The Grand Design (Tyrants & Kings 2)

by John Marco

  Exasperated, Nicabar shook his head. ‘Renato, you’re not making sense. Why would you want the Lissens to think Crote’s unguarded? The Black Fleet is probably the only thing keeping them away from here. Besides, I thought you wanted them to attack the Empire.’

  ‘I do,’ said Biagio. ‘Trust me, Danar. The Lissens have been attacking Nar, and I say let them continue. But let them also think we here are unprotected. Let them think we’ve come to the aid of the Empire. It’s all part of the plan.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ muttered Bovadin. ‘The “grand design”. Sounds like nonsense to me. What are you trying to do, get us all killed? If the Black Fleet leaves, the Lissens will swarm over Crote. You know that, Renato. They blame you as much as anyone for the war.’

  Biagio put up his hands. ‘Enough. Danar, you will do this thing for me. You will leave in a few days. But you are not to engage the Lissens or sink their ships. Do you understand that?’

  Confused, Nicabar nodded glumly.

  ‘Say it.’

  ‘I understand.’

  Biagio smiled. ‘Good. Now . . .’ He picked up a fork and plunged it into an oyster. ‘Let’s eat.’

  Evenings on Crote were always warm. Winter was coming, but not to this island. The trade winds off the ocean drew in the southerly air, keeping away the frost and making the flowers bloom throughout the year. In the damp of spring, lovers walking through the ancient avenues could hear the calls of night birds and the exotic music of insects. But it was cooler now, slightly, and the creatures of the island slumbered. Along the beach meandering past Biagio’s villa, Simon heard only the tranquil rhythm of the ocean. His master Biagio walked a few paces in front of him, the gentle surf lapping at his boots. They were both full of oysters and stuffed duck, and the heaviness in their guts had made them quiet. It was very late now. Even the moon had started to dip. A train of clouds crossed its path, turning the ocean black. Simon felt his eyelids drooping. He had hoped to go to Eris tonight, but the dinner had taken longer than he’d hoped, and Biagio had wanted his company.

  For over an hour they had walked along the beach, barely speaking a word to each other. The Master seemed troubled. Occasionally he dipped his jeweled hand into the sand, retrieving a shell or stone, then pitching it into the water, but mostly he just walked, slowly, aimlessly, making Simon wonder what plots he was hatching in his mind.

  ‘Simon?’ the count called over his shoulder.

  ‘Yes, my lord?’

  ‘I’m getting tired, but I don’t want to go back yet. You know what that’s like?’

  Simon shrugged. He had no idea what Biagio meant. ‘Yes, I think so.’

  ‘It’s a nice night, isn’t it?’

  More nonsense. ‘Yes, very nice.’

  ‘Come closer,’ bade Biagio. ‘Walk with me.’

  Simon did as requested. Together they strode along the beach and let the water soak their boots, while Biagio kept his eyes on the horizon. The silhouettes of Nicabar’s Black Fleet bobbed in the blackness. To the east where the land hooked around, Simon could see the lights of Galamier, the town where he’d grown up and where he’d first learned to pick pockets. Galamier was very dim tonight and glowed a hazy orange. Simon’s eyes lingered there, and Biagio’s melancholy was suddenly contagious.

  ‘I think they doubt me,’ said Biagio.

  Simon grimaced. ‘It’s a lot to ask of them. They don’t know you as I do.’

  ‘Yes,’ Biagio agreed. ‘But I have plans, you see. Great plans for Herrith and that dog, Vorto. I can’t just kill them as Bovadin suggests; that would solve nothing. Herrith would be dead and we would still be stuck on Crote. One of our enemies would rise to the throne. We must destroy them all’

  ‘Of course you’re right,’ said Simon.

  ‘I have many enemies in Nar these days.’

  ‘And many friends, my lord.’

  Biagio chuckled. ‘That number is dwindling, dear Simon. Lokken’s death proves that.’ The count’s expression hardened. ‘And there will be Talistan to deal with, too. They will not accept me as emperor. Tassis Gayle is like Herrith. He thinks I am not “man enough” to be emperor!’

  ‘They are both fools, Master.’

  ‘Yes.’ Biagio kicked at the sand with his boot. ‘Duke Lokken was a good man. Loyal. He knew what the Black Renaissance was about, what Arkus was trying to achieve. He died a hero. I won’t forget him.’

