by John Marco
"I thought you would like a companion of your own," said Herrith. "That creature would have made a fine gift for your birthday. Now I'll have to think of something else. Still . . ." He stood, taking her hand and lifting her from the bench. "I think I know a place to get you something good."
"What place?" asked Lorla.
"You'll see."
Herrith led her by the hand along the sidewalk, past the performing animals, and past a street magician with a long cape and a handful of cards he kept making disappear. The bishop ignored the noise and the well-wishers crowding around him. What he wanted, what he knew Lorla could never resist, was on the corner of High Street, between a candlemaker and a blacksmith's shop. Halfway down the avenue, Herrith spotted his destination.
Piper's toy shop.
Crowded around the shop's window was a throng of children, all pressing their noses to the glass to get a glimpse of the marvels inside. Already Herrith could hear the faint music of the mechanical flute player in the window, even above the din of the street. He directed Lorla's view toward the shop.
"There," he said. "That's where we're going."
Lorla squinted. "What is it?"
"A toy shop. The most amazing shop you've ever seen, little one. Believe me, you'll find something special there for your birthday."
"Yes," cheered Lorla, squeezing Herrith's hand. "Yes, I'm sure I will."
Now it was she who led him through the street, practically dragging him in her excitement to reach the toy shop. When at last they reached the window, Lorla let go of him and dove into the mass of children, elbowing her way to the window. Herrith paused on the sidewalk, happily watching her. With a press of little bodies on both sides of her, she put her palms to the glass and peered inside. Herrith didn't have to see her face to know the awe splashed across it.
Lorla lingered at the window, staring into the toy shop. The other children around her shouted and laughed, but she was silent as stone, mesmerized by the mechanical piper and all the miraculous dollhouses. Inside the shop, Herrith could see Redric Bobs, the shop's proprietor. Their eyes met for a fleeting instant before the toymaker looked away to deal with his customers. Predictably, the Piper's shop was packed with patrons. Naren nobles and their spoiled offspring crowded every inch of the store, grabbing greedily at the beautiful things the toymaker had built. Herrith shrugged off the idea of fighting the crowd. He was the Archbishop of Nar. He wouldn't need to wait for service. As Lorla stared at the toys, Herrith stared at the toymaker. A sad man, really. A great artist in his own way, but a recluse since his wife died. No children. Herrith closed his eyes and mouthed a little prayer for Redric Bobs. He was probably very lonely.
"Father," Lorla called loudly. She didn't turn her attention from the window, or pull her hands from the glass. "Father, come look!"
Herrith gently pushed himself through the crowd of children and parents. The assembly parted a little as he moved through them, allowing him to pass. As always, the bishop's acolytes shadowed him. When Herrith reached the window, filled with toys and moving, mechanical marvels, he smiled down at his adopted ward.
"See? I told you. Isn't it fabulous?"
"Fabulous," Lorla echoed. Her eyes were fixed on a beautiful dollhouse in the window, a giant, meticulously detailed model with real wood shingles and varnished a flaming, feminine pink. It was grander than all the other grand houses in the window, more stunning even than the wooden piper and his songs. "Look at that dollhouse," she whispered. "The big pink one. Isn't it lovely?"
"Beautiful," Herrith agreed. "The man who makes them is called the Piper. Like the flute player in the window. See?"
He tried to show her the wooden man, but Lorla wasn't interested, so enthralled was she by the dollhouse. Her little lips twisted with a sad grimace.
"It's so pretty," she remarked. "I've never had anything like that."
"Would you like one?"
Lorla finally tore her eyes away from the window and looked at the bishop. "You mean it?"
"A gift, from me to you. Something special for your birthday."
"Oh, yes," sighed Lorla. "Yes, I would like that very much. And I want a big one! Like that pink one."
"I don't think the Piper will sell us that pink one," said Herrith. "From what I understand, he builds them one by one. That pink one is his own. It's been in his window forever."
"Then I want one for my own," said Lorla happily. "One that's just for me! He'll do that for me, won't he? He can build whatever I want!"
"Come," said Herrith, taking her hand again. "Let's ask him."
