by John Marco
Exhausted, Biagio let himself daydream and he didn't think of Talistan or its sinister king, or of dark-robed Dakel lit by candlelight. Instead, his mind turned to Crote. His former island homeland would be bursting into spring, and the bittersweet image made the emperor smile. It was a long road back to the palace. Biagio seized on the image of golden beaches and, for a while, forgot his troubles.
But before long the carriage stopped before the gates of the Black Palace. Biagio rubbed his eyes and straightened his garments, which had fallen sloppily around his body. The slave that had closed his carriage door now opened it, again bowing as he bid the emperor to step out. They were in the private courtyard around the palace, the first of many tiers surrounding the dizzying structure. A network of roads and stone stairways connected each tier to its successor, and the yard was scattered with horses, bodyguards, and servants. High above, Naren noblemen hung over balconies, watching their ruler return. The tallest spires disappeared into Nar's perpetual haze.
As he stepped out of the carriage, Biagio noticed two figures coming quickly toward him. One was small and dark with wild eyes. The other was tall and burly, more like a wall than a man. No one would ever have believed the two were brothers. They approached their emperor and sank to their knees, greeting him with practiced respect.
"Welcome home, my lord," said the smaller man. He raised his head and smiled at Biagio, who knew at once that he was hiding something.
"Get that ridiculous grin off your face and tell me what's on your tiny mind, Malthrak," Biagio ordered.
Malthrak of Isgar and his brother Donhedris both got to their feet. Donhedris was typically silent, letting his sibling do the talking.
"Can you not guess, my lord?" said Malthrak mischievously. He was in Biagio's good graces, and so took annoying chances. "You haven't seen, have you?"
"Seen what?" rumbled Biagio. "Tell me, Malthrak, or I shall have your liver for dinner."
"There," said Malthrak, pointing over the emperor's shoulder. "In the harbor."
Biagio's eyes followed his underling's finger. They were high enough to see the city's harbor, choked as always with trading ships. But today there was something else in the inlet, a vast, black ship with armor plating and towering masts that flew the flag of Nar.
"The Fearless," Biagio whispered. "Damn . . ."
The Fearless dwarfed the ships around it, smothering them beneath its dominating shadow. Its sails were furled and its twin anchors were plunged into the depths. Biagio's head began to thunder, and he put a hand to his temple to massage away the pressure. This was a surprise he didn't need.
"Is he ashore yet?" he asked.
"Unfortunately, yes. He's waiting for you inside your reading parlor."
"Has he said anything?"
"No, my lord," replied Malthrak. Then his nose crinkled and he added, "Well, that's not precisely true. He did mumble something about Liss."
"Oh, yes," laughed Biagio. "I'm sure he did. Very well. Go and tell him I'll be in directly. Get him something to drink and eat. Something expensive. Try to . . ." the emperor shrugged, "make him comfortable."
Malthrak nodded and scurried away, his big, wordless brother following close behind. Biagio watched them disappear into the palace, then took his time following. He wanted to think before meeting Nicabar, but he didn't want to keep the admiral waiting too long, either. Surely his friend would be enraged. And Biagio had half-expected the visit anyway. But now he needed to summon the old Cretan charm and diplomacy. Nicabar was a very old, very dear friend. Surely he would be able to handle him.
The "parlor," as Malthrak called it, was a private reading room Biagio kept for himself on the first of the palace's many floors. It was a comfortable room housing the collection of rare books and manuscripts Biagio had assembled from around the Empire. Because of its location, Biagio often greeted dignitaries there. Nicabar had known exactly where to go.
Once inside the palace, Biagio doffed his cape, handing it to another of the ubiquitous slaves, then headed off toward the parlor to meet his old ally. These had been difficult days for the two of them. Since helping his friend win the Iron Throne, Nicabar had turned his attention back to Liss. The admiral had spent the past year in a bloody campaign against the seafarers, a protracted waste of blood and energy that had gained him few victories. Now Biagio needed peace with Liss--especially with ambitious Talistan nipping at his heels.
Biagio slowed a little as he neared the parlor. The collection of statues lining the hall stared at him. Suddenly he was afraid to face Nicabar. He was emperor, but that didn't make things easier. What he was about to do frightened him.
