The Grand Design (Tyrants & Kings 2)

by John Marco

  ‘I’ll see to it,’ said Kye quickly. He took hold of the horse’s reins and led the beast away in search of its master. Vorto watched him go, keeping his eyes on the colonel’s back. Enli noted Vorto’s sourness.

  ‘A good man,’ said Vorto, ‘but no faith.’ He turned to Enli and jabbed a finger into the duke’s chest. ‘You must have faith, Duke Enli. Do you?’

  ‘Faith in what?’

  ‘Faith in God almighty,’ thundered Vorto. He took his finger out of Enli’s chest and pointed it at the flag flying in the center of the company. The Light of God, that ubiquitous symbol seen everywhere in Nar, fluttered in the wind. ‘That’s what we’re fighting for, Enli. Make no mistake. If our hearts are pure, God will deliver victory.’

  Enli smiled thinly. ‘I welcome any help the Lord might offer. But don’t get overconfident. This won’t be the walk in a rose garden you’re imagining. It’s already winter in Dragon’s Beak. My brother has many troops of his own. And he has his army of the air.’

  ‘Bah! I have heard of your brother’s trained birds. You make too much of them, I think.’

  ‘You wouldn’t say that if you’d ever seen them,’ observed Enli. A tremor of anticipation overcame him. ‘Or fought against them. They’re not just ravens, not like you’re used to. These are bloody beasts, big as your head. Bigger, even. They feast on eyeballs and drink blood, like a bunch of bloody vampires.’

  The lieutenant standing next to Vorto blanched at the description. ‘How big?’ he queried. He held his hands a foot apart. ‘Like this?’

  ‘Bigger,’ said Enli. ‘Not like your head, boy. Like the general’s.’

  Vorto frowned. ‘That’s all brain.’

  ‘Whatever. These ravens will eat that too, if you let them.’ Enli grinned at the young soldier. ‘Take a helmet with you, lad.’

  ‘General?’ squeaked the soldier.

  ‘He’s trying to scare you, Vale. You just keep your wits about you. We’ll swat those damnable birds right out of the sky.’ He turned on Enli and laughed. ‘Bloody birds. The day I’m afraid of a bird I’ll hang myself.’

  The duke shrugged. ‘That day may be sooner than you think. But we’ll worry about that then, eh?’

  ‘General . . .?’

  ‘Shut up, Vale. Enli, I’m looking forward to dealing with those butcher birds. This legion wears the armor of Heaven.’ Vorto folded his meaty arms across his chest. ‘We have some surprises of our own for your bastard brother.’

  ‘Such as?’

  With his chin, the general pointed toward the flatbed of rocket launchers. ‘That.’

  Enli shook his head. ‘It won’t work. It’s already winter up north. Too much wind for rockets.’

  ‘Not rockets, Duke Enli.’ Vorto leaned in with a conspiratorial smile. ‘Something better.’

  Enli’s eyes flicked toward the canisters. ‘What’s in those? Acid?’

  Vorto put his arm around the duke and led him toward the wagon. The engineers worked a little quicker as their leader approached. Enli squirmed at the general’s touch but did not pull away.

  ‘This is something very special,’ whispered the general. ‘Something not even the army of the air will be able to escape from. A present from the war labs.’

  The canisters were the size of a helmet, polished metal containers smooth to Enli’s touch. He ran his hand over one and felt its cool surface for flaws. Instead, he found a machined perfection.

  ‘The rocket launchers have been modified to fire the canisters,’ Vorto explained. ‘They don’t need to be as accurate as rockets.’

  ‘What’s in it?’ asked Enli. He picked up a canister and gave it a gentle shake. Inside, something liquid sloshed about. He cocked his head to listen, unsure what he was hearing, then very slowly put the container down, horrified by the thought. When he lifted his eyes to Vorto he saw the general grinning.

  ‘Goth,’ said the duke breathlessly. ‘Don’t tell me—’

  ‘Formula B,’ said Vorto. ‘Perfected, no thanks to Minister Bovadin. Just the thing to deal with your brother’s flying pests.’

  ‘No!’ railed Enli. ‘You can’t let this poison loose in Dragon’s Beak. I won’t allow it!’

  ‘You won’t?’ laughed Vorto. ‘Enli, it’s not your choice. This is my army. My war to wage.’

  ‘It’s my country, you idiot! I won’t let you turn it into a wasteland just to wipe out some birds.’