  ‘He’ll be avenged, my lord.’

  ‘Oh, indeed,’ said Biagio. He turned to Simon and clasped his cold hands on his shoulders. ‘Look at me, Simon.’

  Simon looked. Biagio’s eyes were impossibly bright. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Whatever else you hear from the others, whatever you may think of my plan, I promise you it will work. I don’t just intend to kill Herrith. I plan to destroy him – and all his sycophants. When we return to power, there will not be anyone else to contend with. Not Herrith and his sick church, not Vorto and his legions, not anyone. My grand design will take care of them all, Simon. All of our enemies.’

  ‘I believe you, my lord,’ said Simon. ‘I truly do.’

  ‘But you worry. You think I’m letting the Lissens attack Nar out of spite. It’s not spite, Simon. It’s part of my plan. Can you understand that?’

  Simon smiled. ‘I don’t have your gift for such things. But if you say it’s so, then I believe it. Without question.’

  Biagio’s expression melted. ‘Thank you, my friend.’

  Simon felt his courage cresting. His mouth dried up as he fought to form the words. Biagio started back off toward the villa.

  Now, Simon screamed at himself. Do it now!

  ‘My lord?’ he said weakly.

  ‘Uhmm?’

  ‘May I ask a favor?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Simon hurried to catch up. He stayed one pace behind the count as he framed the request. What he was asking bordered on impossible, but he and Biagio were friends. Almost.

  ‘Simon,’ said Biagio. ‘Stop dallying and ask your question.’

  Simon wet his lips. ‘It’s about Eris, my lord.’

  The count’s pace slowed perceptibly. ‘Oh?’

  ‘You see, I am very fond of her.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ said Biagio. The old, familiar jealousy crept into his tone.

  ‘My lord, what I want to ask is . . . difficult.’ Simon stopped walking and lowered his eyes. Biagio stopped, too. The count stared at his servant curiously.

  ‘You started this,’ Biagio warned. ‘Finish it. Go on and ask your question.’

  Simon straightened and stared directly into Biagio’s eyes. ‘I love Eris, my lord. I’ve loved her since you purchased her. I want to be with her. I want her for my wife.’

  Simon waited for the rage, but it never came. Biagio’s expression was serene for a moment, and then a different emotion overcame him, one not of anger but of sadness. For a moment Simon thought his lord might weep. Biagio looked away.

  ‘This seems sudden,’ said the Cretan. ‘I’m . . .’ His voice trailed off with a shrug. ‘Surprised.’

  ‘I know it’s asking a lot, my lord. It’s not tradition, I know. But I do love her.’ Simon bowed his head, then fell to one knee in the sand. He took Biagio’s cold hand and kissed it. ‘My lord, I beg this of you. Let me have Eris. I’ve served you loyally. I always will. You are my greatest passion.’

  Biagio scoffed. ‘Not as great as the dancer, though. Get up, Simon. You’re embarrassing yourself.’

  Simon rose but kept his head bowed. Biagio turned his back to him. For a long moment the count stared off into the horizon, hardly breathing as the breeze stirred his golden hair. The ocean came and retreated, and Biagio just stood there like one of the statues in his mansion, cold and unapproachable.

  ‘Simon, I will do this thing for you,’ said the count at last. ‘Because I care for you. Do you know that? Do you know how much I care for you?’

  Simon knew. ‘I do, my lord.’

  ‘Eris is my prize, my property
. There is no other dancer like her in the Empire. But I give her to you, Simon. I break with the traditions of the Roshann, for you.’

  ‘Thank you, my lord. You are truly great . . .’

  Biagio turned to face him. ‘But in return, you will do something for me.’

  ‘Anything,’ agreed Simon quickly. ‘Ask me anything, my lord. I will do it willingly.’

  ‘You will go back to Lucel-Lor. You will find Richius Vantran. And you will steal his daughter for me.’

  ‘What . . .?’

  ‘That’s it, Simon. That’s my price for the woman. Bring me the Jackal’s daughter.’

  ‘But my lord, Vantran is guarded. I could never get that close to him. There’s no way—’

  ‘You underestimate yourself, my friend,’ laughed Biagio. ‘You can do it. You’re my best agent, the only one who can pull it off. Get into Vantran’s confidence. Find out his plans. Make him trust you. Then, when his guard is down, take the child.’

