by John Marco
Then he gave the order.
"Signal the Vindicator," he shouted to Marus. "Ram her."
Marus nodded grimly. Along the deck the order was passed. The signalmen flashed their colored flags. A quick reply followed from the Vindicator. The schooner changed course by mere degrees, pointing her shining steel prow at the hull of her prey. Like a giant shark the vessel swam forward, ever faster as her sails took up the wind. The men on deck braced themselves. Gray Lady broke away, paralleling the lumbering slaver, while the Prince of Liss took up position in front of her. The captain of the Naren vessel was screaming, frantically waving off the Vindicator. Prakna shook his fist.
"Now!"
Vindicator's prow slammed the helpless slaver. The crack and groan of wood shuddered as the slaver's hull imploded. Screams went up from her deck and cargo holds. Vindicator bobbed upward as her prow tore through planking, rising like a rhino horn to open the fatal wound. The Prince of Liss circled in front of the crippled slaver, her crew silent.
"Look at that," muttered Marus.
The Naren ship trembled as the ocean poured into her, drowning her lower decks and holds. Naren sailors abandoned the doomed vessel as she listed starboard. The Gray Lady bore down on the sailors as they bobbed aimlessly in the water, shocked and panicked. Prakna watched as the Gray Lady's keel flattened the sailors. The Vindicator ripped free of the ruined hull, pulling out a gory mess of wood and pitch as she fought to change direction before the wreck could drag her down.
Prakna crossed his arms over his chest, satisfied. The Prince of Liss slowed as it circled the Naren ship. The big slaver was listing badly, sucking in water. She groaned and shook as the ocean consumed her, pulling her relentlessly down. A medley of shouts rang from her decks as the men raced to abandon her, throwing themselves over her broken railings.
The flooded cargo holds were silent.
Vindicator had broken free and was slowly sailing away from her victim. Gray Lady circled around for another pass. Wild-eyed Narens swam in all directions, desperate to escape the hunting schooners. Some swam toward shore, foolishly attempting the impossible distance. Others merely floated there, astonished, as the keels of the warships smashed in their skulls.
In a few short moments, the Naren vessel was gone. Prakna's jaw clenched. She was a god-cursed slaver. She deserved to go down--with her crew and cargo. The fleet commander watched the bubbling ocean until all that was left of the ship was froth and even that vanished away. He turned away from the railing and found himself looking at Marus. The first officer's expression was grave.
"She carried slaves," Prakna mumbled, more to himself than to Marus. "To work in the war labs. To build ships . . ."
"Yes, sir."
Prakna swallowed. "Return to patrol," he said softly. "I'll be back in my cabin."
"Aye, sir." Marus let his commander walk away. But Prakna took only a few steps before Marus called after him.
"Prakna?"
Prakna stopped to face his friend. "Yes?"
"Next time," said Marus, "it will be the Fearless."
EIGHT
Dark-Heart
On board the Intimidator, Simon Darquis whiled away the hours topside. Around him, the everyday tedium of sea-life went on oblivious to his presence. He was the special passenger of Count Renato Biagio, and that was all any of the crew needed to know about their strange shipmate. Simon did what he could to stay out of their way, but he needed to be out in the sun, to let its weak rays redden his skin and let the wind chafe his face. Because his stomach couldn't stand the endless rocking of the ocean, he found the self-imposed starvation easy; everything that went down his gullet came right back up anyway. It had been three agonizing weeks since they had set out from Crote, and Simon hadn't downed a decent meal since. Always thin, Simon was now gaunt, precisely the look required for fooling the Jackal. He had hung his disguise--the uniform of a Naren legionnaire--from one of the mastheads, and he occasionally bundled it in a net and trolled it overboard. Like his own flesh, the uniform needed to be well weathered if he were to look his part. He had a pair of standard-issue boots in his cabin too, the soles so worn that his toes almost touched the earth. Simon had come up with the ruse himself, and Biagio had approved it.
Simon didn't know the Jackal of Nar and bore him no grudges. In an odd way he even admired Vantran. He had thrown the Empire into chaos, had abandoned his kingship in Aramoor, and had forged the Triin into an army capable of defeating Vorto's legions. And all for the love of a woman. Had circumstances been vastly different, Simon imagined, they might have even been friends. But Simon was Roshann, and Biagio's vengeance was unstoppable.
