The Grand Design (Tyrants & Kings 2)

by John Marco

  He proceeded through the mansion and out a covered walkway of red brick trimmed with flowers and magnificent statues. The pungent scents of the gardens wafted over him. He brushed at the wrinkles in his clothes self-consciously. Biagio abhorred untidiness. And in this part of the castle, even the slaves were better dressed than Simon. This was the east wing, the count’s own sanctuary, where very few people were welcome. Simon doubted that Savros or the other Naren lords had even been invited here. So as he approached the white building – an artisan’s dream of stone and gold – Simon instinctively slowed his pace, quieting his footfalls. In Biagio’s garden, only the birds were allowed to speak. Already, industrious gardeners had begun their morning work, shaping giant rose bushes and plucking out weeds. A thrush nesting in a peach tree whistled disapprovingly when it sighted Simon. Simon glared back at it, wishing for a rock.

  The walkway ended near a bronze arch crowned with thorny vines. Here a giant eunuch with a spiked halberd guarded the way. The soldier stepped aside when he noticed Simon, and Simon passed under the arch and into a narrow courtyard. Skirting the courtyard, he headed for the baths. In moments he saw the cedar door to the steam house, its tiny window dappled with condensation. The tubular chimney spouted moist smoke into the morning. A pair of lavender slippers had been left at the foot of the door. A single matching robe hung from a wooden peg.

  Good, thought Simon as he approached. He’s alone.

  He knocked gently. The wood felt warm under his knuckles. After a brief silence, he heard his master’s yawning reply.

  ‘Come,’ commanded Biagio’s velvet voice. Simon cracked open the door. A rush of steam struck his face. Another man might have been shocked by the temperature, but Simon knew his master’s affectations and had expected the scalding. He blinked against the perfumed vapor, peering into the steam house. The room was dark, lit only by the glow of a brazier used to heat the rocks. In the corner of the room, stretched out like a lounging cat, sat Count Renato Biagio, naked saved for a modest towel draped over his groin. Sweat glistened on his golden skin, and his amber hair hung long and wet around his shoulders. His impossibly blue eyes snapped open when he heard Simon enter, and a welcoming smile played across his beautiful face.

  ‘Hello, my friend,’ said Biagio. The voice was alien, inhuman, with the timbre of an expensive instrument. Simon heard it over the hiss of steam, a hypnotic melody bidding him forward. Even after all these years, that voice sometimes made him tremble.

  ‘Good morning, Master,’ replied Simon. ‘Am I disturbing you?’

  ‘You never disturb me, Simon,’ said Biagio. ‘Come in. Let me see you.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Master. I’m filthy. I’ll come back when I have dressed for you.’

  Biagio seemed to love this. ‘Let me see you,’ he said again. ‘Open the door.’

  Reluctantly, Simon opened the door and stepped into the heated chamber. All at once the steam engulfed him. Biagio’s blue eyes widened.

  ‘Indeed! You’ve gotten too close to the Mind Bender, I see. You look hideous, Simon.’

  ‘Forgive me, Master. I was anxious to give you news. I will return shortly.’

  He turned to go, but Biagio stopped him.

  ‘Nonsense,’ said the count. ‘This is a bath, after all. Strip off those things and join me.’ He patted the place on the bench beside him. ‘Here.’

  Simon stifled a curse. He could already feel Biagio’s hungry eyes tracing him. ‘I couldn’t, my lord. I would only offend you.’

  ‘Stop playing the tart, Simon,’ said the count. ‘I insist you join me. Now undress. There’s a towel behind you.’

  There was indeed another towel. Simon removed his clothes and lunged for the scrap of cloth, wrapping it tightly around his waist. The steam was unbearable. Simon felt its heat bite into his skin. He watched as Biagio lifted the dipper from the bowl and poured more liquid over the burning rocks. A plume of watery smoke gushed from the stones. Biagio sighed and closed his eyes, drawing in a breath. Like all of Arkus’ former associates, the count had a disdain for cold. It was an odd side-effect of the drug they used to sustain themselves. Even in the longest days of summer, Biagio’s skin was winter cold. The same alchemy that had turned his eyes blue had converted his blood to ice water. It had also made him immortal, or very near. Simon supposed the count was at least fifty, but he looked no more than half that age. Here in the baths, with his body fully exposed, Biagio seemed a mythical creature. He was not a big man, but his muscles were hard and corded and flexed fluidly beneath his skin. The count was proud of his body and liked to show it off, especially to Simon.

