The Grand Design

by John Marco

  Biagio smiled sunnily, hardly concerned at all. Bovadin had built the device with all the necessary tolerances. Despite the twisted worry on the scientist's face, Biagio knew Bovadin was confident about his creation. It would not detonate until its time, Biagio was certain. The count folded his arms over his chest, satisfied. His exile on Crote had grown long in the tooth lately, and he was grateful to see this day's arrival.

  "You're afraid, Danar," said Biagio. "Don't be. Bovadin knows what he's doing."

  Nicabar snorted. "It's loaded with fuel, Renato."

  "Bovadin has taken precautions. Trust, my friend, trust . . ."

  "Look there," snapped Nicabar, pointing at his men. They had nearly dropped one side of the crate. Bovadin was screaming at them. "Lord, almighty. Maybe we should back up a bit."

  Biagio laughed prettily. "Dear Danar, if that thing was such a threat I wouldn't have let Bovadin build it in my home, now would I? The dangerous part is done." Then he grinned maliciously, adding, "At least for us. It's Herrith's problem now."

  "Darago's almost done with his painting. Have I told you?"

  Biagio nodded. Nicabar's memory wasn't always sharp, an unfortunate and unpredictable effect of the drug. "Yes."

  "Herrith's very proud of it. I saw part of it when I went to the cathedral."

  When he turned down my peace plan, thought Biagio. Herrith was a perfect fool. "A shame, really," he remarked casually. "For Nar, I mean. Darago is a great artisan. But alas, these are the prices we pay."

  Out on the banks, Bovadin was jumping into the boat, guiding the ungainly crate. The boat hardly moved with his diminutive weight, but when the first half of the crate creaked aboard, the vessel dipped noticeably. Bovadin gave a nervous grimace, obviously afraid for himself. Biagio's smile finally vanished. Was the boat big enough?

  "Danar . . .?"

  "Don't worry," chirped the admiral. "She'll hold it."

  "She'd better. Bovadin counted on blowing himself to bits, not drowning. I don't think the little monkey can swim."

  Nicabar didn't laugh. He merely stood there, stone-faced, watching as his men struggled with the crate. Biagio stole a glance at the admiral, noting his anxiety. It was good to have him back. He was glad Nicabar wasn't delivering the device to Nar personally. Since Simon had left for Lucel-Lor, there had been precious little company for him. Bovadin was always busy with his tinkering, and Savros the Mind Bender was the quiet sort, keeping to himself. Of all of them, Biagio counted only Nicabar among his friends. And friends were a scarce commodity these days. It was the sad truth about being the head of a secret organization--no one trusted him. In Nar, when Arkus was alive, there had always been people around--gilded women and ambitious princes ready to bargain--but they had all been treacherous and never really interested in friendship. But not so Danar Nicabar. He was one of those rare specimens; a man of high ideals. Perhaps it was some military code that made him righteous, or perhaps a noble upbringing. Either way, Biagio trusted him. He cared for Nicabar as almost none other.

  Except for Simon.

  It had been many days since Simon's departure for Lucel-Lor, and many more lay ahead until his return. The mansion was dreadfully quiet without him. Biagio had tried to pass the time with plans of revenge, and with training his protegee, Eris, but always Simon's handsome face strong-armed its way back into his brain. The count's good mood evaporated. He missed Simon more than he wanted to. Worse, it was something like the loss he felt over Arkus, something in his heart that ached. It was not something he could explain or talk away with Nicabar, though, and so the count forced the memory down, concentrating on the scene before him.

  Almost time, Herrith, he mused. Tick-tock, tick-tock . . .

  He wondered what Herrith's reaction would be. The bishop cherished his cathedral, like Biagio cherished Crote. But prices had to be paid.

  "It'll take about three days for the Sea Shadow to reach Casarhoon," said Nicabar. "From there another three to Nar City."

  "Make sure Thot gets it on a speedy ship," said Biagio. He didn't want the delivery delayed by switching ships, but he knew it was necessary. Every eye in the Black City would see the Sea Shadow coming; they needed a merchant ship to deliver the device. Biagio was glad Bovadin was going along.

  "Captain Thot knows what he's doing," said Nicabar curtly.

  "Of course, Danar. I meant no insult. But the device has to get there on time. This is all planned out perfectly. A tiny slip, and my grand design falls apart. I won't have that."

