The Grand Design

by John Marco

  "He's left a message for you, Herrith," said Todos. "A box and a note. He had some of his sailors bring it ashore. It's waiting for you in your study."

  "A box?" parroted Herrith.

  "And the note," added Todos. "Please, Herrith, come quickly. Nicabar's ships might open fire on us! And without Vorto to protect us . . ."

  "Be easy, Todos," bade the bishop. "I'll see what the devil has brought us this time." He turned to Lorla apologetically. "I'm sorry, little one," he said gently. "I have business to attend. We'll sup together tonight, all right?"

  Lorla nodded. "Yes, Father," she replied, then watched him leave the great hall with Todos.

  An awesome silence filled the chamber. Lorla looked back at the cathedral model. The angel was speaking to her.

  Herrith hurried toward his study, his mind racing. Another delivery from Nicabar could only mean one thing: Biagio had delivered more of the drug. He would have known that the small dosage he'd first given would have run out by now. Herrith wrung his hands as he walked, full of hope. Behind him walked Father Todos. The priest's worried chattering hadn't ceased since he'd come to the hall.

  "I don't know what it is," he repeated. "And our defenses are weaker without Vorto here. There are three dreadnoughts, I think. Or four. I don't know why the admiral didn't come ashore. Afraid, I suppose."

  Todos was babbling; Herrith hardly heard him anymore. He didn't care why Nicabar hadn't come ashore. Really, the reason was obvious. Without an escort sent to protect him, the legionnaires in the city would tear him to pieces. Herrith wondered if Nicabar's note would explain things. Perhaps he wanted to come ashore and was waiting for safe passage to the cathedral. No matter. They would know soon enough.

  The door to Herrith's study stood open. Inside, a pair of priests loomed over his desk, their expressions bleak. On the desk sat a wooden chest. Next to the chest rested an envelope. Herrith eyed the chest greedily as he entered his study. A box so large could hold a gallon of the drug!

  "You haven't opened it, have you?" he asked his priests. Each of them shook their head.

  "Holiness, it's for you," explained Todos. "We wouldn't dare."

  "Fine, fine," said Herrith absently. He hovered over his desk, inspecting the chest. A little latch kept the lid closed. Herrith ran his hand over it, feeling the leather, afraid to open it. Biagio was a devil. If the chest did contain the narcotic, the count would be bargaining for it. Herrith held his breath as he fingered the latch. It sprung open with a metallic click. The three priests watched, mesmerized. Herrith slowly opened the lid and peered inside.

  Something rotten and dead stared back at him. Herrith's heart froze. He stared at the thing, and realized at last that it was a head, and that the head was Vorto's.

  "Mother of God!"

  Todos screamed. The two priests crossed themselves, horrified at the sight. A stench rose up, striking Herrith squarely. Vorto's head was like a shattered melon, bald and burned almost beyond recognition.

  Herrith put his hands to his mouth and backed away from the desk.

  "God have mercy on you, Biagio," he whispered.

  "What happened?" Todos cried.

  Herrith took a deep breath, then slowly closed the chest. A trancelike mood fell over him. He was fighting the devil himself, he realized suddenly. Biagio was more of a monster than he'd feared.

  "Vorto," he said softly. "Rest, my friend. You were a loyal soldier."

  "My God!" exclaimed Todos. "How can this be?"

  "Todos . . ."

  "Herrith, Biagio's killed him! We have no general anymore!"

  "Shut up, Todos," snapped Herrith, turning on his friend. "Let me think." He collapsed into his chair in front of the desk, brooding over the chest and the terrible circumstances Biagio had delivered him. Todos was right. Without Vorto, they had no commander. They had soldiers still, but they would be demoralized by this. Biagio was very slowly turning the tide.

  Then Herrith noticed the envelope again.

  With an unsteady hand he reached across the desk and retrieved the note. Todos started to say something, but Herrith silenced him with a glare.

  "Todos, you stay," he said. "Jevic and Merill, please leave us."

  The two lesser priests bowed and left the room, shutting the door behind them. Todos hovered over Herrith.

  "They're demands," he prophesied. "Biagio means for us to surrender."

  Herrith opened the envelope and pulled out a piece of paper. The penmanship was Biagio's. But he didn't read the letter aloud. Instead he studied it, holding it close so that Todos couldn't see.

