The Grand Design

by John Marco

  "Our discussion can wait then, seaman. But I promise you--we will talk again. Get in the carriage. I will take you to the cathedral."

  Nicabar looked around at the swelling crowd. "You and your bishop have cast quite a spell on these people. I suppose I should congratulate you. But it won't last. That's my promise to you." The admiral gestured to his flagship anchored in the harbor. "Take a good look at my vessels. If anything happens to me, they have orders to open fire. They'll blast a hole in Nar City so big even you could walk through it."

  "God forgive your blasphemy, Danar. Truly, I pity you. Get in the carriage. Just for today you have my word--you will be unharmed."

  Vorto's word was meaningless, but Nicabar got into the carriage anyway. It was empty, and the plush velvet seats were unbelievably comfortable. Nicabar sat down and leaned out the window. A few bold Narens in the crowd waved to him and he waved back, suddenly delighted with the strange homecoming. He had missed Nar. Life at sea was only bearable when you had a home to return to, and he had none. Losing the Black City was like losing a beautiful woman. She was unforgettable.

  Vorto barked orders at his columns to depart, and the carriage lurched forward, bearing Nicabar away from the docks and through the avenues of Nar City. Colossal skyscrapers rose up quickly around him, burying him in their shadows. Haze and fire obscured the sky as the towering smokestacks vomited up clouds. In the distance, Nicabar saw the towers of the Black Palace, former home of Arkus, and the giant mausoleum on its great lawn, built by Biagio to remember his beloved emperor. Sunlight played on the river Kiel, that wide, polluted waterway, and as the carriage crossed the iron bridge Nicabar gazed across the river through his open window, seeing all the splendor of sprawling Nar feeding from the Kiel's banks. The Cathedral of the Martyrs rose into view, blocking out the sun behind its girdered steeple. The carriage rolled over the bridge and was swallowed by the church's shadow. At the head of the column, General Vorto guided the procession through the Avenue of the Holy, toward the great open gates of Herrith's home. A thousand people had gathered around the cathedral to catch a glimpse of the admiral, and Nicabar's heart sank at the sight of them. He was one of them, and not at all like the languid Cretans he was forced to live among. At that moment, he would have given anything to end the stalemate.

  But this was a war of ideals, he reminded himself, and his resolve strengthened as the garish cathedral loomed. It was both glorious and terrible, and the fanatic at its core was two-hearted, with one made of gold and the other of iron. Herrith was Nar's perfect master, inscrutable and capable of the most far-reaching atrocities even as he fed the city's starving children. Arkus of Nar had been a butcher too, but what Herrith had done to Goth had made the emperor's worst massacres seem pale. The tales coming out of the Walled City had made even Biagio's blood run cold. Nicabar detested Herrith almost as much as Vorto himself. Vorto he hated because the general was stupid. Like a good dog he followed Herrith's edicts blindly.

  General Vorto stopped the march just outside the cathedral's doors. The portals of oak hung open, but Nicabar could see nothing inside the church's secretive folds. A group of acolytes waited, their faces obscured in white cowls. The priests seemed to float there, bodiless. Nicabar got out of the carriage, still clutching the metal box. At last Vorto got down off his horse. The general came up to Nicabar and scowled.

  "This is a holy place, Admiral," he said. "I would ask that you show it some respect. If you don't, I will pull your head off your shoulders with my bare hands. Do you understand?"

  Nicabar gave Vorto his best stone face. "You are still the same brute, aren't you, Vorto? I would advise you strongly not to threaten me again. The Fearless hasn't fired her cannons in a while. We could use the practice."

  Vorto chuckled. "God would strike you down before you fired a shot. He protects this place. It is free of your villainy."

  "I would like to test that theory, General. And I will at the smallest opportunity. Now take me to Herrith and stop babbling. I'm already sick from the sight of you."

  Vorto turned from Nicabar and strode toward the cathedral and its waiting priests. Nicabar followed, as did two of the general's bodyguards, both fully armored and bearing drawn swords. The general bowed deeply to the ghostlike priests, who did not speak a word but simply led them into the cavernous cathedral. The vaulted ceiling rose up above them in a magnificent arc, gold-leafed and detailed with the finest manmade minutiae. There were angels and demons, white-bearded images of God and bare-breasted reliefs of His Mother. Bright lamps lit the ceiling and the frescoed walls, and the altar far in front of them burned with incense and a chalice filled with flaming liquid, the symbol of eternal life for Herrith and his believers.

