by John Marco
The officer acknowledged the order and soon the dreadnought was moving again, buzzing with activity as her crew sprang to work. Nicabar waited, his blue eyes blazing with inhuman fire. When they had left the burning wreck of the Firedrake behind, the admiral shifted thoughtfully.
‘I’m not a man of great patience, Lissen, so I will speak plainly. I need your knowledge of the Hundred Isles to help me find a way inside. I intend to convince you to help me, using any means necessary.’
Shii’s knees turned to water. She watched Auriel shake his head defiantly.
‘I know what you want, dog,’ he replied. ‘Don’t waste your breath. I will never tell you what you want to know, and neither will any of my crew.’
Varin’s saber swept in front of Auriel’s nose. ‘Tell us, you devil, or I swear you will suffer.’
‘Call off your mongrel, Nicabar,’ said Auriel. ‘His words are meaningless and I do not hear them.’
‘No?’ said Nicabar. ‘Then perhaps I can clear your ears a little.’ He shouldered past Auriel, examining the captive Lissens standing on the deck. One by one he inspected them, his cold eyes calculating their value, and when he reached Shii his eyes flared curiously. ‘A woman,’ he observed. His hand reached out and brushed across her cheek. ‘How pretty.’
Shii clamped her jaw shut to keep from reacting. Nicabar’s touch was deathly cold. She looked straight ahead, avoiding eye contact, letting him stroke her skin. He leaned in closer and put his ears to her lips.
‘Tell me what I want to know,’ he whispered. ‘Or I will make the next few minutes of your life unbearable.’
‘Burn in hell, Nicabar,’ she hissed. Her voice was wobbly but determined. ‘You won’t break me.’
‘You don’t think so?’ He stepped aside for her to see. ‘Look.’
A group of sailors was approaching with a long chain of manacles. They were slaver chains, the kind the Narens used on the conquered folk of Bisenna. It took five crewmen to carry the heavy length of metal links, looped at even intervals with neck collars and wrist bracelets, and the sight sent a tremor through the captive Lissens. Varin and his men kept their blades drawn as the sailors set to work. The Naren lieutenant put the point of his saber to Auriel’s throat.
‘There’s time to change your mind, Auriel,’ said Nicabar. ‘Does my offer look more tempting now?’
Auriel said nothing as he watched the Narens shackle his crew, fixing their necks in collars and their wrists in manacles. Shii and her mates did not resist. They were lost and they knew it. A cold metal collar closed around Shii’s neck, linking her inexorably to Gigis. Manacles followed, locking around her wrists. Immobilized, terrified, she looked over at Auriel and saw that the young commander was weeping. Tears ran from his eyes as he fought to maintain his defiant expression. The point of Varin’s saber had drawn a pinprick of blood from his neck. Shii knew he would let them all die and that he himself would die soon after, but she also knew that his tears were not for himself but for the crew he had delivered to such disaster.
When they had finished tethering the twenty captives, the Naren sailors took the far end of the chain and secured it to the starboard railing. Shii, at the other end, watched with horrible certainty, sure she had guessed Nicabar’s plan. Nineteen men and women were tied to her but she would be the first into the water. A feeling of smothering panic set in. Desperate for courage, she focused her mind on the only thing of comfort she could find.
Lian, she thought silently. I’m coming to you.
‘Last chance before they go overboard, Auriel,’ growled Nicabar. His whole body was shaking with rage. ‘Cooperate and I’ll spare them. You have my word.’
Auriel laughed, choking back tears. ‘The word of a serpent is no word at all.’
‘It’s a terrible death,’ countered Nicabar. ‘They’ll dangle out there until they drown, or until a shark takes a chunk out of them. We’re not sailing quickly enough for them to die fast.’
It was true. The dreadnought was barely making three knots. Shii thought about the cold waters and how long it would take before the sharks found them. At this speed they would tread water until exhaustion dragged them down, one by one. But Auriel, who could clearly imagine their awful fate, remained resolute. He turned away from Nicabar and looked at his crew, and even in his silence his meaning was plain. He was proud of them. And sorry. Each of them in turn nodded their forgiveness. That made Nicabar boil.