  Dearest Herrith,

  It is sad indeed that things have come to this. But you see now that I intend to get your attention, and will not be ignored. Your champion is dead, as are the soldiers who went with him. There has been much bloodshed, for which I am truly regretful.

  I ask you again to come to Crote with all the Narren lords loyal to you. I cannot come to the Black City myself, as you well know. Now that I have slain their general, the legions would not have me on Naren soil. But I sorely want peace, and beg you to treat with me.

  There is also the matter of the drug. It is here, waiting for you. You have my word that I will not withhold it if you do as I ask. Nicabar and his ships will remain in the harbor until you decide to join me. Do not try and send him away, because he will not leave until you change your mind.

  And you will change your mind.

  Your friend,

  Count Renato Biagio

  Herrith tossed the letter onto the desk before him. "You're certain of that, are you, Biagio?" he seethed.

  Todos snatched up the letter and began to read.

  "He thinks I'll change my mind!" Herrith thundered. "He thinks he is stronger than me and God!" He smashed a fist down onto the desk, sending the gory chest jumping. "Well, he is not!"

  Todos shook his head, worried. "He taunts you with the drug, Holiness. If you don't talk peace with him--"

  "Not on his own island, I won't," snapped Herrith. "Let Nicabar wait in the harbor 'til he grows spiderwebs. I will never set foot on Crote."

  He laid his hands on the chest containing Vorto's head, praying to God for strength. It was all unraveling now, raster than a hurricane. Only Heaven could save them.

  "Send a message back to Nicabar," the bishop directed. "Tell him I will not speak peace with Biagio, and that neither I nor any Naren lord will be going to Crote. Tell him also that we are still strong. Biagio may have killed a handful of our army, but we are not doomed yet. Go, Todos. Make haste with my message."

  Todos departed, leaving Herrith alone to brood. The bishop got out of his chair and walked weakly toward the wall of glass displaying all of sprawling Nar. In the harbor he could see the Fearless and her sister dreadnoughts bobbing on the ocean. They were a formidable trio. Like Biagio, Nicabar, and Bovadin. At his worst, Herrith had never dreamed Biagio would go this far. Or accomplish so much.

  "It's slipping away," he said mournfully.

  A year ago, he had thought himself invincible. Now he just wondered what the morning would bring.

  THIRTY-SIX

  Betrayal

  Count Renato Biagio felt wonderful. One day remained before Eestrii. The count was in a lazy mood. He was world-weary and profoundly satisfied with himself, for his grand design had almost been achieved after a long year of planning. Tomorrow, if all the pieces of his vast puzzle fell into place, Nar would understand the power of its true master.

  Biagio leaned back in his giant leather chair, sipping at a glass of sherry and admiring the view through his window. Crote was very beautiful. He would miss it sorely. But great victories always came at a price. Someday, when Nar was his, he would retake the island of his ancestors. He wondered how it might change in that time. What would the Lissens do to his precious homeland? The thought made him take another sip, deep and contemplative. Every building they burned, every statue they defaced, would be paid back in magnitudes. He would see to it. And so would Nicabar
.

  But that was the future, and Biagio didn't care to think so far ahead. He was basking in the moment, and in the moments soon to come, and as he drank his fine sherry he smiled to himself, imagining Bovadin in the streets below the cathedral, watching his device go off. The midget had worked exceedingly hard. He was a loyal servant, and Biagio was proud of him. Just as he was proud of Nicabar and, to a lesser extent, the little girl named Lorla.

  Lorla.

  Biagio mulled the name over in his mind. It suited her. He had named her himself. The count smiled. She had been the perfect candidate for his mission, and Bovadin had worked his miracles on her. Lorla was like a clock ticking toward midnight. Outside his window, Biagio noted the position of the sun. It would be dark soon. Not too much longer.

  "And so I will win, Herrith," he said to himself. "And you will come to Crote because you are weak and because you underestimated me."

  They had all underestimated him. Even Arkus. His beloved emperor hadn't had the foresight to leave him the Empire. It wasn't vanity or self-promotion. He was simply the logical choice, and Arkus had forsaken him. A full year later, Biagio still didn't know how to forgive the man who'd been like a father to him.