  Simon sat down beside his master, the hot wood of the bench scalding his backside. He shifted his towel so that Biagio would see as little of him as possible. Biagio opened a single eye and smiled at him, slipping a frigid hand over Simon’s.

  ‘I’m glad you’re home, my friend,’ said the count. ‘I’ve missed you.’

  ‘I is good to be back,’ replied Simon. Already the heat was working on him, making his eyelids droop. ‘Crote was never such a beautiful sight. When we saw it from the ship I thought I’d weep. You know how little I like the water.’

  ‘And Lucel-Lor? How was that foul place?’

  ‘Distant,’ joked Simon. ‘And different. They are a strange breed, Master. You should have seen the one I brought back for Savros. His skin was like milk. His hair, too. They are more than just fair. They are . . . freakish.’

  ‘He is dead now, the one you captured?’

  Simon nodded. ‘I killed him myself. Savros has a disgusting way about him. I couldn’t watch him any longer. But the Triin had given up all he had. I made sure of that before I killed him.’

  Biagio laughed. ‘Our Mind Bender is so like a child. He was looking forward to working on a Triin. I’ll take a look at this creature before he is disposed of. I want to see one for myself. Arkus was always enamoured with them, and now Vantran has chosen to make his life with them. I would like to know what the fuss is about.’ The count’s face clouded with concern. ‘I have heard they are very beautiful. Is that so?’

  ‘Beautiful, Master? To other Triin, I suppose. I didn’t see many of them. When I knew this one was from Falindar, I took him and left.’

  ‘You were right to, of course,’ said the count, easing back against the wall. ‘It’s been a while, but I’m sure Vantran still expects something from me. It was lucky you weren’t seen. You’ve done very well, my friend. As always. Now, what news?’

  Simon steeled himself. ‘As suspected, Vantran is in the citadel at Falindar. He lives with his wife, a Triin.’

  ‘Yes,’ whispered Biagio. Everyone knew Vantran had betrayed the Empire for a woman. ‘The wife. Good . . .’

  ‘This warrior was one of those guarding the citadel. He wore the same indigo blue as the others from the region. Savros says there are many more like him in Falindar, probably guarding Vantran.’

  ‘The Jackal is a hero to them, no doubt,’ spat Biagio. ‘That boy is bewitching. What else?’

  For the smallest moment Simon meant to lie, but that would have been unthinkable. He was one of Biagio’s Roshann, a Crotan word meaning ‘the Order’. He was elite, and that meant he owed his master everything. Especially the truth.

  ‘There is a child,’ Simon blurted. ‘A girl. She’s Vantran’s.’

  Biagio gasped. ‘A child? The Jackal has a daughter?’

  ‘If the Triin can be believed, he does. She lives with him in the citadel. But I think she is rarely seen. Perhaps Vantran does still fear you. This Triin seemed to know what I was doing there. I could see it in his eyes when I captured him.’

  Biagio laughed and clapped his hands together. ‘Wonderful! A child! I couldn’t ask for better! To take her . . . now that would be pain, wouldn’t it, Simon? That would be beautiful’

  It was the suggestion Simon had expected. ‘Only if she could be gotten to, Master, and I don’t think that’s likely. If she is in the citadel, she is sure to be heavily
guarded. Better that we simply assassinate Vantran. If he goes out for a hunt or—’

  ‘No,’ said Biagio sharply. ‘That is not pain, Simon. That is not loss. When Vantran betrayed Arkus, he sentenced him to death. And he took Arkus away from me. I loved Arkus. I will never be the same, and neither will Nar.’ The count looked away with disgust. ‘You disappoint me.’

  ‘Forgive me,’ said Simon softly, hurrying his hand onto Biagio’s. ‘I know how you grieve, Master. The emperor’s death still stings us all. I merely thought to suggest a revenge that is possible. To take his daughter or his wife is—’

  ‘The only revenge fitting,’ said the count. ‘He must suffer as I have suffered. I will take from him what is most precious, just as he took Arkus from me.’ Biagio squeezed Simon’s hand hard. ‘Understand me, my friend, I beg you. I am alone here but for you. These others don’t know me. They follow me out of ambition alone. But I must have your devotion, Simon.’

