by John Marco
The young woman grimaced. ‘Sir, my orders come from the Jackal. He hasn’t said anything about this to me. I know he wants to take the island with as few casualties as possible.’
‘The Jackal isn’t Lissen,’ Prakna reminded her. ‘When it comes to the Hundred Isles, the Empire has a lot to answer for. I certainly don’t want to disappoint my sons when they look down on me. What about you? Your infant son deserves vindication, doesn’t he?’
Shii hesitated.
‘Doesn’t he?’
‘Yes,’ cried Shii. She put down the mug and rose from her chair angrily. ‘Don’t make me say it!’
‘There’s a thousand more like him, Shii,’ said Prakna. ‘All of them dead. Think about it. A thousand mothers who will never hold their babies. You think they have that problem in Nar? They take their children for walks, feed them, play with them. All the things you’ll never get to do.’
Shii turned away from him. It was working; Prakna knew it. He waited a moment before speaking again.
‘It’s justice,’ he said softly. ‘Some people call it revenge.’
‘I don’t care what they call it,’ spat Shii. ‘I just want it.’
Prakna smiled inwardly. ‘We all want it, girl,’ he said gently. ‘Even the Jackal. That’s why he’s here with us. Revenge. I know him. He plans on pulling Biagio’s heart out for what the count did to his wife. And why shouldn’t he? Don’t you think Biagio deserves it?’
‘Yes,’ gasped Shii. She was on the verge of angry tears.
‘And do you think the Narens that slaughtered your son deserve to die?’
Unable to speak, Shii gave a strangled nod. Prakna walked over to her. He put his hands on her shoulders and his lips to her ear.
‘So do I,’ he whispered. ‘That’s why we’re going to Crote.’
Suddenly, the hard young woman seemed insubstantial in his hands. In a few minutes he had diminished her. Awful memories could do that to a person. Gently, he turned her around, making her face him. She looked up at him, her eyes full of pain.
‘It’s time,’ he said softly. ‘We are obligated to your son, and to my sons. To all our sons. You know that. Are you with me, Shii?’
Shii couldn’t bring herself to look away. He was the Fleet Commander of Liss, more of a hero than the Jackal himself. Prakna knew the power he had over his people. He could see it reflected in Shii’s impressionable eyes.
‘I’m with you,’ said Shii finally.
‘It’s the right thing to do,’ Prakna promised her. ‘In three days, we become the servants of justice.’
Without thinking, he placed a light kiss on her forehead. Shii melted. Prakna sighed. He hated making pawns of these fine men and women. Shii bent easily to his will, almost crying when she felt his loving kiss. Prakna held her close. She was desperate for the contact. It was what war had made of Liss’ children; forlorn, touch-starved orphans. Like Jelena.
‘Be easy, Shii,’ he whispered gently. ‘In three more days, we’ll start to ease some of your pain.’
‘Will we?’ asked Shii hopefully.
Prakna considered the question for a very long moment. Finally, he decided to lie. ‘Yes,’ he said softly. ‘It can’t last forever.’
Forty-Two
A Meeting of Monarchs
Barely two days after leaving Nar, the Fearless and her escorting dreadnoughts arrived in Crote. Biagio watched the warships from his beach, immensely satisfied with himself. Around him stood an entourage of bodyguards, a well-groomed group of peacock-colored Cretans with their sidearms still sheathed. The count didn’t expect any trouble, but he wanted to make a show. He still didn’t know how many of the Naren lords were aboard the ships. He hoped there were enough of them to have made it all worth his efforts. Still, Herrith was aboard – that much Biagio knew for certain. Nicabar had left Crote with clear orders not to return until the bishop was with him.
It was a clear day, and Biagio could see the rowboats coming toward him. Some still dropped from the sides of their mother ships, laden down with Naren nobles and their guards. Biagio’s sharp eyes scanned the blue ocean. The lead boat came from the Fearless. At its prow stood Nicabar, guiding her in. With him was a white-haired man in priestly garb, barely visible behind the admiral’s impressive bulk. Biagio licked his lips, anticipating Herrith’s arrival. He had pulled a lot of strings to make this happen, made a lot of puppets dance. He even felt some remorse. Vorto was a fine general. His death would make ruling the Empire all the more difficult. The count sighed, shrugging off the consequences. He wanted his mind unburdened. No doubt Herrith would engage him in verbal fencing. Biagio closed his eyes for a moment, sharpening his foil.
Since learning of Simon’s treason, Biagio had been unable to relax. He paced his mansion like an angry cat, stalking the halls at night and freezing in the gardens with only a cape to warm him. He felt friendless and profoundly misunderstood, and Dyana Vantran had kept her promise to shun him, refusing his polite smiles. She locked herself away in her rooms, desolate of human contact. Eris’ suicide had struck her hard. Biagio’s mood soured. If he had known his prize dancer was going to kill herself, he might not have been so drastic with her.
Control, he reminded himself. Control.
That was his biggest struggle now. Lately, his mind had been slipping into daydreams and flashes of rage. It was the stress, he knew, and the all-importance of his grand design, but that didn’t excuse some of his actions. Biagio kicked distractedly at the sand beneath his boots. Dyana Vantran was on his mind often these days. She was a perceptive little gadfly, and she annoyed him. More, she had started him thinking about things he’d wanted to keep buried. Insanity came only to the feeble-minded; he had always been sure of that. And Arkus wasn’t insane, was he? The drugs that kept them all vital did almost nothing to the brain.
Or so Biagio wanted to believe.
‘She’s a witch,’ he scoffed. ‘She’s trying to distract me.’
The count squared his shoulders. Nicabar’s launch was approaching. He could see Herrith more clearly now, staring at him from across the water. The bishop’s eyes were lusterless. Biagio frowned. Hadn’t Herrith taken the drug? Nicabar had offered it to him, surely. The count tried to relax. Eventually he’d get the bishop hooked again. Herrith was so malleable.
When the rowboat approached, two sailors splashed out of the vessel. They dragged it onto the sand, bringing it to a halt. In the boat was another man, sitting beside Herrith, coming into view as Nicabar stepped out. Biagio’s pleasure grew enormously.
Kivis Gago.
Nar’s Minister of Arms had made it to Crote. It was a pleasure the count hadn’t really expected. Like Herrith, Kivis Gago had always hated Biagio. Biagio tried not to let his grin overwhelm him. He cautioned his bodyguards to keep back as Gago’s servants stepped out of the boat and shielded their master. Instantly they drew their swords in a net of steel. The tiresome show irked Biagio but he did nothing to stop it. He merely watched as Kivis Gago stepped out of the boat and waded through the water. Gago’s face was set with ice. He looked different from when Biagio had last seen him. The blue of his eyes was gone, replaced with a natural, vastly less interesting brown. He had dropped weight, too, an obvious consequence of the withdrawal.
‘Welcome to Crote, Gago,’ said Biagio. He offered his enemy a mannerly bow. ‘I would say it’s good to see you, but that would be a lie.’
Gago paused, stunned at the statement. Hatred bloomed on his face. ‘Still an impertinent little elf, eh, Biagio?”he said. ‘I had hoped your exile might have changed you for the better. But I see it has only made you more bitter.’
Biagio wasn’t listening. He was looking over Gago’s shoulder toward Herrith. The old bishop was struggling out of the boat and coming ashore. Refusing Nicabar’s help, Herrith walked alone, his head held high despite his weakened appearance. Behind him came Nicabar, his expression stoic.
‘Who else has come?’ Biagio asked absently.
‘Claudi Vos, Te
pas Talshiir, Deboko,’ replied Gago. ‘Eleven lords in all’
Biagio’s heart leapt. ‘Good,’ he said evenly. ‘I’m glad. Maybe we can accomplish something.’
‘Don’t be too sure of that, Biagio,’ warned Gago. ‘Some of us aren’t in the mood to bargain.’
But you came, didn’t you? thought Biagio happily. Stupid man.
‘Let’s be open-minded,’ he said. Then he walked toward the approaching Herrith. Surprisingly, Biagio felt a little fluster of fear. Even after so much derision, there was still something awe-inspiring about Herrith. Biagio made sure to give his nemesis a respectful greeting, bowing low.
‘Herrith,’ he said reverently. ‘You honor me by coming here. My thanks, old friend.’
Herrith had the look of the heartbroken about him. He stared at Biagio vacantly. The count tried to coax him to speak with a smile.
‘I want you to be comfortable here,’ he said. ‘Have no fear. We’re here to talk, nothing more.’
‘The sight of you still sickens me,’ said Herrith finally. ‘Do not call me friend, Biagio. We are not friends and never will be. God curse you for what you’ve done. God burn you.’
The curses stung Biagio’s pride. He heard Kivis Gago’s annoying snicker. The minister’s bodyguards kept their swords drawn. Biagio mustered up his diplomacy.
‘Still, I thank you for coming, and for bringing the others. Gago tells me Vos has come. That’s good. What about Oridian?’
‘He’s aboard the Black City,’ Nicabar chimed in. ‘The skunk wouldn’t stay aboard the Fearless.’
‘Never mind, Danar,’ said Biagio cheerily. ‘Old differences. We’ll settle them soon.’
‘No,’ said Herrith icily. ‘We will not, Count. Not so easily. I agreed to come to put an end to the bloodshed. That’s all’
Biagio nodded. Herrith had no idea about bloodshed. ‘As you say in your sermons, Herrith, peace is the way to Heaven. Let’s begin right here, right now.’ He glanced at Gago. ‘No?’
Gago smirked. ‘We shall see, sinner.’
Biagio leveled his eyes on Gago. ‘We are all sinners, Kivis,’ he said. ‘Make no mistake.’
‘Some are worse than others, Count,’ countered Gago. He put up his hand, and the gesture made his bodyguards sheathe their swords. ‘But you are right, at least partially. We will listen to you. Just don’t waste our time.’
‘You see, Herrith?’ said Biagio. ‘We can put our differences aside, for a while at least. We must talk. We must also listen.’
The bishop scowled. ‘There are things I want to hear,’ he growled. ‘Explanations. That’s first. And I make you no promises, devil. I am here. That is all’
The venom in Herrith’s voice was appalling. Biagio had expected it, but not to feel its bite so keenly. He swallowed down a counterattack, gracing Herrith with a smile.
‘Walk with me, Herrith,’ he said calmly. ‘Please.’
The count stalked off down the beach a few paces. Then he paused, waiting for Herrith to follow. The bishop looked at him questioningly, but he soon relented, following Biagio down the beach. The bishop walked slowly and with effort. Biagio waited until they were well out of earshot before speaking. The constant sound of the surf helped to mask their words. He decided to start with an innocent question.
‘How are you feeling?’ he asked. ‘You do not look fit.’
‘I am withdrawing from your devil’s brew,’ replied Herrith.
‘Withdrawing? Why? Didn’t Nicabar give you my last gift?’
‘He did. You can suck it out of his floorboards if you like. That’s where I poured it – right on the floor.’
Biagio was aghast. ‘How could you? I mean, look at you! You need it, Herrith.’
‘I do not.’ Herrith straightened. ‘God gives me vigor, sinner. I will not surrender my soul to Bovadin’s potion any longer.’
‘It keeps us alive, Herrith,’ said the count. ‘And there is more of it. I plan to spare you the agony of mortality, at least.’
‘Dying will send me to God,’ said Herrith. ‘Someone you will never see, believe me.’
Biagio sighed. ‘We have much to discuss, you and I. It would be easier if you weren’t so sarcastic’
Herrith stopped dead. His hand shot out and grabbed Biagio’s sleeve, pulling him roughly around.
‘Don’t talk to me like a child, you sick little monster,’ he hissed. ‘I’m here because of what you and your midget did to my cathedral. And to my daughter!’
‘Daughter?’ Biagio grinned. ‘Oh, yes. I thought you’d like her.’
Herrith’s face purpled; Biagio thought the old man might strike him.
‘God will curse you, Biagio,’ swore the bishop. ‘You can laugh in His face now, but there will come a judgment. You will answer for your sins and crimes, sodomite.’
‘Do not call me that,’ Biagio warned. He held up a finger. ‘That’s the last time I will listen to that word from your lips. This is my island. You might still rule Nar, but on Crote I am the lord.’
‘Blasphemous snake,’ said Herrith. ‘Blind and stupid, too. All this murder. For what?’ He looked at Biagio imploringly. ‘Why, Count?’
‘For Nar,’ said Biagio with conviction. He pointed at himself with his thumb. ‘Because it’s mine, and you took it from me.’
‘You’re wrong. Nar belongs to no man. It is in the hands of God.’
‘It’s an empire, Herrith,’ spat Biagio. ‘It’s supposed to be ruled by an emperor. Arkus wanted me to have it.’
‘He never said so.’
‘He was afraid,’ argued Biagio. ‘Afraid of his own death. He was incapable of passing it on to me. But you know I’m right. You knew it even then, but you stole it from me. Now you see that I can’t give it up so easily, though. That’s why you’re here. Now you’re the one who is afraid.’
