by Den Patrick
22
Retrospect
– Settembre 318
I have always loathed this occasion, signed Anea. There was a measure of flint in her jade-green eyes, tension in the set of her shoulders.
‘Something else you have in common with Lucien.’ Dino smoothed down the front of his jacket. ‘I can think of better ways to kill three hours.’
La Festa del Ringraziamento was held at the end of summer each year. The great houses took turns hosting the event, trying to outdo each other.
The Orphani stood beyond the double doors of House Fontein’s main hall. Anea wore a gown of cream brocade with elegant flowers embroidered in turquoise. Matching silk gloves reached past her elbows. The headdress resembled a profusion of turquoise leaves, swept back from her forehead, her hair an intricate plait. A veil completed the outfit in matching cream. She’d applied a smear of kohl to her eyes that he’d not seen before. Now eighteen, Anea’s curiosity had turned to any number of subjects, cosmetics being the least of them. Her main passions were biology, chemistry and democracy, which made her popular with House Erudito but resulted in few allies among the remaining nobles. House Contadino were obedient more from loyalty than shared gain, while Duchess Prospero saw the silent Orfano as a threat to her economic power.
The doors to House Fontein opened and the room turned as one to regard the siblings. A brightly dressed popinjay bellowed their full titles.
‘Got them right for a change,’ whispered Dino, not that he was overly concerned with heraldry and etiquette. Anea by contrast was meticulous.
The great Hall of House Fontein was as dour as those who ruled it. White marble, always in short supply on Landfall, had been passed over in favour of dark granite tiles. Many joked that Fontein would rather spend money on swords than interiors. Others pointed out that blood would not stain granite half as noticeably as it would white marble. An army of servants had polished the floor until it not only gleamed, but promised to upend any who hurried on its surface. It was for this reason there was seldom any dancing when House Fontein hosted La Festa, adding to its dour reputation.
‘Just like the Fonteins to enjoyed keeping people off balance,’ muttered Dino as he escorted his sister into the room.
The duke and duchess were immaculate. He was in dress uniform, complete with duelling blade featuring a swept hilt chased with precious stones. A broad scarlet sash encircled his waist; a matching sash was tied about his sword arm. The duke regarded his guests as if they were an inconvenience. The duchess wore a high-necked gown in purple, a fan of black lace occupying her hand, a none-too-subtle display of the alliance between Fontein and Prospero. The gown was long in the sleeve with a corset that looked to do her harm.
‘Do you think there’s any truth to the rumour she spends her nights in a vat of lemon juice sucking wasps?’
Anea stiffened and flashed him a warning glare.
‘Surely that’s the only explanation for the look on her face.’
Dino advanced the length of the room with his right hand raised, Anea’s resting upon it. They presented themselves to the hosting couple and quickly excused themselves. There were no pleasantries to be exchanged; such things had long since withered on the vine. Anea had done many things to change the nature of Demesne since coming to power, chief among these that the soldiers now reported directly to the Domina. House Fontein had been reduced to a training academy. The duke had since gone to great pains to lure away any number of smiths and armourers from House Prospero. If this antagonised the mercantile house it didn’t show. Dino suspected an agreement had been reached between Salvaza and the white-haired duke. Houses never relinquished staff without histrionics.
Anea took up residence in one corner of the hall, where she communicated through the medium of the Domina. Virmyre was ever close at hand, sipping wine while keeping other guests at arm’s reach. He nodded to Dino pleasantly before being accosted by Mistress Corvo, the dance teacher. Age had not been kind to her, and speculation was rife regarding her retirement. Dino for one wouldn’t miss her; he’d long since dropped such lessons from his schedule. The dance mistress wore her customary black, her hair pulled up into a bun that only served to make her visage more skull-like, papery skin ever thinner with each passing year.
The Contadinos remained apart from the throng, attended by a cluster of courtiers. Dino found his eye lingering on Massimo, who’d recently risen to the rank of adept under Ruggeri. Nardo was there too, uncomfortable in his finery. Dino had decided some men were made for the road, some the court, but rarely were such men the same person.