  ‘Always, Master,’ said Simon. ‘You know you have my loyalty. The Roshann will always be with you.’

  And it was true. Even as Simon doubted his fealty, there were others in Biagio’s secret society scattered throughout the fractured Empire. Biagio had formed them from the dust of Crete’s farms, used them to overthrow his father and later to serve the emperor. No matter what became of Biagio or his designs on the throne, the Roshann would always be his. He was their founder, their god, and their guiding light. Biagio was the Roshann, and his agents adored him.

  ‘It does no good to dwell on Arkus’ death, Master,’ consoled Simon. ‘Think on other things. We need you. Nar needs you. Only you can make the Empire whole again.’

  Biagio gave a chuckle. ‘No one can fill the Iron Throne like Arkus did. But I will try if I can.’

  ‘Soon?’ probed Simon.

  ‘Time is a luxury we have that our enemies do not, my friend. We have Nicabar’s fleet to protect us, and all the wealth of this island. Herrith and his cronies cannot touch us here. And we have the drug.’ Biagio’s face became sardonic. ‘I wonder how Herrith is feeling these days. By now his withdrawal should be quite unbearable. Bovadin thinks it might ultimately kill him.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Simon, wiping the sweat from his brow. ‘That would make a quick end to our exile.’

  ‘But not as sweet as the end I have planned for him,’ countered Biagio. ‘Trust me, my friend. The usurpers have some surprises coming to them. Let them suffer without the drug and wonder what we’ve cooked up for them. Herrith always said suffering is good for the soul’

  They both laughed, imagining the portly bishop starving for the life-sustaining potion. Since Biagio and his loyalists had fled to Crote, there had been no one left in Nar who could synthesize the drug. Herrith might have the throne, but Biagio had Bovadin, and the little scientist had always been tight-lipped about the formula. More importantly, the count had Admiral Nicabar. The commander of the Black Fleet had made their exile possible. His dreadnoughts had abandoned Nar and Archbishop Herrith, and even now the admiral’s floating war machines could be seen bobbing darkly on the horizon, patrolling the waters around Biagio’s island. Crote had become their adopted home, and the count had been more than gracious. They all lived like kings here, sharing Biagio’s wines and fine foods and being attended to by his servants. In their homesickness they had even dubbed the tiny island ‘Little Nar’.

  ‘I have been away a long time, Master,’ said Simon. ‘What other news from the Black City? Does Herrith sit on the throne now?’

  ‘Not alone. It is as I suspected. He has co-opted Vorto to act in his stead. The general pretends to be emperor now, though he doesn’t dare call himself thus.’

  Simon raised a worried eyebrow. ‘Then there is no chance of the army joining us?’

  ‘There was never that chance. Vorto is too ambitious to let the throne go. And we never cared for each other, even when Arkus was alive. He knows the only way to seize power is to side with Herrith.’ Biagio sneered. ‘Our bloody bishop is a clever man. It is land versus sea now.’

  ‘Then we must be sure of Nicabar’s loyalty, Master. If we lose his navy, we are doomed.’

  Biagio seemed shocked. ‘Simon, you surprise me! Danar is canny, but he has never been traitorous. He is my friend, as you are. I won’t have you speaking against him.’

  ‘It’s my duty to look out for you, Master,’ explained Simon. ‘I will watch him, not because I doubt you, but because I care for you. We’ll need his navy if we’re to have any chance at all against Vorto’s legions.’

  ‘Oh, Simon,’ laughed the count. ‘You are my mother hen. Do you think I’ve not been busy while you were gone? There are wheels in motion.’ He made a circular gesture with his finger. ‘Vantran is not the only one I have designs for. Herrith and Vorto will soon see what it means to trifle with Count Biagio.’

  A grin split Biagio’s face, and Simon felt suddenly foolish. Of course his master had been hard at work. How could he have doubted it? It was a cerebral work, and difficult to penetrate, but it was clever and cruel. It was why men pledged themselves to him, why Simon had become a Roshann agent himself. Biagio was brilliant. Not like the scientist Bovadin or the demented Savros. Biagio had been born with a genius for secrets. Arkus himself had seen it, and had made the count his closest counselor. In the days of the old Empire, Biagio’s Roshann, his ‘Order,’ were more feared even than Vorto’s military. His was an invisible army, a legion of ghosts.

