The Heart Wants What it Wants, Page 2

very many people asked a sword of him that might secure them victory, but he could not personally forge every last request, and so it was that sometimes commerce, and not artistry, won out.

  That year the town criers made it known that for the first time the doge would permit his son, Anzolo de Bastian, to take part in the grand melee that capped off the winter carnival. This was no casual favour, for men and women had been known to die in the melee, so to grant his offspring such a privilege showed the doge had great confidence in the boy's skill, for to buy him safe passage through the fray would have provoked riots if discovered.

  So it was that the metalworkers of the city drove themselves into a frenzy of anticipation over which of them might win which noble's patronage to supply them a sword that might best the doge's heir. All save Fantin, who calmly worked his forge as though nothing was amiss, and soon enough an envoy arrived from Giacomo Gatani, to see what marvels Fantin had to offer Anzolo de Bastian for his command performance.

  Anzolo was promised to Chiara Matelizi, daughter of a powerful duke from the Genevine northern border, yet this was but a minor inconvenience to Anzolo's legions of devoted supporters, who vacillated between worshipping the boy's young bride-to-be and plotting to supplant her. And though Luca knew both of these extremes were the most ridiculous sort of daydream, she had fallen prey to their embrace betimes.

  So it was that Luca fidgeted impatiently as her father and the envoy made small talk, and spoke of how splendid this year's carnival would surely be, and of Anzolo's chances in the melee, and Luca wished heartily they could exchange pleasantries elsewhere, for she had business to be about which she did not wish the two men to observe. But presently they left, and then it was merely the work of a moment to finish her mischief.

  Fantin had procured an ornate display case in which to set out the swords he meant to offer the doge, that his son might select one to bear in the grand melee. To confide his choices to the envoy was merely a formality, for whatever Anzolo did not make use of the doge would accept as a gift. But the envoy courteously played along, only Fantin's colour grew quite pale all of a sudden, and he made to lay hands on one of the blades.

  “Beg pardon,” Fantin said, “but that sword was not intended for messire de Bastian.”

  The envoy was an ambitious man, and somewhat venal, and knowing Fantin was a collector he presumed the smith had mistakenly included a blade he prized above all thoughts of pleasing the doge. This was an elegant sword, from Yamage in the east: lengthy yet slender and ever so slightly curved, with a simple guard and the hilt bound in black ribbon, and made of steel that rippled like a flowing stream.

  “I pray you offer it to him nonetheless,” the envoy said. “The boy will appreciate the novelty, and the doge the generosity of your gift once his son tires of it. Unless there is some pressing reason he should not take possession of such a thing?”

  And Fantin ventured no such reason, only wrung his hands and mumbled that naturally he should be pleased to honour the doge, and the envoy took the case and left in great good humour.

  After which Fantin called urgently for his daughter, and told Luca sternly that he should have words with her.

  “You dare?” Fantin said. “You interfered with a gift to the doge himself? Thought you nothing of how it might reflect on me, should Anzolo de Bastian carry an untried blade into the grand melee? If he bears an injury, what then? If he dies? The doge's only son?”

  “He will not!” Luca said tearfully, for in truth she had considered these things not at all. “He would not! He knows nothing of how best to wield that sword, and would not risk such a gamble on his first appearance in the tournament!”

  “Then why would you do such a thing?” Fantin said.

  And Luca could give her father no answer: for she was young, and could not bring herself to admit she had hoped Anzolo might remember the blade, and come pay her court in recognition of her exquisite taste.

  Seeing his daughter sorely upset, Fantin could not bring himself to take her further to task, so he left her to her misery at the realisation she had done wrong, and waited anxiously for any further news. Picture his alarm, then, when the town criers made it known Anzolo de Bastian had chosen a rare and precious sword for the grand melee: a blade of Yamajin marque, supplied by the master smith Fantin Contarini.

  In no time at all it was carnival. The city's artisans had constructed a credible facsimile of an entire frozen lake in the middle of the main square. A casual bystander might take it to be a sheet of ice, and a fleet of ships stuck fast in its grip, but the ships were merely scenery, and the ice cunningly designed platforms which could tip and lurch in all directions, dropping the unwary into a tank of water below.

