The Exiled Blade (The Assassini) - By Jon Courtenay Grimwood Page 0,1

happy.”

“I would be honoured to ride with you.”

“And use that sword?”

How did he . . .? Frederick shifted uncomfortably and his father smiled.

Sigismund said, “It was well done, a fair exchange. We get the WolfeSelle.” He nodded at the anonymous-looking blade slung across his son’s shoulders. “And we gain proof that her brat is . . .”

“One of us?”

“One of you, certainly.” There was slight jealousy in the emperor’s voice. One Frederick had noticed before. “So, as I say, a fair exchange. I’ll be honest, I never expected you to win.”

“Father . . .”

“You stand here before me. The emperor in Constantinople waits to get his son back in a barrel pickled in brandy. You lost well. The Byzantines badly. Venice remains Venice and ready for the taking.” Wrapping his arm round his son’s shoulders, Sigismund hugged him. A gesture undoubtedly noticed by both the courtiers and Frederick’s friends. “Why should I not be happy?”

“I lost.”

“Who said you were meant to win?”

“You did.” Frederick’s voice cracked and he blushed, hoping no courtiers had heard. “You said . . .”

“Whatever I said it’s enough Byzantium is damaged. Now, I have another task. You are to return to Venice and woo Lady Giulietta. What you could not make Venice give you through force – and I’ve been unable to gain through fear – we will make them give us from love. Take your friends and go humbly. In battle, timing is all. So wait for the right moment.”

“You want me to win Giulietta’s heart?”

“And her other parts,” Sigismund said. “Make her like you. Make her love you. Hell.” He smiled. “Make her smile. That usually gets them into bed.”

Cheers greeted the news of a fresh campaign, rising loud enough to echo from the mountains when Frederick’s troops discovered the emperor himself would be leading them. Having appointed a replacement for Frederick, Sigismund ordered them to head up the valley, through the pass and keep moving until they reached the first town on the other side, where they were to billet. He would join them there that evening. His courtiers were to remain with him but keep their distance. He wished for time to say goodbye to his son.

Frederick watched and he listened and he wondered as all this went on around him. Mostly, he wondered why his father thought winning Lady Giulietta di Millioni’s heart would be any easier than conquering her city. She was notoriously as stubborn as the city was strange. He watched his own armour and baggage be sent back the way he’d come to wait for him at an inn below. His friends were gathered in a group, talking quietly. They’d asked as many questions as they dared.

“Now,” Sigismund said. “Tell me about the man who gave you the WolfeSelle.”

“Tycho,” Frederick said. “Lady Giulietta’s lover.”

The emperor saw his son’s unease and waited, listening to Frederick’s faltering attempt to describe how the battle on Giudecca ended.

“Tell me exactly what you saw.”

“Flames,” Frederick said. “Wings of fire.”

“My Moorish astrologer says she beds a djinn, my bishop that he’s a devil, my cabalist says a golem of china clay. The Englishman Maître Dee says an elemental fire spirit. What did he look like to you?”

“Competition,” Frederick said after a moment’s pause.

The emperor laughed. “How long since you’ve run?”

“Weeks,” his son admitted.

“Since you ran as a pack? For the joy of it,” Sigismund said firmly. “I mean, how long since you ran as a pack for the joy of it?”

“That day in Wolf Valley when you came to find me.”

Sigismund said, “Then run now. Run here where no one can see you. Catch up with your carts when the hunt is finished and take new clothes. But enjoy yourself for today and worry about duty tomorrow.”

A run . . .?

The boy stripped quickly, his enthusiasm overwhelming shyness. The others, his friends, realising what was happening, grinned and stripped in their turn. Frederick was the youngest, his body slight, the hair at his groin pale as gold, the hair on his chest so fine as to be near invisible. And then he began to change, and his father, despite having seen what happened half a dozen times before, looked away as his son’s flesh rippled and his bones twisted and fur rolled up his body in a wave, closing over the wolf’s head. Only his eyes remained the same.

Frederick was not the largest animal in the pack. But he was the only one with silver fur and he was the one who opened