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The Exiled Blade: Act Three of the Assassini
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Table of Contents
By Jon Courtenay Grimwood
About the Author
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Map
The Millioni family tree
Dramatis Personae
Part 1
Chapter 1: Austria
Chapter 2: Venice
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Part 2
Chapter 14: Montenegro
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Acknowledgements
BY JON COURTENAY GRIMWOOD
The Assassini
The Fallen Blade
The Outcast Blade
The Exiled Blade
About the Author
Jon Courtenay Grimwood was born in Malta and christened in the upturned bell of a ship. He grew up in the Far East, Britain and Scandinavia. For five years he wrote a monthly review column for the Guardian. He has also written for The Times, the Telegraph and the Independent.
Shortlisted for the Arthur C. Clarke Award twice and the BSFA seven times, he won the BSFA Award for best novel with Felaheen, featuring Asraf Bey, his half-Berber detective. He won it again with End of the World Blues, about a British ex-sniper running an Irish bar in Tokyo.
His work is published in French, German, Spanish, Polish, Czech, Hungarian, Russian, Turkish, Japanese, Danish, Finnish and American among others. He is married to the journalist and novelist Sam Baker, currently editor-in-chief of Red magazine. They divide their time between London and Winchester.
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ORBIT
First published in Great Britain in 2013 by Orbit
Copyright © 2013 by JonCGLimited
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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ISBN 978-1-84149-850-8
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“He’d been proud of her from the moment they met. Her fierce intelligence, the quiet fury with which she met life full on . . .”
For Sam, who shares more with Giulietta than simply red hair
The Millioni family tree
Dramatis Personae
Tycho, a youth with strange hungers
The Millioni
Marco IV, known as Marco the Simpleton, duke of Venice and Prince of Serenissima
Lady Giulietta di Millioni, his young cousin, widow of Prince Leopold, mother of Leo and lover of Tycho
Duchess Alexa, the late duke’s widow, mother to Marco IV. A Mongol princess in her own right. She hates . . .
Prince Alonzo, Regent of Venice, who wants the throne
Marco III, known as Marco the Just. The late lamented duke of Venice, elder brother of Alonzo, godfather of Lady Giulietta and the ghost at every feast
Members of the Venetian court
Lord Bribanzo, member of the Council of Ten, the inner council that rules Venice. One of the richest men in the city. Sides with Alonzo
Lord Roderigo, Captain of the Dogana, Alonzo’s ally
Lady Maria Dolphini, heiress
Captain Weimer, new head of the palace guard
Amelia, a Nubian slave and member of the Assassini
Pietro, an ex-street child, now a royal page
Prince Frederick zum Bas Friedland, bastard son of Sigismund, ruler of the Holy Roman Empire, one-time suitor for Lady Giulietta and a guest at the court
Late members of the Venetian court
Atilo il Mauros, once adviser to the late Marco III, and head of Venice’s secret assassins. Alexa’s lover and long-term supporter. Was engaged to the late Lady Desdaio, daughter of Lord Bribanzo
Prince Leopold zum Bas Friedland. Also dead. Until lately leader of the krieghund, Emperor Sigismund’s werewolf shock troops. (Brother of Prince Frederick)
Dr Hightown Crow, alchemist, astrologer and anatomist to the duke. Using a goose quill he inseminated Giulietta with Alonzo’s seed, leaving her with child
Iacopo, once Atilo’s servant and member of the Assassini
Captain Towler, mercenary leader in Montenegro
The Three Emperors
Sigismund, Holy Roman emperor, King of Germany, Hungary and Croatia. Wants to add Lombardy and Venice to that list
John V Palaiologos, the Basilius, ruler of the Byzantine Empire (known as the Eastern Roman Empire), also wants Venice. He barely admits Sigismund is an emperor at all
Tamburlaine, Khan of Khans, ruler of the Mongols and newly created emperor of China. The most powerful man in the world and a distant cousin to Duchess Alexa. He regards Europe as a minor irritation
PART 1
“There is special providence in the fall of a sparrow. If it be now, ’tis not to come; if it be not to come, it will be now . . .”
Hamlet, William Shakespeare
1
Austria
The emperor rode ahead on a high-stepping stallion draped with a cloth of gold, and behind him came his flag bearer, the double-headed eagle of the Holy Roman Empire snapping in the winter wind. A small group of carefully selected courtiers followed wrapped tightly in furs against the early snow. Old men riding down a valley towards a troop of younger men who were the future if they lived long enough.
Sigismund of Germany had come to meet his son.