Like Lorla, Herrith was on a cloud when he walked into the toy shop, overwhelmed at the girl's exuberance. The strong smell of paint and sawdust greeted them in the shop, filling the air, and the Piper's many handmade gadgets whirred and spun and whizzed by on wires overhead. Lorla giggled at the sight, enchanted, and Herrith, who had only seen the toys from the window, laughed with her. Redric Bobs' shop was a wonderland. But as soon as the toymaker noticed his holy guest, Redric Bobs went white, ignoring his current customer, a Naren nobleman with a big stomach and, obviously, an equally large purse. The nobleman scowled at Redric Bobs insistently, then stepped back in shame when he noticed Archbishop Herrith.
"Your Grace," said the Piper shakily. He was a lanky man with thin fingers like the dolls he made, and when he spoke the sawdust in his hair fell like dandruff to the floor. "I wasn't expecting you." He bowed suddenly, as if he'd forgotten all protocol. "Welcome to my toy shop."
"Rise, Redric Bobs," commanded Herrith. "This is festival day. No need for all the pomp. I came here like all these other good folks, to do business with you."
The Piper came a little closer. He looked enthralled, just as Lorla had when she'd seen the dollhouse, but it wasn't awe of Herrith that brought the strange expression to his face. It was Lorla. The toymaker stared at her, sizing her up, as if she reminded him of someone or something long lost. Thoughtfully, he dropped to one knee in front of her. A crowd had gathered in a circle to watch them, but Redric Bobs hardly noticed them.
"You've brought this child here for something special, haven't you, Holiness?" he said, never taking his eyes off Lorla.
"Yes," said Herrith. "For her birthday." "Birthday," trilled the Piper. "How nice." "I'll be nine," Lorla explained. "Nine," Redric Bobs parroted. He was being nonsensical, and it disturbed Herrith.
"Yes, man, nine years old," said Herrith sharply. "And she wants one of your dollhouses."
Lorla pointed back toward the window. "I saw the pink one. It's very beautiful."
"Ah, Belinda," said the toymaker proudly. "Yes, that's my favorite, too." He reached out and playfully messed up her hair. "Belinda always brings little girls like you into my shop. But she's not for sale, I'm afraid. She was built for my wife."
Herrith maneuvered himself between Lorla and the toymaker. "We don't want to buy that one. We want something special. One of your custom-made houses. You can do that for her, can't you?"
The Piper rose from his knees, and Herrith glimpsed the smallest resentment in his eyes. "Of course I can," said Redric Bobs. "That's what I do, after all. I can make a dollhouse for the girl. Anything she wants." He looked around at the shoppers staring at him. "But let's go somewhere and talk about it, away from everyone else, all right? I have an office where we can talk." He gestured invitingly toward the side of his store. "Holiness?"
"Very well," agreed Herrith, pushing Lorla along and guiding her toward the office. Piper cheerfully told his patrons to browse, then followed them through a doorway into a tiny room with a handmade desk. A collection of tiny toys sat on the desktop, waiting for a curious playmate. There was a chair next to the desk, and Lorla quickly claimed it. Redric Bobs closed the door to his office, shutting away the outside noise.
"I'm sorry, I don't have anything in here to offer you, Holiness," he apologized. "I don't get many visitors from the church in my toy shop."
"I'm already full of pastries and drink," said Herrith. "A
nd I don't care to stay long." He sauntered over to stand beside Lorla. "Now, tell us what you can do for us, toy man."
The Piper smiled. "You're looking well, Your Grace," he remarked, ignoring Herrith's question. "I saw you in your carriage some months ago. You've gained some weight back. If I may say so, you look quite fit. Your color is better, too."
Herrith grimaced. Was that meant to be a compliment? Redric Bobs was a strange character in Nar City. Perhaps he'd been breathing too much paint vapor.
"I'm well," said Herrith. "Now . . ."
"Some of us didn't expect such a remarkable recovery from you," Bobs continued. "We all prayed for you mightily, Your Grace. God must have heard us."
God delivered a little blue bottle to me, thought Herrith bitterly. Since taking the drug, he had been a whole man again. But Redric Bobs knew nothing of the drug, nothing but the rumors that constantly floated through the Empire. Herrith narrowed his eyes on the Piper, trying to penetrate his cryptic facade. He didn't like being reminded of his addiction, especially not by a peasant toymaker. And the drug Biagio had sent him was running perilously low. Soon, Herrith knew, he would have to strike a bargain with Biagio to obtain more of the stuff. But that was in the future, not today. Today was a good day, and Redric Bobs was ruining it. When at last Herrith addressed the Piper again, his voice was low, almost threatening.