  Simon settled back, letting the hot air loosen his muscles. It felt good to be out of the dungeon, and even better to be free of the ship. He had spent most of the voyage below-deck, trying to keep his stomach from thundering up his throat. And all the while he had daydreamed of the Triin in shackles in the hold, and wondered why he had participated in such a thing. These days, it wasn’t enough to tell himself he was Roshann. For some reason, he seemed to be developing a conscience.

  ‘May I ask you something, Master?’ he ventured.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘We saw no Lissen ships on the entire journey home. I was wondering what has become of them. Do you know?’

  Biagio glanced at Simon. ‘I think you already know the answer to that, my friend.’

  ‘So they’ve begun their attacks?’

  ‘Nicabar has told me they have been hitting Naren shipping lanes for some time now. While you were gone they raided Doria.’

  Simon was astonished. ‘So close to the Black City? What’s Nicabar done about it?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Biagio icily. ‘You know this, Simon. Don’t look at me with such villainy. You must trust me. It is all part of my plan.’

  ‘Nar will not be able to defend itself from them, Master. Not without a navy.’

  ‘I know this.’

  ‘Yet you do nothing?’

  Biagio’s blue eyes flared a warning. ‘I won’t explain myself, not even to you. It wasn’t I who stole the Empire, remember? Our people have Herrith to blame for the Lissen attacks.’

  ‘But the Black Fleet can stop them, my lord. We’re talking about innocents . . .’

  ‘That’s enough,’ said Biagio, putting up a hand. ‘Really, Simon, sometimes I think I indulge you far too much. You have upset me now. My bath is ruined.’

  Simon lowered his eyes. ‘I’m sorry, Master.’

  Biagio continued to pout but said nothing until Simon got up to leave. Then, ‘Where are you going?’ asked the count sharply.

  ‘I thought it best to leave you now.’

  ‘Are you going to see her?

  There was so much jealousy in the question Simon could only shrug. ‘If I may, Master.’

  Biagio looked away. ‘I don’t care.’

  Simon hovered near the door. ‘My lord, if you don’t wish it . . .’

  ‘You have been very rude to me today, Simon. Yes, yes, go to your woman. But remember who it is that makes this relationship possible. It is by my grace that you may consort with her. You are Roshann, Simon. You are supposed to be devoted to me
only. I tolerate this infatuation only because I care so much for you. Don’t abuse me.’

  ‘Yes, my lord,’ said Simon sheepishly.

  ‘Oh, just go,’ bid Biagio, waving him away. ‘But be around tomorrow. I want to spend some time with you too.’

  Simon headed for the door, but Biagio called after him yet again. This time the count’s tone was softer.

  ‘Simon,’ began Biagio. There was real concern in his eyes. ‘This is difficult for you, I know. But I ask for your trust. I know what I am doing.’

  ‘I have no doubt, Master.’

  ‘In a few days I will know more. We will all sup then together, and I will try to explain things to you all. Wait until then before you judge me too harshly.’

  ‘As you say,’ replied Simon with a bow. He backed out of the chamber, leaving his master encased in the scalding steam.

  Simon waited until mid-morning to see Eris. She would be worried about him, but he wanted to bathe properly and discard his soiled shirt. Because he was Biagio’s favorite, the closets in his chambers bulged with fine clothes to choose from, and he selected a light shirt of red Crotan silk. He shaved his beard, combed his hair, and did his best to pick the dried blood from beneath his fingernails. While he dressed servants brought him a breakfast of milk and biscuits which he promptly devoured, and when he was sure his master had left the baths and started in on his day’s work, he returned to the east wing of the mansion. There he found Eris alone in the music room, absently stretching against the exercise bar. Her green eyes seemed to stare into nothingness as she warmed up her muscles. Simon paused in the doorway to watch her. She looked sad, and that made him wistful. He wished he had plucked some flowers from the garden for her. Stealthily he slipped over to the piano and depressed a key. Eris looked up, startled by the note, and beamed when she noticed him.

  ‘Hello, sweetling,’ he said softly.