The Grand Design

by John Marco

  Nicabar's chest swelled with pride. It wasn't the fate of Liss to rule the waves. That was his destiny alone. The Lissens were pretenders. They thought their island gave them claim to the world's waters. They were wrong. So was Prakna. The thought of his nemesis made the admiral grin. Prakna was a sad, pathetic man. A good sailor, to be sure, but outclassed. Someday, Nicabar determined, he would prove that. Biagio would owe him for so much loyalty, and Nicabar wanted only one thing in payment.

  Liss.

  "Ah, but that must wait," whispered Nicabar. He gave his ship an affectionate pat, then pulled on his glove, blowing into his hand to warm it. His first duty was to deal with Vorto in Dragon's Beak.

  Not an unpleasant task at all.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  The Festival of Sethkin

  On a day bright with sunlight, the great festival of Sethkin began in the center of Nar City near the Cathedral of the Martyrs. As was customary, Archbishop Herrith opened the festival with a rousing speech. It was the one day of the year when the Holy Father walked amongst his flock unguarded, as though he were one of them and was concerned with their lives. Colorful banners and long, flowing streamers capped the streets, and religious icons brooded over the avenues, tall and baleful. Musicians played and street vendors loudly hawked their wares. The air was filled with foreign smells, while animals and magicians entertained the crowds. Along the sidewalks, Naren noblemen sat with their families, enjoying the procession and the clean air, for it was at the bishop's holy order that the foundries were closed today, so that their belching smokestacks didn't ruin the festivities.

  Throughout High Street, regal princes from around the Empire shouldered up to unwed maids, bragging about their wealth, and deep-pocketed merchants lavished their mistresses with dresses and trinkets from the shops, all of which were open and greedy for the tide of money washing through the city. Sethkin was more than just a religious day. It was Nar's great holiday from itself, when the nobles came down from their towers and mingled with the poor, and no one was excluded from the festivities.

  On Herrith's decree, the doors to his orphanage had been flung wide. High Street was choked with parentless children, their faces glowing with excitement. The cathedral's many acolytes moved through the crowds, keeping a watchful eye on the brood and doing their best to remind the citizenry of the day's holy meaning. Kren was a time for fasting and reflection, a stretch of penance that culminated in Eestrii, the highest holy day of the Naren church. For the next month, believers were expected to be prayerful, to attend services regularly and to give their most generous offerings to the church. Most importantly, they were to beg God for His infinite mercy, and to forgive them for their sins. Herrith knew Nar had many sinners. He wasn't among them, but even he needed to be humble in the sight of Heaven. Heaven's vision was particularly keen during Kren.

  Tomorrow they would all begin their spartan march toward Eestrii, but today they were free to frolic in the good things God had given them, and the Black City had turned out in force. Menageries from Doria had taken center stage in High Street, an awe-inspiring assortment of animals that left both children and adults slack-jawed. There were tusked elephants and tawny lions, dogs that danced and monkeys that laughed. Trainers and keepers spoke to the crowd, explaining about their strange pets and offering the children rides on the elephants. And while they directed their magnificent beasts, minstrel music played and merchants showed off their finery, and High Street wasn't commonplace anymore. Its yearly transformation had occurred, turning it from a busy, jaded thoroughfare into a little glimpse of paradise.

  Archbishop Herrith walked happily through the crowd, giving out smiles to the curious Narens begging to touch the hem of his garment. Lorla Lon was with him, holding his right hand. With her left hand she held a frozen confection, a lump of fruit-flavored sugar on a stick that Herrith had purchased for her. She licked at it covetously, slurping with enjoyment, and the sight of the Dorian menagerie had captivated her. Herrith had already stuffed himself with pastries from the bake shop. Now his stomach was stretched, satisfied. Since taking Biagio's drug, his appetite had come roaring back. It wasn't a problem for him to inhale a dozen of the bakery's best.

