The Exiled Blade (The Assassini) - By Jon Courtenay Grimwood Page 0,121

dripping fat sent flames jumping. The area smelt of crackling. Vast pies of salt pastry not meant to be eaten were being filled with a mix of hot mutton, black pepper and steaming winter vegetables. The last peacock in the zoo was honey-glazed and almost roasted. Barrels of red wine stood warming. More barrels of strong and weak beer were being trundled across stone floors towards a trestle table that held clay jugs for lower tables and glass ones for high tables.

The crowd in the banqueting hall beyond the doors were drunk and already half stuffed with fresh bread, their fingers slick with oil from a stew of chicken and root vegetables better suited to the table of a cittadino. Barely a scrap remained on the dishes being returned to the kitchens. Tonight might not be the richest feast Venice had seen but it was better than any given in recent months.

The great banqueting hall, first demanded by Marco the Just, and overseen by Duchess Alexa, had been finished on the orders of Marco the Great, the late and much lamented duke. Its panelling was waxed and the painted ceiling finally in place; even the windows had been fitted. Politeness demanded that no one mention the last time Prince Frederick attended a feast in that hall assassins had tried to kill him.

“Over there.” Amelia nodded to the far side of the kitchens.

Two White Crucifers stood by a table watching the preparations carefully. Every so often, one would abandon his post to test food, sniff meat or examine dried peppercorns before allowing them to be ground. They were Giulietta’s and Frederick’s official food tasters. The Crucifers looked up suspiciously.

“Duchess Giulietta’s orders,” Amelia said.

For a second it looked as if the men would demand her right to use the duchess’s name, then they took in the richness of her gown and the value of the gold chain around her neck and accepted she’d be stupid to use the name without authority. They had the closed faces of men who didn’t like women at the best of times, certainly not ones who met their gaze. “And him?” the taller demanded.

Tycho was dressed simply, his robes long and priest-like.

“An alchemist,” Amelia said. “Also here on her orders.”

The priests scowled as Tycho guessed they would.

“You taste the food first,” Amelia told them. “We taste it second. Only then does it go through to the duke and duchess.” The Crucifers thought about that and scowled at each other as they tried to come up with a reason that having the food double-tasted was a bad idea beyond hurt pride.

“The first dish has already gone.”

“True,” Lady Amelia admitted. “But since Giulietta and Frederick have yet to seat themselves they will not have eaten it . . .” Maybe it was the familiarity with which the richly dressed young Nubian used the royal names, and used them with confidence . . . Perhaps it was simply that she knew the couple were not yet seated, which he didn’t, but the elder Crucifer accepted defeat.

“We’ll be watching.”

“Especially him.” The younger one nodded.

They were true to their word. They watched carefully as Tycho dug his borrowed spoon into a bowl of fish soup they’d already tasted, and barely bothered to watch Amelia take her turn afterwards. Over the next hour and a half they watched Tycho chew a slice of beef, pinch a succulent sliver from a piglet, and spoon mutton and winter vegetable pie into his mouth.

Food tasters kept their employers alive. They tasted the wine and the water, the bread and the meat and the wizened winter vegetables that had been plumped up by soaking in water and seasoned with black pepper and cinnamon to hide their bitterness. They tasted everything. “I think we’re done,” Tycho said.

Lady Amelia nodded.

“You don’t intend to taste that?” The younger Crucifer pointed at a heart-shaped sweetmeat of diced fruit, honeycomb and spices carried by a young page. The heart was cut diagonally so Giulietta could take the top piece and her new husband the bottom. “You,” the Crucifer said. “Here.”

The boy glared at him.

He wore Millioni scarlet, decorated with gold and silver. At his hip hung an ornate dagger that he could only be wearing by dispensation of the duchess herself. “If you would,” the priest added, more politely.

The boy brought his dish across.

His eyes widened as he glanced at Tycho’s hooded face and his mouth opened. He was trembling when Lady Amelia stepped forward and gripped the boy’s cheeks with fingers