He hadn't explained his mission to Eris. She could never understand it anyway, and if she knew the truth it might have ended her love instantly. Despite her proximity to Biagio, the innocent girl knew very little about the Roshann's business. And it wasn't exactly a bargain he had struck with Biagio. Whether or not he married the dancer, Biagio expected this of him. Eris was merely a prize for years of good service. She was also the Master's way of showing his unique affection for Simon. Simon knew this and shuddered at it. But he had been honest with Biagio. He loved Eris, and would do anything to marry her--even steal a child. Truthfully, he knew the child would never leave Crote alive. If she left the island at all, it would be in pieces. Biagio was fond of sending people heads.
His lord was a monster; Simon knew that now. As he watched the waves go by from the deck, he realized that he served a madman, someone whose mind had been devoured by drugs. Biagio hadn't always been this way, and Simon mourned his memory. In the early days of the Roshann, when Biagio was young and Simon but a boy, the count had been a hero to the people of Crote. He had brought the island into the folds of the Empire, had fed the peasants with endless shipments of supplies from the mainland, and had given Crote something it desperately desired--respect. With Biagio at the emperor's right hand, it was no longer fashionable to call Cretans olive pickers or drunks. They were the people of the Roshann, feared and dangerous. And for that one great gift the people of the island adored Count Biagio, and would forgive him anything.
Even insanity.
It was a cold day on the deck of the Intimidator. The cruiser cut through the churning waters effortlessly, her sails full of air. Simon stood at her stern and watched the cruiser's wake. She was a fine ship, newer than most in the fleet. Not as grand as the Fearless, of course, but far better suited to their secretive task. They had rounded the cape of Lucel-Lor and were heading for Falindar. Captain N'Dek wanted no mistakes, so he kept his vessel far from shore. In these waters, N'Dek had told Simon, there were giant sea serpents and squids capable of dragging even the Fearless beneath the waves. N'Dek was a vicious man, prone to alarming lies, but Simon kept one suspicious eye on the deep anyway. For a man raised on an island, he detested the sea.
Soon they would be in Lucel-Lor. Simon relished the thought of solid ground beneath him, but the idea of his mission frightened him. It was impossible, after all, and he really didn't expect to succeed. Vantran would be suspicious of everything. He had outlived the emperor, he had slain the Baron Blackwood Gayle, and, most incredibly, he had outwitted Biagio. It seemed impossible to Simon that such a quick-witted man would let a stranger steal his daughter. But there was one thing Simon was sure Richius Vantran suffered from. He was Naren. And that meant he was alone in Lucel-Lor. With no one of his kind to talk to, he would certainly be desperate for a fellow countryman. It was a gamble, Simon knew, but it was a good one. He would play on Vantran's sympathies, work his way into his graces. Vantran would get used to having a friend. Then, like a cobra, Simon would strike.
I am without morals, thought Simon. God help me.
It was why he was good at being Roshann, why Biagio had come to lean on him. Simon's last name was no accident of fate. He had chosen the designation Darquis carefully. In the tongue of Vosk, where his mother had been born, the word meant "dark-heart." To Simon, it seemed the perfect tag for a man
without conscience.
No, Simon corrected himself. Not without conscience. Not completely. He felt remorse for this mission, just enough to make him human, and that pleased him. If he were a religious man he would have prayed for forgiveness, but the new God of Nar was deaf to Cretans. So he remained silent and merely watched the warship's wake, marveling at its size. The wind whipped his bearded face and sucked the moisture from his lips. Over his shoulder the sun was descending, heralding night's return, and the men on board called to each other and busied themselves with work. Simon thought of Eris, of her sharp face and perfect breasts. She had the legs of a goddess, long and slender, and Simon felt desire rise up in him until he was awash in his own loneliness. Soon he would take the Jackal's daughter and he would be free of this longing forever. He and Eris would wed. Simon closed his eyes and smiled, then heard the footfalls on the deck behind him.
"See any serpents?" asked N'Dek. The captain shouldered up to Simon and stuck an elbow in his ribs. "Good place to vomit, eh, Darquis?" jibed the captain. "Perhaps we should move your bunk up here."