  Herrith led Lorla to a bench on the sidewalk. A man and his family had been sitting there, but when they saw the Holy Father they quickly vacated so the bishop and his ward could sit. A pair of acolytes who'd been trailing Herrith took up positions on either side of the bench. On this day, Herrith wasn't supposed to be guarded, but his cowled priests never took such chances. These two had long dirks beneath their robes. Lorla sat down on the bench first, her little legs dangling over the edge. Impatiently she craned her neck to see the parade of animals. Garbed in the blue dress Herrith had brought her for the occasion, she looked like an angel or one of Nar's beautiful, privileged young women. Herrith sat down beside her, tucking his long robes beneath his knees. The crowds, noticing the Holy Father, parted a little so he could see better.

  "Enjoying yourself, child?" Herrith asked over the tumult.

  Lorla nodded. "Oh, yes, Father. It's wonderful!"

  It was wonderful. For Herrith, it was the culmination of a dream. As God's servant, he had never married or taken a woman since his vows. A family, and children like Lorla, had been long forbidden him. But now he had a sense of that normalcy he craved. He had God and a child to adore, and he was happy. Lorla had taken to him, more than he'd dared to hope. She didn't just call him "Father." Since coming to live in the cathedral, she had truly come to be a daughter. There was a blessed bond between them, and Herrith didn't care who noticed it or snickered behind his back. There was always gossip, even among priests. Some were saying unwholesome things about him. But Herrith knew his heart was pure. When he looked at Lorla, he saw nothing but a life he wished was his, and all the potential of youth. God loved children. God bade humankind to love children. What he was doing, Herrith was sure, was according to Heaven's law.

  He took Lorla's hand again, pointing out the different animals, and surprising her with his knowledge. He had been through countless festivals, and every year the Dorians came with their menageries. Herrith knew all their routines. But his familiarity with the animal tricks didn't dampen his enthusiasm, and when the elephants stood on their hind legs and raised their trunks in a raucous trumpeting, Herrith laughed like the rest of them and covered his ears. "Ohhh!" cried Lorla happily. "Loud!" So loud she almost dropped her treat, but she was quick enough to rescue it before it tumbled onto her dress. Deciding her mouth was the safest place for it, she began to suck on the frozen sugar again, happily bobbing to the music. And as she ate, Herrith watched her peripherally, glad to be with her. In a few more days it would be her birthday. She would be nine years old, and he wanted to make it special. At that age, every year was a milestone for a child. Herrith wanted Lorla to have no doubts about his affection for her. It was why he had given her full run of the cathedral, why he allowed her to bother Darago periodically and marvel at his ceiling, even when he himself was kept from it. Lorla had already endured too much for so tender an age. The Black Renaissance had made her life a wasteland, stripping her of her parents and identity. But now she had a new life in the cathedral, and Herrith had one more little reason for crushing Biagio and his cancerous crusade.

  "Lorla, look there," said Herrith, directing her eyes toward a group of clowns across the avenue. There were three of them, up high on stilts, their faces smeared with white paint and malevolent, ruby smiles. Each wore a long, brightly colored gown, festooned with ribbons and broad, rainbow stripes, and their long wigs of green hair bounced around their shoulders.

  Lorla frowned. "They're scary," she decided quickly. "I don't like them."

  "Do you know what they are?" he asked, sure that she didn't. With their white faces and terrible smiles, they looked more like demons than clowns. "Those are the Clowns of Eestrii. They're the symbols of sin. One is Pride, one is Lust, and the other is Hatred. Those are the things we're supposed to guard a
gainst during Kren."

  Lorla pulled the ice treat from her mouth with a popping sound. "Clowns of Eestrii? I never heard of them. Why do they look so mean?"

  "To remind us that they're always with us. Every year the Clowns of Eestrii walk among the crowd. They try to scare the children into remembering their faces. That's how the children learn." Herrith chuckled. "Some of the adults, too."

  "They're ugly," said Lorla emphatically. "I don't think they belong here."

  "Oh, but they do," Herrith corrected. "They're to remind us to beware them at all times, even at good times like this."

  "Which is which?"

  Herrith laughed. "I don't know. Which do you think?"

  "What are their names again?"

  "Lust, Hatred and Pride," Herrith told her. "Nar's three greatest vices. There, I think that one is Lust." He pointed at the smallest one of the bunch, whose stilts weren't as tall as the rest. This clown had a particular leer in his eyes that reminded Herrith of something impure. "What do you think?"