  Vorto smoldered at the insult. ‘It’s the north fork we’re fighting for, not your territory. And I’ll do what I must to take it. The Renaissance, Enli. That’s what this is about. I’m going to eradicate it in Dragon’s Beak just as I did in Goth. And if you get squeamish on me . . .’ His three-fingered hand snatched Enli’s lapel. ‘I will throw you to your brother’s birds and watch them peck your liver out.’

  Very slowly, Duke Enli took hold of Vorto’s hand and removed it. But he did not back away from the wild-eyed general. Instead he matched his steely gaze. ‘I won’t let you murder my country, Vorto. You’re coming with me to quell the rebellion. And that is all. When you’re in Dragon’s Beak, you’re under my dominion.’

  It felt good just to say it. The general didn’t bother stepping back, but Enli sensed the surprise in him nonetheless.

  ‘It is there if we need it,’ said Vorto. ‘And if we need it, I will use it.’

  ‘If we need it, then we will all be dead, General’ Enli noted the size of the canister. ‘If you launch that poison in a stiff wind, there won’t be anywhere for us to hide.’

  ‘God guides me,’ replied Vorto with confidence. ‘If it is His will to use the formula, He will protect us.’

  Enli turned away, his argument lost. Vorto was Herrith’s puppet, and if Herrith had told him to bring the formula, then bring it he would. And he would launch at the first raindrop or thunder clap or falling leaf – whatever he saw as a sign from God. The duke poked at one of the canisters with his foot, testing its veracity. He hadn’t imagined Herrith would dare use the formula against Dragon’s Beak. Bleakly he wondered if Biagio had miscalculated the bishop’s mettle.

  General Vorto, his pride clearly wounded, sauntered over to Enli and spun him around by the shoulder. ‘I thought you would be pleased,’ he said bitterly. ‘Look at all I’ve done for you.’ He made a sweeping gesture with his hand, indicating the mass of men. ‘Are you going to get weak-kneed on me? Like Colonel Kye or some woman? This was your idea, remember.’

  ‘This is fine,’ said Enli. ‘All but the poison.’ He walked past Vorto heading back to the coach. ‘Be ready to leave on the morrow.’

  ‘The Black Renaissance,’ Vorto called after him. ‘We’re going to eradicate a cancer!’

  Enli flashed a hidden smile as he walked away. So long as you believe that, madman.

  Nineteen

  The Jackal’s Daughter

  As the sun descended, Simon Darquis stalked through the halls of Falindar, closing the distance to Dyana’s chamber. It was dinner time for the Jackal’s wife, who ate with the other women of the citadel in the main kitchen on the ground floor when her husband was away. Simon moved with practiced deftness, keeping to the shadows and to the lamp light equally. His head pounded and his hands trembled. He had ended his struggle with his conscience and had put it on a shelf, someplace in the trained recesses of his brain where it wouldn’t nag at him.

  Tonight, he was Dark-Heart.

  The Vantrans’ chambers were at the end of a corridor, unguarded, surrounded by other modest rooms like it. The doors in the hall stood half-open, some vacant, some issuing unsuspecting voices. At evening mealtime, the people of the citadel always gathered together downstairs, far away from the Vantran rooms. Simon had copiously observed their rhythms. He knew with the perfection of a time-piece when Dyana was with Shani – and when she was not. He had hardly spoken to her since Richius had left for Liss, for she was distant now. All of Falindar was buzzing with talk of the Jackal – how he had left his wife and child behind, how his blood-lust couldn
’t be slaked.

  Today, Simon had analyzed Dyana’s every movement. From the shadows he had stalked her, ghostlike and invisible. He had watched her walk with Shani in the garden, watched her dissolve into tears and walk back again, and he had done it all with remarkable detachment. Too distraught to feel his eyes on her, Dyana had gone on about her daily business, oblivious to the Roshann agent breathing in her perfume. And now she had left Shani with Tresh to dine with the others.

  With easy nonchalance, Simon crossed the corridor to Dyana’s chamber. He paused outside the door to listen and heard the shuffling of light footsteps. Inside the room, a door opened, then closed again. The sound of ruffling clothing, the unknown din of something scraping. Simon devoured the sounds and filtered them through his quick mind. One person, light enough to be the Triin nurse. The baby was asleep, perhaps. He took a breath, steadied himself, and knocked on the door with a painted smile.