  ‘But why?’ sputtered Simon. ‘What do you want with the girl? She’s just a baby . . .’

  ‘I want what I’ve always wanted,’ Biagio roared. ‘I want Vantran to suffer! He took Arkus from me. Now I will take what is precious to him. It is justice, Simon. Nothing more.’

  Simon fought to control himself. It was madness, not justice, but he couldn’t say so. Not now. Eris was almost his. They could marry. Biagio had agreed.

  ‘My lord, even if I could get into his confidence and steal the baby, how could I possibly get back here with her? We’re a long way from Lucel-Lor.’

  ‘A ship of the Black Fleet will take you to Lucel-Lor. While you’re there, it will stay behind to patrol Triin waters. It will be there when you need it to return.’

  You’ve got this all planned, haven’t you? thought Simon bitterly. The master puppeteer at work.

  ‘My lord,’ said Simon cautiously. ‘Think again on this, please. Your vengeance against Vantran is clouding your mind. There are other things to worry about. Herrith and Vorto—’

  ‘Are being dealt with,’ snapped the count. ‘But Vantran has gone on too long without tasting my wrath. It’s time for him to suffer. Time for him to pay for what he’s done.’ Biagio stepped closer to Simon, until their noses almost touched. ‘He killed Arkus, Simon. He betrayed Arkus and the emperor died because of it. And all for a god-damned woman. Now I will take what has come from their cursed union. In the name of Arkus, I will take it!’

  Simon stood very still.

  ‘You will do this for me,’ Biagio continued. ‘And in return I will give you the dancer. That is our bargain. Do you accept it?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Simon sadly. It was the only word he could manage, for his voice had abandoned him.

  ‘You will leave in a few days,’ said Biagio. ‘I will look after Eris for you.’

  And with that the golden count turned from his servant and strode away.

  Five

  The Conscience of a King

  The citadel of Falindar stood on a cliff overhanging the ocean, erupting from the rocky earth. In all the vastness of Lucel-Lor there existed no other structure as high or as splendid, nor any with such a pedigree. It had stood for centuries on its perch, weathering wars and the occasional hurricane, housing the royal family of Lucel-Lor – that long lineage of Triin noblemen that had called themselves Daegog. The Daegogs had ruled Lucel-Lor from Falindar, showering themselves in wealth and taxes, and had watched apathetically as the warlords of their land methodically carved up the nation and claimed territories of their own. In the era of the warlords, the last of the Daegogs had merely been figureheads, rulers in name only, until finally there were no more of their greedy clan. There were only the warlords and their squabbles.

  But Falindar remained. Like the memory of the Daegog, the citadel was permanent, and in these days of peace, the warlords looked to Falindar for strength and guidance and asked favors of the man who now called the place home. The new master of Falindar had taken the job reluctantly. The death of the old master had made any other choice impossible.

  Richius Vantran knew the sad chronicle of Falindar. He knew the warlords personally and had fought with them against Nar, had watched Triin comrades die at the hands of his Empire. Lucyler, Falindar’s new master, was his closest friend, and the two had become like brothers. Yet still, long months after the war, Richius was no closer to understanding the Triin. In Aramoor, his homeland, he had been a king. A poor one, he believed, but a king nonetheless. He had not been an oddity because of his pink skin. There had been servants and responsibilities to occupy him, and the days were quickened by demands. He had despised the kingship the death of his father had thrust on him, but it had denned his life. It had given him purpose.

  All men need a purpose. Richius’ father had told him that, and it haunted him. But in Falindar, the days dragged and the nights were unbearable. Richius had become little more than another of the castle’s ornaments. He was still Kalak, the Jackal, and a hero to the Triin, but they seemed not to notice or need him anymore. In the months since Lucel-Lor’s victory over Nar, Richius had rested and gained weight. He had watched the growth of his daughter, and had speculated about the goings-on back in the Empire, but he was isolated. Lucyler busied himself with the famines and the reconstruction of the Dring Valley – and the other territories scarred by the war – and he rarely had time for his Naren friend. Richius watched Lucyler with envy, remembering fondly what it was like to be busy. He helped when he could, loading carts full of grain and patrolling the grounds around Falindar, but he was nagged constantly by the feeling that he was simply in the way.