Outside the parlor, two of Nicabar's officers waited, guarding the door. Not surprisingly, Malthrak and Donhedris were there as well. Next to them were a pair of Shadow Angels, keeping a conspicuous eye on the men from the Fearless. The Shadow Angels were everywhere now. Biagio preferred them to the legionnaires, who no longer served the emperor unquestionably since the murder of their general, Vorto. The two skull helms turned toward Biagio, then to the sailors. Nicabar's men bowed courteously and stepped aside.
Biagio pushed open the door and stepped into the parlor. The drapes were opened wide letting sunlight pour inside. At the far end of the chamber, his back turned toward the door as he stared out over the city, was Admiral Danar Nicabar. The officer had a glass of wine in his hand and was swirling it absently, lost in thought. Biagio could almost feel the fury rising off him. He put on a smile and closed the door behind him. Nicabar did not turn around. There was a long, uncomfortable pause before either of them spoke.
"Renato," said Nicabar at last, "I'm very angry." "Indeed, my friend? Too angry to greet me properly?" "Too angry to call you friend," sneered Nicabar. He turned from the window, slamming his glass down on the sill. The glass slipped and shattered on the floor, but Nicabar ignored it as he stalked toward Biagio. "Why did you order the war labs to curtail my shipments of fuel?"
Biagio folded his arms over his chest. "Do not presume to bark at me, Danar," he warned. "I've not the character for it. You're here to discuss this matter. Fine. I expected you to come. But do not shout at me like a cabin boy. I am your emperor."
"I put you here!" Nicabar growled. He was taller than Biagio by at least a foot, and the imposing figure would have made a lesser man cower. But Biagio did not cower. He locked eyes with the admiral and returned his steely gaze.
"How dare you keep that fuel from me!" Nicabar continued. "If it wasn't for me you wouldn't be emperor. I need that fuel for my cannons!"
"Danar," cautioned Biagio. "Sit down. And try to calm yourself. I have my reasons for stopping shipment of your fuel. I will tell you why in my own time and manner. But you will sit."
There was enough edge to the command to make Nicabar's face soften. He took a deep, unsteady breath, found a chair, and collapsed into it with an angry grunt. "I didn't come here for word games, Renato," he said impatiently. "I want answers. Why were my shipments of fuel stopped? And don't tell me it's because you still want peace with those Lissen devils. I swear, if you say that I'll scream."
"Hmm, then perhaps I should cover my ears."
"Goddamn it, no!" Nicabar made a fist and slammed it into the armrest. "You promised me!"
"I did promise you," Biagio admitted. "What can I say? Things change."
"So, you're not as good as your word then, eh? You forget too quickly, old friend. My navy put you on the throne. And I did it for a price. You knew the bargain. I won't let you change it. I am going after Liss."
"You cannot," said Biagio. He took a step closer to the admiral, deciding on a softer tack. "Danar, look around. Open your eyes. Your obsession with Liss is costing us too dearly. We must have peace with them. The Empire is tearing itself apart and you're off on some mad vendetta. I need you here in Nar. I need you to keep me strong."
Nicabar laughed bitterly. "My God, you do forgive easily, don't you? It's not just my vendetta, Renato. It's supposed to be yours, too. The Li
ssens have your homeland. How can you not care?"
"I do care," Biagio countered. "But it was the price of winning the throne. Everyone needs to make sacrifices, Danar. Even you."
Nicabar shook his head. "I'm done with that. I've sacrificed enough of my honor already. Ten years. That's a long bloody time to fight. Now you're asking me to wait even more? Forget it. Jelena's still building her forces, Renato. Have you considered that?"
Biagio had considered it heavily. The child queen of Liss was far more resilient than he'd anticipated, and her forces were growing stronger. It was just one more of his miscalculations. But it didn't change the equation.
"Peace," Biagio said. "That's the only answer." He went down to one knee beside the admiral's chair. "Be my friend, Danar. Do this thing for me."
Nicabar turned away, suddenly uncomfortable, but Biagio seized his hand. It was deathly cold, like his own had once been.
"Look at me," Biagio commanded.
