by John Marco
The bombardment had released the formula. Vorto had actually been fool enough to bring it here! Nicabar ran across his deck, shouting for his men to hurry and hoping the wind wouldn't carry the gas to them. Across the flagship sailors snapped into action, making ready to get the behemoth moving. They had to hurry, Nicabar knew, before any of the poison could reach across the ocean.
But he would be back. He would give the gas time to dissipate, a week maybe, but he would return to the ruined Gray Tower. He had to. He had promised Biagio he would deliver a very special message to Herrith.
As he listened to the rattling chains of the rising anchor, Admiral Nicabar wondered how much would be left of Vorto's body. He only needed a piece.
THIRTY-ONE
Reunion
From his tiny cabin window onboard the Intimidator, Simon watched the Hundred Isles of Liss come magnificently into view. He held Shani's face up to the glass, and together they stared at the islands, not exactly sure what they were seeing. Simon had never been to Liss, but he'd heard the stories from sailors like N'Dek. It was rumored to be an incomparable place, with ancient bridges and spires, and waterways instead of streets. Anxious for a better look, he wiped the obscuring mist from the window. The sun was coming up behind the islands, making them glisten. A far-off copper tower caught the light and reflected it. Shani cooed in Simon's ear, entertained by the sight and laughing a good child's laugh. Simon held her closer. She would see her father soon. He had done it. And he was remarkably proud of himself.
"Land ho, N'Dek," he mocked. "I told you we'd make it."
Captain N'Dek, still in ropes, sat on the side of the cabin's bunk, looking drawn and exhausted. For days he had been trapped in the room with his captor and the child, having Simon feed and clean him, reduced to shouting orders through the door at his worried crew, who were all sure they were sailing into disaster but who knew better than to challenge the authority of the Roshann. Even in this time of imperial strife, the Roshann had sway. Enough, Simon had noted with relief, to convince Intimidator's crew to sail to Liss. They had spotted the islands an hour ago and were coming dangerously close now. But N'Dek didn't bother going to the window to see. He was full of hate for Simon and shame for himself, and had barely uttered a word throughout his captivity.
"Once they see us they'll send ships," said N'Dek bitterly. "Are you ready to die, Darquis?"
"They won't sink us," said Simon. "We're only one ship. They'll want to talk to us first. I'll have them escort us in to talk to their leaders."
N'Dek laughed. "What? Just like that? What is this mission of Biagio's?"
"Just keep your mouth shut," snapped Simon. He hadn't explained any of his plan to the captain. He didn't really have a plan. He hoped only that Richius had made it to Liss safely, and that having his daughter aboard would buy all of their lives. "I'll do the talking when the ships come," said Simon over his shoulder. "Remember that, N'Dek. I'm still in command of this vessel."
"Do you know what I'm going to do if I get back to Crote, Darquis?" said the captain. Behind his back he fidgeted with his hand, the bandaged one Simon had driven a dagger through.
"Tell me, please," drawled Simon.
"I'm going to tell Nicabar what you've done. I'm going to tell him that it was all on orders of that man-loving freak Biagio. And when he finds out, he's going to cut both of you into chum and feed you to sharks."
"That's nice."
"I'm a captain of the Black Fleet, for God's sake!"
"Quiet down, N'Dek," advised Simon. "You're making an ass of yourself."
N'Dek seethed. Simon could almost taste his fear.
Fear was a contagious thing, and Simon felt a tremor of it, too. But he tried not to pass any of it onto Shani, whose mood had improved perceptibly at the sight of land. No doubt she was as eager as any of them to leave this stinking chamber. So together they stared out through the octagonal glass, watching Liss loom ever larger, until eventually four ships appeared, heading fast for them. They were big ships, all of them, with white sails and sea-serpent flags and gleaming rams on their prows. Shani laughed when she saw them, pointing through the glass.
"That's it, child," said Simon. He leaned into her ear, whispering, "They're going to take you to your father."
"What is it?" N'Dek asked. "What's out there?"
"Four ships," said Simon. "Coming toward us."
The captain contorted to his feet, ignoring his bound hands. "Coming fast? What positions?"
"I don't think they mean to ram us, N'Dek," said Simon.
"What the hell do you know? Get out of the way!"
N'Dek shouldered past them, pushing them away from the porthole and looking outside. There was a sudden banging on the cabin door.
