50

Marco IV sat on his black throne gripping its arms like a sailor holding a rail in fear of being thrown overboard in a storm. His grip was hard enough to turn his knuckles white. Ignoring the unshackled child who shuffled ahead of Tycho, Duke Marco said, “Behold, the Grievous Angel.”

Shackles made Tycho’s answering bow clumsy.

Standing to one side, Atilo saw the duchess smile at her son. The Regent simply sighed. “Didn’t it occur to you to wash him first?” he demanded of Roderigo, finding somewhere to aim his anger.

“My orders said bring him straight here, my lord.”

“You always obey to the letter?”

The captain nodded.

“How admirable.” The bite in Alonzo’s voice ensured everyone knew he meant the opposite. “You,” the Regent said. “Step forward.”

Tycho did. A second later, Pietro did the same.

Atilo stood to one side of the throne. Desdaio’s father and a handful of other inner council members stood to the other. Lamps flared and guttered, the night air was heavy with burning fish oil, and most of those in the chamber looked surprised, irritated or slightly scared to be dragged from their beds.

This was the Ten, Tycho realised.

He counted off those either side of the throne, realised that Hightown Crow was amongst them, and wondered who outside the Ten knew an alchemist was a member of the inner council. A small girl half hid behind Alexa’s chair. When she met Tycho’s gaze, she smiled. A cold and cruel and brilliant smile.

“You know why you’re here?” Alonzo asked.

“No, my lord.”

“Nor do I,” the Regent said.

“Alonzo…” Duchess Alexa’s rebuke was gentle.

“This is ridiculous,” he said. “The Ten called for a matter that should be decided in private.”

Alexa’s voice hardened slightly. “My lord Atilo has a right to be heard… So,” she said, looking at Atilo, “say your piece.”

Stepping forward, Atilo dropped to his knees in front of the throne. “The city has proclaimed me fidelis noster civis. A faithful servant of Venice. Grant me a life,” he said. “For the services I have done.”

Marco IV picked his nose.

“I counted your father as my friend…”

Atilo’s words were measured, his voice deep and serious. No one listening could doubt the thought he’d put into his plea. “I have served Venice well. Been both Admiral and commanded your land forces. And I have,” he hesitated, “performed other tasks to keep this city safe.”

“What do you actually want?” Marco asked.

Atilo blinked.

Alexa and Alonzo usually decided affairs between them. But no one could speak when the duke spoke, and his decisions were law. Those were the foundations on which his mother and uncle built their power. The duke’s outbreak of sanity upset the balance.

“Well?” he demanded.

“Give me the prisoner’s life. Please.”

“There are two of them,” Duke Marco pointed out reasonably. “You mean the one who scares you? The one you fear fucked your beloved? Or the one who knows you lied about Lady Giulietta’s abduction?”

The chamber was already quiet. But in the seconds following the duke’s question it was utterly silent. And then Desdaio stepped forward, her face red and tears of frustration welling in her eyes.

“I would never…”

“You would,” Marco said. “You simply don’t know it. He scares you too. That’s why you like him.”

“What’s this about Lady Giulietta?”

The duke turned to face his uncle, who blushed and found himself apologising for his interruption. So the duke told him it was all right, just not to do it again. “Tell them the truth,” Duke Marco ordered Atilo.

“That first time. She simply ran away.”

“And you simply returned her?” Alonzo asked. “And forgot to mention the circumstances?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“That was the night…”

“Alonzo,” Duchess Alexa said.

“The Regent is right,” said Marco, smiling sweetly. “That was the night the Blade was broken.” Seeing the blood drain from Atilo’s face, he smiled. “Well, cracked certainly. You admit it’s cracked?”

The kneeling man nodded.

“And my mother is right. Krieghund, mages, death walkers, now this.” Marco IV, Prince of Serenissima, stared round the chamber, nodding to each of the Ten in turn, before finally blowing Desdaio a kiss. “It’s best to be discreet. We have so many enemies one can never tell who’s listening.”

Standing up, he descended the steps in front of his throne and dragged Atilo from his knees. Standing him straight. “You know what saves him?”

“No, your highness.”

“I will not offend heaven. And I will not risk offending hell. Tycho’s life is spared. So is that of your next apprentice. Though I’m not sure my uncle will let you keep the demon.”

These were the last coherent words Duke Marco IV was to say for three months. No one knew that then, obviously. Except, perhaps, Hightown Crow, who hurried forward to help the duke back to his seat.

Gripping its arms, Marco clung tight as if his life depended on it. Relaxing seconds later, and kicking his heels against its base. A little while after that, he became lost in watching a moth circle a lamp. When Atilo was certain the duke’s attention was elsewhere, he glanced from Alonzo to Alexa.

“Do I have the throne’s permission to withdraw?”

“No,” Alonzo said. “You don’t.”

Alexa looked across. “Marco has given him their lives.”

“Their lives,” the Regent said heavily. “He said nothing about the slave’s freedom. The beggar brat means nothing. Atilo can keep him. But the other is a slave. He now belongs to the city. The city will dispose of him.”

“Let me buy him,” Desdaio said.

The Regent grinned. “I’m sure your beloved would love that. No, the slave will be sent south and sold. With those looks…”

With those looks he’d command a premium in the slave markets of Constantinople, Alexandria or Cyprus. The matter of his clothes, his fear of daylight, and the whiteness of his skin would merely add to his exoticism and increase his price. If he died there who could blame Venice? And if he didn’t, well, he’d probably come to wish he had, given time.

“How many galleys leave harbour tomorrow?”

“A dozen, my lord.”

“And where’s the first headed?”

“Dalmatia, Sicily and then Cyprus.”

“Make sure he’s on it. As a galley slave. Give orders he’s to be sold at the journey’s end and any money sent to our agents. He may wear his ridiculous clothes. Be coated with whatever repellent unguent our alchemist recommends. And an awning can be used to stop our merchandise being damaged. Other than that, he’s to be treated like any other slave.”