  The one bright spot in his days was the Vantran woman. Dyana was a marvel he hadn't expected, and after almost two weeks, he no longer minded having her around. She had the brains not to contemplate escape, and on those rare occasions when they spoke she always tried to convince him of her husband's innocence. She was a good and loyal woman. And faithful to her husband. Biagio's own wife Elliann had never been like that. But then, neither had he.

  He would find Elliann, he decided. When he returned to the Black City, she would crawl back to him like the bitch she was, smelling wealth and power, and he would turn her away for the simple pleasure of seeing her scowl.

  Biagio put down his glass. On his desk sat some loose leaves of paper, a journal of sorts that he had been keeping of recent events. He had chronicled everything meticulously, sometimes transcribing whole conversations, for he wanted a record of his grand design not only as a souvenir but also as a guideline of sorts for his Roshann agents. They were still scattered throughout the Empire, awaiting his return. He would have much to tell them.

  But sometimes his journal wasn't about his reforms at all. Sometimes his notes were just the offerings of a cool, reflective mind. Biagio picked up his pen and began to write.

  The Jackal's wife is nothing like I imagined, he wrote. She sees my secrets with the eyes of a jaguar, and yet she seems not to care. Nor does she have fear of me. When I tell her my plans to take her to Nar, she hardly flinches. And she calls me mad. Clearly, my mastery of her means nothing.

  Still, she has set my mind to thinking.

  Biagio put the end of the pen into his mouth, chewing on it pensively. Thinking about what? His own mortality? Yes, that and so much more. He didn't like having his sanity questioned, especially not by the Jackal's wife. There were plenty in the Empire who thought Richius Vantran insane, yet that didn't seem to bother Dyana. She was blinded by him, dazzled by his strange glamour. Just like everyone else.

  And Biagio still hated him. Despite Dyana's appeals, the count's fury knew no satiety. His one wish was that he could be here on Crote when Vantran invaded. He would have liked to see his old nemesis again.

  "Patience," he counseled himself. "You have the woman."

  Dyana could lure Richius Vantran to the ends of the earth. She had proven that once already. Biagio leaned back, putting his hands behind his head and resting his feet on his handmade desk. Today, life was good. Tomorrow, it would be even better. He closed his eyes and started to daydream, but was quickly interrupted by a knock at his door. The count's eyes snapped open with a growl.

  "Leraio, if that's you . . ."

  "Master, please," came his house slave's voice. "It's urgent."

  "Come in, then, damn it."

  Leraio opened the door and stepped meekly inside. He knew his master hated disturbances, so he got right to the point.

  "A ship just arrived, Master," said the slave. "One of the fleet."

  Biagio quickly pulled his feet off the desk and got out of his chair. "The Swift?"

  "Yes, Master," replied the slave. He had a worried smile on his face that made Biagio wonder.

  "What else?" probed the count. "I can tell by that stupid grin you're not telling me everything."

  "Captain Kelara has already come ashore, Master. He says he has to meet with you urgently."

  Biagio tossed up his hands. "Well? Bring him in here!"

  "I'm sorry, Master, I just thought--"

  "What, Leraio? What did you think? I told you I wanted to see Kelara the moment he arrived. So why are you wasting my time with this nonsense? Just bring him to me."

  "But, Master," the slave implored. "It's not what you think. Captain Kelara isn't alone. He's brought someone ashore with him. Another sailor."

  Biagio grimaced. Why were there so many surprises lately? "What sailor?"

  "Master, Kelara says he's from the Intimidator."

  The count fell back into his chair with a groan. "Oh, no . . ."

  It wasn't just interesting news. It was terrible news. Biagio tried to tame his emotions, but they were suddenly overwhelming. This unpredicted arrival could only mean one thing.

  Simon was dead.

  "Bring them in," whispered Biagio. "Both of them."

  Leraio backed away with a bow. Biagio picked up his sherry and quickly finished the glass, ignoring the pleasant sting it gave his throat. He wanted to run away suddenly, to hide where no one could find him. And he cursed himself for his foolishness, sure that the mission he had thrust on Simon had killed him. He set down the glass and stared at the threshold, waiting for his guests to arrive and bracing himself for dreadful news.

