The

BOY WHO
WEPT
BLOOD
D E N PAT R I C K

G OLLA NCZ
l o n do n

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Copyright Den Patrick 2015

All rights reserved
The right of Den Patrick to be identified as the author of
this work has been asserted by him in accordance with
the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
First published in Great Britain in 2015 by Gollancz
An imprint of the Orion Publishing Group
Orion House, 5 Upper St Martins Lane, London wc2h 9ea
An Hachette UK Company
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available
from the British Library
isbn 978 0 575 13433 1
13579108642
Typeset at The Spartan Press Ltd,
Lymington, Hants
Printed and bound in Great Britain by
Clays Ltd, St Ives plc
The Orion Publishing Groups policy is to use papers that
are natural, renewable and recyclable products and made
from wood grown in sustainable forests. The logging and
manufacturing processes are expected to conform to the
environmental regulations of the country of origin.

www.orionbooks.co.uk
www.gollancz.co.uk

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1
The Second Son of Allattamento
6 Giugno 325

Lady Araneae Oscuro Diaspora, formerly of House Contadino,

known to her subjects as the Silent Queen, sat back from her
letter-writing. Her nightgown was a pale grey silk that left her
arms bare, alabaster skin almost luminous in the candlelight.
As ever she wore a veil over the bottom half of her face, a neat
triangle of matching fabric, a line of blue embroidery dancing
along the topmost edge. Her kohl-stained eyes stared out of
the lead-latticed windows; the town of Santa Maria slept in
darkness beyond the glass. Blacksmiths slumbered, children
snored faintly, while drunks mumbled and turned, beset by
night terrors. Mothers and fathers dared dream of a prosperous,
safer future.
The Silent Queen, known to those who loved her as Anea,
regarded her reflection in the window. Just twenty-five, yet
bearing a world of problems upon her slender shoulders. Her
hair was a long and well kept mane of summer yellow, held up
with a silver pin the thickness of her finger. Difficult to tell in
this light if the beginnings of crows feet were forming at the
corners of her eyes. Her desk was covered in correspondence:
an endless litany of complaints from newly formed guilds, lesser
nobles clutching at the crumbling vestiges of yesterdays power.
A glass of untouched red wine shone bloody in the twilight,
reflecting light from thick, scented candles. Jasmine lingered
on the air, calming nerves frayed by the days debates.
Our Lady Araneae, the great reformer, known to her oppon
ents as the strega princess, or witchling by braver souls. Not
that she had ever evinced any magic in the ten years of her
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reign. Anea regarded the room: finely crafted furniture and

