5. The Intended


  

  Duke Lorenzo detailed all the many benefits the arrangement would bring his family: port access, ship manifests, yearly revenue increase from combining their operations. It was all very sensible.

  Marco tried to picture the benefits, but all he kept seeing was Lady Fernanda’s nose. The way it stuck out from every angle. The way she looked down it. The way it wrinkled with distaste when someone made a joke.

  It wasn’t just that she wasn’t beautiful, although that would have helped considerably. It was the fact that in the three days he had spent in her company she hadn’t said a single thing that was funny.

  Not a joke or a witticism; he didn’t even need that. Just something remotely light or charming or self-aware, or even a hint of humour in self-deprecation. But there was none. Not a single trace. She was religiously boring as well as boringly religious.

  She had asked him what he did for pleasure while they strolled in the palace gardens.

  The question floated across the warm air like a lead weight wrapped in silk.

  He was wise enough not to say fucking half the noble girls of Livonia City, even though that was the truth.

  “I like to fence.”

  “With swords?”

  Lady Fernanda’s voice was flat, precise, the tone of someone who had never been surprised by anything in her life.

  “When bread sticks are not available, yes.”

  Nothing. Not even a flicker of confusion. The silence stretched long enough for a nearby fountain to bubble and splash. It was as if she thought idiots like him would naturally fence with bread sticks.

  “You practice to kill?”

  “That is not the purpose, but it is good to know defence, of course.”

  “I do not find violence stimulating.”

  “No. Why would you?” He let the words hang, sweet as poisoned honey. “A sensible attitude for a woman.”

  He looked across at Duke Lorenzo. The duke’s rings flashed as he lifted his wine, rubies dark as fresh liver. Marco supposed she had found it incredibly unstimulating when those same rings had signed the order for his assassins to wipe out the Nivoni family. Rolling her eyes as the bodies piled up on the moonlit terrace, tutting at the tedium of the grieving widows while the blood ran warm between the flagstones and the sea carried the screams away.

  Lady Fernanda dabbed her thin lips with a square of lace. The gesture was delicate, bloodless, and utterly devoid of humour.

  Marco smiled, wide and pleasant, and felt the walls of the palace close in like a crypt.

  Marco’s eyes moved to the view outside the window. A small garden terrace, the stone tiled in cool mosaics, and then a high, sun-bleached wall. Beyond that, a deep, sapphire blue slice of the sea. From his seat, he probably had enough of a run-up to vault that wall and drop down to whatever was below.

  He calculated the distance in his head, the drop cold and sharp in his stomach. Hopefully, water, with the shocking coolness to clear his mind, but it was likely just another terrace where his messy corpse would stand as the ultimate, gory protest against turning marriage into a transaction.

  Back in the room, Marco continued to listen, the Duke’s monologue droning on like a distant insect. He’d worked out that if he smiled every four seconds, a tight, mechanical curve of the lips, the Duke would read that as a cue to continue talking and not require any real engagement. This was one engagement he would not be getting.

  The Duke’s voice suddenly sharpened. “What do you think?”

  Panic swelled, hot and immediate. What did he think? The Duke’s words had melted into an indistinguishable, soporific drone in his ears several moments ago.

  He recovered instantly. “I think ships and olive oil are natural accompaniments.”

  “Yes. This is so true,” the Duke agreed.

  When the time came to shake hands, Marco was not feigning enthusiasm, such was the delight in finally reaching the end of this conversation.

  “So we will see you again in three months for the wedding. It will be an occasion to remember.” The Duke’s voice held the false cheer of a man concluding a successful financial transaction.

  “I will count the days.”

  “Very good.” The Duke patted him on the shoulder, the rubies on his rings pressing briefly against Marco’s tunic, and he followed a pair of guardsmen down the long sets of winding exterior stairs back down to street level.

  As they came to the harbour, the smell of salt, fish, and urine felt to him as fresh as a lungful taken among mountain pines. It was the chaotic, vibrant scent of freedom compared to the palace’s stifling rose-oil and wax.