Maestro Cherubini shouldered his way through the crowd and clapped a chubby arm about Dino’s shoulders, favouring him with a broad grin. ‘And why have you two arrived so late?’
‘There’s only so much excitement Anea can stand,’ replied Dino. ‘She has a fragile heart.’
‘So droll.’ Cherubini laughed, a touch too loud perhaps, then launched into spirited debate with a dottore regarding the finer points of biology. Dino noted the maestro’s eye was drawn time and again to a servant bearing a tray of wine.
Stephania appeared, a fan of fluttering silk in her hand like a captured butterfly. She’d also attired herself in turquoise, an open statement of continued displeasure and estrangement from her mother. The gown left her shoulders and arms bare, while tightly cinched at the waist. Stephania drew a wealth of attention from the men in the room, some old enough to be her father. Dino could admit she dressed well, but felt nothing else, certainly not the stirring promised by Camelia.
‘I swear you get taller each time I lay eyes on you,’ said Stephania.
‘I had the cobbler put heels on my boots.’
The Orfano took two glasses from a tray and handed her one, earning himself a few dire looks in the process. Dino wondered if he were missing some vital attribute. His fourteenth year had ushered in a broadening of the shoulders and a downy fuzz on his top lip, which he duly scraped off once a week. And there’d been other changes he was less inclined to speak of. His interest in women as such remained zero; certainly he’d no interest in Stephania other than as a friend. They danced a slow and careful gavotte for fear the polished tiles leave them sprawling.
‘Let’s take it slowly,’ she whispered.
‘On a floor like this, there’s no other way.’
Stephania didn’t mention the fact he was shorter than her, and he kept his opinion that she’d applied too much rouge to himself.
Over a year and a half had passed since Lucien had departed for the coast with an entourage carried in many carts and wagons. Stephania, keen not to be regarded as a sad jilted fiancée, had entertained a number of suitors. She’d settled on one in particular.
‘I can’t see your beau here tonight,’ said Dino.
‘Ah. We decided to part.’ She cleared her throat. ‘I decided we should part.’
‘Did he do something wrong?’
‘No, nothing.’ She paused as they danced. ‘He’s kind in his own way, but as sparse spending coin as he is giving compliments.’
‘You’re not telling me something.’
‘We argue. He’s intimidated by my political successes.’
In short, she’d yet to meet her equal. Dino felt a pang of sympathy for her. Stephania smiled sweetly, passing off the end of her courtship as no more than a minor irritation. The tightness around her eyes confirmed the contrary.
‘I see Duke Fontein is taken with Lady Allattamento,’ said Stephania, keen to change the subject. The minor noblewoman was famously fertile, littering Demesne with a profusion of noble children. Now, with her husband in the grave, her gaze hunted the steps of other men, usually ones bearing wedding bands.
‘I heard she’d made a play for the capo. He nearly took the bait, but your mother intervened.’
‘It must have taken five servants just to get her down from the ceiling.’
‘Six.’
This petty commedia had thrown Dino’s own lack of lus
t into sharp relief in his mind. Was it some quirk of being Orfano? And if so, why had Lucien remained unaffected? Did Anea feel any stirrings toward men? Or did she share his affliction, a deadened yearning? Did they both lack some anima or essence? All these worries tripped and stumbled across the breadth of his thinking, and in doing so caused Dino to slip on the polished floor. He regained his balance without undue fuss. Mercifully the music ended.
‘Thank you.’
‘I dare say you’ll be asked to dance by any number of men before the night is over.’
‘I expect so.’ A look of sadness crossed her face before she disappeared back in to the crowd, a rustle of skirts, fan already a blur in her hand.
Duke Fontein loomed over Dino’s shoulder with a gleam in his eye that said he’d sampled his cellar too keenly. Dino by contrast always remained sober. The stabbing he’d endured four years ago still haunted his dreams. He was never without a dagger in each of his boots and a sword cane to hand. There were few things he cherished more.
