The Jackal Of Nar: Tyrants & Kings 1

by John Marco

  ‘But he will be at the coronation, yes?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Biagio. ‘The bishop will conduct a small ceremony, and then you will pledge your life and allegiance to Nar before all the gathered lords of the Empire.’

  Richius curled his lips into the best lying smile he had ever managed. ‘It sounds wonderful, Count.’

  ‘Excellent. Then we should be going.’

  Biagio led Richius and his comrades out of the luxurious chamber into an equally well-appointed hallway. They were high up in one of the castle’s many spires. A draft made the tapestries shiver on the walls. Scurrying servants burdened with slabs of bacon and baskets of fruit made apologetic bows to them as they hurried on their way, and everywhere came the soft music of beautiful voices. The air was cool with the aromas of meats and gravies and sweet things, and the scent of flowers drifted through the hall.

  ‘Have many people come?’ asked Richius casually. He wasn’t at all comfortable with having an audience, though he expected there would be a large one. Biagio did not look at him, but merely gave his polite, patronizing laugh.

  ‘More than you might be at ease with,’ said the count. ‘Almost all the kings of Nar are here, and their wives and families, of course. Even King Panos came from Goss to be here. I’ll introduce you to the important ones. Just stay close to me.’

  ‘I’ll try,’ said Richius. To him, the idea of ‘staying close’ to Biagio was something like the thought of sharing his bed with a war wolf, but he knew the count would be far better than he at placing the faces of the court, and so he steeled himself for a long day of handshaking.

  They followed Biagio down a twisting staircase, descending each step carefully to avoid the clutter of people pushing past them. Only when the servants noticed whom they were shoving did they stop and give Biagio the obeisance his rank demanded, and a few cold glares from the count had several of them groveling apologies. Behind him, Richius’ entourage was commenting about the heavenly smells, and the music rose as they finally neared the bottom of the spire and entered the palace’s great hall. According to Biagio, it connected every tower of the castle – no small achievement considering the number of the looming monoliths.

  There were, by Richius’ estimation, at least a dozen towers, each of them containing a staircase that spiraled down to the hall. The hall’s vaulted ceiling climbed high above them, its frescoed surface drawing the eye upward, its walls gilded with marble friezes depicting glorious moments in Nar’s violent history. Statues of heroes with bronze helmets and broad shoulders lined the polished floor. They were men with tongue-twisting Naren names, men whose exploits were the bedtime stories of every good Naren child. Festoons of bright flowers draped the hall, garlands of honeysuckle and primrose sweetening the heady air. Here in the south of the Empire flowers grew year-round, and it was said that the emperor was particularly fond of them. Richius puzzled over this. Flowers seemed an odd affectation for a man so famous for his savagery.

  When they had pressed their way another hundred feet or so, Richius saw the palace’s throne room, opening off the end of the hall. The great iron doors were open wide, letting loose a wave of music. Richius bit his lip as heads began to turn. The idle chat of well-liquored onlookers hushed as they sighted him. He slowed his gait and squared his shoulders.

  ‘We’re with you, Richius,’ said Patwin, and Richius turned to see his four comrades flashing encouraging smiles.

  ‘I hope you’re hungry,’ he quipped.

  Biagio leaned in closer. ‘I’ll announce you when we enter,’ he whispered. ‘Do not worry. You won’t have to say anything.’

  The tide of people ebbed a little as they reached the throne room, and they stepped through the metal doors. All at once a thousand heads turned to greet them. Richius looked out over the sea of richly dressed people, and watched the women curtsy and the men raise their goblets. There wasn’t a familiar face among them, yet they smiled at him as if he were their brother or son. Those seated at the tables got to their feet when he entered, stopping their gorging long enough to join the cheer that rose when Biagio said boldly:

  ‘Lords and friends of Nar, I give you Richius Vantran, the new king of Aramoor!’

  There was thundering applause and the clinking of glasses. Somewhere a chorus raised their voices higher. A servant who had been waiting by the doors rushed a goblet into Richius’ hand. Without thinking, Richius raised the goblet to the assemblage in thanks. Behind him, Patwin was leading his companions in a cheer, their good-natured shoulder-slapping sloshing wine out of the goblet. Yet even Biagio didn’t seem to mind their boyish enthusiasm. The count laughed and called for servants to bring wine for them all, clapping his hands theatrically to the rising rhythm of the chorus.