  "There will be no slips," promised Nicabar. "Trust me for once. Thot and the Sea Shadow will get the device there on time. And I have no doubt Bovadin will be yelling at him the entire trip, making sure he's quick."

  As if he'd heard his name, Bovadin lifted his head toward shore, staring at the admiral. The scientist gave the crate a glance and, satisfied it was safely aboard, jumped out of the boat and waded ashore, his bare feet breaking the surf as he stomped toward them. His little features seemed less distressed now, almost relieved. He strode up to Biagio and Nicabar and sighed, pointing a thumb over his shoulder.

  "We're taking it aboard Sea Shadow now," he said.

  Biagio smiled down at Bovadin. "Good journey, my friend. Enjoy Nar. I almost envy you."

  "If this goes right you'll get back there soon enough," said the scientist. "And to tell you the truth, I wish I was staying. I don't much like the thought of being on rough seas with that thing."

  "You built it," snapped Nicabar. "Don't tell me it's not shipworthy. That's my vessel out there."

  "I didn't say that. But there are risks. If anything goes wrong, if there's a leak in one of the hoses--"

  "You said you tested the damn thing!"

  "I did! But there are always risks." Bovadin looked to Biagio for support. "Tell him, Renato."

  Biagio merely yawned. "I suppose. The important thing is that it's on its way. But be smart, Bovadin. Don't rush it. Let Thot do his job and steer the ship. If he says the seas are too rough, you let him go around or wait it out. Do you understand?"

  "You said I had to get it there on time, Renato," argued Bovadin. "Let me do my job. I'll find this toy-maker and get him the device. You just make sure your little girl doesn't forget her birthday."

  Threats didn't rest well with Biagio, but he let it pass. Bovadin had done fine work. He deserved a little slack. "Just be careful," said the count. "That's all I ask."

  "I will. And I'll see you both back in Nar." What passed for a smile flitted over Bovadin's face. "Good luck."

  "To you, too, my friend," said Biagio, striking out his hand. Bovadin took it and gave a weak shake, then turned and departed for the rowboat, all weighed down with the crate and sailors. Biagio watched the scientist go, relieved. He hadn't really expected a mishap, but then Bovadin had never built anything like the device before. And though he had made elaborate drawings and performed his inscrutable tests, even Bovadin couldn't swear to the thing's stability. It was a dangerous creation, maybe the greatest weapon ever produced, and Biagio didn't really want it on his island. Soon, if all went according to plan, Crote would be in dire trouble anyway; the count saw no need to hasten his homeland's demise. He watched Bovadin shuffle into the rowboat. The vessel shoved off, bearing the crate out to where the Sea Shadow waited. Onboard the big ship he could see the anxious faces of sailors, fearful of their cargo.

  "Let's go inside," said Biagio. "There is nothing else to see here."

  "I'll wait," replied Nicabar. "I want to be sure."

  "Suit yourself, my friend. But don't be too long. I want to talk to you about Dragon's Beak."

  Nicabar looked over. "What about it?"

  "You'll need to be leaving soon. We should discuss it."

  "I know the way, Renato."

  "This is no joke," said Biagio sternly. "If Vorto goes to Dragon's Beak as Enli asks, he's going to need you there to help him. My mercenaries won't be able to stand alone against the legions. I promised Enli you'd be there."

 
; "I'll be there," pledged Nicabar. "I wouldn't miss it. And the army of the air?"

  "I don't know yet," Biagio said honestly. News from Dragon's Beak was always scarce. "All the more reason for you to get there on time. If Enli doesn't have control of the ravens, he may need a quick escape from Vorto. You'll have to help him with that."

  Nicabar shook his head. "I'm not going to Dragon's Beak just to pull his ass out of the fire, Renato. I'm going there to decapitate Vorto."

  "Oh, let's hope so," said Biagio with an evil grin. "That'll be just about the time for me to send another message to Herrith. You'll deliver that for me, won't you, my friend?"

  The admiral took the count's meaning. "With pleasure, my friend."

