Tycho woke abruptly. Aware the sun was about to break over the horizon and Dr. Crow's ointment was in Atilo's cabin below. Ever since Tycho had been freed from behind the Quaja's bulkhead, he'd been tortured by ignorance of why he was a prisoner in the first place. No memories existed between Withered Arm's fire circle and being walled up in a ship, where waves sickened him and silver shackles burnt his wrists.
All he'd wanted was to know who he was.
That was all anyone wanted. Why shouldn't he know? And now he did. At least, he knew part of it, and the knowledge drove all happiness from his body. He would not rest easy until he'd told the girl asleep beside him.
Reaching over, he drew the neck of Giulietta's gown together to hide her pale breasts, and gently tied its ribbon, smoothing straggles of hair from her face. She looked strange asleep, younger and less tough. Her red hair spread in a flaming halo around her. Had Leopold looked at her like this? If so, Tycho wondered what he had seen that Tycho missed.
They were not lovers, Giulietta said. Never lovers.
At least not like that. Prince Leopold zum Bas Friedland had protected her. He had snatched her from those who first abducted her, keeping her secure without her knowing, and, when she escaped, hunted her down again and introduced himself.
They were friends, she told Tycho fiercely.
You were allowed to cry for friends, to miss them and love them and wish everything could have been different. As to who fathered Leo, she was unable to answer that. Literally unable.
Anyway, she was intact.
Lady Giulietta had to touch his finger to a scar on her abdomen before he understood what she meant. She had never, and she told him this with brutal fierceness, lain with a man. And she would not lie with him now. The only man she might have lain with was dead…
And Tycho had held her, and dried her tears, letting her settle when crying for Leopold, the lover who wasn't, finally exhausted her enough for sleep to rescue her from sadness. Now Tycho had something to tell her of his own.
The question was how much truth could she stand?
And how much truth could he stand to tell her? The full truth? That he'd been a ragged, wizened, nameless creature, never sleeping, little more than a living skeleton when he was hunted down in the Eastern deserts? That he still had no memory of how he got there, how long he'd been in the desert or who he was before?
The bleakness of Osman's description weighed on Tycho.
To the hideousness of what Tycho could make himself become had been added the monstrousness of what he'd once been. He had speed, strength and courage. All of these came at a price. And Tycho knew, because he knew himself better now, it was a price he would pay.
This too he needed to tell her.
If Osman spoke the truth, Tycho had been almost animal when trapped by Timurid mercenaries on the borders of the Mamluk empire. He'd been sold to the sultan's vizier, in a trade that saw one old enemy deal with another on behalf of Venice, a third. The sultan's mages had emptied Tycho's head of nightmares, dreams and memories. They'd emptied it of everything except a need to carry out one single task. If he hadn't drowned in Venice's lagoon-or almost drowned, whichever it was-Bjornvin's memories would never have crept back.
The bribes must have been huge and the promised rewards enormous. Prince Osman's sister had held words of power. Words designed to bind Tycho to carry out her order. He was to kill Duchess Alexa. And the man who asked for this death, offering to deliver gold and territories to the Mamluks when he finally became duke, was Alexa's brother-in-law, Lady Giulietta's uncle, Prince Alonzo.
The Regent hadn't know when it would be done. Simply that it would be. When Alonzo discovered the plan had failed, his revenge on the Mamluk fontego had been terrible. Had he succeeded in killing Alexa, Duke Marco IV would have been next. Prince Osman had little doubt about that. Quite possibly Lady Giulietta after that. Unless the Regent had other plans for her.
Kneeling up, Tycho stroked the sleeping girl's face until she woke, looking puzzled and still sleepy. "You should return to your cabin," he said. "But first there's something I need to tell you…" Acknowledgments You know where you are with a publisher who drags you off to the Porterhouse pub in London's Maiden Lane for a six hour editorial meeting-and waits with good grace while you go though the script page by page. So heads up to Darren Nash, lapsed Australian, Orbit UK editorial director and good friend…
And a big tip of the hat to Orbit supremo Tim Holman, who filled me with food and alcohol when I flew out to New York-running a temperature and fever-to pitch him The Fallen Blade. Having asked me to pass the one page synopsis to Devi Pillai, senior editor and Orbit US's self-styled Eye of Sauron, he waited while she read it. Devi nodded significantly and that was it. We were in business on both sides of the Atlantic.
To my agent Mic Cheetham for doing the real work that made this happen. Joanna Kramer for keeping me sane during the copyedit process. Darren Nash and Devi Pillai again for thoughtful and occasionally stern editorial notes (that's you, Devi).
As always the ex-lunchtime collective of, variously, Paul McAuley, Kim Newman, China Mieville, Chris Fowler, Barry Forshaw, Nick Harkaway, Pat Cadigan, for drinks, food, bitching sessions, general chat and sanity. If there was any justice, Rob Holdstock would still be on that list (and he is in spirit).
My son Jamie, who might have buggered off half way round the world but still calls regularly for all that he's rubbish at answering emails. Hearing from you always makes my day.
And finally, Sam Baker. Seventeen years married. More than twenty years together. Pretty good for what was meant to be a quick drink. Thank you. Look out for Act Two of the Assassini: