The Grand Design (Tyrants & Kings 2)

by John Marco

  He had no children, and he had no family to speak of, for he had left them all behind years ago to come to the Black City and ply his new trade. His wife, Belinda, had died of a cancer fifteen years past, her womb barren, her dreams of a family unfulfilled. But she had loved her husband dearly and they had been happy, mostly, except for the emptiness of their home atop the toy shop, the one that Redric Bobs had built himself in anticipation of a brood of babies. Belinda Bobs and her husband had tried for years to conceive a child, had prayed mightily to Heaven for the great gift of life, but God had decided to ignore them. After ten years of trying, they had finally gone to the orphanage of the great cathedral, sure that the priests would not turn down so loving a couple. But just as God in Heaven was against them, so were his minions on earth.

  ‘Too poor,’ they had told them. This was in the earlier days before the Piper’s prowess was acknowledged. And later, when they had the money to care for children, the priests of the orphanage had slammed the doors with a different chant.

  ‘Too old.’

  Belinda Bobs had been heartbroken. Redric Bobs’ heart had hardened. A year later, Belinda battled cancer for the first time. It was the start of a hellish decade for the couple, one that eventually ate her alive. It was why the Piper rarely smiled now, why he shut himself off in his toy shop, hidden even from the eyes of eager children. It was why he was hard at work this very evening.

  Alone in his shuttered workshop at the back of his store, Redric Bobs expertly balanced a bead of glue onto the needle-thin strut of a wooden tower. The tiny component was just one of a thousand like it, part of a complex myriad of criss-crossing joints making up the steeple of his giant model. The Cathedral of the Martyrs had presented the toymaker with some interesting challenges, not the least of which was its enormous tower of copper and iron. It needed to be perfect, sturdy, and built exactly to scale – and though Redric Bobs had no formal education in engineering, he supposed he shared some empathy with the humans who had designed the cathedral so many years ago. With a steady hand, the Piper dropped the strut into place and gave it a gentle press. Glue oozed slowly out. With his other hand he worked a piece of cloth, wiping the excess away. Satisfied, he stepped back to view his handiwork.

  The steeple was half done, at last. Another week of work and it would be complete. Then he would start on the main structure. He grimaced, unsure if he would meet the count’s aggressive schedule. Work like his required patience and time above all else, and Biagio wasn’t giving him either. Worse, the Feast of Eestrii was only weeks away. The Piper clasped his hands together and studied his meticulous model. It was beautiful; it seemed a shame to destroy it.

  ‘Almost time, Belinda, my love,’ he whispered. He was sure that Belinda watched over him still. She had promised on her deathbed never to leave him.

  All the materials he needed were laid out before him. Great slabs of wood, tiny metal fasteners and bolts, golden wire and spools of thread, colored glass and a hundred pigments of paint, all strewn along his sawdust-covered floor. His tools hung from hooks along the walls, some as big as his arm, others so small they were difficult to see. His miniature work often required miniature tools, and these he kept in a box on his workbench and guarded jealously, for they were very rare and had come with him from Vosk decades ago. He had screwdrivers and little hammers, pliers and pins and sharp needles that could make an undetectable hole. They were no more than scraps of iron, but to the Piper they were precious. They gave his life meaning and dimension. And the thing he was constructing now, perhaps the greatest challenge of his career, would make him famous forever.

  Or infamous, thought Redric Bobs with a frown. He really wasn’t sure yet.

  The workshop was cold. Piper felt his fingers tingle, rebelling against the chill. He went to his black iron stove and picked a few nuggets of coal from the bucket, depositing them into the fire box with a pair of long tongs. Shutting the stove door, he put his hands up to the hot metal to warm them. Winter was coming, and he never liked the winter. It was one of the reasons he had moved south. The Black City, with its tall spires and taller tales, had drawn him across the continent. That had been over forty-five years ago. When he had arrived, he had seen the Black Palace on its monolithic perch, beckoning travellers from miles away. The sight of it had forever changed him, as had all the city’s marvels. But nothing was more beautiful than the Cathedral of the Martyrs. Though the Black Palace was taller and more garish, the cathedral was the city’s true jewel, the only thing in Nar that could still bring a tear to the old man’s eyes. Over the years, he had tried many times to capture the cathedral’s beauty in a model, but he had always failed. She was too complicated, too ornate. But time and hatred had sharpened the toymaker’s skills, and he was ready at last to construct his masterpiece. As he warmed his frozen fingers his eyes flicked toward the miniature cathedral. The Piper smiled.

  A bell jingled insistently in the distance. Piper pulled back his hands, wondering who would disturb him so late. Cautiously he crossed his workroom and stood in the threshold of his toy shop, clinging to the shadows as he spied the door. Shades were drawn over the door’s glass, but Redric Bobs could see a silhouette against the fabric, cast there by the gas street lights. The figure was very small, no taller than a child.

  A beggar, the Piper supposed. They were always bothering him to play with the toys in his window. He started toward the door, then heard a horse whinny. The sound startled him. The doorbell jangled again as the figure impatiently yanked the chain. Past Darvin and the other toys in his window, Redric Bobs saw a big brown wagon in the street outside his shop. Four stout men leaned against it, waiting for him to answer. The tiny figure at his threshold rang the bell one more time, then started pounding on the door.

  ‘Piper Bobs,’ came an unknown voice. ‘Open up.’

  The voice was small and high, like a child’s voice, but stronger. Piper puzzled over it, unsure what to do. He was expecting Biagio’s agents, but hadn’t guessed they would come so late at night or in such force. A fearful tremor made his steady hands shake.

  ‘I’m coming,’ he called, rushing to the door. Quickly he undid the bolts, then cracked the door open. Night rushed in on a cold breeze. Out on his stoop, a tiny figure dressed in black looked up at him with preternatural eyes. From the lines on his face he looked like a man, but he was far shorter, almost dwarf-sized. There was no smile on his face, only an insistent look that blazed in his blue, hypnotic stare.

  ‘Minister Bovadin! You?’

  ‘Open the door, Bobs,’ said the midget tersely. ‘We have something for you.’

  Piper opened the door and stuck his head outside to better see the wagon. On its bed was a giant wooden crate. The men leaning against the conveyance looked over at him without regard, their expressions unreadable. Piper groaned at the size of the delivery.

  ‘Is that it?’ he asked incredulously.

  The midget nodded. ‘That’s it.’

  ‘All of that? I mean, it’s so big!’

  Nar’s Minister of Science squeezed past the toymaker’s legs and into the shop. ‘Don’t worry. Most of it is wooden supports to keep the device stable. The thing itself isn’t much bigger than me.’ His weird eyes surveyed the store. ‘We have to get it inside quickly. Where can we put it?’

  ‘In my workshop,’ the Piper replied. ‘In the back. Will you help me unpack it?’

  ‘Of course. I can’t just leave it with you, now can I?’

  Bovadin walked off toward the back of the store, disappearing for a few moments in the workshop. When he returned he nodded approvingly. ‘Good enough,’ he said, then went back outside and waved the men inside. His signal snapped the men into action. Each one climbed onto the wagon and grabbed hold of a corner of the crate. As they worked to unload the dangerous parcel, Bovadin opened the door as wide as it would go. The scientist gave an annoyed curse when he discovered the narrowness of the doorway.

  ‘This won’t do,’ he told the Piper. It won’
t fit through the door.’

  ‘There are double doors in the back,’ said the toymaker. ‘Take it around there. I’ll open up for you.’

  Bovadin groaned and returned to the cart, ordering his men to start taking down the crate. Redric Bobs dashed to the back of his workshop and undid the locks on the twin metal doors. He was always getting shipments that were too large for the front door, and it was better that the strange crate come in through the alley anyway. Soon Bovadin reappeared with his men. The bigger men grunted as they walked with an ungainly wobble, maneuvering the big box through the open doors. Piper directed the sweating men to a clear area of his workroom. Bovadin sat down cross-legged on the workbench. He clapped his hands excitedly as his men set down the crate.

  ‘Gently,’ he said. ‘Yes, right there.’

  The crate eased down to the floor. Bovadin hopped down from the workbench. He struggled to reach a crowbar dangling from the wall, just out of reach of his stubby fingers. Piper rolled his eyes back and plucked the tool from its hook, handing it to the midget. Bovadin tossed the crowbar to one of his men.

  ‘Open it,’ he ordered.

  The man wedged the tool’s clawed head beneath the sealed lid and gave a muscular pull. Slowly the nails crept outward, screeching free of the wood. The other men joined in, pulling the lid free of the crate and setting it aside. Then, very carefully, each man grabbed a corner of the crate and began peeling it apart like an orange. Piper stared wide-eyed at the contents, trying to see past the wooden supports. He caught a glimpse of silver metal and ganglia of snakelike hoses, all held together with ropes and leather straps. Whatever it was, Bovadin wasn’t taking any chances. Once the walls of the crate were down, the men stepped aside, letting the toymaker see.

  Bovadin laughed, gladdened with himself. ‘Take a good look, toymaker. You won’t see anything like this again.’ He walked into the center of the crate and stroked the metal tubes lovingly. ‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’

  The Piper wasn’t sure how to answer. It was amazing, certainly. But beautiful? It was recognizable, like some metal monster from the ocean. Without precisely knowing what it was, Redric Bobs couldn’t reply.

  ‘I will say that it is interesting,’ he conceded. ‘More than that, I really don’t know.’

  ‘That’s because you don’t understand it,’ Bovadin grumbled. Again he caressed his strange device. ‘No one does. Only me.’

  ‘Explain it to me,’ said Piper. ‘This is supposed to fit in my dollhouse, yes?’

  ‘Yes,’ said the minister. He gave his men a scowl, the only gesture needed to send them scurrying out of the room. When he was sure they couldn’t hear him, Bovadin continued, ‘According to the plans I sent to you. You’ve built the model big enough, I can tell’

  ‘It’s not done yet,’ said Piper. ‘But it should be big enough, yes.’

  ‘I’ve taken care of the clockworks myself,’ said Bovadin. He pointed out a little lever at the top of the metal cylinder. ‘The angel over the gates must be attached to this lever. It has to be movable, but only side to side.’ He jiggled the lever back and forth to demonstrate. The Piper blanched at the show. ‘It’s not armed yet,’ explained Bovadin, grinning. ‘But when it is, there will only be an hour before the device starts up. You can build the angel, can’t you?’

  Piper nodded. ‘I’ve already made him.’

  He went to his workbench and slid open a hidden drawer. Inside was an unpainted figure of an angel, an archangel with a trumpet to his lips. It was perfectly detailed in every facet, just like the real one above the cathedral’s gates. Gingerly he handed the figurine over to Bovadin, who cooed when he felt it in his small hands.

  ‘It’s lovely,’ the minister complimented. ‘You are a true craftsman, Piper Bobs.’ His little fingers brushed the angel’s face and wings. ‘It’s so detailed. So real’

  ‘Of course,’ bragged the toymaker. ‘It’s supposed to be real. That’s what I do, Minister. I make dreams real’

  Bovadin smirked at him. ‘That’s an odd way to describe what we’re about to do, don’t you think?’

  ‘You may think of it any way you wish, Minister Bovadin. I will keep thinking of it as a dream.’

  For Redric Bobs, it was a dream years in the making. He had put all his soul and skill into the model of the cathedral, had vested it with his finest effort. It was not merely for the purpose of revenge. Rather, it was to right an atrocious wrong. Cautiously he walked over to the device in the crate, studying its intricate design. It was astonishing, more so even than any of his prized toys.

  ‘Tell me about this thing,’ he said. ‘How does it work?’

  ‘You don’t need to know that,’ said Bovadin. ‘I want you focused on your work.’

  Piper scowled, insulted. ‘I may not be a scientist, but I’m sure I can understand it.’

  ‘I’m sure you can. But I don’t want you understanding it. The little girl pulls the angel down. That starts the device. That’s all you need to know.’

  ‘What are the hoses for?’ Piper pressed. ‘The fuel, right? They keep it cool, don’t they? And the fuel is under pressure, too. That’s why it’s made of metal. And that’s why you’re doing it in the winter.’ He smiled at Bovadin. ‘I’m right, aren’t I?’

