by John Marco
It was a miserable thing to say, but Richius recognized the truth of it. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said gently. ‘It is just the way of things.’
‘No,’ countered Dyana. ‘Things are the way you make them. If Prakna comes back for you and you go, it is your decision. Do not call it fate, Richius. You want this vengeance. You are letting it destroy you . . . and us.’
‘What would you have me do?’ he flared. ‘Let Aramoor stay under Nar’s heel forever? Live like a coward whilst the Lissens do my fighting? I am the king of Aramoor.’
Very slowly, Dyana released herself from his embrace. ‘There is no more Aramoor. It is part of Talistan now. And you can never change that. Liss cannot help you get it back.’
‘But they fight,’ argued Richius. ‘They stand up for their honor.’
‘They fight only for revenge,’ said Dyana. ‘Nar no longer threatens them, so why must they attack? Because their hearts are full of poison, as is yours. They go to avenge the deaths of loved ones, yet they can never make them live again. And if you join them you leave me and Shani behind, to be alone.’ She looked away. ‘It makes me wonder when you say you love us.’
This brought Richius to his feet. ‘Never doubt that. I gave up everything to be with you. I love you, Dyana. Shani, too. More than anything.’
‘Except revenge.’ She got up, dusted the dirt from her dress, and went over to where Shani was fixedly examining a cricket. ‘We will go inside now,’ she told her husband over her shoulder. ‘We will lock ourselves in the bedchamber for you.’
There was so much ice in her voice, Richius could only let them leave. When they were gone he turned his attention to the ocean. Somewhere, the navy of Liss was under sail, their schooners armed and eager to exact their toll on the Black Empire. Maybe Prakna was on one of those ships. And maybe the Lissen commander was thinking about the Jackal of Nar.
Four
The Iron Circle
There were portents enough, Biagio supposed. He simply hadn’t heeded them.
Biagio’s Roshann – his ‘Order’ – had warned him for months before the emperor’s death. Blinded by his mission to save Arkus from old age, Biagio hadn’t seen Herrith’s rise until it was too late. Even before the emperor had slipped into dementia, Herrith had been laying plans with Vorto and convincing Naren noblemen to join him. Sure that Arkus could never die, Biagio had let the bishop play his dangerous game. For this he blamed himself, and no one else. Nar had fallen into the hands of a zealot, and the Black Renaissance was being erased.
Biagio liked being home again. He adored Crote almost as much as Nar City. Since overthrowing his father, he had spent precious little time on his island, and this forced exile from Nar had made him see the place differently. He valued it more, as his father had, and even the olives and grapes seemed sweeter somehow. The winds off the sea were warm and good for his condition, and the recent weeks of sunshine had returned his skin to its natural bronze. More, the tranquility of Crote had eased his knotted mind.
It had given him time to think.
Count Renato Biagio moved with feline grace through the marble corridors of his villa, his heels clicking loudly on the ornately tiled floor. The sculpted eyes of masterpieces watched him pass, a dozen priceless sentinels purchased or looted from around the Empire. At the end of the corridor was a staircase twisting down into darkness. Biagio was in that part of his mansion forbidden to guests, a wing that was his alone and more splendid than any other. Except for the slaves and servants who occasionally disturbed him, only one other person now shared this space with the count.
Biagio took the stairs two at a time, his mood buoyant. Torchlight quickly enveloped him. The chirping of birds fell away in the distance. Near the bottom of the stairs was a pair of tiny shoes, discarded haphazardly in the corner. Biagio could hear the sounds of tinkering up ahead. He took the last step softly and peered through the smoky light. The hallway opened into a cavernous workroom lined with tall bookcases and shelves stuffed with curiosities. The floor was littered with tools and bits of junk: spools of rope; metal fasteners; a small, dirty anvil. The torches on the wall tossed up flames and shadows, giving the place a sense of gloom, and the ceiling was high and stained with soot. In the center of the room stood a stout oak table, and on the table was a bizarre apparatus, a vaguely cylindrical thing of metal and hoses, almost organic in complexity. Its shiny tubes hung limply off the tabletop, and its domed head bore a spring-loaded lever that looked to Biagio like a door handle.
