Free The Boy with the Porcelain Blade by Den Patrick Page A

was scribbling something in her book. Lucien felt tempted to knock on the glass and say goodbye, but just as he did so a corresponding knock sounded at the door, drowning out his own summons. Russo opened the door and stood at the entrance, arms crossing her chest and looking down her nose. There was a moment of conversation, and Russo’s temper flared, her hands going to her hips, chin thrust out defiantly. Insistent shouting came from the other side of the doorway, increasing in pitch and intensity. This would not end well.
    Lucien began to climb again. He wondered if there was a single room of Demesne that was safe tonight. The minutes stretched as he pressed on, relying on his right arm, his left almost useless except to steady himself. The rooftop overhang above was visible, signalling the end of his climb. His limbs felt like lead and perspiration leaked down his neck from his pallid brow. Angelicola’s concoction had slowed him, perhaps even inured him to his plight. Now, so close to the end of his climb, he realised how much danger he was in. A fall from this height would end any escape before it had even begun.
    With a grunt he pulled himself onto the uneven rooftop of House Contadino. It was a landscape of tiles and shallow sloping angles. The other keeps that made up Demense were of roughly the same height. Long-forgotten weathervanes rusted beneath the stars, encrusted with moss and guano.
    Lucien calmed his breathing, feeling his heart beat strong and steady in his chest. Far below, the men with torches continued their restless search, becoming bored or frustrated. Lucien rose shakily to his feet and set off toward the centre of Demesne, toward King’s Keep. Its two towers jutted up near the middle of the roof, slumped against each other like drunken lovers, upholstered in ivy which fluttered in the weak breeze. No light shone from their windows, each one a darkened eye. The moon made the rooftop unreal and dreamlike, a monochrome vista of tiled slopes and sinister statuary.
    He was halfway across the rooftop of House Contadino when a flicker of movement made him turn. Distracted, he lost his footing and fell, winding himself on the slippery tiles. His left shoulder sang with pain, settling into a droning ache. There was grit in his mouth, metallic and sour. He lay there for long moments, trying to suck the night air into lungs that refused to obey. Lucien listened, straining to hear footsteps in the darkness, but no one appeared. After a few anxious moments he pushed himself to his knees, wheezing with the effort, his ribs bruised. There was someone up here with him, he was sure of it.
    The Orfano looked around with caution, then began again, taking care with each step; he could ill afford another fall. He was close to where House Contadino merged into the King's Keep when the figure sprang on him. Lucien threw one arm out to ward off his attacker and tried to sidestep.
    Too late.
    The impact lifted him from his feet: he landed on his back with a thud, the bag of clothes slung over his back breaking his fall. He gasped with shock all the same. A hooded man pressed down on him, sour breath coming in gasps. Searching fingers sought Lucien’s neck. He tried prising his attacker’s hands away, but it was futile. In desperation he pushed his hands under the hood, attempting to gouge an eye, but his thumbs could find no purchase on the shadowed face. His attacker responded, squeezing harder on his windpipe. Lucien was beginning to black out when he remembered he wasn’t completely unarmed. The loss of his sword had preoccupied him, but he had other weapons.
    Lucien bucked his hips, forcing the strangler to one side, allowing him to bend his leg. His hand snaked down to the top of his boot, sliding the knife from its concealed sheath. Darkness blurred at the edges of his vision. And he thrust into the hooded man’s neck. There was a moment’s stillness. His attacker shuddered, then issued a dreadful cough.