‘Die then!’ he roared. ‘Watch them twist, Auriel, and maybe that will loosen your tongue!’ The admiral turned to his sailors. ‘Do it.’
Four Narens rushed for Shii, grabbing up her arms and lifting her off the deck. She shouted curses and kicked at them as they manhandled her toward the rail. Gigis pulled against the chain, yelling as he tried to keep her from going overboard, but more of the sailors were on him, dragging him forward. Shii’s anger became terror, turning her curses into a tortured scream. She was on the edge now trying desperately to hook her legs around the rail. Below her churned the black ocean.
‘No!’ she cried, almost in tears. ‘Stop!’
But Naren fingers pried loose her tenuous foothold and tossed her over the side. Shii gasped. She was falling upside down toward the water. Her neck seemed to snap as the chain caught hold of Gigis, pulling him down with her. Before she hit the waves she caught the strangest glimpse of him, flying like a broken bird. Then the ocean swallowed her, knocking the breath from her lungs in a screaming chorus of bubbles. Darkness pressed around her. Her ears registered the cries and endless splashes of crewmates following her down. She fought desperately to right herself, finally finding the proper direction from a merciful sliver of moonlight. Her head broke the surface, and then the awful jerking came again on her metal collar as the dreadnought pulled away, running them out like fishing line. Shii kicked her legs in a mad struggle to stay afloat. Water flooded up her nose and down her throat, gagging her as the warship dragged her through the sea. She raised her manacled hands and grabbed hold of the chain, pulling herself up as best she could and hoping she wasn’t choking Gigis.
‘Swim!’ Gigis called out. ‘Swim!’
All nineteen of Shii’s chainmates were in the water now, kicking and gasping and fighting to stay afloat. Already Shii’s legs were numb from the effort and the unforgiving chill of the water. Her neck ached and her shoulders had surely dislocated, but she kept on with all her strength, desperate to stay alive, to fight another day, to see one more sunrise. It occurred to her suddenly how young she was, how strangely her life was ending, and she laughed, delirious with fear.
She kept laughing and crying for almost an hour until a shark detected her thrashing and took off her legs.
On board the Fearless, Nicabar watched Commander Auriel. He had ordered the young Lissen’s hands tied behind his back. Varin had lowered his saber. Together they watched the twisting chain of people cut through the ocean. All were dead, rolling lifelessly beneath the waves as the sharks tore at their flesh. Moonlight on the ocean revealed a trail of crimson stretching out into the distance.
With each victim that had fallen to the sharks, Nicabar had turned to Auriel and promised to end the carnage if only he would cooperate, and each time Auriel’s reply had been the same – stone-cold silence. Nicabar eyed his strong-willed captive, knowing that his ploy had failed. There was something about these Lissens that made them fierce. They were devoted to their cause like zealots. It was the vexing element that had made conquering them impossible.
‘You’re next,’ he said. ‘But you can still save yourself.’
Auriel turned to regard Nicabar, his expression poisonous. Finally he spoke, saying, ‘You could drown me a thousand times, and I still wouldn’t help you. You will never defeat Liss, Nicabar. Never.’
The insult snapped Nicabar’s waning patience. He grabbed Auriel’s bloodied shirt and lifted him off the deck.
‘You smug little toad,’ he spat. ‘I will defeat Liss! And when I do, I will feed you all to the shar
ks!’ He dragged Auriel to the railing. ‘You want to be a hero? Good. Join your friends in the shark bellies!’
And Nicabar tossed him overboard. Auriel was characteristically silent as he fell. Nicabar leaned over the rail and watched him kick his way to the surface as the dreadnought pulled away, still dragging the gory chain of Lissens. The admiral spit over the side, wishing he could watch the sharks devour Auriel.
‘You’re wrong, Auriel,’ he called. ‘I will beat Liss!’
Then he gave the order to untie the chain, cursing as he left the deck. Captain Blasco watched him stoically.
