41

During the year that Tycho trained Iacopo grew a beard. A soldier’s beard to make him look older, fiercer. He used masks less these days. No longer needing to hide his youthful softness in the company of others.

A tumbler of wine sat in front of him. The last of this year’s wages glinted on his chest. A steel breastplate in the Aragonese style. A scratch below its left armhole suggested its previous owner died in battle or was knifed in his sleep.

Iacopo wasn’t superstitious, and that sign of ill luck was enough to bring the armourer’s price down to something he could almost afford. Although it had taken a dagger borrowed from Atilo’s collection to seal the deal. The Schiavoni claimed the scratch was simply where the breastplate fell and the piece was worth double Iacopo’s final offer. But he spat on his hand and shook on it just the same.

“New?” someone asked.

Looking up, Iacopo saw Captain Roderigo. So he smiled modestly, and let the captain believe that if he wished. The last year had seen Venice split between Prince Alonzo and Duchess Alexa’s factions. Almost by accident, Roderigo found himself on one side. And Atilo found himself on the other. Positions worsened after last week’s incident with Tmr bin Taragay’s messenger.

A minor prince from Tmr’s wife’s family, the Mongol refused to deliver his message to the Ten, talking only to the duchess and leaving immediately. No one knew what Tmr’s message said. The duchess simply burnt it after reading and refused to say. So now, Prince Alonzo found himself trapped between caution and fury. Never a good place for someone like him to be.

“Captain.” Iacopo raised his glass. He saw no point in making unnecessary enemies. Life at Ca’ il Mauros was complicated enough. Lord Atilo and his betrothed keeping separate quarters. Everyone knew they would marry. No one knew when. Some said not until Atilo left the duchess’s bed. Others, that the Moor would be stupid to exchange vows if he had any chance of marrying Alexa instead.

And then there was the freak, with his strange spectacles, priest-coloured doublet and hateful silences. Tycho didn’t talk to Iacopo, he didn’t not talk to Iacopo. He barely noticed Iacopo’s existence. Desdaio and Amelia, on the other hand…

Iacopo sucked his teeth.

“Problems?” Captain Roderigo asked.

“Such is life,” Iacopo replied. Realising the captain was about to move on, he found his smile. “Let me buy you a drink, my lord.”

“It must be my turn.”

Iacopo looked surprised.

“After you won last year’s race. We drank at the Griffin behind St Bartholomew, remember?”

“How could I forget, my lord. I’m simply surprised you remembered yourself.” He’d overdone it. The captain was glancing round the tavern, not finding who he’d come to see, and framing reasons for refusing the offer. Iacopo could see it in his eyes. Although why a man like Captain Roderigo would bother to excuse himself to a servant like him…

Because that’s what he was, Iacopo thought bitterly.

A servant, for all he owned a breastplate and greaves and a sword. His training was secret, the tasks he performed for his master equally so. No one knew the secrets he carried. No one was allowed to know. There were days he found this harder to bear than others. “An honour to buy you a drink,” he said, forcing a smile. “An even bigger honour to leave you with a hangover.”

Captain Roderigo laughed.

“Who were you looking for, my lord?”

“My sergeant. He’s off duty but we have business tomorrow that needs discussing today.”

Iacopo nodded sagely.

He had an idea what that business might be and had sense enough to say nothing. Today was Maundy Thursday, one reason the tavern was full. Obviously enough, tomorrow was Good Friday, when the devout flogged themselves through the streets, and the rest avoided sex and gambling, and a long list of other vices the new patriarch had recently read from the pulpits.

It was to be the day of Tycho’s testing. Just as it had been the day of Iacopo’s testing. And Amelia’s, and all those who went before. All those who died nearly two years back in the slaughter at Cannaregio.

“Perhaps I will have a drink,” Captain Roderigo said.

“This might even be the real thing,” Iacopo said, wiping blood-like drops of wine from his beard. The tavern keeper claimed it was Barolo and it looked dark enough.

“I agree,” Roderigo said.

Iacopo had never tasted Barolo in his life.

“So,” Captain Roderigo said. “How are things with you?”

“Much the same. His lordship attends Council. Dotes on Lady Desdaio. Visits Duchess Alexa for advice.”

The captain grinned.

Iacopo thought he might.

“And how is Lady Desdaio?” Even if Iacopo hadn’t known the captain for an ex-suitor, the careful nature of his question would have announced it.