woven rugs of bright wool. The candelabrum was a simple but
fine example of what House Prospero artisans were capable of
these days. A framed diagram of a human body dominated the
fireplace. The bookshelf stood to her right, yet opportunities to
read for pleasure were few these days.
A key clicked in the lock, causing Anea to stand and turn,
hands pressed against the desk. The door opened on greased
brass hinges. Even Russo, her most trusted lieutenant, knocked
before entering. There were three of them, sporting doublets in
black with gold thread at the collar. The shoulders were slashed,
showing deep red silk beneath. Black and scarlet, the colours
of House Fontein. All three were male, filled with impetuous
swagger, young bravos in their twenties sporting the cropped
hairstyle of Maestro di Spada Giancarlo, dead these ten years.
And they were armed. Each bore the short flat blade that
was so in fashion at the moment.
Good evening, my lady, said the nearest of them, a sneer on
his lips. Forgive me the late intrusion but I bring word from
the nobili.
His fellows stifled laughter at his mummery, Anea stared
back, statue still.
It seems they have decided your schemes to empower the
commoners do not serve their best interests. While those in the
fields have begun to worship you, it is a cruel irony you are less
popular here, in Demesne.
The leader took a step forward, closing the gap between
himself and the defenceless ruler. She pressed herself against
the desk. He wasnt much older than Anea. Likely half as
intelligent, three times as pompous.
We know you wont be turned from your dreams of a
republic, so it falls to me to act. Still, hardly a reason we cant
have some fun? Its not like you can cry out for help, is it, my
Silent Queen?
It was true. No sound had ever issued from behind the veil
she wore. Some said shed been born without a tongue, others
claimed her witchery demanded silence, few knew the truth
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of it. The bravo stepped forward, hand reaching for the fabric
hiding the lower portion of her face.
Theres no need for you to die with all your secrets, after all.
He had almost grasped the veil, a savage grin making him grotesque. Anea remained motionless, green eyes flat with hatred.
The faint sound of snapping wood and breaking glass startled
everyone.
Times up, said a voice from behind them. The bravos
turned as one, eyebrows raised in surprise. They quickly recovered themselves, retaining their swagger and bruised-knuckle
nonchalance.
Hed been sitting in the deep leather armchair behind the
door the whole time, listening to their petty theatre, enduring
their poor intimidation. Deep brown hair swept to one side of
eyes grey as a winters day, face impassive. His boots were a
deep weather-beaten umber, each adorned with seven buckles
in muted brass. He might have been carved from stone, attired
as he was in a suit of sober grey. The scabbard lay across his
lap like a death sentence. Unfussy, unadorned, it was a work of
function not art. It was a container, nothing more, promising
a blade long and slender. An hourglass had broken under the
predations of his long clever fingers, fragments of crystal and
wood littering his hands, sand ran free.
I should have known youd be here, said the bravos leader,
a second son of House Allattamento. He might have been called
Angelo, or Antioco. He thrust out his chin and squared his
shoulders, a curl to his lip. It is unfortunate for you the guards
outside your door could be bought so easily. Three to one.
He flicked glances to his conspirators, who couldnt match his
bluster, looking less sure of themselves. I dare say anyone in
Demesne would choose such odds.
I am not anyone.
Dino Adolfo Erudito, Orfano and maestro superiore di spada
of House Fontein, regarded the handful of sand and the broken
glass with a look of dream-like introspection. A cataphract
drake perched on his shoulder, staring across a flat snout with
obsidian eyes. The lithe sepia-brown reptile scuttled onto the
armchair and tasted the air. Dino set aside the broken timer,
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rising slowly, feeling the tiredness in his limbs, the itch of stubble left too long on his cheeks, the familiar icy calmness that
seeped into him at times such as this.
The wolf spider, he said amiably, otherwise known as
Lycosidae, belongs to the order Araneae in the class of Arachnida.
The youngest of the bravos took a half-step back, incredulity
crossing his features, a question frozen on his lips.
It has a fine sense of vibration and particularly good eyesight,
appropriate for a creature who hunts others by running them
down. Dino stood before them with the scabbard in his left
hand, looking no more threatening than a shepherd with his
crook.
What is this shit? said the youngest bravo. Another second
son from a minor house with nothing to lose.
However, continued Dino, undeterred, many wolf spiders
are content to wait for prey to pass their burrows, rushing out
to attack them.
Angelo Allattamento pulled on a grim smile and drew his
sword.
The stregas lost his mind.
Dino glowered at him, wintry grey eyes shining silver in the
candlelight.
You stepped in to my parlour. Fuckers.
And then Dino was moving, coming forward without form,
as if elemental. The scabbard darted out to one side, its tip hitting the door, which slammed shut. An outflung hand showered
sand into the eyes of the bravo on his right. Curses fell from the
mans lips as he stumbled back, clawing at his eyes. His torso
hammered into a bookcase, a selection of literary works raining
heavily upon him. The bookcase pitched forward, knocking
him to the floor.
Angelo had already struck before his co-conspirator hit the
floor. Dino blocked the blow with the scabbard, stepping sideways to buy himself the extra moment to draw. When Angelo
pressed in again he found his blade stopped by steel, the sound
ringing in the silence of the night, a spiteful bell.
A snatched glance confirmed Anea had retreated behind
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her desk, putting herself beyond the immediate reach of the

youngest bravo. He tried to follow, ashen-faced, blade held in
trembling hand. She scanned the room for something, anything
to fight back with. Her school days had been filled with more
than just etiquette and sciences, but without a weapon she was
greatly disadvantaged. Remaining empty-handed, she retreated
further still, unable to call for help.
Dino struck low at Angelo, stepped in, taking advantage of
the nobles poor parry and his stumbling step back. Then the
Orfano thrust. He expected to be turned aside, of course, but
this was just a feint for the kick to the side of the knee. Angelo
swore and lost his footing. He threw up another parry, which
Dino batted aside with the scabbard still clutched in his left
hand. His blade flickered, opening a deep gouge across the
young nobles thigh.
It had worked perfectly. Hed fought his way out of the
corner and was now level with the youngest bravo, who was
still summoning the courage to murder Anea. Dino mashed his
pommel into the back of the young mans head even as Angelo
limped back, cursing in the old tongue. Aneas attacker folded
in on himself, clutching the back of his skull. The blade slipped
from his fingers as he went down to one knee. Anea flipped the
desk, the edge smashing into the bridge of her attackers nose.
The Silent Queen circled the table, drawing the silver pin from
her hair, green eyes full of terrible intensity.
Angelo of House Allattamento knew he was bested. Too
wounded to run, too proud to surrender, he assembled a series
of hasty strikes. Dino let him come forward, stepping aside
when he could, parrying when he couldnt, waiting, waiting.
Angelos vigour abandoned him just as the blood staining
his britches did the same. He stumbled, exposed and unbalanced. Dino wrapped his sword arm across his body, tensing
for a second, unleashing a broad swipe that ripped through the
other mans jugular. He felt the blade grind, grating against
vertebrae. The second son of House Allattamento pressed a
frantic palm to his undoing. His legs continued their duty for
long seconds even as blood jetted hot and fierce.
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You stepped into my parlour, whispered Dino, but it was