  Captain Kelara appeared in the doorway first. He was dressed in a clean uniform, and readied himself for the audience by taking off his hat and giving Biagio a deferential bow.

  "Count Biagio?" he asked. "A word, please?"

  "More than a word, I hope," replied the count. He beckoned him closer with a finger. "Come in, Kelara."

  Kelara stepped aside to reveal another man, a much younger sailor with fair hair and an eager look about him. He was thin and pale like many of Nicabar's ilk, and when he saw Biagio he gave a quick, awkward bow, mimicking Kelara.

  "What's your name, sailor?" asked the count.

  "Boatswain Dars, sir," replied the young man nervously.

  "Boatswain Dars of the Intimidator, is that right?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "How is that possible?"

  The boatswain grimaced, shifting his eyes toward Kelara for support. Kelara took a step forward. His expression grew grave.

  "We rescued him, Count Biagio. I'm sorry to say, the Intimidator was lost. Dars here was the only survivor. "

  "Lost," echoed Biagio. "How?"

  "We were rammed by a Lissen schooner," the young man interjected. "She came out of the dark and struck us amidships. We didn't even see her coming. Captain N'Dek and the rest of the crew went down with her." His eyes hit the floor guiltily. "I'm all that's left."

  Biagio felt his insides twist. No other survivors. Not Simon. And not the Vantran child. He let out a heavy groan.

  "There's something I'm not understanding," he said. "The Intimidator was struck by a Lissen schooner. And then, what . . .?" The count shrugged. "You swam to Liss?"

  "No sir."

  "Then how did the Swift find you?" pressed Biagio, losing patience. "Where the hell was the Intimidator?"

  "Uh, Count Biagio, I think I should explain," said Kelara.

  "Yes, Captain, that would be very nice."

  "Count, the Intimidator wasn't en route to Crote as planned. She was in Lissen waters when she went down. That was her heading . . . on the orders of Simon Darquis."

  "What?" hissed Biagio. His eyes darted between Kelara and Dars. "What are you saying, man? Explain yourself."


  "It's true," said Dars. "Simon Darquis was aboard. He had the Jackal's daughter with him. He ordered us to Liss."

  "Darquis took Captain N'Dek hostage in his cabin," added Kelara. "He ordered the Intimidator to Liss on authority of the Roshann. Your authority, Count Biagio. N'Dek did as he was told, and they dropped Simon off on the islands. According to Dars, here, Richius Vantran was on Liss, too. Darquis stayed with him."

  "Darquis said it was all part of your plan," said Dars. "We didn't understand it, but when they let us go we didn't care. Only they didn't let us go. We thought we were free, but then the Prince came."

  "The prince?" probed Biagio.

  "The Prince of Liss," Kelara explained. "Prakna's flagship. And he didn't really let them go. When they thought they were safely away, the Prince came after them in the night. Sunk 'em." The captain shook his head ruefully. "I saw the whole thing, but I was too far away to do anything. And the Swift doesn't have any cannons. All that I could do was rescue poor Dars here."

  Biagio listened, appalled at the tale. He didn't care that the Intimidator had been sunk, or that a whole crew was dead. What fixed his mind--what screamed at him--was that Simon was on Liss. It was unthinkable, and yet the word that best described it rang unceasingly in his mind.

  Betrayal.

  "This is impossible," he gasped. "What business had Simon in Liss? I gave no such orders!"

  "I swear, it's true," insisted Boatswain Dars. "Every word of it. Simon Darquis took control of our vessel and sailed us to Liss. That's where we left him." The young man sneered. "That lice-ridden dog. He betrayed us, and on your orders, sir. He did, and I'll go to my grave saying so."

  "I'm sorry, Count Biagio," added Kelara. "But it's all the truth. We picked up Dars and then sailed for Crote. I thought you'd want to hear this news quickly."

  Biagio was silent. Kelara looked at him questioningly.

  "My lord?"

  "Yes, yes," whispered Biagio. "You did the right thing, of course, Captain."

  Kelara and Dars exchanged puzzled glances. Biagio saw them only peripherally. He was lost in a fog, crushed by the news and unable to lift himself from the chair. Simon had betrayed him. The thought of it was agonizing. It had been painful to think him dead. But this new revelation was crippling.