"Why don't you tell us what kind of dollhouse you can build for Lorla?" he said. "We'd like to get back to the festival before it's over."
"I want a big one," said Lorla, stretching out her arms for emphasis. "Like the ones in the window."
"I can build whatever you'd like, child," said Redric Bobs. "Any style or color. As big as you like, too. Do you know what you'd like, Lorla?"
"Any style?" asked Lorla.
The toymaker nodded. "That's right."
"No matter what?"
"No matter what."
Lorla smiled. "Then I know what I want you to build for me, sir." She turned to Herrith and smiled at him secretively. "I want you to build me something very special. The best thing you've ever built! And I want you to build it for both of us, me and Father Herrith."
"What?" blurted Herrith. "Lorla . . ."
Lorla looked at the toymaker again in earnest. "Sir, I want you to build me a dollhouse of the Cathedral of the Martyrs."
Herrith was astonished. He faltered back against the workbench, staring dumbfounded at Lorla. "Child, what are you saying? The cathedral? Why?"
"Because it's my home," said Lorla softly. "My new home. The only home I'll ever have now." She reached over and grabbed Herrith's fingers. "It's special to us both, Father. And it will be something everyone can enjoy. Like Darago's ceiling! We can even keep it in the great hall, under the painting. People can see both of them, two beautiful things."
"But, Lorla, that's not a gift for a little girl. I want you to have a dollhouse like the pretty ones in the window. Something pink and sweet-looking. Something to enjoy."
"But I will enjoy it, Father," said Lorla. Her smile was bright, imploring. "It's what I want. More than a monkey or just some toy. I want something special."
It was all too perfect. She was such a remarkable child, this orphan Enli had given him. At that moment, he realized she was truly a gift from Heaven.
"Well, Redric Bobs?" he asked over his shoulder. "Can you make this for us?"
There was a pause while the toymaker considered the request. "It's very complicated," he said, stroking his chin. "The cathedral has many details. It will take a lot of work. And time. When do you want it?"
"In time for Eestrii," said Herrith. "I want it to be on display for all the Black City to see when we show off Darago's masterpiece."
"Eestrii," muttered the toymaker. "That's not much time. Less than a month. I'll have to work hard to get it done so quickly."
"Work as hard as you need to," said Herrith. "From dawn to dusk, I don't care. I'll pay whatever it costs. But do a good job, Redric Bobs. This is a very special gift you're making. I want it to be perfect."
"Everything I do is perfect," said the toymaker defensively. "Your Holiness will be astounded by what I build for the child, I promise that."
"Then send me your bill, toymaker," said Herrith. "I will gladly pay it." He lifted Lorla out of the chair, set her down gently on the floor, then led her out of the office. "Good day to you, Redric Bobs. Enjoy the festival. And remember--by Eestrii."
The toymaker bowed as they left, but Herrith hardly noticed. The drug and Lorla's love had invigorated him, making him feel truly immortal. They still had the whole afternoon before them, and Herrith was determined not to let it slip away. Today he was happy. Tomorrow or the next day he would hear bad news, learn about deaths in Dragon's Beak or some other far-off place, but today was the great festival of Sethkin. With a smile on his face, he walked out of the toy-maker's fanciful shop, back into the revelry of High Street with his adopted, perfect daughter.
TWENTY-NINE
Lord Jackal
The nights in Liss were heavy and still. Haran Island echoed with the sound of water and winter breezes and the occasional stirrings of birds, but very few voices or footsteps marred the silence. Jelena's palace took on the bleakness of a tomb at night. It was a lonely, almost desolate place, too big for its young occupant. With its high ceilings and empty corridors, the palace was a constant reminder of everything Liss had lost in its long war with Nar. There weren't men and women talking noisily, or little children of the royal family scrambling through its halls. There was only the cold quiet of duty, and the stone-faced guardians of Queen Jelena rarely cracked a smile or uttered an unsolicited word. In the light of day the palace was a wonder, but at night, when the world was asleep, shadows ruled.