  Richius laughed, too, his mind overwhelmed by the scene, the inundation of sounds and smells and colors that made his senses reel. The throne room was decorated much the same as the great hall, with blooming flowers and sconces forged from precious metals. There were no statues cluttering the floor, but huge, mahogany tables had been brought in to accommodate the plethora of food. Casks of wine and beer stood in every corner, and everywhere collared slaves pressed through the crowd, trays of opulent little morsels balanced expertly in their palms. It was all just as Biagio had promised.

  As Richius spied the congregation, it seemed to him that every nation in the Empire was represented. He let Biagio guide him slowly through the throne room, stopping intermittently to greet some of the guests. The count cocked his little finger genteelly as he pointed out those he thought Richius should remember, never being quite so rude as to look at them directly. There was King Panos of Goss and his wife Miranda, who had made her husband famous by bedding half his knights. There were Enli and Eneas, the brother dukes of Dragon’s Beak, whose long-running feud for their single throne was known throughout the Empire. Queen Katiryn of Criisia had come all the way from her northern home, and Count Jahann of the Eastern Highlands had arrived with an entourage of silk-clad handmaidens. Richius greeted them all with the naive congeniality of youth. He was dazzled by the diversity; the bosomy, lavender gowns of the women of Dahaar and the modest, muted garb of the ladies from Vosk. Amber-skinned Crotan noblemen passed unnoticed by Dorians, whose own skin had been deadened to white by the nearly year-round darkness in their wintry land. And most amazingly, Richius could find only good humor in the room, without an inkling of the rivalrous bickering he had expected to see among the many folk of Nar. He smiled to himself. Arkus had staged a convincing show.

  When they had crossed no more than half the room, the choir came into view. At least two dozen bright-eyed youths stood atop a short stage erected in the corner of the chamber, their mouths opened wide in song. It wasn’t a song Richius knew, for it was sung in High Naren, but its forceful, angelic melody made him pause. Never in his life had he heard such perfect music. Every note was as crystalline as a raindrop. He lowered his goblet as he watched the small mouths moving to the aria, almost brought to tears by the excellence of the sound. Biagio sipped at his wine as he too listened to the music. When the song finally ended the count closed his eyes and sighed.

  ‘Is that not beautiful?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Richius truthfully. ‘I think that was the most beautiful music I’ve ever heard. What was that song? I don’t think I know it.’

  ‘It’s called “Boruso Decoyo,”’ said Biagio. ‘The song of the martyrs. It is a dirge for those killed in the service of the Empire.’

  Well, there are enough of those to sing about, thought Richius bitterly. But he smiled and said, ‘Those children must train severely to be able to sing like that. Their voices are so perfect.’

  ‘There is much discipline,’ agreed Biagio. ‘Of course, discipline alone would do little good without the procedure.’

  ‘Procedure?’ asked Richius absently. Somehow he had lost Patwin and the others in the crowd, and he surveyed the expanse of bodies to find his comrades. He only half noticed Biagio’s surprise a
t his question.

  ‘Such music is not made easily, Prince Richius. Surely you don’t think all they do is practice to sound like that?’

  Richius glanced over at the chorus. Already they were clearing their throats for their next performance. But except for the extraordinary music they made, they looked wholly unremarkable in their white-and-scarlet gowns.

  ‘What else is there?’ asked Richius.

  ‘The procedure, Prince Richius, is used to make that lovely music you heard. Each of those children has had it. Listen to them when they sing. You will not hear a single note that does not belong. Do you know why?’

  ‘No,’ Richius admitted. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because they are incapable of making any other sounds. When it is determined what note a child can sing most perfectly, the other cords in his throat are severed. From then on only that one note can be sung. Then, when the children sing together . . . Well, the music tells the story better than I can.’

  Sickened, Richius turned away. They were so much like the children he was always shooing out of the stables back home, those children whose only knowledge of music were the war croons they heard their fathers sing. The only difference was that these cherub-voiced prodigies had the misfortune of being born in Nar. Deliberately he drained his goblet, welcoming the cool sting of the wine.

