by John Marco
From across the harbor, another of the long rowboats approached. Herrith spied it warily. It bore the markings of the Fearless. He and Kivis Gago both would be travelling aboard Nicabar's flagship. Apparently, Nicabar hoped to prepare them for the coming peace talks. The other Naren lords, steadfastly refusing Nicabar's hospitality, would voyage on Black City and Intruder. Herrith braced himself as the boat approached the dock. Onboard were four sailors, all of them dressed in the dark uniform of the fleet. As the boat slid into a mooring, one of the sailors, obviously a man of some rank, jumped out and approached them. Kivis Gago's bodyguards coiled, ready to defend their master.
"Archbishop Herrith," said the seaman loudly. "My name is Lieutenant R'Jinn. I'm to take you aboard the Fearless, along with Minister Gago." He gave the minister a polite bow. "Admiral Nicabar requests that you be at ease. He promises no trickery, and that no harm will come to any of you aboard his vessel."
"That better be true," spat Gago. He was a tall man, prone to gaudy threats. "If anything happens to me, Nicabar will be the most hunted man in the world." The seaman didn't flinch. "You may bring your bodyguards or any belongings you wish. Admiral Nicabar wants your voyage to be a pleasant one."
"I go nowhere without my bodyguards, pup," sneered Gago. "I don't need Nicabar's permission."
"And I don't have any bodyguards," said Herrith. "Just take us aboard."
The lieutenant frowned. He looked at the stooped bishop, and Herrith thought he saw pity in his eyes.
"Very well," said the sailor. "Let me help you."
Weak from sickness, Herrith didn't refuse the offer. Two more sailors climbed out of the rowboat to help him aboard. Every step was an agony. His head swam with nausea and his joints screamed with fire, and when he placed his foot into the boat, the rocking of the vessel made him groan. The lieutenant guided him into one of the benchlike seats. Herrith took a weary breath. He felt unconscionably old.
When Kivis Gago and half his bodyguards were aboard, the rowboat shoved off again. Another was passing them, approaching the dock. The second vessel would take the rest of the minister's entourage to the Fearless. Gago sat down next to Herrith, rocking the boat with his weight.
"Traitorous skunks," he scoffed, loud enough for the sailors to hear. Gago had always been a loudmouth, and Herrith wished one of the other lords had come with him instead. None of them were friends, precisely, but he cared for Gago the least. Like General Vorto, Gago didn't know when to keep quiet. Herrith looked out over the sea toward the waiting Naren flagship. He had never been aboard a dreadnought before, and wondered what it would be like. Nicabar had been among the best of the Iron Circle. Herrith wished the admiral had never sided with Biagio.
Biagio is a demon, he thought miserably. A monster who lies with men and makes the best out of every vice.
It wasn't supposed to be this way. When Arkus had died, Herrith had seized the Empire for good reasons. Now those reasons seemed specious. There had been far too much bloodshed for him to think it worth the struggle. He had ordered the deaths of thousands and wasn't sure anymore what God would think of that.
And then there was Lorla.
The memory of his precious adopted daughter brought a lump to his throat. Had she been part of Biagio's designs? Probably. She was just one more of Bovadin's wicked creations. The war labs had given Nar the acid launcher and the flame cannons and the heartless, world-eating Formula B. Herrith had no doubts that Bovadin could turn his foul imagination loose on a child. The midget had already proven his diabolical nature, a hundred times over. After walking through the rubble of his cathedral, Herrith had seen the twisted remnants of Bovadin's device. He still didn't really know what it was, but he knew that only Bovadin could have constructed it.
Herrith thought back to something that Lorla had told him once, that she was something very special. At the time he had merely grinned like a proud father, agreeing with her. But now he knew the dark truth of things. It was the only explanation that made sense. She had lured him to the toymaker, begging for the dollhouse. And she had gotten to him through Enli, whose treason was now infamous. But she had never feigned her love for him.
That was real, he told himself. Maybe it had started false, but in the end she had loved him. She had even tried to save him.
