The Outcast Blade Read online

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  Table of Contents

  A Preview of The Hundred Thousand Kingdoms

  Copyright Page

  For Jams, who got lost in the Venetian backstreets for four hours and passed the same building five times because the city kept remaking itself around him; and Eun-jeong, who took me round a palace in Seoul. Thank you…

  The Millioni family tree

  Dramatis Personae

  Tycho, a seventeen-year-old boy with strange hungers

  The Millioni

  Marco IV, known as Marco the Simpleton, duke of Venice and Prince of Serenissima

  Lady Giulietta di Millioni, his seventeen-year-old cousin, widow of Prince Leopold, mother of Leo. Ran away from Venice and is now returning

  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

  Lady Eleanor, Giulietta’s young cousin and lady-in-waiting

  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

  Atilo il Mauros, once adviser to the late Marco III, and head of Venice’s secret assassins. Alexa’s lover and long-term supporter. Engaged to Lady Desdaio, daughter of…

  Lord Bribanzo, member of the Council of Ten, the inner council that rules Venice. One of the richest men in the city, Bribanzo sides with Alonzo

  Prince Leopold zum Bas Friedland. Now dead. Until lately leader of the krieghund, Emperor Sigismund’s werewolf shock troops. (His brother Frederick is the German emperor’s only remaining son)

  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

  A’rial, the Duchess Alexa’s stregoi (her pet witch)

  Atilo’s household

  Iacopo, Atilo’s servant and member of the Assassini

  Amelia, a Nubian slave and member of the Assassini

  Pietro, an ex-street child, Assassini apprentice and sister to Rosalyn (now dead and buried on Pauper Island)

  The customs office

  Lord Roderigo, Captain of the Dogana, Alonzo’s ally

  Temujin, his half-Mongol sergeant

  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

  “These violent delights have violent ends…”

  Romeo and Juliet, William Shakespeare

  Prologue

  Constantinople 1408

  Incense filled the air inside Hagia Sophia, the largest and most famous cathedral in the world. Beneath its huge dome, small boys scattered rose petals on thousand-year-old marble mosaics, which would need scrubbing before nightfall to remove the stain.

  Ahead of the shambling figure of John V Palaiologos – God’s ruler on Earth, Basilius of the Byzantine Empire – walked his cross bearer, carrying a huge crucifix with an icon of Christ in its centre. Had the crucifix been solid it would have been impossible to lift. But it was made from beaten silver, chased and fretted and hammered into shape over a light wooden frame.

  Under the icon was a piece of the True Cross. There were a thousand such relics but the patriarch of Constantinople had judged this one real.

  As the emperor approached, his courtiers fell to their knees.

  The mind of the Basilius was old and as tired as his body; and his body ached on waking and hurt worse in the approach to sleep. He might claim his growing hatred of his empire came from a simple wish to find himself in the company of God. In his heart the Basilius knew he was tired of life.

  He’d inherited the throne at nine, his German mother having pawned the imperial crown for 300,000 Venetian ducats two years before he was born. It was a miracle he survived his childhood. That only happened because he was more valuable alive than dead. At the age of seventeen – exhausted by uncertainty – he ordered the slaughter of both Regents, their staff and households. The coup was quick, brutal and performed by a tiny group of the imperial guard who’d grown disgusted by the empire’s chaos.

  A revolt by the cousin of a Regent ended brutally. The army was purged of untrustworthy generals and the civil service reordered. Wealth found in the strongrooms of the Regents and the treasury master was returned to the treasury and taxes lowered. An action that brought John V Palaiologos the loyalty of Constantinople’s merchants. It was the first time taxes had been lowered in fifty years.

  The new emperor watched and learnt. He identified his friends and his enemies, and those who pretended for whatever reason to be one when they were really the other. At the age of twenty-two, he slaughtered the son of the Seljuk king at Cinbi, after Prince Suleyman and thirty-nine of his father’s knights crossed the Hellespont in boats hired from Genoese merchants.

  Having ordered the massacre of every family from Genoa in Constantinople, the Basilius led an attack on Sulyman’s father. The loss of lands, his sons and most of his army rendered King Orthan so desolate he sued for peace.

  In the years that followed, the Byzantine emperor reconquered provinces thought lost for ever. Of course, if the Mamluks had not hated the Seljuks the outcome might have been different. Those were thoughts wise historians kept to themselves.

  And so courtiers wearing armour whose design was a thousand years old knelt on mosaics even older and averted their eyes.

  “Andronikos…”

  The emperor’s mage stepped forward.

  He was tall and thin, wearing simple robes that managed to look more striking than the gold-embroidered tunics of the governors, independent princes and courtiers around him. Many men in the East claimed to be mages. A few were charlatans, most could do simple magic, produce fire, read minds, rid houses of troublesome spirits. A handful could see the future as it would happen. Andronikos could see all futures, weigh them and make fate’s dice fall one way rather than another. The man had ridden at the emperor’s right hand the night they killed Suleyman Pasha and changed the tides of history.