Crouched beneath the table was Bovadin, his eyes gazing up through a cutout in the wood. The scientist’s naked toes balanced a long, saw-toothed cutting tool, while his small hands worked on the hoses burgeoning from his creation. He squinted in frustration as he peered up into the center of the apparatus, both hands working to stuff in metal hoses. When he heard Biagio arrive, he let out a frustrated curse and barked, ‘What is it?’
Biagio took a wary step forward. He didn’t like bothering the scientist, especially during such important work. The room was cool and the count rubbed his hands together.
‘I need to speak to you,’ said Biagio.
‘Now?’
‘Yes.’
Bovadin sighed. The foot with the cutting tool started sawing away at a length of hose. Biagio watched, fascinated at the freakish precision. It was like watching an ape work.
‘Well?’ pressed Bovadin sourly.
‘I have news,’ said Biagio, striding toward Bovadin. When he reached the table he studied the bizarre machine, running his hands over its smooth surface. With its appendage-like hoses, it seemed like a silver octopus. ‘It’s good news,’ Biagio continued as he examined the thing. ‘You’ll be happy.’
Bovadin’s squeaky voice rang from beneath the table. ‘Happy? Does that mean we can all go home?’
‘Your fuel is here. Nicabar just arrived.’
There was no more tinkering under the table. Biagio smiled and dropped down to see Bovadin’s face. The scientist stared at him in relief.
‘Did he get it all?’ asked Bovadin. ‘Three shipments, like I asked?’
‘Three shipments,’ agreed the count. ‘Just like you asked.’
Bovadin beamed. ‘Oh, thank Heaven.’
‘Thank me,’ Biagio corrected. ‘And Nicabar. He could have blown up his whole damn ship carrying that cargo so far south for you. He didn’t run into any Lissens, though. I suppose that’s some good fortune.’
Bovadin nodded. ‘Your duke in Dragon’s Beak has done well, Renato. I’m sorry I doubted you.’
Biagio’s smile widened. ‘I’m often underestimated. Duke Enli has strings just like any other man. I just needed to pull the right ones. I knew he still had the fuel you needed. I remember when your war labs agreed to his order.’
‘So do I,’ said the scientist. ‘But I would have thought it long gone by now. Even so far north the fuel breaks down, becomes dangerous. Duke Enli was taking a chance keeping it so long.’
‘Duke Enli’s kept every weapon ever shipped to him, my friend. Fear of his brother, I suppose. I knew he’d still have the fuel. I just needed Nicabar to persuade him.’
‘He hasn’t unloaded it yet, has he? I should be there for that.’
‘Be as close as you like,’ said Biagio, grinning. ‘I will be nowhere near you at the time.’
The count rose to study the device again, marveling at its intricacy. The little genius had outdone himself this time. The thing was heavy and the table bowed slightly under its weight. Loaded with fuel, it would certainly be heavier yet. And such unstable fuel; how would he keep it cool?
‘How does it work?’ asked Biagio. ‘Show me.’
‘Renato, I’m busy right now.’
‘What are these hoses for?’
‘Later.’
‘Take a break, little man,’ insisted the count. ‘I want an explanation of this thing. It intrigues me.’
Bovadin groaned but rose, brushing his knees of dust and metal filings. Once again playing
the monkey, he climbed onto the table and stood over his invention, proudly walking around it. He was not much taller than the device and the scene was oddly comical, but Biagio had vast respect for Bovadin. The little scientist had created the war labs; he had invented the flame cannon and the acid launcher and, most importantly, he had created the drug that kept them all from aging.
‘Explain it to me,’ Biagio said. ‘How does it work?’
‘Oooh, now that’s a secret, my friend. And I don’t really think you could grasp it.’
‘Don’t patronize me, midget. Tell me.’
Bovadin laughed gleefully, and his filthy face split with a grin. ‘It’s simple really. Beautifully simple. I’m very proud of this, Renato. Very proud . . .’
‘I’m glad for you,’ said Biagio dryly. ‘But will it work?’
‘Oh, it will work,’ promised Bovadin. ‘I plan to test it. That’s why I wanted three crates of fuel. It will be working flawlessly by the time it’s delivered.’ Bovadin looked at the count skeptically. ‘If it’s delivered as you say.’
‘It will be,’ replied Biagio. ‘Don’t worry. I’ve already made those arrangements with Duke Enli. It’s all coming together as planned.’