The Fearless loomed ever larger. The rowboat cut through the waves, anxious to reach its mother. Herrith and Gago stared up at the growing warship, mesmerized by it giantness. The dreadnought was a behemoth, and its numerous cannons poked out of its gun deck like the thorns of a beautiful, dangerous rose. Lieutenant R'Jinn guided the rowboat to the side of the vessel. A long rope ladder dropped down to greet them. All along the deck, Herrith saw more sailors staring down at them. His holy presence broke their militant professionalism, and some of them pointed at him, surprised and maybe pleased to see him.
They're all your flock, Herrith reminded himself. Even if they serve an evil master.
"Archbishop," called the lieutenant. "Think you can climb that ladder?"
Herrith looked at the ladder sourly. "God is testing me," he muttered.
"I'll help you," said R'Jinn encouragingly. "I'll be right behind you."
"Very well," said Herrith. He waited until the row-boat came to a stop, then got shakily to his feet. Lieutenant R'Jinn and two other crewmen grabbed hold of his arms, guiding him out of the boat. The little platform pitched and rolled, making Herrith ill. He summoned all the strength he could, refusing to look weak, and took the ladder in his hands. With a powerful grunt he lifted himself onto the first rung. R'Jinn and the others helped by pushing. Kivis Gago gave a laugh, clapping.
"Well done, Herrith," he joked. "You can do it!"
The insult was all the prodding Herrith needed. He summoned his remaining strength, struggling up the ladder just to show the arrogant nobleman he was able. It was a long climb, but with R'Jinn beneath him for support he made it to the top without slipping. When two more sailors on the deck helped him aboard, he had a giant smile on his face. But the smile vanished quickly. Standing in front of him was Admiral Danar Nicabar.
"Welcome aboard, Herrith," said the commander. "This is an honor."
Surprisingly, there was no gloating in Nicabar's tone. His stony countenance held not a trace of arrogance. Herrith, breathing hard, nodded at the admiral.
"It seems you were right, Danar," he said. "Here I am."
"Biagio was right," Nicabar corrected. "Myself, I never thought you'd come aboard."
"Peace guides my actions, Danar, not personal gain. Peace is the only reason I've agreed to speak with your wicked master."
Nicabar smiled. "Very well, Herrith. As I said, I'm glad to have you aboard. We're going to try to make this as pleasant as possible for you. I have a cabin ready for you. It's one of the largest on board."
Herrith scoffed. "Not as big as yours, I'm sure."
"Big enough," said Nicabar. "You'll be well cared for, I promise."
"I'm not a pet, Admiral."
Nicabar sighed. "Do you want to see it? Or do you want to stand in the cold like a fool? Personally, I think you should rest. You look awful."
"Yes, well, I've been through a lot recently," jabbed Herrith. He stared at Nicabar hard. "But you already know that, don't you?"
"Casualties of war, Herrith," replied Nicabar. "And no worse than some of the things you've done."
It was true, so Herrith didn't argue. "Take me to my quarters," he said. "Let's get going as soon as we can. I--"
His words died in his mouth. Across the deck he saw the diminutive figure of Bovadin. The scientist was coming toward him.
"You!" Herrith roared, losing all control. "You little monster!"
Bovadin put up his hands. "Easy, Herrith . . ."
Herrith bolted forward and grabbed the midget's lapels, lifting him off the ground. Howling, he wrestled Bovadin to the edge of the deck, pinning him against the railing. All the strength of the drug flashed back into his muscles with a wrathful charge. The mi
dget struggled to get free, gasping.
"Herrith, stop!" he cried. "Stop!"
Nicabar came rushing forward. He pulled Herrith away from the rail. Herrith held fast to Bovadin, shaking him.
"You murderous beast!" he seethed. "You killed her!"
"Herrith, stop!" Nicabar demanded. He pulled the bishop roughly off of Bovadin. Three crewmen rushed into the fight, stepping between them. Herrith roared at Bovadin even as the sailors dragged him away.
"We're not done, dwarf!" he swore. "Not at all. I'll see you burn in hell for what you did!"
"I'll meet you there, Herrith!" the midget shot back. Nicabar held him back with a single hand, but Bovadin fought scrappily against him, cursing at Herrith. "This is your war. You started it."
