by John Marco
‘It’s remarkable,’ said Richius at last. He had many questions about the throne, all of which he decided not to ask Biagio. There was something more the count intended of this conversation. ‘What do you want to tell me, Count?’ he asked.
‘There are things we must discuss, Prince Richius. Things you should know before you meet the others.’
‘Others?’
‘Others like myself. Men who are as close to the emperor as his own thoughts.’
‘I think I know these men, Count. In Aramoor we call them the Iron Circle.’
‘We are called that here in Nar, too,’ said Biagio. ‘It is not what we prefer to call ourselves, though.’
‘You speak as if I have something to fear from these men,’ said Richius. ‘Do I?’
Biagio chuckled. ‘Oh, Prince Richius, you have no idea!’
‘Tell me.’
‘We are the emperor’s eyes and ears. When we advise, he listens.’
‘So?’
‘So it would be wise for you to handle the others just as you did my wife. They will be watching you, waiting for you to show the same taint of treason as your father. A stupid man might give them what they want. But you’re not stupid, are you?’
Richius could hardly speak. He had never expected Biagio to be so bold about his father’s treason, and he had no idea how to answer.
‘Why are you telling me this, Count?’ he asked. ‘What is it you want from me?’
‘I assure you, Prince Richius, I want nothing more than to see you succeed as king.’
Again, Richius made no attempt to hide his skepticism.
‘You don’t believe me?’ asked Biagio. ‘You should. You already know how important peace within the Empire is to us. But the others are unsure of you. You will have to prove yourself.’
‘And if I don’t?’
Biagio raised his eyebrows. ‘That would be very bad. For you see, not everyone in Nar is as forgiving as I am. And my influence with the emperor is limited. But if you can convince the others that you are not so much your father’s son, they will have nothing to report to the emperor. Then you can return home to Aramoor secure in your kingship, and I can do my job without interference.’
‘Oh?’ asked Richius. ‘And just what is your job?’
Biagio smiled dispassionately. ‘Watching you.’
There was a pause between the two men that lasted only a moment, but it was long enough for a simple phrase to form in Richius’ mind. It was a phrase everyone in the Empire knew, one that Richius had learned at his father’s knee. It still made him shudder when he thought of it.
The Roshann is everywhere.
‘Very well,’ said Richius finally. ‘It seems I have no choice but to appease these men.’
‘It’s for the good of Aramoor, Prince Richius,’ said Biagio, returning Richius’ drink.
‘I’m sure. Where are they, then? Show me.’
‘One is directly behind you. Do not turn around quickly.’
Slowly, deliberately, Richius turned his head back toward the throne, casually sipping at his wine. He surveyed the room lazily, wondering who he was looking for, when his eyes fixed on a conspicuously small man ahead of him. Like Biagio, the man was richly dressed. He was well under five feet tall, and he seemed not to notice them as he gazed up at the long-legged beauty towering over him, her glass poised at the level of his nose. A pair of eyes like those on a cockroach repeatedly shifted from the woman’s face to her bosom.
‘Who is that?’
Biagio turned away. ‘Don’t stare,’ he said sharply. ‘His name is Bovadin. Nar’s minister of arms.’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Richius. The man who keeps the war labs busy.
Even in Aramoor he had heard of this diminutive genius. The creator of the flame cannon and the war wagon and the acid launcher, Bovadin had the dubious honor of bringing science to Nar. He was old now but he didn’t seem so, another curiosity that Richius noted, and over the decades his machines had torn down the walls and pride of a hundred cities. It was this kind of man who had made Aramoor bend its knee to Arkus without a fight. It was Bovadin who had made swords and spears as ineffectual as sticks and stones.
‘Do you want me to introduce myself?’
‘No. He doesn’t like to talk to other men. You’ll be in Nar long enough to meet him, though. He will find you when he’s ready.’
‘But I thought you wanted me to speak to them, convince them of my loyalty.’
‘I want you to remember the faces, that’s all. Before this day is done you will meet most of them. When you do, you will know not to say anything stupid.’
Richius nodded wearily. ‘Who else?’
Biagio cocked his pinky toward the doors. A man in a robe of brilliant white was entering the chamber, his arms spread wide as well-wishers rushed up to greet him.
‘The bishop,’ said Biagio.
Bishop Herrith walked with practiced grace through the crowd, patting cheeks and giving absolution out like sweets. He was a fat man but his movements were elegant. A train of cowled acolytes trailed behind him, their heads bent in silent reverence. The sight made Richius wince. Like most Aramoorians, he was not overly religious, and cared little for the rituals of the Naren priests. It was no coincidence that most of the churches they had built in Aramoor stood empty on the sabbath day. Though men like Herrith claimed that the Gods of Nar and Aramoor were one, the Vantrans had always done their best to dispel this myth.