Simon laughed. Despite the man's sardonic personality, Simon liked him. He was witty and strange, and had a reputation among his crew as a hard but fair captain.
"Don't stand too close to me, N'Dek. I might empty myself on your pretty uniform."
"If you emptied anything it would be water only," said the captain. "You should eat more. A strong wind and you'll go overboard."
"I can't eat," said Simon. "Not the swill your galley serves. I've tried, and all it does is come back up."
"It's not the food," said N'Dek, pointing a sharp finger into Simon's shoulder. "It's you. You're a weakling, Darquis. Like all land fighters." The captain cackled, baiting his hook, but Simon didn't rise to it.
"You're right," said Simon calmly. "That's why the legions are still in Nar, and the Black Fleet is sailing around safe little Crote. A pity Vorto's men can't all be as strong as you, N'Dek."
N'Dek's expression soured. "I should pitch you over the rail for that, Darquis. But then, Biagio might be angry if I killed his favorite spy."
There was a curious stress on the word favorite that made Simon squirm a little. "What's it like to be the count's messenger boy, N'Dek? Good job?"
"I am not a messenger boy," hissed N'Dek.
"Biagio should get himself some pigeons to deliver his messages. They'd certainly be faster than this wreck."
"Darquis, you astonish me. I'm the captain of this vessel. I could leave you stranded with your new Triin friends. How would you like that, eh? Marooned with the gogs? I'll just tell the count you were lost, or that you never came back. That would be a shame, wouldn't it? If you were lost?"
"Not so big a pity, N'Dek. At least I wouldn't have to endure this trip again."
N'Dek laughed. "Not much longer, spy. I've taken new bearings. According to my rutters, we should be reaching the citadel in the next two days."
"Two days? Are you sure?"
"If the winds hold, yes. We'll stop before Falindar, of course. Don't want to be seen."
"The watchtower," Simon reminded him. "Leave me at the tower."
N'Dek nodded impatiently. "Yes, yes . . ."
"You can't overshoot, N'Dek," said Simon. "The citadel is too damn high. If we get too close we might be seen."
"You presume a great deal," smoldered the captain. "I don't need your help to chart a course. Stick to your poisons and daggers, Roshann."
Simon accepted the warning. N'Dek was a playful man, but could only be pushed so far. Like all of Nicabar's captains, this one had a sore spot for Roshann agents, an umbrage he hid very poorly. N'Dek didn't like hiding in Crote. He wanted to be back in Nar, aiming his guns at Vorto's legions and the Lissens swarming the Empire's coasts. He endured the disgrace of cargo voyages because Admiral Nicabar ordered him to, but he bore a heavy resentment toward the Count of Crote and all his Roshann agents.
"You've been out here all day," said N'Dek at last. "Go below and get some rest. You'll need it for what's ahead."
It wasn't worth arguing, so Simon didn't. He was exhausted, weak from lack of food and the constant rising of his stomach. The air was better topside, but he heard his bunk calling. He nodded and turned from the captain, making his way toward the gang ladder. He had almost reached it when he heard N'Dek's snipe.
"Oh, Darquis, I almost forgot. We're having octopus tonight. Care to dine at my table?"
"Burn in Hell, N'Dek."
Simon spent the next day in his cabin, resting, wondering how near they were to Falindar. At around sundown, a little nervous flutter started growing in his stomach. He was always nervous before a mission, and he always appreciated the anxiousness. It kept him sharp. But this was different. As he lay in bed and watched the sunlight fade, he thought of Eris and their future, and he hoped it would be a life without regrets. His parents had loved each other, and when his father had died his mother had wept in agony, and told him how she hadn't regretted one moment of their lives together. Now, as he lay in bed, ill with sea-sickness, his mother's face kept coming to him, and he thought of Eris on the island with the mad Biagio, and of Savros who loved pain, and the little midget with the clever mind.
And Simon was afraid.
That night he hardly slept at all. When morning finally came he greeted it like an old friend. If the winds were fair, they would reach their destination that day. He dressed quickly and found his appetite returning. Up on deck N'Dek and his officers were pacing amidships. The sails were half-masted. The Intimidator moved slowly through the waters, like some great shark stalking prey. Simon hurried over to the captain, who flashed him an apprehensive smile.