  “Majesty.” Bowing low, Andronikos adjusted his robe and struggled to stand. His bones were old and enough of them had been broken in battle to carry their ache into later life.

  “What have you learnt?”

  The mage ran through the city’s rumours, the assassinations and assignations, secret raptures and rapines. The Mithraic cult was gaining in strength. A slaughtered white bull had been found by the river. A Seljuk princeling had arrived in the city planning the Basilius’s death. There was always a Seljuk princeling planning the emperor’s death and the emperor suspected the Seljuk king used it as a cynical way to rid himself of troublesome younger sons.

  “And Venice?”

  Andronikos drew together his fingers.

  “No need for masking spells. No one will hear us.” The emperor was right, of course. The chanting of plainsong and rustle of robes, the squeak of fans swinging overhead and the gasps of the slaves who dragged the ropes that worked the fans created their own masking spell.

  “Good news and bad news…”

  The emperor waited. He was used to men starting sentences and then hesitating to check if he wished to listen to the rest. Andronikos should be above such behaviour; but the emperor had once jailed him for speaking out of turn. Jailed him, confiscated his estates, co-opted his eldest son into the army and sent the boy south to die. The mage had been more cautious in his opinions since.

  After a life of simplifying politics and hardening his empire’s boundaries, increasing trade, securing alliances and forging treaties that would last – all the while pretending to be interested only in God – John V Palaiologos had let the Mamluks transport a caged demon through his lands a year ago in return for the renewal of a minor treaty.

  Wolf-grey-haired and white-skinned, the demon was kept captive in a cage with silver bars. That it could travel only at night should have warned him this was a bad idea. And though the emperor wouldn’t dream of admitting it, Andronikos had been right to advise against the Mamluk plan.

  Only the fear of standing before the recording angel and being called to account for his sins stopped the Basilius from having the sycophants who’d agreed it was a good idea slaughtered.

  Sacred checks and balances, his confessor said. They kept the scales almost level. If the world lost those it would be unbearable.

  “Lady Giulietta…” Andronikos’s voice was carefully neutral.

  These days the emperor called his granddaughters by their mothers’ names and his great-grandsons by the names of their fathers. Occasionally he called his librarian by the name of a slave who’d filled the post thirty years before. That was one advantage of surrounding himself with old men like Andronikos. The Basilius knew who they were. His mind would never decide they were someone else. He fought to remember the girl and failed.

  “Well?” he said crossly.

  “The late duke of Venice’s niece.” r />
  “Zoë’s daughter? How is Zoë?”

  “She was murdered by Republicans, majesty.”

  “Ahh…” The emperor considered this. Decided he probably remembered that. And remembered something else. “Zoë married one of my nephews? Is that right?”

  “Not a happy marriage.”

  “Ahh… What about this daughter?”

  “Her husband died in the recent battle off Cyprus.”

  “We’ve discussed this, haven’t we?”

  The mage nodded and kept his face impassive. “There’s a child,” he added. “And rumours about its parentage. We’ve touched on that, too.”

  “The husband recognised it?”

  “Yes, majesty. He named it his heir.”

  “That’s all that matters.” Enough noble families had used natural sons or adopted children to continue their lines; it was an ancient Roman tradition, and since the Basilius was in a direct line from the Caesars, why would Andronikos expect him to be troubled by that? “Cut to the core.”

  The emperor’s mage took a deep breath.

  “Her husband was Sigismund’s favourite bastard…”

  Sigismund was the German emperor… Well, technically he was the Holy Roman Emperor, King of Germany, Hungary and half a dozen other places of equal unimportance.

  “And this matters why?”

  “Majesty. The new duke of Venice shows no interest in women. We already know his mother’s threatened to have her co-Regent poisoned if he marries and produces an heir. So, all Prince Alonzo can have is bastards, and those can’t inherit the throne.”

  “Why have we not discussed this?”

  “We’ve touched on it,” said Andronikos, hurriedly adding, “but not in any depth. All this only matters now because Sigismund will offer Venice another of his bastards for Giulietta to marry.”

  “Sigismund wants Venice?”

  “Majesty, he’s always wanted it.”

  “You know what I mean. I mean, he intends to have it? By marrying his natural son to Zoë’s daughter, then claiming Venice in the name of Leopold’s legitimate son when the time comes?”

  “Yes, majesty.”

  The emperor sighed.

  “Shall I order the child killed?”

  “Checks and balances, Andronikos. I’m too close to meeting God to want another infant on my conscience. And killing its mother won’t work either. We need a counter-proposal. A husband more suited to our needs.”

  “Indeed, majesty.”