The emperor was in his fifties, long-facedx and tired eyed, exhausted by the effort of controlling an empire for which he hadn’t provided a proper heir. The boy he approached was a youthful indiscretion. Well, as Frederick was seventeen, perhaps not that youthful on Sigismund’s part, but still an indiscretion.
Since he was a bastard, had lost his battle against Venice and was returning with a dispirited army, having gained little glory from his siege of the island city, Frederick wondered why his father bothered to greet him.
At a word from the emperor the courtiers halted, and though they stayed in their saddles they relaxed enough to let their tired mounts feed on the thin Alpine grass of the high meadow. The emperor rode on alone.
Sliding from his horse, Prince Frederick knelt on the damp grass, bowed his head and waited. Only for his father to vault from his saddle with the enthusiasm of a man half his age. “Stand,” Sigismund insisted, dragging his son to his feet.
Frederick said, “I apologise. The fault is all mine.”
Clapping him on the shoulder, the emperor grinned. “Nicely said. Always take the blame and share the glory. It costs nothing but words, and makes your followers love you.” He glanced beyond Frederick at the returning troops. “Sieges are always hard – especially when they fail. You could have done with a proper battle and a few more deaths.”
“Your majesty . . .?”
“What did you lose? A half-dozen of your friends, no real soldiers at all. Your troops need comrades to mourn and enemy outrages to make them angry. I’m riding for Bohemia to put down a Waldensian heresy, your army can join mine. There’ll be killing, mourning and drinking enough to make any soldier happy.”
“I would be honoured to ride with you.”
“And use that sword?”
How did he . . .? Frederick shifted uncomfortably and his father smiled.
Sigismund said, “It was well done, a fair exchange. We get the WolfeSelle.” He nodded at the anonymous-looking blade slung across his son’s shoulders. “And we gain proof that her brat is . . .”
“One of us?”
“One of you, certainly.” There was slight jealousy in the emperor’s voice. One Frederick had noticed before. “So, as I say, a fair exchange. I’ll be honest, I never expected you to win.”
“Father . . .”
“You stand here before me. The emperor in Constantinople waits to get his son back in a barrel pickled in brandy. You lost well. The Byzantines badly. Venice remains Venice and ready for the taking.” Wrapping his arm round his son’s shoulders, Sigismund hugged him. A gesture undoubtedly noticed by both the courtiers and Frederick’s friends. “Why should I not be happy?”
“I lost.”
“Who said you were meant to win?”
“You did.” Frederick’s voice cracked and he blushed, hoping no courtiers had heard. “You said . . .”
“Whatever I said it’s enough Byzantium is damaged. Now, I have another task. You are to return to Venice and woo Lady Giulietta. What you could not make Venice give you through force – and I’ve been unable to gain through fear – we will make them give us from love. Take your friends and go humbly. In battle, timing is all. So wait for the right moment.”
“You want me to win Giulietta’s heart?”
“And her other parts,” Sigismund said. “Make her like you. Make her love you. Hell.” He smiled. “Make her smile. That usually gets them into bed.”
Cheers greeted the news of a fresh campaign, rising loud enough to echo from the mountains when Frederick’s troops discovered the emperor himself would be leading them. Having appointed a replacement for Frederick, Sigismund ordered them to head up the valley, through the pass and keep moving until they reached the first town on the other side, where they were to billet. He would join them there that evening. His courtiers were to remain with him but keep their distance. He wished for time to say goodbye to his son.
Frederick watched and he listened and he wondered as all this went on around him. Mostly, he wondered why his father thought winning Lady Giulietta di Millioni’s heart would be any easier than conquering her city. She was notoriously as stubborn as the city was strange. He watched his own armour and baggage be sent back the way he’d come to wait for him at an inn below. His friends were gathered in a group, talking quietly. They’d asked as many questions as they dared.
“Now,” Sigismund said. “Tell me about the man who gave you the WolfeSelle.”
“Tycho,” Frederick said. “Lady Giulietta’s lover.”
The emperor saw his son’s unease and waited, listening to Frederick’s faltering attempt to describe how the battle on Giudecca ended.
“Tell me exactly what you saw.”
“Flames,” Frederick said. “Wings of fire.”
“My Moorish astrologer says she beds a djinn, my bishop that he’s a devil, my cabalist says a golem of china clay. The Englishman Maître Dee says an elemental fire spirit. What did he look like to you?”
“Competition,” Frederick said after a moment’s pause.
The emperor laughed. “How long since you’ve run?”
“Weeks,” his son admitted.
“Since you ran as a pack? For the joy of it,” Sigismund said firmly. “I mean, how long since you ran as a pack for the joy of it?”
“That day in Wolf Valley when you came to find me.”