Duke Fontein rumbled some inconsequential sourness that Dino failed to interpret. He never had much interest in what the duke had to say and rarely feigned it. Tonight however was La Festa, and Dino felt the inclination to set aside the grudges and feuds of the past. He nodded and tried for a smile, always an able parry to the drunken conversational thrusts of old men. He gleaned the words maestro superiore di spada from the duke’s wine-soaked grumblings, and also the word capo. It made sense, Dino supposed. Guido di Fontein was old enough for the position, although younger than both Maestri di Spada Ruggeri and D’arzenta, who were surely more deserving of the role. It was then that Dino realised he was being warned not to contest the capo’s claim. He struggled to keep the humour from his face. And the incredulity. Who in their right mind would appoint him, a fourteen-year-old, maestro superiore di spada? It was unthinkable; no one in Demesne would do such a thing.
Unless of course an Orfano sat upon the throne.
Dino took a step back and prepared to make his excuses, tired of the duke’s drunken warning. Lady Allattamento swept in, a gust of autumn in brown silk. A proliferation of gold jewellery decorated every finger and lobe. She whispered something to the duke, whose interest in the Orfano dwindled as she lavished her attentions on the old man. Duke Fontein turned on his heel, hand straying to the small of the noblewoman’s back. Dino watched the duke lurch off suspecting his rest would be taken in Lady Allattamento’s chamber.
‘But why shouldn’t I be superiore?’ he said under his breath. ‘I’m already twice the swordsman Guido is.’
‘What did you say?’ Stephania had returned.
‘I want to be superiore after my final testing. I’m going to spend my every waking moment making it happen.’
‘I’ve heard Duke Fontein has other ideas.’
‘Duke Fontein can go to hell.’ A smile stole over Dino’s lips, mischief twinkling in his grey eyes.
‘Superiore’, he whispered to himself as Duke Fontein exited the room.
23
Vecchio Bastardo
– 28 Luglio 325
Dino sat on the windowsill, back to the glass, the lead latticework a stark black against the day to come. His legs were crossed, one ankle resting on the opposite knee, while his hands turned over a stiletto, fingers tracing the hard lines of the weapon. The Domina’s request weighed on him, along with the knowledge of Margravio Contadino’s plot against Duchess Fontein. His course had been decided with doubt and reluctance, but in the end he simply desired to keep Massimo clear of the dishonourable task.
Santa Maria slept, held fast by the soft embraces of blankets or the arms of lovers. A solitary cockerel strutted in the streets, ready to declare the day begun. The taverns hosted those too drunk to walk home, labourers in the main, hard at work on the new church. Burly men slept under tables that had been piled with flagons just hours earlier. Wretches slept on street corners, clutching begging bowls, dreaming of full stomachs and better days. Bakers commenced their chores, preparing the ovens and dough for the daily bread. Soon the market would fill the piazza, the air sullied by the boasting and harangues of traders, wagons would creak along narrow roads, filling the town with the smell of horse, but for now the majority were abed.
But not Dino.
It would be dawn soon, the last dawn Duke Fontein would see. The old man turned in his bed and grumbled, words throaty and half formed. What torments pursued the slumbering duke? Surely he was beset by subconscious phantoms, made manifest by the guilt of old crimes. Perhaps he simply suffered indigestion. There was no need to wake him, no need to rush this final act. Death, while rarely dignified, never succumbs to haste.
The chamber was furnished with paintings on each wall. Dino guessed the stern patrician in oils for the previous duke. He wore his beard in the royale style, looking out from the portrait beneath shaggy eyebrows. The family resemblance was strong. Both men had snow-white hair, shared the same inscrutable brown eyes. That both men would die in their sixties was another resemblance they shared. For now the current duke slept on, unaware of his impending destiny.
The well rounded yet sour-faced woman could only be the previous duchess. Her once black hair was shot through with grey and fell to her shoulders in oiled ringlets. She wore a gown in house colours and stood for her portrait, a wolfhound by her heel, all pricked ears and lolling tongue. If only all the subjects of House Fontein were as obedient as that. Still, thought Dino, even the most loyal of hounds could turn rabid.