  The light footfalls approached the door and opened it. The Triin woman called Tresh stood in the threshold. Her eyes widened when she sighted Simon.

  ‘Simon?’ she asked through her thick accent. They barely knew each other, and the proper name startled Simon. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Dyana,’ said Simon. He opened his hands. ‘Shani. Dyana wants Shani, downstairs.’ He pretended to struggle with the words. ‘Downstairs, yes? Do you understand?’

  ‘I speak your language,’ said the woman. Her eyes narrowed. ‘Is Dyana all right?’

  ‘She’s fine. I was just down with her, supping.’ Simon gave a shrug. ‘She misses the child. This thing with Richius, I suppose. She was going to come up for her herself, but I told her I’d bring her. Would you come downstairs with us?’

  Tresh grimaced. ‘Shani sleeps now. Dyana knows this. That girl . . .’ She shook her head, exasperated. ‘Her mind is mud these days.’

  Simon sighed knowingly. ‘Richius.’

  ‘Yes, that husband of hers,’ Tresh wagged a finger in Simon’s face. ‘You are his friend. You should have stopped him. Now Dyana is mad at you.’

  ‘I know,’ lied Simon. ‘It’s my fault. I tried to stop him, but Richius wouldn’t listen. Stubborn, you know?’ With one eye he looked over Tresh’s shoulder into the room. Shani was nowhere in sight. ‘Should I tell Dyana the girl’s asleep?’ he asked. ‘She’ll understand, I suppose.’

  ‘No, no,’ Tresh grumbled. ‘I will wake her and take her down with you. It will be good for Dyana. She needs the baby close these days.’ The nurse turned her back on Simon and walked into the room. Simon followed cautiously behind. His stomach gave a sickening lurch. Very slowly he put his hand behind his back and gave the door a gentle nudge, just enough to close it without making a sound. His hand then drifted to his belt and withdrew a stiletto.

  ‘Dyana will be happy to see the baby,’ Tresh was saying. ‘She is so sad now. Shani—’

  Tresh’s voice constricted the moment the blade severed her spine. Simon’s free hand shot up and covered her mouth as he drove the stiletto deeper. The woman shuddered, her knees buckling. Blood sluiced from the incision onto Simon’s hand. The sensation made him retch but he held fast, deepening the gash until Tresh’s shaking ceased and a feeble death rattle trickled through his fingers.

  ‘Good people go to Heaven,’ Simon whispered. Her eyes widened at the observation, horror-struck. Gently, Simon laid her down, withdrawing the blade but keeping his hand over her mouth. ‘Forgive me, woman,’ he begged. ‘Go with God. Curse me when you see Him.’

  The dying nurse tried and failed to move her paralyzed arms. What looked like a tear fell from her eyes. She gasped once, twice, trying to suck in air. A soundless scream climbed out of her mouth. . .

  And then she died.

  Simon knelt over the dead woman. For a very long moment he forgot the direness of his mission. A wave of self-loathing drowned him. Carefully he reached out his bloodied hand and closed the woman’s sightless eyes. He dragged the dead woman out of the center of the room, pulling her into one of the bedchambers. The scent told him at once it was Dyana’s room, the one she shared with Richius. Simon cleaned his hands on Tresh’s dress, composing himself. He didn’t want the child to see him looking frightened.

  Easy! he scolded himself. Be still

  At his command his heartbeat slowed. His breathing tranquilized. A serene smile crossed his face, as if the corpse at his feet existed only in a dream. Trancelike, he walked from the bedroom into the main chamber, quickly spotting the door to Shani’s room. The hinges squeaked as he pushed it open and peered inside. At once he sighted the Jackal’s daughter, asleep upon a tiny bed of wood and white sheets. The room was dark but for the last rays of sunlight splashing through the window. Shani’s face glowed pink, unmindful of the murder of her nurse. Without waking her, Simon crept over to the bed and knelt down beside it, studying the child. She had her father’s round eyes and her mother’s milky skin. A strand of fawn hair fell across her forehead. At one year old, she could only toddle. Getting her out of the citadel would be difficult. But Simon was determined not to hurt her. He had considered gagging her, even stuffing her in a sack, but had quickly dismissed the idea. So instead he would try a different approach, one that might, with Heaven’s grace, seem plausible.

  He would just walk out with her.

  Most of the folk of the citadel trusted him now, and if they saw him with the child walking toward the kitchen they probably wouldn’t question him. Simon very gently reached out and touched the child, brushing the wayward hair from her face.