  At once, his eyes feasted on the sight of the finest ship at dock, the sleek, golden-boughed Aurora with its triangular front sails and ballistae that seemed moulded into the hull, and glinting in the sun, four polished cannons. Its presence was a promise of escape. The sight of it brought a smile to his face for many reasons but most of all how it really annoyed his father.

  His father had let him commission a ship, his own. He'd gone to the shipwrights and heard the possibilities. They told him about split hulls, how they allowed the ship to sit higher on the water. They told him that if he wanted extra stability for the side cannon platforms he could put them on adjoining hulls reinforced with arches to absorb the shock. Every fringe design and innovation was put to him in a rush of fevered excitement.

  At the end they'd asked him if he liked any of the ideas. He had said yes. They asked him which one and he grinned. “All of them.”

  His father was horrified by the result. Marco thought it was striking, like some kind of manta ray carved from wood, rope and canvas.

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  “So you think it's a good idea to half your carrying capacity and lose deck space?” His father demanded with scorn. “The sides aren't even straight for a boarding. How are you going to put a company of men on it?”

  Marco shrugged and pretended he didn't know. It was more amusing that way.

  Why explain that he's created a ship, faster and more manoeuvrable, that could take the shock of cannons so well that by the time it came to board there would be no resistance left. His father wanted to be disappointed. Marco was happy to fulfill his wishes.

  And he still got the Aurora. Just as he wanted her.

  When he was standing on the deck pulling away from the Anattivo bay, the clean, salt-whipped breeze of motion felt even better. The dull ache behind his eyes eased and the perpetual knot of tension in his stomach dissipated entirely. He breathed out, feeling the anxiety physically expelled, and breathed in deeply, savoring the lungful of pure, open sea air.

  The Aurora was a fast ship, its triangular sails taut and straining, and if the wind held, they would be back home in under twenty hours. This also meant that in a bit over two hours they would be a distant, irrelevant speck from Duke Lorenzo’s highest tower, shrinking the entire stifling palace, Lady Fernanda, the rubies, and the tedium, into irrelevance, even if someone were purposefully tracking them, which they likely were not.

  He went to his cabin, the sudden dimness a welcome contrast to the sun-drenched deck, knowing he had until mid-afternoon to change his fate. The smooth, rhythmic creak of the Aurora’s hull was the soundtrack to his final plans. To do this required a series of items that he now selected from his gear chest.

  He buckled a telescope, its brass casing cool against his skin, to his belt. Next came a pair of gauntlets, the leather tough and molded, designed to shield his forearms from any guard, rival, or captain who might attempt to interfere with a quick draw. Over his tunic went a semi-rigid jerkin, just enough light armor in case anyone started taking their duty too seriously. He secured a stiletto, thin and silent, deep into a hidden sheath, in case anyone got too close.

  And finally, he drew his rapier, the polished steel cool in his hand, its perfect balance a familiar promise of control, for obvious reasons.

  Ready now, he stood, the smell of salt and the sound of the straining sails providing a renewed sense of purpose. The gilded world of Livonia City was far behind him; the next few hours belonged entirely to the rapier.

  He returned to the deck, the long rapier bumping softly against his thigh, and went straight to the helm. The clean-shaven, sweating helmsman was keeping the ship steady, the oiled wood of the wheel creaking rhythmically. Marco tapped the man on the shoulder.

  “I’ll take it for a while.”

  The helmsman, perhaps used to the whims of noble passengers, stepped aside and busied himself with the halyards and ropes, the rough hemp fibers stinging his hands. Only now did a few people, a couple of deckhands mending a sail, a lookout high above, look askance at his jerkin and gauntlets, but none made comment.

  Gently at first, Marco began to move the heavy wooden wheel, the brass spokes cool beneath his hands. Then, with more force, he brought the wheel over. The ship, responsive to the tension in the sails, began to carve a wide, deliberate arc.

  The helmsman looked up from his ropes, his brow furrowed in confusion. “My Lord. We are turning away from our destination.”

  “Are we?” Marco held the line steady, letting the sails crack and snap as they caught the wind in an easterly direction. The ship was now aimed toward the vast, open sea.