  That night, Count Biagio slept restlessly on his expensive sheets, sick with anticipation. The device Bovadin had built dominated his dreams. He saw the great Cathedral of the Martyrs and the little toymaker's shop on the corner of High Street, that busy thoroughfare where well-to-do Narens shopped and sated greedy whims. And in his dreams Lorla came to visit him, her eyes shining unnaturally green. In the dream she spoke to him, but when Biagio awoke he could not recall her words. It was well past midnight when he awakened. The moonlight through his window was pale, tinting everything an eerie silver. Lorla's face winked out of existence as his eyes opened. Startled, Biagio swung his naked feet over the bedside and rubbed his forehead. The world was perfectly quiet. He had gone to bed alone tonight, as he had most nights recently, and the slaves he usually awoke to were gone. He glanced out the window to the fruit tree in the garden and saw a crow looking back at him, smiling crookedly. Biagio sneered at the thing, reminded of Eneas' ravens. There was too much in his mind tonight, too many grinding thoughts. He was weary, so tired he couldn't sleep. On his bedside table was a crystal goblet of half-consumed brandy. He reached for it, but in his daze knocked it over, spilling it.

  "Damn it!" he growled. The brandy splashed onto the expensive carpet. The count watched it stain, helpless.

  I'm tired, he reminded himself. So bloody tired.

  It hadn't always been this way. When he was in Nar and at the height of his power, he had been razor-sharp. He and Arkus had tread the world like gods, and he had been the emperor's closest friend--the only one of the Iron Circle who had truly been like a son to the elderly ruler. Now he was an outcast, forced to scheme every minute. The effort was dulling him. Even Bovadin's drug wasn't keeping him vital. Biagio was exhausted.

  Ignoring his ruined carpet, he went to the window and opened it, taking a deep gulp of air. He could smell brine on the breeze. Music came from the far-off surf. The crow on the fruit tree leapt at his intrusion, flying off. Biagio cursed after it. If it ever came back, he promised the bird, he would have it for lunch. The sight of the fleeing bird cheered him a little. Crote was his. And it always would be, no matter what happened to it. He would get it back from the Lissens after it fell. When Nar was his, so too would be the world.

  As happened too often these days, he thought again of Simon. He wondered if Simon knew his true feelings. Simon was Cretan, after all, and Cretans often experimented. But Simon wasn't like that. He was more like Herrith, really. Hardly pious, but unwilling to try things. The count's shoulders slumped. He didn't like fawning over lovers. He felt like a schoolboy, dazed and impotent. Elliann, his wife, had always thought him cold, even during their most savage lovemaking. Elliann could bed a tiger and come out alive. She was truly a wild animal, and she had been exciting during the first years of their marriage. But like Naren lords are apt to do, they had both grown quietly tired of each other, and neither of them had quarrelled when the other took different lovers. Biagio still liked his wife and bore her no ill. War and rebellion wasn't what she was bred for, and she had sniffed at the thought of it. And because she had thought Herrith would win their struggle, she had sided with him. Biagio had let her go, willingly. He stared out into the darkness, imagining her somewhere in the Black City, probably asleep by now with a suitor in her sheets. A little smile crossed his face. Perhaps he would send for her when he returned to Nar.

  Biagio glanced back at his bed, so cold and sterile. His was an excellent chamber, large and immaculate, with priceless heirlooms dotting the walls and shelves. But he gleaned no comfort from these things, and the urge to leave his rooms became overwhelming. In the great music room was a piano, and when he was troubled he would go to the piano and thunder out a song and lose himself. It was odd therapy but it worked for him, and so he pulled off his night clothes and chose some simple garments from his many closets, dressing hurriedly. Sliding his feet into a pair of slippers, he went out into the deserted hallway of his wing, where the only sound he heard was the faint sizzling of flames from the oil sconces along the wall. His shadow leapt across the floor, large and ominous, and as he walked his slippers squeaked. There were no guardians to disturb him, no servants around to grovel. Biagio walked in a trance to his music room, eager to bang on the piano keys. But when he reached the chamber he found the door half open and a light glowing inside.

  Curious, the count slowed. Eris, his treasured slave, was alone in the room, gliding across the floor in a silent, expressive dance. Biagio held his breath. She was lovely. She moved with the grace of a dove, her long legs twirling her effortlessly through pirouettes, her arms stretching heavenward, as if imploring God to hear her. Her face was aglow in the light of a single candle, flush with sweat and shadows. And her wide eyes seemed to cry as she danced, sadly, purposefully, oblivious to all the world in her melancholy.

