Jon Grimwood - The fallen blade

Now was when he'd order her to remove it at the wrist, like they'd split a pig's knuckle they stole. Surprisingly, he just sucked his teeth in disgust. "Hurry it up."

Bending the corpse's elbow, she gripped the shackle. It was hard wood, inlaid with bands of silver wire, and it was hinged, clasped and soldered, instead of locked, which was even stranger. In the end, she hacked at the solder wondering why he hadn't done that himself. Maybe he lacked a knife.

Shouldn't be here, she told herself.

Shouldn't be with Josh.

Rosalyn was cold, sodden from the canal, dressed in rags that clung to her legs, hips and buttocks, and scared. Her bladder hurt, her guts said she'd bleed soon, which was a blessing. "Almost there."

"About time."

Dragging her blade, Rosalyn freed the weld and sliced her finger to the bone, feeling instantly sick. She rocked back on her knees, but not before blood splashed on to the dead boy's face.

"What now?" said Josh, as she gasped.

She'd jumped back when dark eyes, tinged with amber flecks, flicked open to glare at her. She felt her stomach turn over as the dead boy examined her face. Then he shut his eyes again. "Cut myself," she said weakly.

"Kick him back in then."

"Someone's coming," Rosalyn said. "We've been lucky so far. Let's just leave." Fortunately, Josh agreed with her.

Street children. She should feel sorry for them, Maria knew that. Instead, they simply made her nervous. Listening carefully, she heard them arguing as they moved further away from her towards a warren of alleys.

Ahead was another shrine. This was not good. Five shrines in the last few minutes meant this parish was dangerous and the patriarch wanted to remind everyone that God watched everywhere. In Serenissima, he'd probably gone beyond shocked by what he saw. That naked body by the water steps for a start.

Just another murder the Watch would ignore.

Stranglings and suffocations were rare in Venice. Because Venetians believed a curse passed to the murderer if flesh touched flesh. Knifings were common, however. Why risk throttling someone when a dagger could keep their ghost at bay? So many in Venice believed this, that to beat someone to the edge of death and then knife them was regarded as simple common sense.

Pausing at a statue of the Madonna, Maria the cordwainer's wife muttered a prayer for the dead boy she'd just seen. And finishing, turned to find him standing behind her, water still dripping into the dirt at his feet.

She couldn't help yelping.

Although her yelp ended as he spun her round, fixed one hand over her mouth and dragged her to a doorway. One second, she stood at the Virgin's shrine, the next she and the youth she'd thought dead watched a drunk wander from a tavern, stare around him and disappear the way he'd come.

The strange-looking youth didn't have Mongol eyes. He was far too pale for a Moor, and he wasn't Jewish, although she'd be embarrassed to admit how she knew. If Maria had to describe him, she'd say his cheekbones were Schiavoni, those incomers from Dalmatia colonising her city. Reaching out, he took her face and turned it to the shrine's light. Amber-flecked eyes gazed into hers.

"Doesn't that hurt? she asked, touching her finger to the wound in his shoulder. And suddenly she was held from behind, his face nuzzled her neck. He removed his hand from her breast the moment she burst into tears.

"Don't hurt me."

"… hurt me." His voice echoed her plea.

Maria-who had no last name, because people like her didn't-was fifteen and a half, being born in high summer. She was in a parish she barely knew, long after she should be home, in an alley with more shrines than a single street should need. As she registered this, Maria finally realised where she was.

Rio Terra dei Assassini.

I should concentrate, she decided.

Not least because the strange youth now stood in front of her again. She was a married woman out after dark and he was obviously foreign. When she tried to step around him, his face tightened, and she remembered his nakedness, the speed at which he moved, and how her father scowled before he lost his temper.

"You should let me go now."

Releasing her, he watched her hurry away.

She kept her panic in check until she believed herself safe. Then her sobbing began, so loud and so open, the boy almost missed the point at which other steps began to follow her. Since most of those crowding the alley around him seemed to be ghosts-hollow-eyed and helpless, waiting to see what he would do-and this woman was undoubtedly alive, he decided to follow her too.

"Captain… over here." A young whore shushed the voice, shocked at its impudence.

Roderigo recognised its owner despite his gaudy mask. The whore on his arm and the flagon he waved suggested Atilo's servant had spent his prize money with glee. Like most Venetian men, Roderigo used whores. This one was shapely, only half drunk and grinned prettily.

"Iacopo."

"My lord…" Turning, Iacopo said, "This is Captain Roderigo. He's head of the Dogana."

The whore shot a glance to say, Don't be stupid. Then realised her client meant it and curtsied deep enough to reveal her breasts, which improved Roderigo's temper slightly.

The Riva degli Schiavoni lined Venice's southern shore.

It was the quay where captains sought supplies for their ships. There were food stalls, rope chandlers, and barrel-laden carts with water from the cisterns that collected the city's rainfall. Slaves were sold, crews recruited. It was to the Riva that sailors went to find whores. Here was where Atilo's handsome servant had come to celebrate his victory in the previous day's regatta.

In the course of the night just gone, he'd lost Roderigo's doublet and the hat Sir Richard gave him. In their place, he sported a black eye and an ornate dagger that undoubtedly broke the sumptuary laws. Also two whores.

Although the second, arriving as Roderigo noticed the dagger, proved Iacopo hadn't lost the doublet at all. It was draped over the shoulders of his friend, who needed it against the cold, since her breasts were bare.

"Did you see that ship's fire, my lord?"

"Yes," Roderigo said. "I saw it."

"They say Mamluk spies burnt a Cypriot ship."

Did they now? Roderigo smiled grimly. He'd told his men to say nothing of what had happened, but this was better than expected.

"Why so?"

"Well…" said Iacopo. "Lady Giulietta's marrying Cyprus." His elbow missed a ledge, almost tipping him to the ground. "And Cyprus," he added heavily, "is Byzantium's ally. And ours, now, of course."

Byzantium and the Mamluks were enemies, as expected of neighbouring empires. And Venice was Byzantium's ally, theoretically. At a push, if drunk, you could build a plot from that.

"Almost right. But it was a Mamluk ship and I'd put my money on the Moors." Why not? They were the Mamluk sultan's other enemy.

"I heard…"

"Believe me. Moorish spies."

Opening his mouth to disagree, Iacopo shut it when one of the whores dug her elbow in his ribs. He was very drunk indeed. "I'll buy you a drink."

"Another time…"

"You off to bed?"

Captain Roderigo nodded.

"Then you need help to heaven, don't you?"

It was too late to stop Iacopo's recitation and after the first line the whores joined in. "He who drinks well sleeps well, he who sleeps well has no evil thoughts, he who has no evil thoughts does no evil, he who does no evil goes to heaven. So drink well…"

"And heaven will be yours," Roderigo finished for them.

After five minutes of one-sided conversation, Roderigo knew that Iaco had been in Atilo's service for eight years. He wanted a promotion. He deserved promotion. There were days-and this was secret-he felt little better than a slave. Atilo's people had slaves. He was sure the captain knew that.