The Exiled Blade (The Assassini) - By Jon Courtenay Grimwood Page 0,54

by the hundred. “She’s brilliant,” Prince Frederick said.

He’d just turned an almost brutal figure of eight that sprayed ice and brought him back to where Lady Giulietta stood, unsteadily leaning on a stick and well aware he’d long ago abandoned his own. With blades this sharp you didn’t need to pole yourself along so those watching – and there were more people than she liked watching – knew she needed it for balance. “Who’s brilliant?”

“Your aunt. Now, take my hand.”

“Leopold.”

Frederick scowled and she blushed furiously. “Frederick,” she said. “Sorry, that was really stupid. I know . . .”

“I’m Frederick?”

She nodded dumbly.

“It’s all right,” he said. “Now, drop your stick.”

He was holding out his hand and a hundred people were staring, and she knew she was blushing harder than ever, so she reached hastily for his fingers and gripped the impossibly soft leather of his gloves.

“You’re cold,” he said.

Her fingernails were almost blue.

“Wear these.” He was pulling off a glove before she could refuse. The surprise was that they fitted. “Small hands,” he explained, matching his fingers to hers. “I say . . . Are you all right?”

“My page is watching.”

Prince Frederick let go of her fingers. “Sorry,” he said. “I forget how to behave sometimes. That’s why I like . . .” He chewed the corner of his lip, having apparently decided against what he intended to say.

“You like what?”

“Being with my friends. It’s more natural.”

“Natural?” she asked. Catching the amusement in his eyes, she realised too late he meant the krieghund, he liked being with his kind. That was a discussion she felt unready to have. Certainly here, watched by every layabout in Venice. “Tell me,” she said. “Why is my aunt brilliant?”

He grinned at her change of topic, and grinned again when she discarded her stick. She felt him take her shoulders and turn her to look at the scene behind them. A thousand people, possibly more, thronged the ice. Stalls lined the edge of the Riva degli Schiavoni. Skaters, and those who’d been walking on the ice in studded boots, formed queues to buy hot bread and warm pies. The smell of roasting meat wafting over the ice from where an ox roasted over a fire pit on the quay.

“Other cities are rioting,” he said.

Are they now? Aunt Alexa had mentioned nothing about that.

“Farms are being sacked in Lombardy, and granaries broken into all across Germany. Warehouses in Milan have been gutted and burnt. My father’s had to burn the leaders of a peasant rebellion and hang a hundred of their followers. And what is Venice doing? Holding an ice party . . .”

“You’ve had fresh news from your father?”

Frederick’s face went still.

He must have heard the hope in my voice. “About Leo, I mean?”

Instantly, she felt guilty. She should have said, about Leo and Tycho. But it was kinder to let Frederick think her worry was about Leo alone. Looking up, she expected Frederick’s face to have relaxed. If anything, he looked unhappier than he had done before. “You’ve heard something about Leo . . .”

He shook his head.

Thank God, she couldn’t stand that.

“Nothing about Leo, my lady. There are rumours Lady Maria is pregnant enough to keep to her room.” It took Giulietta a moment to realise he meant Maria Dolphini. “If you’re right, they’ll introduce Leo as her son soon . . .”

“What else?”

“My lady . . .?”

He was too fond of her for such formality. “Your highness, what other news have you received? What aren’t you telling me?”

“You know what rumours are like.” In her experience rumours were almost always right. He obviously read the anger in her eyes because he sighed. “I’m not saying it’s true. And you’re not going to like it.”

“Obviously,” she said tightly.

“An unconfirmed report says Lord Tycho has sworn loyalty to the Regent, that he has offered Alonzo the Blade.”

“You knew Tycho was Duke’s Blade?”

“No,” said Frederick. “But I do now. Until a second ago it was simply rumour.”

Lady Giulietta glared at him. “Impossible,” she said. “Tycho would never betray me . . . He’d never betray Marco. He belongs to Alexa. He knows how much I hate my uncle.”

“Everyone knows how much you hate your uncle. No one knows why. Although there are rumours about that as well.”

“Of course there are. There are always rumours. You said yourself they’re usually wrong. And that one’s wrong, too.” Gathering her cloak, Giulietta turned for the shoreline. “Take me home.”

As they were approaching the Porta della Carta, just before the