“As sweet as ever.”

Roderigo took a sip of wine. “It’s none of my business, obviously. But what news of their marriage?”

“None I would know.”

“No,” Roderigo admitted. “I don’t suppose you would.” Holding his glass to the light, he examined the contents critically. “I’m not sure this is Barolo after all.” But he emptied it quickly enough. And Iacopo was careful to demand Barolo when he bought the next jug.

“Yes, my lord.”

Iacopo checked the tavern keeper wasn’t mocking him, but the man seemed serious enough. “Open a tab,” Atilo’s servant ordered. “I’ll send my man to settle tomorrow.”

“That’s Good Friday, my lord.”

“Maybe so. You’ll still want paying, won’t you?”

The tavern keeper nodded and filled a jug to the brim from a barrel apart from the others. Even if it wasn’t Barolo, it was obviously special enough for him not to want jugs given away by accident.

“What is it really?” Iacopo demanded.

The tavern keeper glanced round. “It really is Barolo,” he whispered. “Just not a very good one.”

Iacopo laughed loud enough to make the hazard players look over. He met their gaze and they saw a stranger with a sharp black beard, wearing a stylish breastplate, taking a jug of the best wine. A couple of them nodded, one even smiled.

“Friends of yours?” Roderigo asked.

“Not really,” Iacopo answered, leaving it understood he knew them, just not very well. His embroidering was interrupted by the tavern keeper, who carried a bowl of stewed mutton, which he ladled in heaped spoonfuls on to thick slices of stale bread. The captain ate his mutton and left the bread. So Iacopo did the same.

“I should go,” Roderigo said. “Temujin’s probably drunk by now.” He stood unsteadily, appeared on the edge of saying something about his own state and shrugged. “Bloody man,” he muttered. “Always causing trouble.”

Iacopo hoped he was talking about the sergeant.

“About Desdaio…” Roderigo said a few minutes later.

“My lord?”

“Is she happy?”

“Oh yes, she’s…” Iacopo stopped. “Well, as happy as can be expected. It must be hard to be disowned. And she… My lord, may I speak plainly?”

“Feel free.”

Roderigo waited.

“What,” he asked finally, “did you have to say?”

Iacopo sucked his teeth. “Maybe she’s not that happy,” he said. “She expected to be wed by now. But my lord Atilo is always busy. And it must be a lonely life for a healthy young woman…”

“You have her confidence?”

“No, my lord. She confides in Amelia, her maid. And…” Iacopo hesitated again. “Atilo has a slave.”

“The blind boy?”

“He’s not blind, my lord. But light does hurt his eyes. So he wears strange spectacles and avoids daylight whenever he can.”

“So I gather,” Roderigo said shortly.

“My lord, if I’ve offended you…”

“I’ve had dealings with the boy.”

Iacopo caught himself and kept drinking. Something in the captain’s voice was too casual. If Iacopo hadn’t known better, he’d say Captain Roderigo feared Tycho. “My master intends to release him.”

“So soon?”

“Soon, my lord?”

“I heard Atilo kept his slaves and bondsmen for three to five years before releasing them. To release them at all is ridiculous. No offence, of course. But to get only one year’s work.” Captain Roderigo shrugged. “How long before he freed you?”

“I was not a slave or bondsman.”

“Really? I thought…”

“I was an orphan, true enough. My father died on the galleys.”

Iacopo had no proof of this, since his father was unknown. But Venice held a special place for freemen who died in battle protecting the city’s trade routes or opening other avenues of trade. And Roderigo’s approving nod said this mythical father counted in his favour.

“Why is Atilo freeing this one so soon?”

“He learns fast,” Iacopo said flatly. “Table manners. Italian. All that Desdaio teaches him. He’s even starting to learn to write.”

“You don’t like him.” Captain Roderigo said this as a fact.

“I don’t trust him, my lord. And Desdaio watches him,” he said carefully. “I used to think she was afraid of him. Now I’m not sure. They spend a lot of time together.”

“Desdaio and the slave?”

“Lady Desdaio, the slave, sometimes Amelia,” said Iacopo, forcing a worried smile. “Hours alone in the piano nobile while Atilo is away. And the slave accompanies them on evening walks. Sometimes they go for hours. I’m sure nothing happens…”

“He’s a slave.”

“Indeed, my lord.”

Captain Roderigo looked disgusted.