  ‘Shani,’ he whispered cheerfully. ‘Wake up. I have to take you to your mother.’

  Shani’s eyes opened at the sound of the strange voice. They focused on Simon in confusion, but were unafraid.

  ‘Hello,’ he crooned. He gave the girl an encouraging smile while he continued stroking her hair. ‘Don’t be afraid. I’m not going to hurt you. Mother wants you. Mother.’

  Shani frowned, then let out a frustrated grunt. Simon slowly slipped the covers down and took her hand. It was impossibly small. Soft too, like a rose petal. Instinctively the fragile fingers wrapped around his.

  ‘My name is Simon,’ he said. ‘I . . .’

  He stopped, unable to complete the lie. A vision of Eris flashed through his mind, and then Biagio, waiting with the Mind Bender for the child. Even as he fought to still himself, he began to shake.

  ‘Shani,’ he whispered desperately. ‘I know you can’t understand me, but listen. I’m an evil man. But I love a woman, and I can’t let her die. I’m taking you someplace, and I’ll do my best to protect you there. I swear it.’

  Surprisingly, Shani smiled at him, not pulling her hand away. Simon guided her gently out of the bed. N’Dek and the Intimidator would be offshore, waiting for him in a few short hours.

  He hadn’t expected the babe to be so compliant. But Shani stood on her own, albeit shakily, her bare feet padding with him to a closet stuffed with clothing. Simon undressed her and hurriedly pulled some day clothes over her head. Shani squirmed and giggled, enjoying the attention. Simon rolled stockings and a pair of tiny shoes onto her feet, then took her hand again. Outside, not far from the entry to the citadel, he had hidden a coat to keep her warm on the long trek to the tower. An hour ago, he had stolen one of Falindar’s precious horses. The missing horse, he knew, would be noticed quickly.

  ‘We’re going to go for a ride,’ he told Shani. ‘Be a good girl for me. Please.’

  Dyana left the kitchen after her meal, ignoring the appeals from her friends to stay with them and talk. She skirted the Triin warriors in the great hall of Falindar and made her way to the rear of the citadel where the heart tree grew and the cliff dove down to the ocean below. It was very cold, and she had no coat, but the moon was coming up and the shiver through her skin heightened her melancholy. The heart tree, that lone and legendary symbol of the Gods, erupted out of the rocky earth, blocking the moonbeams. Dyana stared at it, and before she could stop them, the tears came.

  Witho
ut Richius, she was alone here. Her companions were nothing like her. She was more Naren than Triin, they said, more interested in being a man than a woman. Her independent streak had earned her a reputation in Falindar, and now, with her husband off on a foolish crusade, Dyana felt the crush of loneliness. She cowled her arms around her shoulders to stave off the breeze.

  In the end, she hadn’t begged Richius to stay. She had refused to shed tears for him. Now she wept openly, and wished he was here to comfort her. But men were foolish, even good men like Richius. And they were all too easily swayed by revenge. Dyana brushed her tears away angrily. Shani needed her. She would not be the weak-as-water woman the others expected her to be.

  Dyana returned to the citadel, climbing the spiral staircase leading to the level of her bedchamber. It was very quiet in the corridor. Across the dim hallway, she found the door to her chambers an inch ajar. Without a thought she pushed open the door.

  ‘I am here, Tresh,’ she said in Triin. ‘Shani? Are you awake?’

  No answer. No sound, either. Dyana hastened to her daughter’s room and gasped at the disheveled state of her closet. All of Shani’s clothes, the little Triin skirts and shoulder wraps, were strewn about the floor. The bed was unmade but empty. Dyana’s heart leapt with panic. She dashed into her own bedroom . . .

  . . . and saw Tresh twisted on the floor.

  Dyana froze. She stared at the dead woman, mute and breathless. Tresh lay in a waste of crimson, her eyes shut, her limbs stiff and impossibly bent. The color of life had drained from her flesh to stain the floor. Dyana backed away, slowly at first, then in a frenzy.

  ‘Shani!’ she screamed, racing from her bedroom. ‘Someone help me!’

  Out in the hall, doors flung open. Startled Triin faces peered out from their chambers, roused by Dyana’s screams. One by one she asked the onlookers if they had seen Shani, but each of them shook their heads in confusion, unaware of the dead woman down the hall. Dyana didn’t bother to explain. She flew down the stairs, taking them three at a time. All she could think about was Simon.