The bishop’s face was placid. ‘Biagio, I have more fears now than I ever thought possible,’ he said sadly. ‘You’re just one in a giant collection. I’ll listen to your rants. And I’ll talk peace with you, if that’s what it takes to stop your murdering. But I’ll never agree to make you emperor.’
‘Say it, Herrith,’ Biagio insisted. ‘Say Arkus wanted me to rule Nar. You know it’s true.’
‘I’ll say it, if that’s what pleases. Arkus did want you to have Nar. He loved you like a son. It changes nothing.’
But for Biagio, the statement changed everything. He stared at Herrith, thunderstruck at the admission.
Loved me. Like a son.
Biagio’s anger wilted into sadness. ‘Then why did you fight me, Herrith? Why did you start this acrimony?’
‘For the same reason I’m going to continue fighting you, Count. Because you’re a lunatic and a sinner. And because the Black Renaissance is a disease that enslaves men and degrades Heaven. You want to bring that back to Nar.’ Herrith shook his head. ‘I won’t let you.’
‘You can’t stop me, Herrith,’ warned Biagio. ‘None of you can. I can reach you anywhere you go. I’ve already proven that.’
‘Yes, you’ve done a fine job of terrifying us,’ admitted the old man bitterly. ‘But we’re all aligned to stop you. You have too many enemies now, Biagio. You can’t beat us all’
The threat made Biagio laugh. ‘I see there’s much to talk about,’ he said. ‘Let’s wait before we make such claims and say things we’ll regret. Today and tomorrow you should rest, all of you. After that, we will begin our talks.’
‘I would rather get this over with,’ snapped the bishop. ‘I’m not anxious to stay on your island.’
‘Stay, Herrith, please. If you won’t take the drug, then have some food and wine. We have plenty of both. I’ve spared no expense to make all of you comfortable. And I can tell the sea voyage has worn you out.’
Herrith grimaced. ‘Very well. The day after tomorrow, then.’ He turned and walked back toward the beaching rowboats, leaving Biagio alone. The count watched his old enemy go, still astonished at his strength. To refuse the drug wa
s unimaginable. Biagio had never thought Herrith capable of such resolve. Still, the count was pleased.
‘The day after tomorrow,’ he whispered.
He had not told Herrith that the Fearless and her escorts weren’t the only Naren vessels to come to Crote today. The Swift had arrived three hours earlier.
Dyana had spent the day in her chambers, blankly studying the walls. She had heard the buzzing of Kyla and the other servants, saying how eleven Naren lords had arrived on the island, and that Archbishop Herrith was among them. Yet despite the interesting news, Dyana didn’t care. Biagio was simply casting out one more of his elaborate schemes. Sure that she would somehow get caught in his net, Dyana decided to wait, and let things take their course. She was powerless now. Eris was dead, and Biagio was lost to her, and she knew that the count meant his threats. He would take her to the Black City. She was his bait in the trap he was springing for Richius. She had hoped she might reach into his warped mind and fix the broken things she found there, but Biagio was far beyond the influence of such naive tampering.
Since Eris’ death, Dyana hadn’t spoken to Biagio at all. They had passed each other in a hallway once, and he had given her an awkward smile, but Dyana had happily snubbed him. She didn’t want his pleasure or his pity, and she was determined not to give him the satisfaction of seeing her fear. Surprisingly, she didn’t really hate Biagio, not even after the heinous thing he had done to Eris. Dyana saw him more as a pathetic child, petulantly screaming for some out-of-reach toy. He was a menace and a murderer, but the question of his evilness still vexed her. Richius had called him a devil. The devil, even. But Dyana was Triin, and Triin Gods were more complicated. None of them was purely evil. To Dyana, that notion seemed impossible.
But he is unreachable, she reminded herself. So do not even try.
It was well past midnight and the mansion was silent. Dyana lay awake in her bed, staring at the ceiling. An ornate plaster mural looked back at her, depicting something from Crotan history, but she didn’t know what. Occasional footfalls passing her door disturbed her. The Naren nobles who had come were obviously keeping the servants busy. Dyana thought about Falindar, and how she had been pampered when she was Tharn’s wife. Tharn had been a good man. He had never let her want for anything. Sometimes, she surprised herself by missing him. She wanted desperately to go home.