Sigismund said, “Then run now. Run here where no one can see you. Catch up with your carts when the hunt is finished and take new clothes. But enjoy yourself for today and worry about duty tomorrow.”
A run . . .?
The boy stripped quickly, his enthusiasm overwhelming shyness. The others, his friends, realising what was happening, grinned and stripped in their turn. Frederick was the youngest, his body slight, the hair at his groin pale as gold, the hair on his chest so fine as to be near invisible. And then he began to change, and his father, despite having seen what happened half a dozen times before, looked away as his son’s flesh rippled and his bones twisted and fur rolled up his body in a wave, closing over the wolf’s head. Only his eyes remained the same.
Frederick was not the largest animal in the pack. But he was the only one with silver fur and he was the one who opened his mouth and howled loud enough to echo off the valleys around them. And then, without even glancing at his father, he turned and headed for distant rocks and the pack followed without question, a streaming V of smoke behind their leader as they raced forward, and a stag that had been hiding among the rocks lost its nerve, rose to its feet and ran.
Sigismund sighed. He was emperor of half the Western world and, God-given duty or not, he’d give it all to run with his son.
2
Venice
“So I withdraw from city life for a life better suited to an old solider. I will tend my vines and plough my fields. Repair the walls on my estate in Corfu and have wells dug to water the olives . . .”
Of course you will, Tycho thought.
The Regent’s honeyed words had to be borrowed from someone else. An old Roman statesman maybe. They certainly didn’t sound like anything Prince Alonzo would have thought up for himself. “I will be taking my wife with me.”
Even the sleepiest member of Venice’s Council of Ten looked up at that. They all knew the Regent was unmarried and had no children, legitimate or bastard. His sister-in-law’s threats to poison any brats at birth saw to that.
“Your wife?” his sister-in-law asked.
“Lady Maria Dolphini . . .” Prince Alonzo smiled at Duchess Alexa, nodded politely to the councillors on their gilded chairs, let his gaze slide over Duke Marco, otherwise known as the Simple, and ignored Tycho entirely. He was only there because Marco insisted on bringing his bodyguard.
“I marry Maria tonight,” the Regent said. “With your permission, that is. The archbishop has already given his agreement. I know that I need the Council’s seal on this but I imagine no one would deny an old soldier company in his remaining years?”
Alexa snorted but her heart wasn’t in it. Tycho could see she was as shocked by this news as the rest of them. And worried, if she had any sense. Alexa liked to keep her enemies close. In banishing her brother-in-law she had, like it or not, given him freedom to move.
“No one objects . . .?”
The Reg
ent was a barrel-chested, broad-shouldered bear of a man, as fond of wine, women and warfare as he was publicly contemptuous of politics. In private, of course, he was as political as the next Venetian and that was very political indeed. Smiling deprecatingly, he took a sip of red wine and pushed his glass firmly away. Look, the gesture said. I’m barely drinking these days.
Around the small room on the first floor used for meetings of the Ten, old men were shaking their heads. A single chair stood empty, the one used until recently by Lord Atilo, now dead and buried. The Regent was careful not to glance at it just as he was careful not to glance at the boy sprawled on the throne, or the boy’s mother beside him. Duke Marco was watching a wasp repeatedly take off and crash-land, its flights short, abrupt and increasingly desperate. “It’s d-d-dying . . .”
Alonzo’s scowl said he wished Marco would join it.
“Everyone’s d-dying these days.”
When the duchess looked at her son strangely, he simply nodded to a soft-jowled courtier in a purple doublet twenty years out of date. “I think Lord B-Bribanzo wants to s-speak.” The two things, Bribanzo’s opening and shutting mouth and Marco’s morbid comments, were probably not linked. With Marco it was hard to know. “You w-wish to o-object?”
Lord Bribanzo shook his head fiercely.
“W-what then?”
Bribanzo looked to Alonzo for guidance, caught himself and pretended he’d been looking at a tapestry of a unicorn on the wall beyond. Marco’s brief moments of clarity always caused problems for those used to taking their cues from Alexa or Alonzo; depending which faction they favoured. There was more to Lord Bribanzo’s nervousness than this, though. Something in his manner said the hesitation was staged. Alonzo had just accepted defeat. He was withdrawing from public life to his estates in Corfu, one of Venice’s many island colonies. This was close to open surrender.
Of course, Alexa had left him little choice. Exile or death had been her offer. Since Tycho had provided the proof that Alonzo was behind a plot to have Alexa murdered, along with Marco and Marco’s cousin Lady Giulietta, he was on the list of people Alonzo would like dead. “Get on it it,” Alexa said.