‘I’ll make a deal with you, Renato. I’ll explain how the device works if you explain to me what’s going on. I’m getting tired of your little island. I want to go home to Nar. Soon.’
‘Soon enough, my friend. The wheels are in motion. More than that I can’t explain to you now.’
‘When, then?’
‘Tonight,’ said Biagio. ‘Now that Nicabar has returned I can tell you a bit more. We will all sup together tonight. I will explain myself.’
Bovadin seemed surprised by this. ‘Oh? Has Nicabar brought news from the Empire?’
‘Some news, yes,’ said Biagio, trying to evade the inquiry. He didn’t like having his plans questioned, especially by someone with a mind as keen as Bovadin’s. ‘Enough news for me to act on, at least. Now . . .’ The count pointed a finger at the device. ‘Tell me about this machine of yours.’
‘As I said, it’s simple.’ Bovadin pulled on the lever at the thing’s domed top and opened it like a hatch. Two iron hinges groaned. ‘This is where the fuel goes. It loads like an ordinary flame cannon. Same basic idea. But the fuel doesn’t just stay in the fuel chamber like a cannon. It’s dispersed throughout the device by its own pressure. That pressure keeps the fuel moving through the hoses.’
‘Uh-huh,’ replied Biagio. Already he was regretting his inquiry. ‘Go on.’
The scientist fingered a little mechanism in the middle of the thing, a thin metal rod protruding from the device. ‘This is the starter,’ he explained. ‘It will be set for a delay of one hour. Once this lever is moved from side to side, the countdown will begin.’
‘It needs to be set easily, Bovadin,’ the count reminded him. ‘That starter piece can’t be hidden.’
‘It won’t be. Not if you deliver it as you said you would. The starter rod will be attached to the archangel. The angel has a large wing-span, remember? It will hide the lever behind it. When the angel is moved, the device will start.’
Biagio chuckled at the midget’s ingenuity. He remembered the marble archangel over the gates of Herrith’s cathedral. Bovadin had built the device exactly to plan. Now it was up to Biagio to see its delivery. The count had spent long weeks devising the perfect means of getting the device to Herrith. Biagio was pleased with himself. The angel would be innocuous and wouldn’t arouse Herrith’s suspicions. And it would be easy enough for Lorla to set.
‘What about the fuel?’ asked Biagio. ‘How will you keep it cool?’
‘The hoses,’ Bovadin explained. ‘The fuel will run through them constantly, getting contact with the outside air.’ He pointed out the tiny vanes in each hose. ‘See here? I designed the hoses myself. Strong, and the vanes increase air flow. The fuel will stabilize once I get it inside. But it shouldn’t be jostled, either. You know that, right?’
‘I know that,’ said Biagio. The scientist had reminded him a hundred times. He, in turn, would remind everyone else. There were a great many people involved in this scheme. The device would pass through untested hands before reaching Herrith. For Bovadin’s sake, Biagio tried not to look worried. The inventor had enough on his mind.
‘I’m impressed,’ said Biagio finally. ‘You’ve done a fine job, my friend. I only wish I could be there to see it used.’
‘When we take back Nar, you’ll get to see the crater it leaves,’ joked Bovadin. His blue eyes sparkled. ‘It will be like the sunrise, Renato.’
‘Mmm, sounds perfect.’ Biagio closed his eyes, imagining the sun’s scalding heat. If everything went properly, Herrith would see the device at work. And when he did, it would crush his very soul. ‘Remember – Herrith mustn’t be killed. I want him alive.’
‘Don’t worry. Herrith should be out of the cathedral by then, giving Absolution.’
‘If he’s not, my plan will fail. . .’
‘Stop fretting,’ directed Bovadin. His smile sharpened. ‘Everything will work. I just need to test it.’
‘Let me know when you’re going to test this thing,’ Biagio said. ‘I want to be alerted of any danger.’
‘There’s no danger. The device can’t really work unless it’s filled with fuel. The tests will only use a little, just to see how it works. Test for leaks, that sort of thing.’
It was all too technical for Biagio, who waved the remarks away. ‘Even so, I want to know. My whole life is in this place now. I don’t want it going up in smoke. And don’t test it alone. I’ll get you some assistants. I don’t like you tinkering away down here by yourself. You look terrible. You need more sun.’
