63

In the far shallows of the night, with the darkest hours long behind him and the moon a low ghost on the horizon awaiting the sun’s exorcism, Tycho crawled from his pallet to wash himself in buckets of water Giulietta had earlier ordered drawn for him. He carried the weight of Osman’s answer in his heart.

Although his skin was now clean, he washed himself one final time, rinsing his mouth and spitting salty water back into a bucket, before tipping the lot over the deck. His torn doublet was over a rope in the hot pre-dawn breeze. It was now almost dry enough to wear.

Atilo slept in the captain’s cabin.

Ladies Giulietta and Desdaio had the other. Denied his own bed, the San Marco’s original captain was at the rudder. He refused to meet Tycho’s gaze. There was nothing strange about that. Everyone refused to meet Tycho’s gaze, finding reasons to be somewhere else.

A’rial was gone. Already forgotten.

A storm had come from nowhere. A miracle from God, heavenly proof that San Marco, Venice’s patron saint, had the ear of the divine. The only strangeness was Tycho’s single-handed battle against Osman’s ship.

A mighty leap, the sailors were saying. Heroic bravery, a madman’s luck, sheer stupidity. Few admitted seeing anything. And those who had kept their thoughts to themselves. The newly made knight had leapt a near-impossible distance and been lucky. Everyone knew why Prince Osman had been allowed to leave. Atilo had told them it was to take news of his defeat to his father.

“Are you all right?”

Turning, Tycho found Giulietta behind him. She was dressed as no widowed woman should be, in a thin undersmock, which clung damply to her body. The garment was laced at her neck with a ribbon; loosely closed and loosely tied. “I could hear you prowling the decks.”

“How did you know it was me?”

Lady Giulietta flushed.

The absolute clarity of his night vision was a secret from her, Tycho realised. A secret from everyone except Dr. Crow, and perhaps Prior Ignacio of the White Crucifers. Although Atilo must be close to guessing by now.

“Just guessed,” she said brightly.

“Right.”

“It’s hot down there.”

“And up here,” Tycho said.

“At least there’s breeze here,” said Giulietta, facing the night wind. All it did was paste her undergown more tightly to her body. She must have known, because she turned to tug discreetly at the neck.

“I’m sorry,” Tycho said, looking away. “About Leopold. I would like to have known him properly.”

“We can talk about him later. Right now…” Her voice broke. “I can’t bear to think about… I thought you were going to die too.”

“So did I.”

“Really?” She sounded thoughtful.

No, not really. The thought never occurred to him. From the moment he appeared on the deck of Osman’s ship he’d known he was the strongest and fastest and most deadly creature aboard. Until now, he hadn’t really thought about how intoxicating that was. How it would be to let that go.

“Yes,” he lied. “Really.”

Lady Giulietta rested her head against his shoulder.

Somehow his hand came up to stroke her hair and he felt her melt into him, then pull away. “Leo’s asleep. Desdaio also. Atilo too, I imagine.”

“The wind’s best higher up.”

She smiled sadly.

All war galleys were built to an old design. Some said the Romans invented them. Others that it was the Greeks before them. In the old days galleys had two, sometimes three rows of oars, one above the other. Tradition gave Venetian galleys a single row. Although that could change.

The cabins on this were at the stern, with a space below for the tiller, and steps up to a small deck, made from the roof of the cabins fenced in for safety. It was here a huge arbalest could be fitted, one of those vast crossbows with arrows that would pierce an enemy’s sides. And it was here Tycho led Giulietta. Although she seemed uncertain why they were there when she reached the top.

“What are you thinking?” she demanded. Only to grab for a rail as the San Marco shifted on the swell beneath them. He saw her hit the rail and caught her before she could stumble. “How come you can balance?”

“Sheer skill,” Tycho said.

Giulietta stepped away from him. “You haven’t answered my question.”

“Just did.”

“No. About what you were thinking.”

“A’rial,” he said. “She’s…” Tycho hesitated. “One of your aunt’s ladies-in-waiting, I suppose.” From her scowl, Giulietta thought his hesitation was about more than how to describe her. “A’rial is eleven. She looks like a starved cat.”

“Some men like…”

“Well, I don’t.”

“So why think about her now?”

There was a question. The kind he should expect from a Millioni princess, who kept a good head behind those watchful eyes. “Because I owe her a debt,” Tycho said. “One I will need to repay.”

“What?” she said.

“Nothing important. Why?”

“You shivered.” Giulietta leant her head against his shoulder. After a moment, when he said nothing, she wrapped her arms tight around him, and he found himself stroking her hair as she clung to him. “This means nothing,” she muttered.

“You’re upset,” he agreed. And felt her freeze. “I mean it,” he said hastily. “This means nothing and you’re upset about…”

“Don’t you dare say his name.”

Her face was wet beneath his fingers. Her thoughts a jumble of fears, sadness and anger he tasted and then let go. So much desperation. So much emptiness. These were what had brought her up here. “You know things,” he said, tugging the ribbon at the neck of her undergown. “What lies beyond Al Andalus?”

“A great sea,” she whispered. “Stretching further than any ship can sail. Everyone knows that. Filled with monsters.”

“And beyond that?”

His fingers caressed her throat, opened her gown and smoothed down her warm skin until he felt her nipple harden as he cupped her breast in his hand. “Some say a void,” she said, her voice shaky. “That the world ends like a cliff, with the ocean spilling into nothing. If you draw too close the current sweeps you over.”

Kneeling like a knight at her feet, he opened her gown further and bit softly into the underside of one breast, hearing her whimper.

“Then how do the seas refill?”

She frowned down as if he was a child.

“Rivers, of course. The way a fountain bowl refills from the water spilling into it. I’m not sure it’s true about the cliff. Aunt Alexa says the world is round. You start there,” she nodded towards the prow, and you finish here…” The San Marco’s foaming wake stretched behind her.

Lifting her gown to her hips, Tycho kissed the darkness between her thighs, feeling her shiver and tasting wetness as salt as any ocean. They stayed that way for a long time. When Giulietta finally took her fingers from his hair, she was sobbing, tears for her dead lover rolling down her face, and Tycho had another question.

“What does Aunt Alexa say is beyond this sea?”

“The far edge of the Khan’s empire.”

Tycho nodded sadly. He’d thought maybe Bjornvin was there.