  He spent most of his days with Shani, idling the hours away. Shani was leading a pampered life. She was Kalak’s daughter and so wanted for nothing, and Richius wondered sometimes what type of woman this would make her. Her face had some of his features, and that marked her as something more or less than Triin, but she could never go to Nar and discover the other half of her heritage. Aramoor was now firmly in the hands of the Empire. Unless he could create a miracle, she would never see the place her father considered home. Biagio had seen to that. Even exiled, the golden count had influence. Aramoor was ruled by Talistan now, just as it had been before the little nation had broken free. A new governor had been appointed to replace Blackwood Gayle – the iron-fisted Elrad Leth. Richius didn’t know Leth well, but he knew his reputation. Aramoor was suffering under him, certainly.

  Today was a day like any other in Falindar. Dyana had spent the morning playing with Shani and trying to teach the girl her first Triin phrases. Shani could barely gurgle, but Dyana was convinced she knew the word mother. Feeling melancholy, Richius had gone off riding. Before leaving he had made Dyana promise that she and Shani would not leave the grounds of the citadel. Reluctantly, his wife agreed.

  So Richius rode for an hour and more under the cool afternoon sun, losing himself in the colorful show of Lucel-Lor’s autumn. He rode until he reached the forest far to the east of Falindar, an ancient grove of tangled trees with bark like stone and black branches. Here is where he had left Karlaz to weep, when the lion-master had slain his rogue mount. Karlaz had not returned to the citadel. Instead he had remained in the woods.

  And perhaps it was this that drove Richius to the forest. Lonely but not truly wanting to be alone, Richius steered his steed into the heart of the forest, past the village where the rogue lion had attacked, and finally to the range of mountains where he and Lucyler had left Karlaz behind.

  Richius had barely arrived at the mountain lair when he heard Karlaz’s unmistakable voice, singing. It was a low, droning chant, strangely joyous, and Richius followed it, hoping not to disturb the warlord. He tracked the voice to a clearing by a shallow lake, where Karlaz, his hair wet and matted with filth, knelt in the mud and cupped water in his hands, letting it dribble over his face as he sang. Richius reined in his horse a safe distance from the warlord, observing the odd ritual from the safety of the trees. Karlaz continued with his song throug
h three more handfuls of water. When he was done, he laid his palms down on the soft ground, stooped, and kissed the earth. Then he raised his head. He did not turn, but instead sniffed the air like an animal.

  ‘Kalak?’ he guessed.

  Richius grimaced. ‘Yes,’ he replied in Triin. He formed his words with effort, speaking slowly as he made the Triin language. ‘I am sorry, Karlaz. I did not mean to disturb you.’

  ‘You are not disturbing me. My prayer is done.’ Then the warlord chuckled. ‘But if the Gods heard me, I know not.’

  ‘Gods hear very little, I’ve learned,’ said Richius. He understood most of what the warlord was saying, filling in the rest with his imagination. ‘I can leave if you want.’

  ‘Kalak, you have come a very long way. To find me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  Richius dismounted. Still Karlaz did not turn to face him. ‘Because I need to speak with someone,’ said Richius. ‘Because I am troubled.’

  ‘And you chose me?’ This intrigued the warlord enough so that he turned his head. There was a curious smile on his face. ‘I am not the village wise-woman. Why me?’

  ‘I am not sure,’ said Richius with a shrug. ‘Maybe because I have no one else who would listen. Or understand. I am—’

  ‘Troubled. Yes, so you have said. Come.’ Karlaz patted the wet ground next to him. ‘Sit with me.’

  Richius grimaced. ‘In the mud?’

  Again the warlord beckoned Richius forward. ‘I have been watching you, Kalak. You live among us, but you are not Triin yet. I will teach you something. Come.’

  Reluctantly, Richius picked his way over the rocky ground toward Karlaz. At the warlord’s insistence he knelt down beside him. Immediately his knees disappeared with a sucking sound, the water soaking through his trousers to the skin.

  ‘Now what?’

  ‘Shhh,’ Karlaz directed. ‘This will calm your mind. But you must be quiet. You of Nar, you are never quiet enough. You cannot hear the silence.’ Karlaz made a cup of his hands again. ‘Do this,’ he said. ‘Yes, that is good. Now . . .’ He dipped his hands into the water until his hands filled, watching as Richius did the same. But when Karlaz dropped the cold water over his face and chest, Richius balked.