  ‘What do their parents say about it?’ he asked finally. ‘Are they proud of what’s been done to their children?’

  Biagio seemed not to hear Richius’ sarcasm. His smile sharpened as he said, ‘Why shouldn’t they be proud? Not every child can be of such service to the emperor. Only the very best are chosen. It’s a very high honor, and their families are well taken care of.’

  An attendant refilled Richius’ goblet. ‘The procedure must be painful.’

  ‘Not very,’ said Biagio. ‘The children are given things to calm them.’

  ‘Really? What kind of things?’

  Biagio’s strange eyes flashed at Richius but he did not answer for a long moment. At last he said, almost inaudibly, ‘We have things here in Nar to ease pain, Prince Richius. The children do not suffer. No one who serves the emperor suffers.’

  Richius started to speak, but a stunning, richly tanned woman interrupted him, slipping between him and Biagio with a twist of her shapely hip. Sure that Biagio would have something surly to say about the breach of etiquette, Richius stepped back. But the count’s face only brightened at the intrusion.

  ‘Ah, you look enticing, my darling,’ he said, taking the woman’s hand. He waved Richius closer. ‘Prince Richius, allow me to introduce my wife, Elliann.’

  Richius took the woman’s offered hand. He bent to kiss it, smelling the strong odor of liquor beneath the painted nails.

  ‘My pleasure, madam,’ he said, and when he looked into her dark eyes he saw the same odd transiency he had always noticed in Biagio. She gazed back at him, and yet seemed to be gazing past him, too. But he didn’t stare, not at her eyes nor at her alluring figure. The Countess Elliann pulled her hand back slowly, letting Richius’ fingers caress her own.

  ‘No, Prince Richius. Mine is the pleasure.’ Her voice was syrupy slow, like her husband’s. It had a kind of sultriness that Richius found at once attractive, and he had to force himself not to look at her eyes. With her arrogant manners and catlike gait, she was every bit Biagio’s mate.

  ‘My wife was eager to meet you, Prince Richius,’ said Biagio. ‘I have told her about you and your adventures in Lucel-Lor. Perhaps later you might entertain her with a story or two?’

  Richius frowned. ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘That would be wonderful,’ said the countess. ‘I do like a good war story, and I’ve heard that Lucel-Lor was dreadfully bloody. You’re not shy talking about it, are you, Prince Richius?’

  ‘No,’ lied Richius. ‘Not really.’

  ‘I’m so glad. I have so many questions, but none of the others will talk to me about it. Not even Baron Gayle.’ She leaned closer, saying in a whisper, ‘He was there when Tharn took Tatterak, you know.’

  Richius nearly dropped his goblet. He turned to Biagio and asked sharply, ‘Is Blackwood Gayle here?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Biagio. ‘Is that a problem? I did tell you all the rulers of Nar would be present.’

  Richius quickly scanned the giant room for Blackwood Gayle. He saw several men in the green and gold of Talistan, but none of them was the baron, and he muttered under his breath just loud enough for Biagio to hear. This was an insult beyond imagining, and he had no intention of letting it go unchallenged. To hell with etiquette. There were some things even Arkus had no right to do. He watched the people parade by, hoping to spot Gayle, to catch a glimmer of the silver mask he was said to wear now. But he saw nothing. Relieved, he settled himself with another sip of wine just as a group of revelers parted before him. There, across the crowded throne room, he glimpsed a girl. She was young, barely sixteen, with hair the color of honey. A name popped into his brain.

  Sabrina.

  The Lady Sabrina of Gorkney hadn’t seen him yet, preoccupied as she was with wiping a wine stain off the shirt of her driver, Dason. The big carriage man looked pitifully out of place in his worn boots and bulky woolen jacket. His hair was tousled and his beard was badly in need of a trim, a stark contrast to the impeccably groomed noblemen milling around him. Sabrina, however, was stunning. Her lithe frame was draped in a gown of sapphire-blue silk that made the gold of her hair sparkle like sunlight on an ocean. Perfectly painted lips drew back in an embarrassed smile as her fingers worked a handkerchief into the rose-colored stain on Dason’s shirt. Though he had only just met her the day before, Richius was comforted by her familiar face. He stepped forward without thinking, calling out to her and waving.