‘Sail for Casarhoon,’ the admiral growled. ‘We have a rendezvous to make.’
Six
Baron Jalator’s Wax Works stood in the shadow of the Black Palace in a popular tourist corridor between a market and a boat landing offering tours of the river. It was a grand building, marked by the cylindrical columns so common in the Black City with wide arches and a sweeping roof line decorated with miniature reliefs. This was the capital’s finest section, close to High Street and the former cathedral and dotted with shops for wealthy travellers. Naren lords and ladies populated the avenues by day, mixing with the traders and merchants and beggars. The Wax Works was open every day, so that the people of the Empire could marvel at the lifelike creations of the baron. Baron Jalator was dead, but his work endured through the busy hands of his apprentices who continued to fill the museum with characterizations. In the Wax Works’ numerous galleries were creatures of myth and men of history. Every Naren leader of consequence was on display, molded in resin for public gawking.
The Narens loved their Wax Works. Each day they flooded its halls, laughing and pointing, contemplating their history through the oddly animate medium of wax. There was a room depicting a torture chamber where traitors hung on hooks and hooded executioners beheaded heretics. Next to that was the popular Hall of Heads, a trophy room of sorts, depicting busts of the Empire’s most infamous criminals. Carlox the Ripper was there resplendent in a crimson ascot, as was Madam Jezala, a former queen of Doria who drank the blood of virgin girls hoping for eternal youth. Langoris, who made furniture from the skin of slaves, rested comfortably beside the head of Pra’Heller, once a friend of Arkus of Nar. Pra’Heller was a duke who’d wanted to be a duchess and the frenzy of his mismatched identity had driven him to murder all his duchy’s maidens. Some said the duke had hoped to gain the girls’ spirits through their murder; others thought he was simply insane and defied explanation. But all agreed that he was now just a curiosity to be puzzled over in the museum.
Of all the late baron’s fans, there was one who spent an inordinate amount of time in the Wax Works, prowling its halls in the smallest hours of the night long after the doors had closed and the noise of the public had faded. Renato Biagio adored the Wax Works. Like many of his noble peers, it was his favorite museum in Nar City, a place that seemed to awaken a boyish sense of wonder. He had even met Baron Jalator once, a small man who had refused Arkus’ offer of the life-sustaining drug to stave off the encroachment of age. At the time Biagio had thought Jalator’s decision remarkably foolish, but now he understood. He was a man of art and vision, and when his time had come to die he had accepted it graciously.
Biagio considered the baron as he walked through his Wax Works. It was very near midnight and the crowds had long since gone. Biagio’s high heels clicked on the stone floor as he paced through the museum, marvelling at the lifelike figures. He was in the Imperial Wing where the former rulers of the Empire were immortalized. Each had an elaborate display, a diorama corded off with velvet rope, and they had all been constructed with painstaking precision. Emperor Dragonheart had the largest display. He was the father of Arkus and the first real Emperor of Nar, and his wax likeness depicted him in dazzling silver armor atop a black charger. There was a bloodied lance in his hand, presumably soiled by a dragon he had recently slain. Biagio paused as he passed the elaborate creation. Dragonheart was the source of countless stories. He was one of Nar’s heroes, a man whose name was invoked by nobles during public speeches. His reputation for courage had obviously been exaggerated, but no one seemed to mind. Narens appreciated heroes – just as they crucified cowards.
Biagio yawned. The lateness of the hour had drawn bags under his eyes. He looked around the hall wondering if he was alone. It wasn’t quite midnight, but Dakel was always prompt, Biagio had half-expected the Inquisitor to be early, but all he saw was his own pair of guardians down the hall standing soundlessly as if they too were made of wax. Biagio forced himself to relax. Dakel would be here. Then it would be off to the harbor where Kasrin was waiting. There would be no rest for him tonight.