  Not everyone chose to attend the melee. Whether the doge's son would fight or no, there were spectacular bonfires lit in every public place to banish the wicked north wind, and mummers and musicians and feasting and dancing and masquerades and every other kind of merriment. But the melee was the centerpiece of the festivities, and thousands thronged the stadium built around the frozen lake to see the fighting commence.

  Fantin did not have access to the royal box, but he and Luca merited private seats all the same, and these commanded an excellent view of the stage as the fighters made their entrance. Each drew a token at random, and this dictated the order they could take up their positions. Once every man had chosen the spot from which he might sally forth, the doge wished them all good fortune, then a fanfare signalled the melee could begin.

  “Which is he?” Luca asked her father as she gazed across the frozen lake. “Where is Anzolo?”

  “There,” Fantin said. “There, in the crimson, engaged with the three mercenaries of the Rask, pitted against the Arlestene spearmen.”

  For contestants in the grand melee were free to form alliances and break them as they would, according to how the fighting proceeded.

  “He fights well,” Luca said.

  “Indeed,” Fantin admitted, “but you had the right of it. He swings that sword with a will, yet plainly with little or no idea how best to direct it. The ancient texts suggest those Yamagen blades require a more calculated finesse than the theatrics Genevine swordsmen have become accustomed to, and yet messire de Bastian wields it like a bludgeon...”

  “We have such texts?” Luca said.

  “Well, yes,” Fantin said, and he shook his head. “You thought to gift someone this weapon knowing nothing of how it might be used? Its provenance? What qualities it possessed?”

  But Luca gave her father no answer, for she was captivated by the sight of Anzolo de Bastian, far below. The doge's son had suffered neither a humiliating early exit nor a forfeit through the ice, yet he still struggled with the unfamiliar sword. Even as she watched, the last of the Rask saluted Anzolo, their alliance concluded, then commenced to attack him, dealing the boy savage blows about the head which he knew not how to turn aside.

  Now by the end of the first night of the grand melee Anzolo de Bastian had taken no grievous hurt, but had largely failed to distinguish himself. Thirty-eight men remained on the frozen lake when at last he yielded, and it was only the intercession of Jacobello Carara, son of the master-at-arms, that saved Anzolo from departing that round a good deal earlier. When Jacobello clashed with Anzolo at last, he won their duel with ease.

  Luca returned home, and there she took down the ancient texts of which her father had made mention, and long into the small hours did she apply herself to the pinched and spidery scribblings of some nameless academic. At length, Luca thought she understood: her gift had been infinitely more foolish, and yet strangely more apt, than ever she could have dreamed. There was but one solution, though it chilled her to the marrow.

  So it was that a new contestant begged a place in the tournament on the second day, and though this was uncommon, it did not contradict any of the rules. Someone who skipped a day or even two might join fighting fit, but they were still vulnerable to any combatant who had used that time to familiarise thems
elves with the arena, and ultimately the crowd or the doge could in theory deny them victory if they thought them unworthy.

  So the stranger was offered a chit, and drew an early spot to take their place on the lake. Mailed in green and gold, wearing a carnival mask that concealed their face entire, and wielding a simple sword and shield, they advanced down the tunnel and climbed the steps that led them to the grand melee. There they stood a moment in the moonlight, unmoving, as though the sight of that great expanse of ice left them mortally afraid.

  Luca – for it was she – was afraid, but not terribly so. Fantin had permitted her to drill with a blade for several years now, and on occasion she had idly considered petitioning him to let her try for the melee. She knew she was better than many of the poor fools in the lists this year, and were it not that she hoped to draw close to Anzolo she would never have worn the mask for women were, in theory at least, as free to enter as any man.

  The crowd murmured as she strode across the ice, for the people loved intrigue, and to wear a mask was to announce to them that behind this blank visage lay a riddle to be solved. Luca hoped, of course, that none of the audience would invest the effort. For long minutes the preamble was more tedious than