  The expansive chamber was empty, and as they walked their footfalls echoed loudly off the walls and statues, and the sounds of the crowd outside died off behind them as they reached the altar. Vorto and his men all fell to a knee before the altar, as did the legionnaires. But despite the general's earlier threat, Nicabar remained standing. When they had finished their short prayer, the priests led them out of the chamber into a corridor and then to an endless flight of stairs that seemed to ascend into Heaven itself. The legionnaires stayed behind.

  This was a private area. Only the highest ranking soldiers were allowed here, and only then by invitation. The stairs went up in a ceaseless spiral, but after long minutes of climbing they finally ended, spilling them into another hallway. This one was lined with stained glass--a marvelous wall of transparent colors depicting scenes from the holy book. Nicabar could barely see through the glass but he could tell they were very high. His fingers tingled a little with the cold draft.

  They came at last to a door at the end of the hall. The priests entered without knocking. Vorto said nothing, waiting patiently for the acolytes to return. At last they did reappear, opening the door wide for the general and Nicabar. Nicabar peered around Vorto's enormous girth and saw inside the chamber. It was another big room and flooded with sunlight. An immense window made up the entire far wall, showing off the expanse of the Black City. And at the window, staring blithely through the clear glass, was Archbishop Herrith, his hands clasped casually behind his back. The priests left the room and disappeared back down the hall. Nicabar waited. Vorto wasn't moving.

  "Enter, my friends," said Herrith at last. His voice was pure, like the sunlight he bathed in. It seemed to Nicabar that the bishop had lost some weight, no doubt a result of the drug withdrawal. He snickered to himself, pleased with the image of Herrith's mortality.

  His eyes would be dim now, like Vorto's. General Vorto finally moved into the chamber. Nicabar followed him. He had never been in this chamber and he marveled at the huge window, tall as a tree and wide as a river. From here he could see all of eastern Nar City and the ocean beyond, with his small armada bobbing in the harbor. Vorto went to the bishop and dropped to his knees. Without turning from the window Herrith listlessly put out his hand. Vorto seized it and kissed it.

  "Your Holiness," said the giant softly. "I've brought him for you."

  "Yes, thank you, my friend. I noticed." Herrith turned his head and rewarded Vorto with a smile. "Arise, General. Admiral Nicabar . . ."

  Nicabar didn't bow or crack the smallest smile. He simply walked into the center of the room, saying, "I have a message for you, Herrith, from Count Biagio. I would like to give it to you and be on my way."

  Herrith smiled serenely. "Danar, it's been so long. Please, let's not talk like enemies." He gestured to a table at the far end of the room, a sunny spot complete with plates of breakfast foods and cups of steaming beverages. "I've arranged a meal for us. I would like to sit with you awhile."

  "I'm not hungry," said Nicabar.

  "Pity," said Herrith, going to the table and sitting down. "I am. Please . . ." He gestured to one of the chairs. "If you don't sit with me I will take it as an offense, old friend. And we have so much to talk about."

  "We have very little to talk about, Herrith. I
have a message, and that is all."

  "Sit down, you blasphemous fool," seethed Vorto, barely containing his rage. "I warn you, Nicabar . . ."

  "I don't take well to warnings, Vorto," said Nicabar coolly. "And I don't care to speak long with either of you. Herrith, will you accept my message or not?"

  Herrith was folding a napkin onto his lap. "Yes, yes. Of course I will, Danar. But there's time enough to eat, surely? I can't believe you're not weary from your voyage." He picked up a pastry from the table and popped it into his mouth, sighing with satisfaction. "Oh, now, that is good. Really, Danar, you should have something."

  "Very well," agreed Nicabar, already tired of the argument. He sat down at the table across from Herrith and laid down his silver box. The bauble immediately caught the bishop's attention.

  "What's that?" asked Herrith through a mouth full of pastry.

  "This is a gift," replied Nicabar. He slid the box across the table to Herrith. "From Count Biagio."

  "A gift? Is this your message?"