"Captain, sir!" came a crewman's voice. "Four ships approaching. Fast!"
"I see them," N'Dek shouted back. He turned on Simon. "All right, smart fellow. Let's see you work your magic on these devils. They're coming up quick and they'll want some god-damn answers. I sure hope you have some."
Simon drew his dagger from his belt, the one he had used to cripple N'Dek's hand. "You did a very good job of paying attention to me, Captain," he said, putting the point of the blade beneath N'Dek's chin. "Don't disappoint me now. We're going to go above deck. You're going to tell your men to surrender. No swords, no weapons of any kind. I'm going to talk to these Lissens, make them understand me. Right?"
"Fool," N'Dek sneered. "They won't listen to you."
Simon pushed him roughly toward the door. "We'll see."
He hoisted Shani up in his arms. The little girl wrapped herself around his neck.
"Open the door!" he yelled. The command brought the door swinging open. Two sailors stood outside the cabin, waiting, a little wild around the eyes. They had seen their trussed-up captain before, but now the knife at his back seemed to make them more wary.
"We're going above," snapped Simon. "You two lead. And I swear to God, if there's any trap waiting for me on deck, the captain gets it first, and then you two. I'm fast with this knife so don't doubt it. Now move!"
The bold threat had the sailors jumping. Even burdened with a child in his arms, Simon could still make men fear him, and the revelation brought a smile to his face, giving him confidence. All he needed to do was convince the Lissens he had Vantran's baby. They wouldn't dare harm them then. If possible, he would have them spare the crew. N'Dek was a bastard, but a loyal one. Simon didn't want any of their blood on his conscience.
With N'Dek stumbling in front of him, Simon followed the sailors up the gangway to the decks above. When they hit the frosty air, it was like a hammer-blow. None of them were dressed for the weather, and Shani shivered in Simon's arms, huddling closer for warmth. A dozen sailors milled around them, watching but keeping their distance. Simon looked around quickly. He saw the four ships closing in on them from the east. With his dagger he maneuvered N'Dek toward a rail, then kept his back to the ocean and the blade at N'Dek's neck as he spoke.
"Lower the flag. I don't want to do anything to instigate them. And get a blanket for the child. It's bloody freezing up here!"
The sailors stared at Simon dumbly, unsure what to do.
"Move your tails!" flared N'Dek. The order sent his men scurrying. The Black Flag squeaked down from its high mast as the ropes were pulled, stripping the ship of its proud colors. Simon wondered if the Lissens aboard the schooners could see their goodwill action. They were getting closer now, close enough to make out striking details on their odd-looking ships. The lead vessel was larger than the rest, grander too. When he noticed it, Captain N'Dek let out a groan.
"Oh, God, that's the Prince."
"Prince?" asked Simon. "What Prince?"
"The Prince of Liss," said N'Dek, bristling. "That's Prakna's vessel. The lord high Lissen himself."
"Prakna?" Simon squinted harder, then recognized the schooner he had seen when Prakna came to Lucel-Lor. They were getting a royal welcome. Or a grand execution.
; "You'll need to talk fast to make this one listen. Prakna's a bloody butcher, and he won't take kindly to us being here. I hope you've rehearsed your lines well, Darquis. Or we're all dead. Including you."
The Prince of Liss and her three escorts slowed as they approached. Simon saw Lissen men on deck, blond-headed sailors with milky skin that reminded him of the Triin. They lined the decks of the schooners and looked resolute, like they had no qualms at all about sinking the stranger that had entered their midst. But Simon was sure they wouldn't, not without asking questions. He readied himself and waited for the flagship to come closer. The Prince was a marvelous-looking ship, long and curved like some creature of the depths, with a toothy ram that dazzled him with sunlight. As she approached, Simon could see the men on her deck.
Prakna was one of them. Tall and hard-faced, he stared at the Intimidator. He stood with his arms folded, letting his sailors guide his flagship closer, close enough so that they could see each other.
"That's Prakna," decided Simon quickly. "Tell your men to surrender. Unconditionally. Do it now."
N'Dek grumbled for a moment, then gave the order to one of his lieutenants.
"Get rid of any weapons you have!" shouted Simon. "Throw them overboard!"
All around him the sailors discarded their rapiers and daggers, tossing them into the sea in an obvious show of surrender. Prakna watched through narrowed eyes, obviously suspicious. N'Dek's lieutenant called over the rail, waving his hands and shouting the word surrender. Prakna hardly blinked.
