The Boy with the Porcelain Blade by Den Patrick Read Free Book Online Page B

long table. Lucien was no stranger to them, not always welcome but tolerated. He knew they thought him spoilt and privileged, just as he was aware there was an unspoken competitiveness between the staff of the four houses.
    He may be Orfano, but he’s our Orfano was the maxim. The nobles whined and complained about having the unwanted foundlings attached to their houses but couldn’t resist lapses of proprietorial braggadocio. The staff aped their attitudes in their own, less nuanced, fashion. Some even pretended to like him. Fewer still actually did, like Camelia.
    Lucien had eavesdropped enough to know the staff had nicknames for the various witchlings. Time spent listening at doorways had revealed Golia was ‘the lug’, unsurprising on account of his great size and apparent dull-wittedness. Lucien had received the less insulting ‘Sinistro’ on account of his left-handedness. Dino was referred to as ‘little Luc’. Nobody called Anea anything other than her name, which itself was a shortened version of her birth name. And there was the woman who lived with House Prospero, the nameless recluse. Festo had yet to earn an epithet, still too young.
    ‘Well you can’t stand there all day,’ said Camelia. ‘You’ll get blood all over my floors for one thing. And you look like you’re about to pass out. Can someone get him some coffee? Porca misèria .’ She was doing her best not to sound flustered. She was doing well. ‘Come on. Time to see Dottore Angelicola.’
    Lucien looked at Camelia, confusion crowding his features. How had he come to be here? Hadn’t he been going to his apartment to collect his things?
    ‘Camelia… I’m going to be exiled.’
    ‘What?’ The cook stared at him, eyes narrowed not comprehending.
    ‘I’m going to be exiled. I struck Superiore Giancarlo.’ The industry of the kitchen slowed. People were straining to hear. Somebody at the back of the room dropped a metal ladle which clattered on the floor. Lucien’s mind recalled his shattered blade – he flinched at the thought of it.
    ‘Well, isn’t that sort of the point?’ said Camelia. ‘You didn’t kill him?’ She swallowed. The silence in the kitchen was absolute. ‘Lucien, tell me you didn’t kill him.’
    ‘No. But he tried to make me kill people. I refused. He smashed my blade.’ Lucien delivered each word without emphasis, as if he were mumbling in his sleep. ‘Then I hit him.’ His gaze was locked on a point only he could see. In his mind he saw the criminal collapsing onto his own knife. That terrible shudder passing through his body, impaling himself after slipping on the bloodied flagstones.
    ‘I’m sure it’s just a misunderstanding,’ said Camelia, but she couldn’t keep the uncertainty out of her voice. By now the entire kitchen staff had gathered to listen, forming a wall of white jackets, caps clutched in anxious hands.
    Into their midst came the Majordomo, towering over everyone. He looked more grim than usual, cheeks and chin almost grey beneath the heavy cowl. A quartet of flies circled him lazily, nestling within folds of fabric the colour of wet ashes. Lucien wondered if the garment was held together with cobwebs and dust. The Domo grasped his staff of office in a skeletal hand, the veins thick and vulgar, his nails frayed and chewed. The porters and cooks shrank back, as if afeared he might spread some nameless contagion. All except Camelia, who stepped forward and placed one arm protectively around Lucien’s shoulders.
    ‘Lucien. I have been informed of the situation,’ said the Domo in his dull monotone. ‘Most regrettable.’ Lucien stared up at him. A tiny spark of the rage he felt for Giancarlo kindled in his soul.
    ‘I imagine you’re delighted,’ he whispered harshly.
    ‘Nothing could be further from the truth, Lucien,’ replied the Domo. ‘No Orfano has ever been exiled. Something I hope to address this very moment. I will persuade Superiore Giancarlo to drop his