Nicabar complied and Biagio gazed into his comrade's unnaturally blue eyes, seeing the same narcotic madness that had once stared back at him from mirrors. But how could he reach him? It was nigh impossible to break the bonds of Bovadin's elixir. That desire had to come from deep within, and Nicabar seemed not to possess it. Biagio smiled at his friend, pitying his insatiable rage.
"We've been friends a long time, Danar," he said. "I owe you a lot. I know that. But it will all be for nothing if you keep pursuing Liss. We will lose the Empire and everything we've fought for. You've seen the chaos. You know I'm right."
Nicabar was unreachable. "All I know is your promise to me. You said I could destroy Liss once you took the throne. Well, it's been a year now. Will you break your pledge to me? Or will you reinstate my cannon fuel?"
"Danar . . ."
"That's your choice, Renato. It's bleak, but there it is."
"Danar, Talistan--"
"Burn Talistan," spat Nicabar. "Burn and blast it! Blast Dragon's Beak and Doria and Casarhoon, too. I don't give a damn about any of them. Liss is what I live for, Renato. I will have them, and I will crush them." He snatched his hand away from Biagio. "And you won't stop me, old friend."
It was a poorly veiled threat, and it stunned Biagio. He got to his feet.
"You will fight me, then?" he asked, struggling to control his resentment. "You'll join in the chorus for my head? Why don't you just sail your navy to Talistan, Danar? Join with the rest of my enemies?"
"Your promise," Nicabar insisted. "All I want is for you to make good on it."
"I can't, you fool!" roared Biagio. "I am Emperor of Nar! I have more important things than your petty revenge." He stalked around the room like a tiger, enraged and frustrated at Nicabar's stupidity. "God help me, I can't make war with Liss. I can't even win back my homeland, because Nar needs me. We'll have war if we don't stop Talistan, Danar. Worldwide war. And if you're off battling Liss, who will be here to stand against them?"
The admiral merely shrugged. "Give me the fuel," he said calmly, "and I won't oppose you. I will fight my own war and win back Crote for you. That I promise. Just give me the fuel."
"And if I don't?"
"Then I will take the navy away from you, Renato. I will fight the Lissens without cannons and you will be weaker than you are now, with no navy." The admiral grinned. "And no army."
Checkmate, thought Biagio blackly. He turned slowly toward the window, stalling as he groped through the political maze. Nicabar was right. He had no army. The legionnaires wouldn't follow him because he'd murdered their general. He was emperor in name only because he had the threat of Nicabar's fleet behind him. Without that, his hold on the throne might crumble in a day.
Yet Nicabar had forced his hand, forgetting that the emperor was the Roshann and the Roshann was everywhere. Biagio had made a life out of contingencies. The emperor sighed. He had loved Nicabar like a brother once.
"That's final, is it?" he asked over his shoulder. He saw Nicabar nod in the window's reflection.
"It is. Just keep your promise, and you'll have no trouble from me. Order the war labs to release the fuel."
"I'm not wrong about Talistan, Danar. Gayle is planning something."
"The fuel, Renato."
"Very well," agreed the emperor. "I will speak to Bovadin about it. He'll order the war labs to provide your flame cannon fuel. You will have it by tomorrow."
"Then that's when we'll set sail," Nicabar said, springing from his chair.
"But you're not going to Crote, are you?" said Biagio. "You're planning to attack Liss."
Nicabar blanched. "How did you know?"
"Oh, please, Danar. I still have some sources." Biagio rubbed his hands together. "Well, that does sound promising. Liss itself! My, you are confident, eh?"
"I can beat them this time, Renato," rumbled Nicabar. "Once I've gathered the intelligence I need, find a weak spot to attack . . ."
"Yes, yes, I'm sure you're right, Danar. Good luck to you, then. But keep in touch, all right?"
"Don't be sarcastic, Renato. I am right this time. I will beat them."
You've been saying that for years, you fool, thought Biagio.
"Of course you'll beat them," he said. "I wish you all the luck in the world. And you wish me luck, don't you, Danar? I mean, when Talistan rolls its horsemen into the Black City and all the nations of Nar clamor for my skin, I will have your best wishes, won't I?"
The two men shared a charged glance, then Admiral Nicabar backed away, shaking his head. Biagio thought of stopping his comrade before he left, but it was too late and Biagio wasn't in the mood to apologize. Nicabar left the door open as he exited the parlor and stormed off down the hall, his two sailors falling in step behind him. Quick-thinking Malthrak shut the door again, guessing correctly that his master wanted to be alone.