  “My Lord, that is not the way home.” The helmsman’s voice was tinged with alarm now, cutting through the hiss of the water against the hull.

  “I say it is and this is my ship.” Marco’s voice was low, final, and carried the unmistakable, cold weight of command.

  The helmsman retreated and a minute later a trio of guards appeared with Captain Renzo at their head. Their leather boots were loud and solid against the deck planks.

  “My Lord. We were under strict instructions to return home directly. Your father was very clear about that.” Renzo’s voice was firm, but held a note of discomfort.

  Marco locked the wheel in place, the brass mechanism clicking loudly, still veering toward the East.

  “And I am equally clear that I have no wish to do that.”

  Renzo nodded to the helmsman and pointed to the wheel lock. In a flash of polished steel, Marco whipped out the rapier and forced the helmsman to step back, the sharp tip of the blade slicing the air between them.

  “Do not touch that.”

  “Sire. My Lord.” Renzo protested, his voice strained. “I understand…”

  “Do you, Renzo?” he cut off, his voice low and dangerous.

  “I do. You’re a young man forced into duty. You don’t want to do it. You want to enjoy yourself. I understand, but not this way.”

  “What way do you suggest?”

  “I mean not this way.” He pointed at the horizon, a haze of humidity and sun-bleached blue. “Not Southeast. We can go to Callasta or Venturia or anywhere north or west or even dead east. But not there.”

  “Why not?”

  “That’s just jungles and hideouts for the worst kind of scum. People don’t come back from there.” Renzo’s voice was grim.

  “You mean people never hear from them again? So no one would follow?” Marco’s eyes narrowed, a glint of calculation replacing the boredom.

  “Please, sire. Don’t make me do this.” Renzo’s hand hovered near his own sword hilt.

  “You must do what you feel is right. I will do the same.”

  Renzo nodded, the movement heavy, and one guard moved on him with sword drawn and scraping on the planks. The guard did not expect Marco to move that quickly and stared in disbelief at his bleeding hand as his sword went tumbling onto the deck.

  Now Renzo and the other guard moved as one. Marco parried Renzo, the clash of the blades ringing sharp across the deck. The captain was not really trying to hurt him, and that made him predictable. The other guard knocked the wheel lock out of place. Marco landed his boot squarely in the wooden spokes to stop him turning it back.

  For a moment, he was extended in this ridiculous, tense sprawl before pirouetting away. The guard at the wheel took a spinning rapier handle to the chin and staggered back. Marco forced Renzo to parry off-balance then wrenched him into the creaking wheel where he bounced off.

  Marco was on him in a moment, forcing Renzo further back until his back was against the side of the ship, the wood vibrating from the sea. Marco held his sword to his throat.

  “I will fight you as long as I have breath not to get back.” He clamped Renzo’s blade against his semi-rigid jerkin, the metal protesting under the pressure. “But you don’t have to fight me.”

  He could see Renzo weighing his options, his sweat-slicked face tight with conflict. Marco had made it clear he would not be easily beaten. Maybe Renzo could best him on a battlefield, but here and now the conditions were stacked against him.

  “Going this way is a death sentence,” Renzo growled, his breath hot and labored.

  “What do you think it will be if you kill me? And you will have to kill me or I will kill you if we must fight now.” In emphasis, Marco slid the stiletto, a thin, cold promise, through a gap in the mail next to the kidney and held it fast to the fabric of his shirt. “Three paths now, Captain. Think on it. You kill me, you die. I kill you, you die. We go this way, maybe you will die, maybe not. That is the best chance.”

  Renzo bowed his head and dropped his sword to the wet, salt-stained deck with a soft, defeated clatter. Marco stepped back and turned to the crew, his rapier held high. “Lock these three in their cabin.”

  A handful of crew came forward to escort the guards away. The other five guards now stood on deck looking perplexed. “Do you wish to join me or them?” he offered. As one, the remaining guards stepped back and made a show of moving their hands away from their sword handles.

  Marco picked up the discarded swords and wedged them between the planks of the deck beside the wheel. The stiletto went back in its strap, the rapier back on the belt. In its place, he took out the telescope. Out there somewhere was freedom.

  The Order.