Jon Courtenay Grimwood - [Act One of the Assassini] - The Fallen Blade (pdf).pdf

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JON COURTENAY GRIMWOOD
THE FALLEN BLADE
Act One of THE ASSASSINI
www.orbitbooks.net
Begin Reading
Table of Contents
Extras
Copyright Page
For Sam,
who found Venice stranger than she imagined…
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The Millioni family tree
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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 , the fifteen-year-old cousin of Marco IV
Duchess Alexa , the late duke’s widow, mother to Marco IV, sister-in-law of Prince Alonzo
Prince Alonzo , Regent of Venice
Lady Eleanor , Giulietta’s cousin and lady-in-waiting
Marco III , known as Marco the Just. The late lamented Duke of Venice, elder brother of Alonzo and
godfather of Lady Giulietta
Members of the Venetian court
Atilo il Mauros , ex-Lord Admiral of the Middle Sea, adviser to the late Marco III, and head of
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Venice’s secret assassins
Lord Bribanzo , member of the Council of Ten, the inner council that rules Venice under the duke. One
of the richest men in the city
Lady Desdaio Bribanzo , his daughter and sole heir
Sir Richard Glanville , Cypriot envoy to Venice and knight of the Order of White Crucifers
Prince Leopold zum Bas Friedland , the German emperor’s bastard. Secret leader of the Wolf
Brothers
Patriarch Theodore , Archbishop of Venice and friend of Atilo il Mauros
Dr. Hightown Crow , alchemist, astrologer and anatomist to the duke
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
The Customs Office
Roderigo , Captain of the Dogana, penniless since he refuses to take bribes
Temujin , his half-Mongol sergeant
Street Thieves
Josh , fifteen-year-old gang leader
Rosalyn , his thirteen-year-old companion
Pietro , Rosalyn’s young brother
PART 1
“… what a hell of witchcraft lies
In the small orb of one particular tear…”
A Lover’s Complaint , William Shakespeare
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Venice, Tuesday 4 January 1407
The boy hung naked from wooden walls, shackles circling one wrist and both ankles. He’d fought for
days to release his left hand, burning his skin on red-hot fetters as he worked to drag his fingers free. The
struggle had left him exhausted and—if he was honest—no better off than before.
“Help me,” he begged, “I will do whatever you ask.”
His gods stayed silent.
“I swear it. My life is yours.”
But his life was theirs anyway; even here in an enclosed space where his lungs ached at every breath and
the air was sour and becoming sourer. The gods had abandoned him to his death.
It would have helped if he could remember their names.
Some days he doubted they existed. If they did, he doubted they cared. The boy’s fury at his fate had
become bitterness and despair, and then turned to false hope and fresh fury. Maybe he’d missed an
emotion, but he’d worked his way through those he knew.
Yanking at his wrist made flesh sear.
Whatever magic his captors used was stronger than his will to be free. The chains with which they bound
him were new, bolted firmly to the wall. Every time he grabbed a chain to yank at it, his fingers sizzled as
if a torturer pressed white-hot irons into his skin.
“Sweet gods,” he whispered.
As if flattering the immortals could undo his earlier insults.
He’d shrieked at his gods, cursed them, called for the aid of demons. Begged for help from any human
within earshot of his despair. A part of him wanted to return to shrieking. Simply for the release it would
bring. Only he’d screamed his throat raw days ago. Besides, who would come to his grotesque little cell
with no doors? And if they did, how would they enter?
Murder. Rape. Treason…
What else merited being walled up alive?
His crime was a mystery. What was the point of punishment if the prisoner couldn’t remember what he’d
done? The boy had no memory of his name. No memory of why he was locked in a space little bigger
than a coffin. Not even a memory of who put him here.
Earth strewed the floor, splattered with his own soiling.
It was days since he’d needed to piss, and his lips were cracked like dry mud and raw from where he
tried to lick them. He needed sleep almost as desperately as he wanted to be free, but every time he
slumped his shackles burnt and the pain snapped him awake again. He’d done something wrong.
Something very wrong. So wrong that even death wouldn’t embrace him.
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