  "No." Nicabar slipped his hand into his uniform and pulled out the letter Biagio had given him. "This is my message, sealed with the Count's own seal. You'll recognize it, I'm sure. That other thing is merely a gift, as I've said."

  Herrith picked up the box and shook it like a child, a wide smile on his face. "What is it?" he asked, listening to it rattle.

  "Holiness, please," said Vorto. He held out his hands for the box. "Give it to me. I will open it for you."

  "You will not!" laughed Herrith. "It's mine."

  "It may be a trick, Holiness. Something dangerous from the Cretan devil. Please, let me open it for you."

  Herrith's eyes narrowed on Nicabar. "Is it a trick, Danar?"

  "No trick," said the admiral. "Just a present. And perfectly safe, I promise."

  "Hmm, just the same . . ." Herrith handed the box over to Vorto. "I think you should open it, my friend. The devil is the father of lies, after all. Be careful, though."

  Stupidly brave, Vorto opened the box quickly and peered at its contents. Nicabar watched the general closely, gratified by the look of terrible awe on his face.

  "Mother of God," he whispered.

  "What is it?" pressed Herrith.

  Vorto turned his blazing eyes on Nicabar. "You sinful snake," he seethed. "I should kill you for this!"

  "Enough!" thundered Herrith. "Vorto, what's in the box? Give it to me, I insist!"

  "Holiness . . ."

  Herrith snatched the box from Vorto's hands and looked inside. He, too, was awed by its contents. But the bishop didn't anger. He simply stared at it longingly. It was a vial of Bovadin's life-lengthening drug, perfectly blue in its clear glass container, shining and desirable and worth a fortune. Herrith took the vial from the box and turned it in the sunlight, his hand trembling as he inspected it.

  "Heaven help us," he said. "What have you brought me, Danar? Damnation in a bottle?"

  "You know what it is, Bishop," said Nicabar carefully. "And it's not from me. It's from Biagio. Personally, I would never have given it to you, but the count insisted."

  "Of course he did!" raged Vorto. "That blackhearted beast. He wants to see us all dependent on his fiendish brew again. Damn him to Hell!"

  Herrith held up a calming hand. "Be easy, my friend." He continued admiring the beautiful liquid with his dull, dead eyes. Once Herrith's eyes had blazed a brilliant blue, but they were flat now, desolate, less than alive. A familiar fire grew in them as they looked upon the drug. "Ah, Danar," sighed the bishop. "Should I curse you or praise you for bringing me this? You and Biagio are devils, to be sure."

  "That's a goodly supply, Herrith," said Nicabar. "Enough to bring you back to how you were. Bovadin mixed it strong for you, so it would last. But it has to be administered slowly. If not, you'll die."

  "He won't be using it," snapped Vorto. "You may take your poison back with you, dog."

  Herrith put the vial back in the box and closed the lid. But he did not return the gift to Nicabar. Instead he kept it near him, guarding it with a firm hand. "Sit down, Vorto," he said softly. "We are arguing too much. I didn't want it to be this way." He picked up the letter but did not open it. Instead he handed it to Vorto. "Read this for me," he directed. "Out loud, so we all can hear."

  Vorto took a chair next to his master and opened the letter, breaking the wax seal. He looked it over suspiciously for a moment, then started to read. " 'My dear Bishop,' " he began. " 'I hope this letter finds you well. I hope, too, that you are taking good care of the city and the Empire. These are dark days for us all, and I will not lie to you and say that I do not miss the Black City. I do, with all my heart.' " Vorto stopped to sneer at this. "Heart," he scoffed. "What heart?"

  "Go on, please, General," ordered Herrith. The bishop kept his eyes on Nicabar as he listened.

  " 'We are not so different, you and I,' " Vorto continued. " 'Our past has made us enemies, but our future holds promise if we work together. There are things I can offer you, and would give you gladly. Bovadin's drug is merely one of these. None of us need die, dear Herrith.' "

  Herrith interrupted Vorto with a chuckle. "He's a long-winded one, isn't he?"

  Nicabar said nothing.

  "Go on," said Herrith. "Let's see if he ever says anything useful."