"Prakna!" shouted Simon anxiously. "We surrender! Surrender!"
The Prince of Liss came closer, trimming her sails to keep from drifting too near. Simon continued waving at Prakna, but the Lissen commander never let a spark of interest light his face. He was granite, made so by ten years of war, and Simon suddenly worried that his plan might fail. Maybe N'Dek was right. Maybe they were all doomed.
"Prakna, it's me!" he shouted. "Simon Darquis! From Lucel-Lor."
Finally, Prakna's face thawed. His eyebrows went up and he turned to the man beside him on the deck, as if verifying what he had just heard. The fleet commander moved closer to the railing and squinted through the sunlight.
"It's Simon Darquis!" said Simon again. "Vantran's friend! I have to talk with him! It's important!"
The mention of Vantran made the captive N'Dek whirl around. "Vantran?" he hissed. "What?" "Not now, N'Dek."
"His friend?" cried the captain. "What the hell are you talking about?"
"Shut up and let me get us out of this," hissed Simon. He tried to smile at the Lissens, to look unthreatening. Prakna's face was set with a scowl. Simon lifted Shani higher in his arms. "I have Vantran's child here!" he shouted. "I need to see him. Quickly!"
"What are you doing here?" bellowed Prakna. "What business have you in our waters?"
"Let me come aboard and explain it to you," Simon shouted back at him. "Please. It's very urgent."
The strangeness of everything had Prakna confused. He turned back to the man next to him, talking and gesturing and generally wondering what to do. Simon watched him, trying to read his lips, hoping he had convinced the Lissen to listen. He had Vantran's child, after all. There was no way Prakna would risk her.
At least he hoped not.
"Prakna, please!" Simon urged. "I swear, we're no danger to you. We've disarmed and we surrender!"
Fleet Commander Prakna put his hands on the railing and leaned over. "If this is a trick, Naren, you will die."
Simon put up his free hand, as if to promise to Heaven. "It's no trick, I swear it. Let me come aboard and bring you the child. I have news for Vantran. Important news, for all of you. There's no time to confer, Prakna. Just do it. Please!"
"All right," growled the Lissen. "We'll send over a boat. Just you and the child are allowed aboard. And listen to me carefully, you Naren pig--if anything goes wrong, anything at all, I will drown every last one of you with my bare hands."
After his threat, Prakna turned away in disgust. But Simon was satisfied. He turned to N'Dek, who was staring at him in astonishment.
"What is this, Darquis?" asked N'Dek. "What have you done to us?"
Simon swallowed hard. "I can't explain it to you, N'Dek. It's--"
"You've betrayed us, haven't you? This isn't a Roshann mission. My God, Darquis. You're a traitor!"
Simon didn't move. He knew he was safe from the Naren crew now. The Lissens would protect him, for a time. But N'Dek's accusation rang in his mind over and again. Traitor.
"Nothing's going to happen to you," he said. "I'll make sure of it. They'll let you go free."
N'Dek grit his teeth. "You're wrong. You've destroyed us, Darquis. You've murdered us all." The captain stared at him. "Why?"
The only answer Simon could give was to cut the captain's ropes away with his dagger. He half expected N'Dek to strangle him when he was finally free, but the Naren only glared at him, rubbing his rope-burned wrists, his eyes full of confusion. Simon walked through the sailors toward a rope ladder dangling off the side of the Intimidator and waited for the little boat from Prakna's ship to fetch him. The fleet commander had dispatched the boat as promised, and now the little vessel was splashing toward him, rowed by two sailors and holding four more, who each kept a short sword in their hands. When they reached the side of the Intimidator, one of them called up to Simon.
"Hurry down."
"I have the child," said Simon. "Look out for her."
The boat was positioned directly beneath him. Simon held Shani firmly and stepped out over the side of the ship. But before he placed his foot on the first rope-rung, he looked at the girl in his arms.
"Shani, you've got to hold on tight to me, all right? Don't let go."
Shani coiled her arms around Simon's neck, readying for the descent. Simon slowly shimmied down the ladder, carefully holding the girl as he navigated the rungs. It was a tedious trip, but finally he stepped into the shaking boat and gratefully felt the solid feel of wood beneath his feet. The sailor that had ordered him aboard tried to take Shani from him, but Simon guarded her jealously.