"Goddamn it," groaned Biagio. He went to the chair that Nicabar had vacated and fell into it, exhausted and angry. All his efforts had been for nothing. Nicabar was obsessed with Liss and would never forsake that struggle. Nicabar didn't care if Tassis Gayle and his henchman Leth were plotting against the throne, and he didn't care if tyrants like Angoris murdered people by the thousands. He just wanted Liss. Biagio laughed.
Once he himself had bargained away his humanity for power. It was what the drug did to men.
"Malthrak!" shouted Biagio suddenly. "Get in here!"
Within a moment the parlor door opened and Malthrak stuck his swarthy head inside. "My lord?" he queried. "Are you all right?"
"Find me Captain Kasrin, Malthrak. Find out where he is and bring him."
Malthrak looked puzzled. "Kasrin?"
"Of the ship Dread Sovereign. He's in a harbor somewhere north of the city. I want to see him. And I don't want anyone finding out about it, understand? Secret things, Malthrak."
Malthrak grinned. Secret things were what he was best at. "I understand, my lord. I'll find him."
"Go quickly," said Biagio. "And shut the door."
The little Roshann agent sealed his emperor into the parlor. Outside, Biagio could hear him murmuring to his brother. Malthrak would find Kasrin quickly and bring him to the Black City. And Donhedris had an errand of his own. According to Dakel, Elrad Leth's ship had been sighted nearing the city.
The emperor took a deep breath. He thought of Nicabar and all the good times they had enjoyed together. But that was the past. A year ago, when Biagio was still addicted to the drug, killing had been easy for him. He never felt anxious or afraid, and he never felt remorse over any of his orders, no matter how bloody. Withdrawing from the narcotic had changed all that, and sometimes he yearned for the old harshness again.
"Forgive me, my friend," he whispered. "I will miss you."
TWO
Alazrian looked out over Nar City. He was higher up than he had ever been in his life, seemingly higher than birds fly, and he was mesmerized. This was his own balcony, part of his private room, and the Tower of Truth was a dazzling structure. Alazrian had seen it from the hills around
the city, twinkling bronze and orange in the sunlight. It had one twisting spire and countless balconies, and it pointed heavenward like a needle, skewering the smoky clouds. To Alazrian, who had never seen a city, it was like something from a dream.
"My God," he whispered, smiling to himself. "It's beautiful."
The slave who had escorted Alazrian to his room seemed pleased. "It is to your liking then, my lord?"
"My liking? Oh, yes." Alazrian turned from the stunning view to face the servant. He was a middle-aged man with tired eyes and taut skin who looked as though he had been bringing people up and down the tower's stairs for decades. "It's incredible," Alazrian said. "And it's all mine?"
"Yes, my lord," replied the slave. "For as long as you stay in the tower. The minister made it very clear. You and your father are to be his guests."
Alazrian knew that the "minister" was Dakel himself. Popularly known as the Inquisitor, his real title was Nar's Minister of Truth. Dakel was master of the tower, one of the city's highest ranking lords, and the extravagance of his home bespoke his station.
"It's not what I expected," Alazrian confessed. "When we were summoned here I thought, well . . ."
The slave smiled. "A lot of people don't expect the minister's hospitality. Please be at ease. I am at your command. My name is Rian."
"And you've been assigned to me?"
"You and your father, yes."
Alazrian was less pleased to hear that. He didn't like the idea of sharing the servant with his father, who would no doubt run poor Rian ragged. And his father already had his bodyguard Shinn for company. Shinn went everywhere with Leth. They were like twins, attached at the shoulders and equally hateful.
"Well," remarked Alazrian. "Thank you very much. I'm overwhelmed." He went back to looking out over the city. It was marvelous. He could see the palace across the river Kiel and a hundred little boats navigating the waterway. Far below in the dark streets, beggars moved in shambling mounds mixing with the pretty painted ladies who cruised the avenues to shop and gossip. He had heard a dozen different languages the moment he'd stepped off the ship and onto Nar's docks and his head was still ringing with the throbbing of the distant incinerators. Alazrian took a deep breath of the metallically charged air.