"Shut up, both of you!" thundered Nicabar. He tossed Bovadin aside like an insect. "Get away, Bovadin. I told you not to come up here."
"Danar . . ."
"Go!"
The scientist glared once more at Herrith, then strode away, shaking his head. Nicabar turned on the bishop.
"You're stronger than you look," he quipped. "But I won't have a spectacle like that again. This is my vessel. You want to kill Bovadin? Do it when you get to Crote."
"I just might," hissed Herrith. "And maybe you, too."
Admiral Nicabar growled, "Come with me. Let me lock you in your cabin!"
Exhausted from the melee, Herrith followed willingly. Nicabar led him through a narrow hatchway in the bridge, down a small flight of wooden stairs and into a claustrophobic, swaying corridor. At the end of the corridor the admiral paused at a door, opening it and gesturing inside.
"This is your cabin," he said sharply. "I think you'll find it has everything you need."
Herrith peered inside. It was ridiculously small, with only a cot built into the wall and a small table and chair. On the table was a letter, stamped with the familiar seal of Count Biagio. Herrith froze when he saw it. Holding the letter to the table was a paper weight--a small vial of blue liquid.
"Oh, no," whispered Herrith. "Please . . ."
"From Biagio," Nicabar explained. "He knew you'd need it by now. The apparatus for taking it is stored under the bunk." The admiral gave a victorious smile. "Feel better, Herrith," he said, then stepped aside to let Herrith enter the cabin. The bishop stumbled over to the table. He picked up the vial and stared at it, dreading the upcoming decision.
"You should have thrown it overboard," he said. "It's poison, Danar."
The admiral's blue eyes laughed. "Not for me."
"Oh, you're wrong," Herrith said. "You're very wrong."
"Rest," advised Nicabar. "It's a two-day voyage to Crote. I'll send a cabin boy to see to your needs after we get under way. If you need anything, ask me."
Nicabar was being very kind, making Herrith suspicious. "I don't want to be interrupted," he said. "When I need anything, I'll get it myself."
"Stop being a fool, Herrith. You don't know your way around the ship and my crew isn't yours to order around. Let the cabin boy help you. That's what he's here for."
Nicabar left the cabin, shutting the door behind him. Herrith slumped down in the small chair. He studied the vial, hating it and loving it, dying to pour it into his veins. His body screamed for its soothing power.
He licked his lips, unsure what he should do, then noticed Biagio's letter. His hand trembling, he put down the vial and reached for the envelope, opening it.
My dear Herrith, the letter began.
I knew you would change your mind. Thank you.
It was signed very simply, Count Biagio.
Enraged, Herrith balled up the letter and tossed it aside. Biagio's arrogance was boundless. He had the obnoxious ability to see into the future, or to manipulate the present to get the tomorrow he wanted. Herrith felt the count's cold hands all over him. He was being worked like a lump of clay. And he felt powerless.
"But I am not powerless," he whispered. "This, at least, I can do."
Slowly, haltingly, his hand reached out and picked up the vial again. Then he undid the lid and poured the contents on the floor.
FORTY
The Lissens
The Naren vessel Swift had been in Lissen waters for barely a day. Captain Kelara, weary from the recent voyages back and forth he had endured, spent most of his time above deck, scanning the horizons with his lookouts. For his mission to succeed, he needed to sight the Lissen invasion force well in advance, and to remain undetected himself.
Kelara did not expect to see his quarry so soon.
Out on the horizon, he caught a glimpse of a big schooner through his spyglass. Quickly he tabulated the speed and distances. From the size of her, she could easily be the Prince. A second later, a lookout in the crow's nest verified his sighting.
"Four ships!" came the cry. "Off starboard, ten degrees!"
Boatswain Dars, who had eagerly accompanied the small crew back to Liss, rushed up to Captain Kelara's side. The young man shielded his eyes with a hand, squinting out over the ocean.
"I can't see anything," he said, annoyed. "Where are they?"
Kelara didn't need his spyglass anymore, so he handed it to Dars. The boatswain hurriedly pointed the lens ten degrees off starboard, paused, then let out a venomous curse.