Richius had only been in the palace for three days, but already he knew its habits. Like the rising and setting of the sun, life on Jelena's island was predictable. Her guardians and servants saw to her every need. Catboats and jarls constantly navigated the island's lake front and canals, delivering supplies, and the enormous water gate continued to make Richius marvel. Other than that, life in the palace was a hellish bore, and Richius longed to be gone from it.
Since his coming to Liss, Queen Jelena had treated him like royalty. She had given him rooms not far from her own, a palatial spread on the ground floor of her palace with a view of her prized water garden and haran fish. There was always food and a warm fire for him, and a staff of eager servants to cater to his needs. Clean Lissen clothes had been put in his closets, a blessed relief from the sea-stinking garb he'd arrived in, and he was provided all the quiet he needed to think and plan his strategy against Crote. It was a marvelous arrangement for Richius, perfectly conducive to thought. Except for one problem.
He had no idea where to begin.
For three days he had been isolated on Haran Island, with only Jelena for company. Prakna had disappeared--to be with his wife, Jelena claimed--and the crew of the Prince hadn't returned to visit him. And there was no army yet, either, only the promise of one. Tomorrow, Jelena had assured him, Prakna would return to Haran Island and bring him to his waiting soldiers, but to Richius that promise rang hollow. Worse, he feared it might actually be true. Despite the finery of his surroundings, the things he really needed were denied him. He needed maps of Crote, of which there were none. He needed experienced fighters to explain the terrain to him, and weapons for his men. He needed timetables and lieutenants, predictions about Crote's abilities and ideas on their weaknesses. There were plans to be made and scenarios to draw up, attack strategies and failure contingencies. There was absolutely everything to win or lose, and Richius was alone, a general without an army and horribly afraid. This time his arrogance had ruined him. He had finally taken on an impossible challenge.
"Dyana was right," he muttered. He shouldn't have come to Liss.
The night was wistful. Richius had wandered from his rooms and found himself on the mooring docks just outside the palace, watching the catboats slip
in and out. It had snowed erratically for the past three days, but tonight was clear and bright with clouds. The wind had stilled to a gentle breeze that blew his hair haphazardly over his eyes. His hair was getting longer, becoming more unkempt by the day. He hadn't shaved recently, either. But his clothes were fresh and clean, and he still wore the navy coat Marus had given him. He liked the feel of it, the way it kept his legs warm. And he liked the reflection he cut with it in mirrors. When he wore it, he felt very far away, on some great, nameless adventure that didn't include his troubled past. Richius leaned against a stout mooring post fitted with rusty chains and looked up into the sky. A blanket of stars swept to the horizon.
"Hero," he scoffed. "Jackal of Nar."
That's what they called him here. Even Jelena. She didn't seem to care that it was an insult. It was simply how she knew him. In Liss, the Jackal of Nar was some sort of saint, a great warrior who had beaten back the Black Empire and saved the Triin homeland. To some, it was a great story. To Richius it was a distorted joke. But it followed him everywhere now, and no matter how hard he fought it, no matter how many times he corrected people, they always called him Jackal or Kalak, and they always expected something grand from him.
"Can I do this thing?" he wondered aloud. Now and then he still talked to the sky, just as Karlaz had taught him. He was still waiting for it to answer. "They want so much from me. And I have nothing. Where's my army?"
Silence. The sky twinkled, ignoring him, and Richius looked away with a wry smile. He gazed across the great lake separating Haran Island from the rest of Liss. On the other side, he saw canals reflecting starlight and high, spanning bridges. Tall buildings reached heavenward, their windows blinking with candlelight. Silhouettes moved across the horizon, men in boats and women with golden hair. They were a beautiful race, these Lissens. And they were all enigmas to Richius, no more comprehensible to him than the Triin he had struggled so long to understand. Especially Jelena.
The thought of the queen made Richius close his eyes. She was very lovely. Like Sabrina. And her loneliness was palpable. It was a dark aura around her, a pall that never waned. She had lost her parents and identity, and had grown a vendetta to replace them, but still she was just a child. To Richius, she seemed a little girl playing in her mother's wardrobe; dressing like a queen, sometimes acting like a queen, but always through a thin veneer of adolescence. He liked Jelena. But just like Prakna and all the rest of them, she expected something impossible from him. She wanted a hero. She wanted a dragon-slayer from Naren mythology. Alone on the dock, weaponless and without an army, Richius felt barely able to defend himself, much less a nation.