regret rather than anger that gilded each word.
Angelo Allattamento hit the floor, eyes frozen wide in disbelief.
Dino turned to find Anea standing over her assailant, one
hand clutching the top of his skull, the other a fist beside his
throat. The man trembled and Dino stepped forward to help
before realising Aneas hair hung long and thick about her
shoulders. She withdrew her fist, revealing the silver hairpin,
now a slender length of scarlet. Anea stood wide-eyed, shaking
with shock, staring at her red-stained hand. Blood spattered
her silver-grey nightgown as it jetted from the mans throat.
The hem of her gown became a drench of gore as the man fell
onto his ruined face.
The last of the bravos writhed free of the bookcase, regaining
his feet amid a litter of books. He choked out an incredulous
cry, eyes raw from the sand. The two Orfani turned to him,
attired in the blood of his allies, gazes like flint and jade.
They hog-tied him in the end. Neither of the Orfani had the
stomach for more death. The last of the bravos could wait
until morning, when a sentence less final could be meted out.
But the carrion stench and voided bowels of the fallen necessitated a change of quarters. The siblings haunted the corridors
like shades, seeing assassins at every corner, lurking at every
stairwell. This was not an unknown sensation; theyd shared
a similar night ten years ago. Finally, they made the safety of
Dinos apartment in House Erudito, an orderly sort of place
where weapons hung above the fireplace. Achilles slithered
down from Dinos shoulder, taking his usual perch atop the
bookcase, where he stared down imperiously. Aneas fingers
began to flicker and dance.
I have not had to leave that room since the night of the fire.
Id rather fight assassins than flames, said Dino quietly.
Do you have anything to wear?
Help yourself. Anything in the closet.
She stalked out of the sitting room, head down, trying to
still her nerves no doubt. Dino could still smell the iron tang
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of blood. Unsurprising, as he was evenly coated from the thigh

down. None of it his own, fortunately. He shook his head, not
able to believe the brazenness of the attempt. They hadnt even
worn masks. It wasnt an assassination.
It was an execution.
Anea emerged from the bedroom in old hose and a cerulean
doublet hed forgotten he owned.
Or a coup.
She approached, slipping into his arms, pushing her forehead
against his shoulder. She was shaking.
House Allattamento is about to see a significant reduction
in its influence.
She pulled away, fingers moving tentatively: The corruption
of Landfall has spilled over into open violence. I suppose it was
inevitable.
You need to send a message. Dino scowled. Well tolerate
no more of it.
Anea nodded, but her gaze was elsewhere, lost to shocked
remembering.
This does not feel like politics any more. Has war been declared?
Were we too distracted to notice? Were we too arrogant?
The arrogance is all theirs.
Spent and numb they approached the table where Dino took
his morning repast on the rare occasions he wasnt sleeping
in Aneas armchair. They sat at each end, feeling the distance
between them.
Something was moving amid the dishes. Dino cursed. The
maids hadnt cleared the table. Not unusual as he often slept
until noon with instructions not to be disturbed. His room
had clearly been passed over by the staff entirely. A column of
ants trooped to and from the remains of yesterdays breakfast,
carrying off fragments many times their own size. After the
first wave of irritation Dino found himself quietly fascinated
by their industry.
Were infested on all sides it seems, signed Anea.
Looks that way. Im not sure who are the worst pests, the
ants or the nobili.
At least the nobili are less numerous.
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And two less as of tonight.

Dino supplied a bottle of Barolo and two glasses from a
cypress wood cabinet. They sipped wine by candlelight until
the dawn arrived, watching the ants march away with their
breadcrumb treasures.

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