  Count Biagio watched, utterly enthralled. She was his greatest prize. When she danced for him the angels wept with jealousy. He knew as he watched her why Simon's heart was hers. As a woman she was perfection. As a dancer, she was a goddess. No man could resist her. Especially not poor Simon.

  When she was done with her dance, Eris crumpled to the floor, bowing her head into her lap and lying there, motionless. Biagio thought he heard her whimper. Very gently he pushed open the door. Still she did not hear him.

  "You were wonderful," he whispered. "Thank you."

  Eris looked up, mortified. "Master!" she cried, springing to her feet and lowering her eyes. "Forgive me, I . . . I was practicing. I didn't know you were here."

  "Don't apologize," said Biagio, floating into the room. He put his cold hand to her chin, lifting her face and looking into her eyes. "It was a pleasure for me."

  Eris looked embarrassed, but didn't pull away. "I am glad," she managed. "I was just practicing."

  "You were not," Biagio corrected. With his frozen thumb he brushed a tear from her cheek. "I have never seen you weep when practicing. What tears are these?"

  "Nothing, Master. The piece I was dancing is emotional, that's all."

  "What was the piece? I did not recognize it."

  He watched her face twitch as she decided to confess. "Only something of my own imagining. I was restless tonight. There are things occupying me." She struggled to smile. "But unimportant things, my lord. Truly not worth bothering with."

  Enjoying her fear, Biagio dropped his fingers to her neck and the golden collar she wore. His fingernail picked at it.

  "I would curse the day you could not tell the truth to me, dear Eris," he said. "Why don't you explain this to me? I, too, was sleepless tonight. I thought I might play some music. You were an unexpected surprise."

  "Forgive me, Master," begged the girl. Her age showed when she spoke, so small was her voice. "I will go now, if you like."

  "No, I would not like that." The count let go of her collar. He turned and went to his piano, sitting himself down on its crushed velvet bench. Eris stood uncertainly in the center of the room. His eyes washed over her, drinking in her loveliness. "This is not a good night for me, Eris. There are things on my mind, too. It might help me to hear your own troubles, to put mine aside for a while. Tell me, please. What is obsessing you?"

  "Oh, Master, it's truly nothing. I would never burden you with such trivia."

 
; "I insist." Biagio gestured to the floor at his feet. "Come. Sit here by me."

  Eris complied. He was a tall man, and when she sat he towered over her. But he was in a gentle mood tonight, and he had suspicions why the girl might be troubled. Their troubles might be twins. Eris looked up at him, and her sad expression made him reach out and stroke her dark hair.

  "Be at ease, girl," he said. "I only want to talk to you. Or more truly, to hear you. This is about your lover, isn't it?"

  "Master . . ."

  "Stop. I know all about it, remember? I gave you to Simon, after all."

  "Yes, Master. Thank you. I don't know how to repay that."

  "You repay me every time you dance, child. And when we get back to Nar and you dance for them in the Black City, that will be a triumph and all debts will be paid." Biagio felt a rush of exhilaration. "The three of us will return to Nar together. It will be glorious."

  "I would like that," said Eris. "To dance in the Black Palace for all the lords of Nar. I've dreamt of it since I was young."

  "You will dance for them, Eris, and it will be a conquest. The lords of Nar will swoon at your feet. Your name will be famous throughout the Empire. I promise you that."

  "And we will marry? Simon and I?"

  The count's heart sank. "If that's what you wish. I stand by my word to Simon Darquis, girl. You are his, just as soon as he does this thing for me. When he returns, you may marry. That soon, if it's what you want."

  "I do, Master. Very much. He is dear to me. And I to him." She stopped abruptly, realizing what she was saying. "But many things are dear to him, of course. Serving you is dear to him. It's all he talks of."

  "I'm sure," said the count dryly. Eris lied very poorly. "And how dear are you to Simon? I wonder. You've been given a great gift, child. Performers in the Empire would willingly sell their souls for your talent. Which do you love more?"

  Eris crinkled her nose. "Master?" "If you had to choose, which would it be?" "But I could never choose," said the girl. "They are both part of me. I love Simon dearly. But dance is what I am. I would be nothing if I couldn't dance. I would be dead."