  Vorto continued reading. " 'I propose a meeting between all the Naren lords, to take place here on my island of Crote. It is the only safe place where I know I will not be harmed. We can discuss our differences amicably, and make a new beginning. I urge you to consider this offer carefully. We can rule Nar together, as Arkus would have wanted. The drug can be yours again. Nar can be strong.' " Vorto looked up from the paper. "That's it," he declared. He tossed the letter onto the table before him. "You've got an audacious master, Nicabar. How dare he think he can buy us off with promises of peace? And a meeting in Crote? Is he serious?"

  Nicabar did not address Vorto, only Herrith. "I am to wait for your response and then return to Crote with your answer," he said. "I will wait aboard my ship in the harbor. Get me your answer by the morrow."

  "There's no need to wait," said Herrith simply. "I already have my answer." Herrith reached across the table and picked up the letter, crumpling it into a ball and bouncing it over to Nicabar. "The answer is no."

  Nicabar smirked. "As I thought. Biagio is too good to you, Herrith. I told him not to bother offering you peace, but he insisted. Apparently he thinks you have a brain somewhere in that thick skull. I do not."

  "If and when I decide to talk peace with that hellspawn, I will say when and where. These are not his terms to dictate. I'm no warrior, but it's the victor who makes terms, isn't it?"

  "You will not be victorious, Herrith," said Nicabar calmly. "You don't have the means. The nations of Nar will never follow you, because they simply don't believe your fairy tales. And now you have Liss to deal with." The admiral winked sardonically. "And I know what a handful they can be."

  The mere mention of Liss erased all pleasantness from the bishop's face. "It is your fault what happens with Liss, Danar. They raid our coasts and you do nothing. They sink our ships and you do nothing. You say you are an Admiral of Nar? I think you are laughable. If you were truly the hero some say, you would be defending Nar."

  "But I am, Holiness," said Nicabar. "I'm defending it from you."

  "Blasphemer," rumbled Vorto. The general rose from his chair, toppling it over. "Show some respect in this house of God, or I swear I will kill you!"

  "Sit down, Vorto," directed Nicabar. "You're very tiresome. Bishop, as I've already explained to this primate, anything that happens to me will be revisited on the Black City a hundred fold. The Fearless has her guns trained on the cathedral. She might be able to reach it, or she might not. Either way, the city burns. So I would be very careful what you or your dog soldier say to me, because I am sick of being threatened."

  Herrith considered the implication, searching the tone for a bluff. When he found none he gestured for Vorto to si
t. Reluctantly, the general retrieved his toppled chair and took his place beside the bishop. Herrith drummed his pudgy fingers on the silver box.

  "What shall I do?" he mused aloud. "I had hoped our talk would be beneficial, Danar. Shame on me, but I had actually hoped you had come to your senses and seen the truth about your count. It's been so many years that you have been friends with him. Can't you see the truth yet?"

  "The truth?" asked Nicabar. "Or your truth?"

  "They are the same, Danar," warned the bishop. "My truth is the honesty of God, the bread of angels. Biagio is a sodomite, a sinner. Even his marriage was an abomination. He lies with men. You know this, yet you defend him? A full-blooded man like yourself?"

  "Aye, I know the truth of him," said Nicabar. "And truly, I don't care. Neither did Arkus. It may be a sin in your eyes and in the vision of your mythical God, but not in mine. He is a friend. And a far better one than you ever were, Herrith."

  "A warning, Danar," said the bishop. "Biagio's time is past. The Black Renaissance died with Arkus. And its small remnants are being dealt with."

  "Yes," hissed Nicabar. "Like Goth."

  Herrith's face hardened. "Like Goth," he echoed. "It is God's will."

  An icy hand seized Nicabar's heart. Something was horribly wrong with Herrith. Perhaps the drug had rotted his mind like it had Biagio's, or maybe it was the awful withdrawal. Either way, it seemed an impossible task to talk rationally with this man who believed his own genocidal messages.

  "Very well," said Nicabar, rising from his chair. "Then our business is concluded."

  The bishop spread out his hands. "It seems so. Please give the count my answer, Danar. And tell him that I will pray for the repose of his soul."

  "I'm sure he'll appreciate that," quipped Nicabar. "And shall I thank him for the gift? Or will I be taking that back with me as well?"

  Vorto's eyes shifted to the box, then to Herrith, then back again. The bishop's hand curled over the gift greedily.

  "I think I should hold on to this," he said. "And after all, it's a gift. Thank Biagio for his thoughtfulness."