  The emperor thought about it while plainsong halted and restarted, and fans swirled warm air down from the domed ceiling to be cooled by huge unglazed jars that wept bead-like tears. Around him, his entourage talked quietly, having fought hard for positions that required only their ability to show reverence. The emperor knew how ridiculous that was, and suspected Lord Andronikos knew how ridiculous that was, and imagined his courtiers knew also. They still fought for the positions, though. The empire had been like this for hundreds of years.

  “Where’s Nikolaos?”

  “On his estate, majesty. Under guard.”

  “He is as he was?”

  Born of a freed Varangian slave, Nikolaos was the handsomest of his sons, with blond hair and broad shoulders that might have come from a statue of Hercules. The youth was virile and charming, beautifully mannered to his women in public but savage in private. It was a woman who saw him exiled. A duke’s daughter, she’d been beautiful, talented, intelligent and obstinate in the face of his wooing.

  A perfect target for his rage.

  “Majesty, this might not be wise.”

  “Giulietta’s the daughter of a Byzantine prince, her mother is the granddaughter of another, our blood flows in her veins, not Sigismund’s. We’ll send them Nikolaos. If Venice’s spies are any good they’ll know what they’re getting. Tell Duke Tiersius we’re exiling Nikolaos after all.”

  “He wanted Nikolaos dead.”

  “Death. Venice. It’s all the same.”

  1

  Venice

  On the first of May, in the same hour of the night that the Basilius spoke to Lord Andronikos about the situation in Venice, the flagship of the Venetian fleet put into its home lagoon, its rails smashed by storms and its sides scarred by battle.

  The San Marco was the fleet’s only survivor.

  On board was the demon the Basilius regretted letting pass through his empire. Called Tycho, he hated being on board for three reasons: 1) being over deep water made him feel weak and sick, 2) he could not shake his nightmares from the battle, 3) the girl he loved had locked herself in her cabin and refused to come out. Not what he’d intended when he revealed his true nature to her.

  “By yourself again, Sir Tycho?”

  The demon scowled.

  Arno Dolphini was one of the few crew members unimpressed by Tycho’s part in their recent victory. Mind you, even those who were impressed believed him recklessly ambitious. Why else would he risk courting a Millioni princess so soon after the death of her husband?

  Except I loved her first, he thought bitterly.

  And she’d been the one to seek him out on the night deck of the San Marco, dressed as no newly widowed woman should be in a thin undergown made clingy with sweat. The mere memory made Tycho’s throat tighten. “My lady is upset.”

  “Screaming baby and dead husband? I’m not surprised. Still, no doubt her family will choose her another prince soon enough.”

  Curling his hands into fists, Tycho stared at lights on the shore, willing himself not to hit Dolphini. The young man was a bully and an idiot, the spoilt heir to a massive fortune. The real reason he wanted to rip out Dolphini’s throat, however, was that he spoke the truth.

  “Come on. You’re missing the fun.”

  On arrival, the San Marco had been ordered to join the quarantine line like any other newly arrived ship. Lord Atilo, its captain, was not the kind of man who felt he should be made to wait.

  “You dare tell me what to do?”

  Don’t show panic, Tycho thought.

  But the messenger was already measuring his drop to the dark lagoon behind. If he reached the rails he might be able to jump before Atilo struck. Only then the Regent would have him hung for cowardice. The look on the messenger’s face said he knew he was doomed either way.

  “Those are the Council’s orders, my lord.”

  “Damn the Council. I’m coming ashore.”

  “You’ll be arrested.”

  Even Lord Atilo looked shocked at that.

  “I’ve just sunk the Mamluk fleet. Saved Cyprus from capture and protected our trade routes. Do you really think anyone would dare?”

  “My lord. Your orders…”

  Atilo il Mauros wanted to say that no one gave him orders. Except that wasn’t true: Duchess Alexa did; her son would have done had he not been simple. And Prince Alonzo, the Regent of Venice, also had the right.

  “I’ve fought storms for three days. My ship is battered. My crew are exhausted. I did this to bring you news of our victory.”

  “We have the news already, my lord.”

  “How could you possibly…?”

  “It was announced last Sunday.”

  So cross was the old Moorish admiral that he growled in fury. It would have been funny if he hadn’t also fallen into a fighter’s stance the messenger was too ignorant to recognise. Atilo’s temper was about to boil over. When it did he would strike for the man’s heart.

  The night air would fill with the stink of blood, and Tycho would have to fight his hungers. He was exhausted, sick from days at sea, and uncertain he could stop himself from becoming the beast he was on the night of the battle.

  “Let it go,” he said.

  Atilo swung round, seeking his one-time slave. “You dare question my authority?” The messenger was forgotten and all Atilo’s attention on the perceived insult. When Atilo gripped the handle of his sword, Tycho wondered how far the old man would take this…

  “There will be no fighting.”

  The voice from behind Tycho sounded less confident than its command suggested. And the red-headed girl who pushed past as if he didn’t exist was shaking with anger, nerves or tiredness. At Lady Giulietta’s breast was an infant, half covered by a Maltese shawl.