"That's the bastards!" He snapped the spyglass closed and turned to Kelara. "What now?"
The captain backed away from the railing, ready to give the order. "Now we head back to Crote, Boatswain," he said. "Here's where the fun begins."
FORTY-ONE
Secrets
Alone in the cabin he shared with Simon, Richius sat at the tiny table built into the wall, staring at his journal. Writing was an old habit he had neglected since the end of the Triin war, but the tedium of the sea voyage had reacquainted him with the task. It took his mind off the boredom and the questionable things to come. The Prince was four days out of Liss. Prakna's best estimates put them in Crote in three more days. The battle was joined, looming ever nearer, and Richius daydreamed as he sat in the flickering candlelight, contemplating the violent times ahead.
We are not far now, he wrote. In three more days we will make landfall in Crote, and I do not know what we will find there. Perhaps Biagio's guardians will surrender peacefully. If not, they will have a massacre on their hands. These nine hundred orphans I bring with me are bloodthirsty. I have done my best to tame their anger, but they still seethe for vengeance. Seeing them reminds me a little of myself. They are all the things I'd hoped never to be.
Richius stared at the line he'd just written. He was sorry for his feelings, but there they were, put down on paper, making them real. Long ago, his father had given him a valuable piece of advice; that a general must love the men he leads. If not, the men will know it and not fight for him. Richius sighed miserably. Did he love these Lissens? He didn't think so. He respected and admired them, but he didn't love them. What he felt was more like pity. The realization frightened Richius. He lowered his pen, unable to continue.
In Aramoor--if Aramoor still existed--he would have been a king. It was a title he never sought or craved. He never wanted to go against the emperor or fight in Lucel-Lor or earn the name Jackal, and suddenly he felt the years rush over him.
"I've changed," he whispered.
For the first time in his young life, Richius felt old. He was afraid of going to Crote, and of facing Biagio. Much as he wanted to cut the count's heart out, he also wanted to turn the ship around and sail back to Falindar to see Dyana's bright face. It wasn't his own mortality that worried him; his fears concerned his soul and his sanity. Sometimes, both seemed to be slipping away. He might live forever as a madman, like some hero in a Naren fairy tale who could not be harmed by any blade but whose mind slowly devoured itself.
"Enough," he chastised himself, throwing down the quill. He needed to focus.
Suddenly the cabin door opened and Simon staggered inside. It was very late and normally they both should have been asleep, but Simon's seasickness alwa
ys kept him awake and above deck. The Naren's face was shadowed with an unhealthy pall. He closed the door and collapsed into his bunk with a groan. Richius noticed the stains of vomit on his coat.
"You look terrible," he remarked.
"You stayed up to tell me that?" snapped Simon.
"No." Richius closed his journal and pushed it aside. "Just thinking."
"My guts are on fire," Simon groaned. "You shouldn't have made me eat."
"Starving yourself won't help. You'll only waste away. And I want you strong when we reach Crote."
Simon rolled over and glared at him. His eyes were lusterless. "Staying up all night worrying won't help, either, you know. You can go over those plans a thousand times, but you'll never know what's going to happen until it happens. Words of wisdom, boy. Learned the hard way." Simon's vision narrowed on Richius' journal. "What are you writing in there, anyway?"
"Just things," said Richius evasively.
Simon smiled. "Come on, I can tell you want to talk. What is it? What's on that sharp mind of yours?"
Richius didn't answer right away. He listened to the gentle rocking of the ship and its endless creaking, and considered the man sharing his cabin. Still, after all that had happened, he liked Simon Darquis. Richius turned his chair toward his cabin-mate's bunk, deciding to trust him.
"Simon, don't you ever wonder about yourself?" he asked softly.
Simon chuckled. "What?"
"I saw you when you came to Liss," Richius pressed. "Do you remember how sorry you looked?"
Simon glanced away. They had never really talked about that, and Richius had thought it best to stay quiet. But he had seen such remarkable sorrow in Simon that day. It had made him wonder.
"I remember," replied Simon. "It's not something I enjoyed."