  ‘Lady Sabrina!’

  Sabrina ceased her rubbing and looked around the room uncertainly. Again Richius called to her, and this time caught her eye. She glanced over at him, confused. Then, as if with sudden recollection, she turned from him, hiding her face with a quick twist of her head. A second later she disappeared into the crowd, leaving her dazed driver alone with his drink and his soiled shirt.

  Richius started after her, then abruptly stopped himself. Surely she must have recognized him. What sort of greeting was that? He frowned, a boyish feeling of rejection creeping over him, and wondered just what gaffe he had committed to make her act so strangely.

  ‘Do you know Lady Sabrina, Prince Richius?’ asked Biagio. There was an overfamiliarity about the question that made Richius uneasy.

  ‘Not really. I helped her and her driver get their carriage out of a bog yesterday.’ He glanced back at the crowd into which Sabrina had vanished. ‘I thought for certain she’d have recognized me.’

  ‘Did you speak to her?’

  Richius turned again to the count. Even his wife seemed to be hanging on his answer.

  ‘Briefly. Why?’

  ‘She’s an attractive girl.’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘There are many attractive women here, don’t you think, Prince Richius?’ asked Countess Elliann. She took hold of Richius’ arm and squeezed. ‘A man like yourself has to be careful, or some young thing will have her claws into you.’

  ‘Stop it, my dear,’ said Biagio easily. ‘You are making our poor guest nervous.’ He removed his wife’s grip on Richius. ‘Forgive my wife, Prince Richius. She has an eye for fine-looking men.’

  ‘I’m flattered that your wife thinks me so, Count,’ said Richius. He bowed to the countess. ‘Excuse me, my lady, but there are many guests for me to greet, and I seem to have lost track of my own men.’ He took her hand and forced himself to kiss it again. ‘It was a pleasure to meet you. Your husband is a fortunate man.’

  She pretended to blush. ‘Maybe we can talk later?’

  ‘I’ll look forward to it. Count, you have some others for me to meet, yes?’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Biagio. ‘Come.’

  Richius followed the count through the maze of pe
rfumed bodies, past rows of tables teeming with fresh breads and colorful fruits arranged like rainbows. When they came to a suitably quiet corner of the chamber, Biagio stopped and took Richius’ goblet from him, placing it and his own on a nearby table. The count glanced around furtively, his expression growing suddenly serious. He clamped an icy hand onto Richius’ shoulder and drew him close.

  ‘You have many talents, Prince Richius,’ he said softly. ‘You’re a far better diplomat than your father ever was. My wife has so many of these fools sniffing around her like dogs. But not you.’

  ‘Believe me, Count, I meant no insult. I merely –’

  ‘Do not apologize. The way you handled her was exquisite. Not many men have the courage to say no to Elliann. But you did better than that, didn’t you? You had her absolutely charmed. You will do well here, I think.’

  ‘Forgive me, Count, but you must explain yourself. Your meaning is lost on me.’

  Biagio pulled Richius closer, taking him around the shoulder the way a father does a son. Richius glanced around the room, hoping no one was watching. But they seemed to be wholly alone, for the rest of the guests were all involved in their own conversations. Biagio pointed his finger toward the chamber’s other side.

  ‘Look, across the room. Do you see it?’

  And Richius did see it. The Iron Throne of Arkus.

  It was not as grand as he had imagined. In fact, he was struck by its remarkable plainness. There were no jewels inlaid in it, no ornate carvings or runes drawn in its metal. There were no cushions upon its seat, nor did its back tower pretentiously to the ceiling. There was only the rough utilitarian-ness of iron, cold and unapproachable. The throne sat stark and empty upon its tiny dais, strangely out of place in the opulent chamber, yet in all the vastness of the Empire, nothing bespoke power more than this shabby, roughly forged chair.

  ‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’

  Richius had to agree. It was so much like his father’s own throne that it made him wonder about the emperor that sat upon it. How simple was Arkus of Nar, conqueror of the continent, that he should be satisfied with such plainness? What kind of man had summoned him to Nar?