  ‘You’re smarter than you look, admittedly. But do your job, toymaker. Don’t ask too many questions.’

  ‘I’m only trying to figure this out,’ Piper snapped back. ‘This is my home, my livelihood. I want to know what you’ve brought into it.’

  The scientist padded up to Piper and glared at him. ‘If we’re going to work together, you’ll have to do what I say. No questions. Understand?’

  ‘No,’ said Piper. He folded his arms over his chest. ‘That’s not my idea of working together. I want details about this thing. I want to know how it works.’

  Bovadin laughed. ‘And what else do you want? I wonder. I see a plan in your eyes, toy man. Do you think you won’t be compensated for your work here? Let me put your mind at ease. Everyone who assists Biagio will be rewarded.’

  ‘What?’ spat Piper. The insult was like having cold water tossed in his face. ‘Do you think that’s why I’m doing this, little man?’ He jabbed his finger at Bovadin’s nose. ‘You are wrong. I don’t care about Biagio or his Black Renaissance. I have bigger reasons for doing this.’

  The midget shrugged, unimpressed. ‘Nevertheless, you will be rewarded. If you follow my instructions. I’ve set the timer to start the device an hour after the lever is moved. It’s up to you to do the rest.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Piper. ‘It will be flawless. But what about the girl? She hasn’t come for the dollhouse yet.’

  ‘She will, during the festival for the start of Kren. She’ll see your dollhouses in the window and she’ll ask the bishop to buy her one. Herrith will say yes. You will tell him you will build it.’

  Piper nodded. ‘I understand. Just so she gets here on time.’

  ‘Have faith,’ said Bovadin. He turned his back on the toymaker and started out of the workshop. ‘All is going according to Biagio’s plan. Soon enough you’ll have whatever satisfaction you’re seeking.’

  The four men who had come with Bovadin stood at attention when their master entered the storefront. Bovadin shooed them out the door. But before he followed them into the night, he gave Piper a final warning.

  ‘Be swift with your work, toy man. Eestrii isn’t far away.’

  ‘I’ll be ready,’ Piper promised.

  ‘I’ll be back before then, to help you get the device into the dollhouse. Don’t try to do it without me.’

  ‘What? You’re not leaving the city?’ Piper asked, surprised. Like Biagio, Bovadin was an outcast now.

  ‘I have some friends who will hide me until Eestrii,’ said Bovadin. ‘No one will know I’m in Nar. And you won’t tell anyone, will you, Piper?’

  Bovadin didn’t wait for an answer, just shuffled off into the night. Piper watched the strange group pile into the wagon
and the wagon disappear into the shadows of High Street. For a long time Piper stood in his doorway, shivering. He didn’t like Bovadin. He didn’t like Biagio, either. But the pair had given him something he hadn’t been able to acquire himself – the chance to strike at the church of Nar. Piper didn’t care about ideology or revolutions. The man who sat on the Iron Throne was of no interest to him. This crusade he had joined held no rewards for him save vengeance.

  Twenty-Three

  The Hundred Isles of Liss

  Richius Vantran stood in the crow’s nest of the Prince of Liss, marveling at the view. With his hands wrapped tightly around the rail, he tilted his face into the wind and let the cold sun caress him. A ferocious breeze tore at the rigging and the collar of his thick naval coat, and his hair streamed back, snapping like a flag. Before him stretched the endless ocean, as vast as the sky, and in the distance a pod of whales breached and glistened in the sunlight, sending up watery geysers. Richius watched the spouts fire into the air, and for the first time since leaving Falindar let all the guilt of his actions melt away. Feeling daring, he let go of the railing and raised his hands into the air triumphantly, letting out a gleeful cry.

  He felt bodiless on the crow’s nest, and the wind seemed to bear him up like a feather, until he could no longer feel the platform beneath his feet. He laughed joyously, and for a time forgot about the life and family he had left behind.

  ‘Easy, boy!’ Marus called from the deck far below. The first officer, who had coached Richius up the rigging, now stared up at his protégé with mild worry. ‘Put your hands on the rail, like I told you!’