  Lorla lowered her voice. "That one's Hatred," she said with certainty.

  "Really?" Herrith looked at her, unnerved by her seriousness. "How can you tell?"

  "I've seen him before." The girl turned her eyes from the clowns, looking down at the sidewalk. "I recognize him."

  "Where have you seen him before, Lorla?" asked Herrith gently. He knew he was treading unstable ground, but couldn't resist. Lorla was an inscrutable little girl, a great puzzle with many mysteries in her head--mysteries Herrith was determined to unlock. "You can tell me," he cajoled. "I won't tell anyone else. Promise."

  Lorla considered his offer with care. Finally she looked up, saying, "That's the face Duke Enli makes, when he thinks of his brother. That's what he looks like now."

  The frightening revelation made Herrith slip his hand from Lorla's. She was cold suddenly, frozen in some other place. Her remarkable eyes, not so unlike his own, blazed with secret fury. Herrith at once regretted his question. Whatever she had seen, whatever had gone on in Dragon's Beak, had changed her. She wasn't just a little girl anymore.

  "Duke Enli is going to be all right, Lorla," he assured her. "All of Dragon's Beak will be safe once General Vorto wins the day. And he will win, I promise." He smiled awkwardly. "You believe me, don't you?"

  "I guess so."

  "Have no doubt, little one. Vorto has taken all the troops he needs to win Dragon's Beak back for God. Duke Enli will be fine. Soon he'll rule all of Dragon's Beak. And maybe you'll see him again someday, when Dragon's Beak is safe. I can arrange that, if you like. Not yet, of course. But someday."

  "I don't want to go back to Dragon's Beak," said Lorla. "Not ever. That's not my home anymore . . . Father."

  Herrith smiled. "Then you will live here forever, in the cathedral, just like Elioes."

  The mention of the orphan girl brightened Lorla's troubled face. "Tell me more about her. One more story."

  "Lorla . . ."

  "One more," she implored. "Any story." Herrith's mind was blank. He had already told Lorla all he knew about the orphan. And Lorla had devoured his tales rapaciously. She had found a patron saint in the crippled child, and she wasn't satisfied with Darago's painting. She wanted more. Just like the child she was, she always wanted more.

  "I've already told you all I know," said Herrith. "There's really not a lot about her in the holy books. Just what I've told you already."

  "Then tell me again," said Lorla dreamily. "Tell me how she was an orphan, and how she met our Lord and He healed her. That's a good story. I like that one."

  Actually, it was the only story about Elioes, but Herrith told it again. And as he spoke Lorla seemed to forget the festival around her, ignoring the menagerie and calls of hawkers. While he spoke, Herrith watched her eyes, and every time he said the word orphan, he saw a light flicker behind her emerald veil. She adored the simple story of Elioes, a tale meant to comfort children and convince them of God's holy powers. But Lorla heard more than just a simple fable. She heard truth.

  "God saw something very special in Elioes," said Herrith finally. "Just as He sees something special in all of us. Even you and I."

  "What does He see special in you?" asked Lorla. She licked at her treat, waiting for an answer.

  Herrith stumbled through his collection of cliches, but then decided to tell her what he really believed. "I'm His servant," he declared proudly. "He knows I'll do His will without question. This is why He burdens me. He has set me to a great task." "To destroy Biagio."

  "That's right. He's the devil's own. I'm to destroy him, and all his evil works. That's what Heaven demands of me. No matter what the cost." Herrith glanced away, frightened by the challenge. A terrible feeling of old age made his shoulders slump. "Lorla, I've done things I'm not proud of. Horrible things. And I have to continue to do horrible things, because that's what God wants of me. It's why He called me to the church, maybe the very reason I was born. I am Nar's only hope. I'm its savior."

  The little girl smiled crookedly. Herrith couldn't tell if she believed him, but the warmth in her eyes was comforting.

  "Is that why there's war in Dragon's Beak?" she asked. "Because God wants it?"

  "God wants His kingdom on earth," replied Herrith. "If we must battle for it, if we must sacrifice and die, so be it. God has been very clear to me on this, little one. It's why He killed Emperor Arkus, and why He's delivered me the weapons needed to fulfill His plan. Now . . ." Herrith forced a sunny smile. "No more talk of this. We have a whole month to reflect. Today is for fun."