The duke growled something in his sleep, beginning to wake.
And there was the nude, tasteful yet informal. This painting stood apart from the others, its frame markedly less impressive. There was a hurried, almost unfinished feel to the brushwork. The woman was young, and had not been born with aristocratic features, but possessed an earthier beauty. A sadness haunted her eyes, matching the bouquet of lilies she clutched.
‘What?’ The duke was awake. Sunlight had bled into the chamber, curtains tied back neatly. This was Dino’s final gift to the duke.
‘What?’ The duke repeated. Any other enquiries died on his lips as he recognised the Orfano perching on the windowsill. He dragged himself up from the bedclothes into a sitting position.
‘Do make yourself comfortable,’ he grunted.
‘I already did,’ replied Dino, not taking his eyes from the stiletto. It possessed a tapering triangular blade coming to a turned ricasso before the perfunctory parrying guard. Each side of the blade bore an inscription in the old tongue. Tempo. Velocita. Misura. The script had been inlaid with gold. The weapon was exquisite. Not made to slash, only to pierce, deep wounds to puncture lungs and kidneys, hearts and stomachs.
‘Where are my guards? You’ll not get away with this.’
‘But I already have.’ Dino ran a thumb across his lips, pensive. ‘The first of them is probably asleep. He’s been balls deep in one of Lady Allattamento’s girls. Courtesan is such a strange word, isn’t it? It’s fascinating that the upper classes can make a word for whore sound sound so appealing. Expensive though, you know?’
The duke swallowed but remained silent, eyes narrowing.
‘You’ve been patronising them rather heavily of late, so I hear.’
The duke shook his head and opened his mouth to remonstrate but quickly abandoned the notion.
‘So much so your guard couldn’t resist the opportunity to discover what all the fuss was about.’ Dino turned his attention back to the stiletto.
‘What of Leoncarlo? He’s been my man for thirty years. You don’t buy off loyalty like that with expensive skirt.’
‘Leoncarlo was loyal. Unfortunately for him, a consignment of weapons was found in his home a few hours ago. We had no choice but to arrest him for treason. We suspect he might be planning a coup. He’s being questioned by the Domina as we speak. You know how she likes the sound of her own voice. The investigation could go on for a while.’
Dino let this sink in, watching as the old man became a
ware of just how impossible his situation was.
‘But the door was locked,’ mumbled the duke.
Dino laughed, a brittle, unpleasant sound.
‘Gaining entrance was the easy bit. Do you remember spilling that caraffa of red wine over the rug in your sitting room? It must have been three years ago now.’
‘What in nine hells has that to do with anything?’ The duke coughed, then coughed some more.
‘Do you remember losing your temper at your maid, Isabella? She failed to remove the stain.’
The duke swallowed and had the good grace to look guilty.
‘Do you remember chasing the girl out of your apartment, shouting at her as she left? She was so scared she slipped and fell down the stairs.’
This provoked a fresh round of coughing from the duke, who reached to his bedside table for the glass of water there. He drank noisily, paused only to fix Dino with a hate-filled look, then drained the rest of the glass.
The event was well known throughout Demesne. The serving staff had nicknamed Duke Fontein the VB following Isabella’s tumble.
VB.
Vecchio bastardo.
The maid had broken her wrist and the bone hadn’t set right. She’d not had the money to pay a dottore and the wrist remained crooked. The duke kept her on out of shame, so they said.
‘That was regrettable,’ admitted the duke
‘How hard do you think I needed to persuade her?’
‘She’d never give a strega figlio di puttana the key.’ The duke thrust out a thick finger. ‘That’s treason.’
‘She didn’t have to give me the key, just leave the window open.’
Dino tapped on the glass behind him, then smiled, savouring the impotent fury of the vecchio bastardo. The duke snapped, reaching under his pillow, finding nothing. In his rage he threw the pillows aside, fingers searching.
Dino gave low whistle. ‘Looking for this?’ He held up the stiletto. The dawn light caught the gold and sent bright reflections around the room.
