The Exiled Blade (The Assassini) - By Jon Courtenay Grimwood Page 0,9

and nervous. Drawing his dagger, Tycho pulled the curtain aside.

The air inside was hot with sweated bodies and stank of wine, garlic and recent sex. It flowed past him like a history of the hour just gone. Prince Alonzo was sprawled on top of Maria, whose gown was round her hips, one heavy breast bulging sideways where his weight pushed down. She shivered as the air grew colder.

But Alonzo’s weight, and his face slumped on to her neck, stopped her turning her head to see what had changed. He was snoring heavily, and her hands were still wrapped uncertainly round his bare shoulders.

The man was utterly defenceless. A single thrust through his back would pierce his heart, a sliced throat would sluice blood on to the woman trapped below him, a stab to his side and he’d take days to die . . .

Alexa would be pleased. Furious, obviously. Tycho would have to deny it, as he’d have to deny it to Giulietta, who’d want him to swear the truth. Except he’d never lied to her and didn’t want to start now. So he’d have to tell her the truth and swear her to secrecy. Do it, Tycho told himself. If you’re going to do it. Do it now.

“Who’s there?” The voice was small and frightened.

The inrush of cold air had finished waking Maria Dolphini and Tycho could hear the terror in her voice. She tried to shake Alonzo awake, but her husband slept too deeply and was too heavy for her shift. A thick fur draped his feet, a blanket half covered his thighs. “Who’s there?” she repeated.

“No one,” Tycho said. “Sleep safely.”

He pulled up the blanket to drape over her naked hip and closed the bed’s curtains, crossing the room in a shadow and readjusting the window blanket on his way out, closing the bottle-glass window and the shutters beyond. Although his footprints on the balcony had filled with snow they were still visible. So he swept the snow away with his hand, watching it fall into a heap in the alley below. New snow would cover the balcony floor and balustrade and leave both smooth by morning. A man’s height from the ground, he jumped outwards, landing in a run of tracks made by passing rubbish pigs while he was inside. He walked carefully, stepping in the hoofprints of the animals, the rhythm of his feet irregular. Anyone listening would have missed them, being used to footsteps that sounding rhythmic, impatient or hurried and scared.

Lord Atilo had been a brutal master and his methods would have left scars had Tycho’s childhood not left them already. The Assassini skills and Tycho’s own abilities made for a lethal mix. So why didn’t you kill Alonzo? Tycho asked himself as he made his way back to Ca’ Ducale. He’d gone intending to kill his enemy. Intending to kill him and lie to Alexa . . . Instead he’d let the man live.

What had changed his mind? Finding Maria Dolphini awake and scared? Realising he could lie to Alexa but not to the girl he loved, and she was bound to ask? The question was simple but pinning down an answer proved so difficult he’d reached the Molo and collected his cloak from behind the statue before he realised there wasn’t one. He’d acted on instinct and against his interests. Life with Alonzo dead would be a whole lot safer.

One thing he did know, though. Maria Dolphini’s body might be lush, her hips broad and her breasts large enough to strain the fine wool of her nightgown but he’d seen her half naked and she wasn’t pregnant and looked far less bulky than she’d been in the basilica when she married Alonzo.

“Where have you been?” Giulietta asked sleepily.

“Walking in the snow.”

“You like snow?” She sounded surprised.

“Hate it.” Bjornvin, his childhood town, had been snowbound for months at a time, and since the change – his change – he felt sluggish in the cold. Of course, sluggish to him was still invisibly fast to anyone else. He could feel it, though, in the slowing of his thoughts, a slight lag in his reflexes.

“Come to bed,” Giulietta said.

“I thought you were sore?”

“That was earlier.” She shifted on her mattress, making space, and Tycho discarded his cloak, and then everything else.

“I’m cold,” he warned.

“I don’t care.” A small shriek when he put his hands on her stomach said she did, just not enough to kick him out of bed or demand he warm his