.”
“Because the dead nurse in the crypt is Millioni.”
The duchess froze. For a second she might have been ice. Raising both hands, she lifted her veil, and then removed it altogether. “Are you certain?”
“Positive,” Tycho said.
He waited for her next question. After a moment, he realised she was still waiting for him to answer the last one. “The nurse was killed so I would think Leo was dead. I can . . .” Wondering how to word it, he realised Alexa probably already knew. “I can recognise Giulietta’s blood by . . .” He almost said taste and changed it to smell.
“That night. It was the dead woman’s blood you smelt?”
“Yes, my lady.” Tycho nodded.
“And the infant?”
“The right age and colouring.”
“That was enough to fool you?” She sounded disappointed. Tycho hesitated. Was the krieghund scar his secret to tell? Lady Giulietta was convinced her aunt would kill the child if she realised what it represented. That her uncle would do the same. She’d told both it was a splinter wound from the Mamluk battle.
“He has Leo’s scar.”
“Clever,” said Alexa. “You smell the blood and see the scar . . . I should have looked at the child myself.” She sucked her teeth. “My fault for growing soft in my old age. I wouldn’t let Giulietta look either. You realise,” she added, “if Alonzo realises Leo is krieghund he’ll kill him anyway?”
“My lady?”
“I’m not a fool. Prince Frederick’s war pack changed sides to come to your aid on Giudecca. You had my orders to kill him but you let him live. He wanted to see my niece before he left Venice. He especially wanted to see her child. Oh, don’t be jealous . . . She refused.”
“I gave Frederick the wolf sword.”
“I know. But that alone wouldn’t be enough. So afterwards, when you disappeared and my niece was stamping round like a sulky child refusing to eat or sleep and crying in corners, I started to wonder why Frederick withdrew so easily.”
“His war pack was dead.”
“His army still existed. The city was hungry and beginning to starve. You gave him the WolfeSelle, which saved him from outright disgrace when he got home. But to leave so easily. It took me until you returned to work out what I’d missed.”
“You asked Giulietta?”
“I examined Leo. Magic clings to the scar.”
“And you let him live, my lady?”
Alexa shrugged. “We were ready to give the city to Emperor Sigismund if we had to. Better that than let the Byzantines have it. This way Venice remains independent for the moment, and a child of Millioni blood inherits the throne for all that a German emperor pulls the strings. Sigismund has no legitimate son as yet. My hope is he makes Frederick his heir. That would make Leo second in line to the imperial throne . . .”
Tycho could see how that might meet with the duchess’s approval.
12
The night was chill and Lady Giulietta unhappy at being woken. She wanted poppy, and was put out to be given a sharp-tasting draught of nux vomica instead. Tycho understood. At least he understood sweet dreams were more comforting than being woken, wrapped against the cold and bundled downstairs and through a door between the palace and the basilica. “What must I see for myself?”
The lamp Tycho held stank of fish oil, because all the lamps in Venice stank of fish oil, and its light glittered on glass mosaic and bounced off gold leaf. The rood screen exploded into light as they approached. But Giulietta simply glanced at a fretted brass censor high overhead – as she did every time she visited the cathedral – and her fingers tightened a little on his. Tycho was glad. The passive and drugged young woman of recent weeks was not someone he recognised.
“Down here,” he said.
“No . . .” Lady Giulietta pulled away. “Why are you doing this?” The sight of the stairs to the crypt made her turn away.
“Aunt Alexa says you must see for yourself.”
The habit of obedience carried Lady Giulietta down the stone spiral. When she halted at the bottom, Tycho put his hands on her thin shoulders and walked her into the chilly room. When she saw the small shroud-covered body, she turned away and would have bolted if he hadn’t held her tight. “You can’t make me.”
“Look closely . . .”
“Why are you doing this?”
Because Alexa says you have to discover the truth for yourself. Because Frederick wanted to see you before he left. Because I’m not as kind as you think I am . . . Tycho sighed. “Because I must.” Pulling back the sheet, he lifted his lamp to light the naked infant. “Is this Leo . . .?”
He wanted to say, This isn’t Leo, is it? Look carefully, you’ll see it’s someone else’s child. But that was the best he could offer. Bending close, she forced herself to look carefully at the small boy, the sharp edges of her face softening as hope melted them. The horror at what Tycho was making her do ebbed, the bitterness left her mouth. Happiness, which went missing when she thought Leo dead, flickered in her eyes, like life returning. He held her then, fighting his own emotions as she sobbed into his shoulder, her body shaking. “I shouldn’t be happy.”
“Yes, you should.”
“Not when . . .” Reaching down, she stroked the dead child’s face and flinched at the cold. “How?” She asked, meaning the scar.
“A knife. Maybe a little magic. It’s deep enough to make the scar and shallow enough to have healed quickly.” The who was obvious; although he let her get there herself.
“So Leo is alive?” Her eyes widened as she realised something else. “My Uncle Alonzo has him?”
Nodding, Tycho led her to th
e second slab. He didn’t bother to pull back the shroud this time. “The last duke had a natural daughter by one of his mistresses and kept it from your aunt. The girl was sent to the mainland and Alexa doubts she even knew her parentage.”
“Why would he go to this much trouble?”
Tycho found himself on the edge of saying something he’d never put into words for her before. Giulietta knew – how could she not? – he’d drunk her blood the night he spared Prince Leopold’s life, having tasted a single drop months before when he found her in the basilica. Since she was too tired to understand how he sensed sound and colours and smell, and he barely understood that himself, and he couldn’t bring himself to admit her blood was an addiction, he simply told her different people’s blood smelt differently to him. Hers made him drunk. This woman . . .
“There’s a family likeness?” See, he knew she was quick.
“She was killed so I’d smell Millioni blood . . . I’d rush into Leo’s nursery, smell Millioni blood and see the baby’s scar. I’d believe the child was yours.”
Picking up the lamp, Tycho edged Giulietta towards the stairs and turned for a final look. A woman and a child killed to tie together a plot Alexa still needed to unpick and he needed to stop. The Millioni left death in their wake. All powerful families did. Am I worse because I kill face to face?
Venice had its Blades, other kings and cities had their own assassins, less good in Venice’s opinion, and in this the city was right. Atilo had trained his followers well and Tycho was the best of them. He’d failed in this, though. It didn’t matter that the child was in Leo’s gown, in Leo’s cot, and had Leo’s scar.
You should have made sure.
“Uncle Alonzo’s going to claim Leo for his own, isn’t he? That’s why he married Maria Dolphini. Why she was bundled in that coat. That’s why she went with him when anyone sensible would have stayed at home.”
“Yes . . .” It was the only way Leo’s abduction made sense. Alonzo couldn’t keep the child openly without making an even worse enemy of Alexa. And, while having him killed would have been a decisive and irrevocable decision, and Alonzo liked decisive and irrevocable, he was the child’s father. Only he could hardly claim parentage of an infant produced under the directions of an alchemist excommunicated by the Pope. But if Alonzo presented the child as Maria’s . . .
The Exiled Blade: Act Three of the Assassini Page 6