‘Assistants?’ scoffed Bovadin. ‘Kidnap some of my workers from the war labs if you want to get me help, Renato. I don’t need help from your olive pickers. I spend so much time down here because I’ve got work to do. I’m the one making the drug, remember, and trying to finish this damn machine. Savros and Nicabar—’
‘Enough,’ snapped Biagio. ‘Everyone is busy, my friend. Tempers rise. I understand that.’ He let his voice take on its honey-sweet tone. ‘Now, you will be at dinner tonight. And dress for it for once. Put some shoes on. I want a civilized evening.’
‘Renato—’
‘I’m tired too, Bovadin. I want to go back to Nar. And I don’t want to bicker. Get some rest. Sleep. I will see you tonight.’
Simon spent the bulk of the day sleeping. Still exhausted from his long trip and the night in Savros’ dungeon, he found his bed an impossible enticement, and slept deeply and soundly until the sun slipped below the horizon. He hardly dreamed at all, but when he did the faces he saw in his mind were white and frightened. Hakan, the Triin he had captured, came briefly to haunt him. He asked questions in his arcane tongue, begging to know why Simon had abducted him, why he had delivered him to the madman with the knives. As Simon awoke he recalled the dream, and was suddenly glad it was time to get up. He crossed his chamber and went to the window. The carpet was cool on his bare feet. Outside in the distance he saw moonlight on water and the ubiquitous profile of the Black Fleet. Another ship had joined them. Bigger than the rest. Darker, too. Simon recognized the Fearless at once. Nica-bar’s flagship. The admiral was back from Dragon’s Beak. Simon smiled to himself. His master would be in a good mood tonight, maybe good enough to grant favors.
‘After dinner,’ Simon reminded himself gently. ‘Take it easy . . .’
Eris would be so pleased, and he loved her too dearly not to ask this of the Master. Simon knew of no other Roshann agent who had married, except when it was convenient for a role, but he knew he was more than just an agent to Biagio. In some strange way the two men were friends. And Simon was no slave. He was a free man who had served the count long and loyally, and free men had the right to ask for rewards. Though Biagio’s aristocratic blood kept them from ever being equals, Simon knew he had a special place in his master’s heart. Toni
ght he would exploit it.
Hurriedly he cleaned his face and hands. The splash of water revived him. Biagio would be expecting him soon, so he combed his hair, giving himself a cursory check in the mirror. The Master was looking forward to the evening, and Simon wanted to look his best. If Biagio were at all disappointed in him, his favor might be declined. When he was satisfied with his appearance, Simon went to his closets and selected a fine shirt and trousers. He completed the outfit with a broad leather belt and a shiny, supple pair of thigh-high boots. Simon grinned at his reflection, then left his rooms to find Biagio.
The mansion was characteristically quiet. As he moved through the halls, Simon could hear the muffled sounds of servants in the distance and sniff the delicate smells wafting from the kitchens. His stomach grumbled slightly, reminding him of his appetite. Crote had the finest food and chefs in the Empire, that’s what all Crotans thought. Simon’s own mother had been an extraordinary cook, though she was not native to the island. He missed her whenever he was hungry. Sometimes he missed Crote too much to ever leave again, and if they never returned to Nar, Simon wouldn’t object. Nar was cold and tall, whereas Crote was warm and flat, a good place for a man to settle. Eris would love it here, Simon was sure. So far she had only known the gilded cage of Biagio’s mansion, but if just once he could take her to the markets or walk with her along the shore, she would fall for his magnificent island.
Simon crossed the hallways to the count’s private wing, passing the avenue of sculptures and the walls hung with tapestries. A vast window looked out over the grounds, flooding the corridor with purple moonlight. Here in the Master’s wing, the air was sweet and smelled of lilacs. Open windows funneled in the briny scent of sea water. When he was a boy, Simon would look up at this white palace on the hill and imagine the wealth of the man inside. The vision had fueled the young boy’s dreams, had drawn him to Biagio’s glamour. He had been poor then, hungry for gold and the power it could buy. And all the while as he grew to manhood, the white palace on the hill taunted him with its magnificence. Now, years later, Simon still felt a rush when he walked in its halls.