  No sooner had he said that than a monkey scooted across the street, landing in Lorla's lap. Lorla shrieked at the intrusion, dropping her treat to the pavement and putting up her hands, afraid to touch the curious creature. Herrith's bellow brought the monkey's trainer running.

  "Bobo!" cried the man, a young Dorian dressed in festival clothes. The trainer bowed apologetically to the bishop, while Herrith's shadowy acolytes crept imperceptibly closer. The little monkey bounced up and down on Lorla's lap. Like its master, the creature wore a bright green tunic and a red hat on its fuzzy head shaped like a bell. Its yellow teeth flashed as it cried out, but it didn't threaten the girl at all. It seemed more interested in the ruined treat at her feet.

  "It's all right," said Herrith quickly, putting Lorla and the trainer at ease. He gave a quick glance to his priests, who took a cautious step back. "Don't be afraid, Lorla. It won't hurt you."

  "Bobo wouldn't hurt anyone, Holy Father," the young Dorian assured them. He smiled and laughed, seeing Lorla's sudden delight. "Don't worry, girl. He's just saying hello."

  "Hello, Bobo," said Lorla, staring down at the mischievous monkey. Bobo bounced when he heard his name, then reached out a hand to explore Lorla's face. She giggled as his tiny fingers tickled her lips. "Can I touch him?" she asked. "He won't bite me, will he?"

  "Go ahead," urged the trainer. "Rub his head. He likes that."

  Lorla reached out and lightly stroked the monkey's head. When she did, the smile on her face stretched wide.

  "He's so soft!" she declared.

  "Bobo's from Casarhoon," the trainer explained. "He's come all the way up here just to say hello to you and the Holy Father. You like him?"

  "Very much," Lorla cooed. She ran her hands over the creature's head repeatedly, a gesture that calmed Bobo and made his simian eyes droop. "He's very sweet."

  "And smart," said the Dorian. "He can count to ten. And he knows his name better than some people. Bobo even helps me with the other animals. The elephants are afraid of him!"

  Herrith watched Lorla and the monkey, and the spark of an idea occurred to him. It didn't do for her to be so alone in the cathedral. Without other children, she had no companionship save for the priests. A child needed pets. He took hold of the trainer's sleeve and pulled him closer.

  "How much for the monkey?" he asked.

  The Dorian blinked. "Holy Father?"

  "I want to buy it, for the child. How much?" />
  "Really, Father?" asked Lorla elatedly. "For my own?"

  "For your birthday," Herrith explained. He loved the explosion of joy on her face. "Something special for you. Would you like that?"

  "Holy Father, Bobo's not for sale," said the Dorian. "I'm sorry, but he's mine."

  There was enough trepidity in the young man's voice for Herrith to know he could be persuaded. The bishop smiled at him serenely, leaning back on the bench.

  "Come now, my son. It's just an animal. How important can it be? I will pay you double what you paid for it yourself. Now that's more than fair."

  "Uh, Father . . .?" said Lorla shyly.

  Herrith ignored her. "Double, my son," he said again, holding up two fingers. "Name your price."

  "I'm sorry, Your Grace, it's not the money. Bobo's not just an animal. He's more like a friend. I could never sell him."

  "Father, I don't want the monkey," said Lorla sharply, pulling at his robes. Herrith looked at her, startled.

  "You don't?" he asked. "Why not?"

  She shrugged. "I don't know. I just don't. Not for my birthday gift. I want something else."

  "What else?"

  "Just something else," she said simply, then frowned down at the monkey. "He's a very pretty monkey, though." Still stroking Bobo, she glanced at his relieved trainer. "You're lucky. I bet he's a good friend."

  The trainer offered a smile of thanks. "Yes, he is," he said, then lifted Bobo off Lorla's lap. The monkey quickly scurried up its master's shoulder, perching there like a bird and waving at Lorla and the bishop. "Say good-bye, Bobo," the man instructed. Bobo squawked an incomprehensible farewell. Lorla returned the wave as the two disappeared back into the crowd. Her eyes lingered on the monkey until it was gone.