Slowly he moved through the hall, studying the visages of past rulers and wondering if his wax countenance would ever join them. Not if he were emperor during Nar’s destruction. Terrible things were on the horizon. Within a year his beloved Wax Works might be gone, burned to the ground or trampled beneath the hooves of Talistanian horses. Suddenly his plans to turn the tide seemed foolish. Maybe Kasrin was right about him. Maybe he was still insane.
But Biagio knew he had no choice. He had no allies left in the city. Now he needed new allies, people crazy enough to understand his vision. Certainly he wouldn’t find them among the dandies of Nar. This time, he needed men with dirt beneath their nails.
And women, he added wryly. Like Jelena.
In a few days he would face the Lissen queen, assuming she didn’t sink the Dread Sovereign on sight. He would use all his charm and candor, trying to convince her to join his coalition. She needed peace as badly as he did; Biagio was certain of that. You couldn’t just sit on a throne and watch people perish. It wasn’t that easy, not if you were sane.
And I am sane now, he told himself. Eventually, he would even be whole again. In time the headaches would cease and the cravings would disappear, and he would know what it meant to be normal.
At the end of the Imperial Wing was a very special exhibit, one that Biagio always visited when coming to the Wax Works. It was sort of a shrine for him, an embodiment of the man whom he’d loved like a father, and who had given him so much in his overly-long life. Biagio’s eyes drifted upward as he reached it, tracking over the wax depiction of an ancient figure.
Arkus of Nar looked down from a fake Iron Throne, almost alive as he contemplated his visitor. His hair was long and white and his eyes were a dazzling blue, fit with two real sapphires to approximate their preternatural light. A golden robe fell around his lean body, and his fingers were circled with gemmed rings. It was an odd depiction of Arkus, without the desiccated skin and sickly pallor of his later years, but it was striking nonetheless. It was Arkus as he once had been – as he should have remained – and the sight of him hurt. Alazrian Leth had been right. Arkus’ death had been the most terrible thing Biagio had ever endured. It had taught him the meaning of pain.
‘I’m emperor now, Arkus,’ whispered Biagio. He glanced up at the strong wax face. ‘I’m doing my best, but it’s so hard. I wish you were here to help me. I wish you were still emperor, and everything was the same.’
But everything wasn’t the same, and this Arkus was a fraud. Biagio sunk his chin into his chest.
‘You don’t know what it’s like these days,’ he remarked. ‘You could never know.’
Arkus had been stronger than Biagio, and Biagio knew it. His patron had been the most ruthless, brilliant man he’d ever met, and he never let sentiment get in the way of things. But he was also insane and hopelessly addicted to Bovadin’s drug, and in the end that madness had ruined him, turning him into a weeping shell desperately afraid of dying. Biagio straightened. He wasn’t afraid of dying. The only thing he’d ever feared was obscurity.
A sound at the other end of the corridor startled him. Biagio turned and saw Dakel in the shadows. Biagio flushed. His guardians were used to him talking to himself, but he didn’t think Dakel should know him that well.
‘Come,’ he called, his voice ech
oing down the corridor. Dakel seemed confused. He wore a ruby evening coat that billowed out behind him as he walked.
‘Lord Emperor,’ he said, greeting Biagio. ‘Good evening.’ He shifted his walking stick from hand to hand, unsure what to say next. ‘I received your summons, my lord. I’m here as you asked.’
Biagio regarded him with a smile. ‘Thank you for coming,’ he said. He had always liked Dakel. The Inquisitor was something of a protégé these days. He had a keen mind and a sharp sense of duty that Biagio admired. In other times, he might even have trusted Dakel. ‘You look concerned,’ Biagio observed.
Dakel looked around. ‘Forgive me, my lord, but this is an unusual place for a meeting. May I ask why all the secrecy?’
‘It’s necessary,’ replied Biagio, unsure how much to divulge. If Dakel was to rule in his absence, he had to be safe. And sometimes safety came from ignorance. He put a hand on the younger man’s shoulder and tried to sound reassuring. ‘I am sorry for the furtiveness. But I needed to be sure no one would overhear us tonight, and the walls of the palace have grown ears lately. Come, walk with me.’