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

Lucien felt something hot and wet on his face. The man slumped to one side, clutching at the blade lodged in his throat with tremulous hands.
    Lucien stood over him, realising his attacker looked smaller in death than he had in life. Had he ever been a man? Was he a child, living rough on the rooftops? There was a final shudder and then stillness. Lucien drew the blade out of his attacker’s neck, cleaning it on the dead man’s clothes. His garments were old and weather worn, stained with bird droppings, rough stitching from hasty repairs. The jacket was held together by a rope faded to grey. He had no boots, thin feet blackened with grime. The skin on the corpse’s hands was calloused and wizened. No child then, but someone much older. Someone who had clung to life with a steely tenacity. Lucien felt a wave of relief; infanticide was not a sin he could live with. This death alone was weight enough on his conscience.
    Finally Lucien noticed the man’s nails. Not trusting what he was seeing at first, then fervently hoping it was some trick of the night or an accumulation of dirt. The man’s fingernails were black, his toenails the same. Not the deep brown of mud and soil, but a rich and lustrous black, like a beetle’s carapace. Lucien regarded his own fingernails and shivered. The man had been an Orfano.
    Lucien emptied his guts, heaving the contents of his stomach into one of the many gutters that criss-crossed the rooftop. He took a moment to compose himself then slumped to his knees, shivering in the moonlight, giving thanks the hood had fallen over the corpse’s face. He could well do without the accusing stares of dead men.
    At one time this man had lived in Demesne too, just as Lucien had. He’d most likely have been educated by House Erudito, fed by House Contadino, outfitted by House Prospero, trained by House Fontein. Just as Lucien had. He’d have attended La Festa and trained to dance with Mistress Corvo. He may have even lived in the very same apartment Lucien had grown up in. Now this nameless Orfano was a forgotten casualty of a rooftop brawl.
    No one would come looking for him, a luxury Lucien envied him for.
    Lucien pushed himself to his haunches, steadying himself with his free hand, the other still clutching the dagger, adrenaline far from spent. He shuffled forward and reached for the hood, intrigued yet simultaneously dreading what lay beneath the mean fabric.
    A rude exclamation issued from behind him. Lucien flinched, falling back, finding himself staring into the beady eyes of a jet-black raven. Lucien rolled over and gained his feet, swearing loudly, heart hammering in his chest. He dusted himself off, realising it was a hopeless endeavour. Blood had splashed across his coat, gleaming dark and red. He rinsed his face with rainwater from a meagre pool. A sudden pang of regret lanced through him. He’d spent that morning bending his will to not killing people, only to find himself covered in the blood of a nameless assailant. An assailant who had shared all the pain of being a strega. Someone who had borne all the crushing expectations of being an Orfano. A hated foundling. A feared witchling.
    ‘I’m sorry,’ Lucien said in a whisper to the corpse. ‘I’d have given you my coat if you’d only asked.’
    The corpse remained silent, face shrouded, hands still reaching toward the gaping wound which had spilled his life so quickly, blood tar-black in the moonlight. The raven perched on one dirty foot of the corpse and glared at Lucien balefully. Thunder rumbled in the distance like a protestation. More heavy weather was approaching from out at sea. Lucien frowned and moved toward King’s Keep, forcing the bested Orfano from his mind.
    The twin towers of the King’s Keep stood before him. Lucien circled them, worried that a light would appear in one of the many darkened windows, imagining guards of House Fontein swarming up the many staircases of Demesne. He was so preoccupied that the