The Exiled Blade (The Assassini) - By Jon Courtenay Grimwood Page 0,24

his stomach. Simple hunger, the kind that wanted food not blood, ate at his gut and Tycho realised it was hours since he had eaten. He still wore the clothes he’d thrown on after he sent the forger’s daughter away, and a bleak hope had driven him to Leo’s nursery looking for certainty.

He found the kitchens lit red from the embers of the fire pit and almost tripped over a sleepy boy crouched beside a bread oven. He almost tripped over the boy because he was looking beyond the oven to where Duke Marco sat at a table scraping black off a burnt pastry he’d taken from a bin. Beside the duke rested a fishing net on a pole, the kind used by children to catch sprats.

“You were l-longer t-than I expected,” said Marco, pushing half the pastry across. Tycho was hungry enough to take it and eat.

“Giulietta wanted to talk, highness.”

The duke sat with his knees pulled up to his chin and the fingers of his left hand endlessly twisted his curls into tight knots. He was so sleepy his head kept dropping forward and jerking upright. “Of c-course she d-did. I imagine she w-wants you to s-stay here?”

How did he know that? Tycho had imagined Lady Giulietta would want him to fetch Leo back immediately. It had been a shock that she wanted her aunt to send someone else. Alexa said it was the poppy talking.

“You must leave n-now. Before you decide she’s right, and my mother agrees to send another in your place. Finish that and go.”

“It’s almost daylight, highness.”

“You’ll burst into f-flames without your ointment? Go up in a twist of s-smoke? Turn into a pillar of salt like Lot’s w-wife? You’ve never said w-what would happen.”

“I don’t know.”

“And y-you’re afraid to f-find out?” There was little amusement in the duke’s smile. “We’re alike, you and m-me. Trapped in our little p-prisons. There’s a barge waiting by the M-Molo. You’ll be protected from the s-sun.”

“Lady Giulietta . . .”

“Will wake to f-find you gone. She’ll be upset with the w-world and f-furious with you. This will exhaust her less than a couple of d-days spent b-begging you not to go. By the t-time you return the p-poppy will be done. She’ll b-be back to the young w-woman you love.”

“Yes, highness.”

“Take w-whatever you n-need from my t-treasury and stores.”

Horses? Weapons? Archers? Tycho ran through what he might need and arrived at an unexpected answer. “Give me Amelia.”

“She’s y-yours anyway.” As head of the Duke’s Blade, Tycho controlled the Assassini who enforced Venice’s will at home, killed her enemies abroad and slaughtered traitors wherever they could be found. That was the official description. Since their battle against the krieghund a couple of years before, which saw most of the Blade killed, the most fearsome thing about the Assassini was their name. A fact known only to those who needed to know which, thankfully, was very few.

“Take h-her,” said Marco. He hesitated. “Has m-my mother t-told her about . . .?”

Leo being abducted? “No, your highness.”

“Keep it that w-way for now. One f-final p-point.”

Tycho waited.

“Don’t come back if you fail.”

If I . . . Tycho felt his stomach tighten.

“My m-mother will be f-furious if you l-leave without her orders. But it’s J-Julie who will n-not forgive you.” Marco shrugged. “I know her, n-not the way you k-know her b-but well enough and I’ve k-known her longer. She’ll f-find it h-hard enough to f-forgive you for leaving. If you c-come b-back without Leo . . .”

Tycho nodded.

“We make b-bad enemies. And d-dangerous friends.”

Marco pushed himself up from the bench using his fishing net as a walking stick and stood unsteadily. He kissed Tycho on both cheeks and sighed. “I’ll walk you to the M-Molo, and then f-fetch Amelia. You m-must leave the m-moment she arrives . . . Now, what do you k-know of M-Montenegro?”

“Nothing yet, your highness.”

“It’s w-wild, cold in winter, filled with mountains and riddled with b-bandits. Those are its b-better points.” The duke shrugged. “No doubt m-most empires think their n-newest colonies barbaric. In Montenegro’s case it’s true. As for the Red Cathedral, it sits on an island in the c-centre of a demon-filled lake. You know I’m d-duke of M-Montenegro?” His smile was sour. “Duke of Venice, duke of M-Montenegro, duke of C-Corfu, and prince of Serenissima. Also k-king of Hungary . . .”

“Highness?”

“Oh, d-don”t worry. Sigismund says he’s d-duke of Venice.”

Life in Bjornvin had been simpler, Tycho told him. The Vikings hated the Skaelingar and