"Just take me to Prakna," he snapped at the man. "And keep your hands off the girl."
The Lissen smirked but said nothing, and soon the little boat shoved away from the Intimidator, rowing toward the waiting Prince of Liss.
Within a few short days of coming to Karalon, Richius had learned a terrible truth about the young Lissens he was training--none of them had escaped the Naren war without scars. It was, he was beginning to understand, a disease that afflicted all the people of the Hundred Isles. And in a sense, these Lissens were all just different versions of Queen Jelena. Like their ruler, all of them had lost someone dear to them. It might have been a father or brother, or maybe a mother taken off and raped. Or, in the case of Shii, an infant son, ripped from her hands and drowned by Naren sailors. They were an inscrutable bunch, Richius had learned, eager to please but close-mouthed about their violent pasts. They trained hard and rose early in the morning, and they followed orders without question, because he was Lord Jackal and a hero, and because they simply had nowhere else to go. They were on a great and violent mission, these children of Liss, and nothing could stop them or ease their burning scars.
Just as Shii had claimed, his army was nine hundred strong now--enough, he was sure, to swarm over Crote and seize it from Biagio. They were like zealots, these Lissens. Unquenchable, they longed for Naren blood. And Richius had taken that thirst and tried to focus it, to channel it into something useful. He had seen the loss in Shii's eyes, in all their eyes really, and knew the fire in them could easily rage out of control. He wanted an army, not a band of berserkers. So he had set to work quickly, talking to them in small groups, telling them that they had worth and value beyond their need for revenge, and trying his best to tame the beasts within them. It wasn't an easy job, and Richius wasn't at all sure he would succeed. Shii, the one he depended on most, was a fiery woman, hate-filled and driven, and like Queen
Jelena she was convinced of the Rightness of their mission.
"An army isn't built on revenge," he had told his young assistant. "If we're to be an army, we must have honor and discipline."
The words had resonated in Shii. Day by day, she was becoming less the wildcat and more the soldier, inclined to think before reacting. Because he was Lord Jackal, Shii listened to Richius. And he got down in the mud with them all. Refusing to direct the training from a comfortable chair, he was with his army every day, getting filthy and insect-bitten, staying up late and rising early. He showed them how to move like an army, the way he had in his war against the Triin, how to slink through the brush with your sword at your side, how to side-wind through mud and cover your face with it. Prakna's raid on Nar had won them a bounty of swords, and Richius instructed them in the art of close combat, recalling his early days in Aramoor at his father's knee, and how the older Vantran had been relentless in his teachings--insisting that his son learn--because he had the foresight to know that war was inevitable.
Inevitable. For Richius, it was a sad truth, and he thought about it often as he taught his army. He wasn't an expert in any of these things. There were swordsmen and tacticians far better than he, but he had experience and memories, and the young Lissens of Karalon respected him.
Of all the things Richius tried to teach them, the most important was how to listen. They were supposed to be an army, after all. With Shii's help, he had organized them into platoons, each led by a capable young man or woman, so that he could confer with the platoon leaders and talk over certain troubles or concerns. He was open with them, always willing to lend an ear. After only a few days as their general, Richius was, he supposed, having an effect on them. And he was proud of himself.
In mid-afternoon of his fifth day on Karalon, Richius worked in a tent just outside the parade field where his platoons were drilling. He was leaning back in an uncomfortable chair, fretting over a map he was drawing. Despite his appeal to Jelena, he still had no maps of Crote, only vague charts put together by Prakna and other sailors. Lissen intelligence about their target was spotty at best, and their chances of a successful invasion would be vastly slimmer without more information. Richius knew only what he had heard throughout his years in Nar--that Biagio lived in a great villa near the sea, and was protected by a contingent of personal bodyguards, all of them Cretans, who watched over their master day and night and who, presumably, had learned some tricks from their Roshann teacher. Whether or not there were actual Roshann agents on Crote was another thing entirely. Richius supposed there were some, at least--especially since there were members of the Iron Circle who had fled to Crote with Biagio. And they all might have their own bodyguards, another factor Richius had to consider. It wasn't actually the numbers that frightened him, though. He had nine hundred crazy Lissens on his side. What concerned him was the imprecision. Unless Biagio's villa shined like a beacon, they might not even find it. They might be stranded on the Cretan beaches with no sense of where to go, and that troubled him greatly. He could teach these people how to use a sword, but not how to sniff out Biagio.