"Good morning, Darquis. Look over my shoulder."
Simon paused, doing as N'Dek asked. It was a foggy morning and visibility was poor, but Simon saw the shape of land in the distance, unmistakable even in the mist. He took a deep breath and looked at N'Dek.
"That it?"
"Yes," nodded the captain. "According to my rutters. Any of this look familiar to you?"
Simon shook his head. He couldn't see the watchtower, and he wondered at the accuracy of N'Dek's charts. Though he had been here before, he was no expert on Triin terrain.
"I can't see anything from here," he said. "Can you get me closer?"
"We're piloting in. Get your gear together, Darquis. If this fog holds you can row ashore without being seen."
"Agreed," said Simon, returning to his cabin. Again that feeling of fear pecked at him, and he shook his head to be rid of it. He didn't really have gear, just his ragged disguise, and as he slid into it he made sure not to put any more tears in the threadbare fabric. He found his shabby boots beneath his bunk and slid these on too, and then completed his ensemble with the only weapon he would allow himself--a legionnaire's dagger. This he tucked into his belt. There was a mirror in the cabin and he inspected himself in it. His appearance made him smile. Weeks of sea-sickness had made him suitably gaunt, and his skin was chapped and weathered. His hair was filthy too, matted to his head by the accumulation of ocean salt.
"You can do this," he whispered to his reflection. "You must. For Eris."
For Eris. He drew a breath, held it, then left the cabin. The Intimidator was closer to shore now. Simon could barely see the scratchy outline of the Triin coast. This region of Lucel-Lor was called Tatterak. It was where Falindar stood. There had been a warlord here once, a Triin named Kronin, but he had been killed in the Naren invasion. According to the Triin Hakan, a man named Lucyler was Falindar's new master. Simon recited these facts like a mantra, searching for anything useful. If he truly had spent a year wandering Lucel-Lor, he would have known these things and more. One mistake, and Vantran would know the truth.
The cruiser sailed ever closer to land. When it was near enough to row ashore, N'Dek ordered the anchors lowered. The great weights dropped into the ocean with a splash, dragging down rattling chains. Simon waited at the railing for N'Dek's orders. The captain's face was unusu
ally serious as he stepped up to Simon.
"You ready?"
Simon nodded. He still couldn't see the tower through the fog, but the light was increasing, threatening the haze. He would have to disembark quickly.
"I'll have two men row you ashore. Find the tower as soon as you can. You'll be given a signal lantern and some flint. Hide them well. You'll need them to signal us. We'll be waiting out here for you in forty days."
"Forty days," Simon echoed. "All right."
N'Dek looked at him hard. "Forty days precisely, Darquis. Don't make any mistakes. I'm already uncomfortable in Triin waters alone. If there are still Lissens around--"
"There are no Lissens."
"If there are Lissens," continued N'Dek ruthlessly, "they will chase us out of here and you'll be on your own. If you miss the date, we sail home to Crote without you. Do you understand that?"
"I understand," said Simon. "Thanks."
"Don't blame me for this rotten task," said the captain. "I don't envy you, it's true. But I've got my own crew to worry about."
"And your own skin. Yes, I know. Don't apologize, N'Dek. I meant what I said. Thanks for taking me this far." Then he jabbed a finger into the man's chest and added, "Just be here when I get back."
Surprisingly, N'Dek returned the grin. "I'll be here in forty days. You have my word." The captain put his hand out for Simon. "Luck to you, spy."
Simon took the hand and shook it. "And to you," he said, then left to find the waiting rowboat. The little craft was dangling from the side of the Intimidator, ready to be lowered into the water. In it were two sailors, one of whom held a sack of provisions. Simon stepped gingerly into the rowboat, almost slipping as it swayed beneath him. When he was safely aboard, one of the sailors ordered the boat lowered, and it slowly began its descent. Simon watched N'Dek as the rowboat hit the water. The sailors took up the oars and began rowing toward the foggy shore, leaving behind the looming warship. In a short moment the Intimidator was shimmering in fog. Simon looked toward shore. There he saw the harsh terrain of Lucel-Lor coming into focus.