‘I don’t want to meet with him,’ said Richius coldly. ‘We have priests enough in Aramoor.’
‘When it comes to the bishop, it doesn’t matter what you want,’ said Biagio sourly. His eyes lingered a little too long on the holy man, making Richius suspicious.
‘You don’t like him, do you?’ Richius said. ‘I can see it, the way you look at him.’
Biagio shrugged. ‘He is close with Arkus. As am I.’
‘But you don’t like him, do you? Why not?’
‘Really, Prince, you have a boy’s nastiness. You pester me over nothing. Herrith and I are . . .’ Biagio paused and his face soured some more. ‘Allies.’
‘I still don’t want to talk to him,’ said Richius.
‘But you will,’ insisted Biagio. ‘You will have to meet with him after the ceremony. He will have questions for you. He’ll want to know what your plans are for the church in Aramoor. Tell him what he wants to hear.’
‘What? That I intend to build more churches for him? I do not. I should think you would understand that, Count, being from Crote. Crotans have their own beliefs, don’t they?’
‘Nevertheless,’ said Biagio sternly. ‘You must have good news for the bishop if you want him to speak well of you to the emperor. Arkus is very fond of Herrith.’
‘I won’t lie to him, not about Aramoor. We have our own ways back home. He can’t . . .’
‘Lower your voice,’ ordered Biagio, glancing around. ‘Prince Richius, it would be wise for you to listen to my advice. Let me protect you. Otherwise you may not have a kingdom to rule.’
‘Don’t threaten me, Count. I already know what Arkus can do if I don’t obey him. But I’m the one who must govern Aramoor. I know what my people will tolerate, so maybe you should listen to my advice. Am I to be nothing but a puppet?’
‘We do the will of Arkus,’ said Biagio simply.
Richius knew the phrase. It was a line from a poem written decades ago, before Nar had the power to shake the knees of nations. Richius chuckled mirthlessly and finished the poem for the count.
‘We are guided by his mighty hand.’
‘Excellent, Prince Richius. Remember that and you’ll do well. Come, there is someone I do want you to meet.’
They ventured back into the crowd, and Richius did his best to keep the phony smile on his face. The women smiled at him coyly, and those without men let their gazes linger long. When at last they reached a table full of uniformed men, Biagio stopped.
‘Danar?’
A giant
of a man seated at the table’s head looked up at them, his face splitting in a wide grin as he sighted Biagio. He got to his feet and thrust out his hand.
‘Renato!’ he bellowed. ‘Where have you been? I haven’t seen you in weeks.’
‘Business has kept me away, Danar,’ said Biagio, putting his own cold hand into the offered fist. The man was grandly attired in the indigo garb of the Naren navy. A gaggle of ribbons swam on his chest.
‘I’ve missed you,’ said the man. He pulled Biagio close and added, ‘I have things to tell you.’
‘Fair news, I hope. But first let me introduce you to someone, Danar. Do you know who this is?’
The man’s friendly expression evaporated as Biagio stepped aside to reveal Richius. His eyes were like all the rest of them, peculiar and cold. They flicked over Richius contemptuously.
‘I know you. You’re Vantran, right?’
‘I am,’ said Richius.
‘You’ll have to call him King Vantran soon, Danar,’ said Biagio playfully. ‘Prince Richius, this is Admiral Danar Nicabar, commander of the Black Fleet.’
Richius gave a curt bow. ‘I’m honored.’
Nicabar said nothing.
‘I have heard your name in Aramoor, Admiral,’ continued Richius. ‘When ships come from Karva they often have news of your battles with Liss.’
‘Liss,’ said Nicabar sharply, ‘is not a subject you know anything about, I’m sure.’
‘The admiral has some grand designs for Liss, don’t you, Danar? Why don’t you tell young Prince Richius what you have planned?’
‘Happily,’ said Nicabar. ‘We have thirty new dreadnoughts being built. They’re bigger than the old ones, more heavily armored and more heavily weaponed. And Bovadin has designed a new keel to make them faster. They’ll be able to outrun even the schooners of Liss.’
Biagio turned to Richius. ‘Danar is planning a final attack on Liss in the spring, once the dreadnoughts are ready. He tells me that this should be the last gasp for those pirates.’
‘I’d stake my life on it,’ added Nicabar. ‘There’s not a chance for the bastards now.’
‘Tell that story I like,’ urged Biagio. ‘About what you’re going to do to their sailors when you take Liss.’
The admiral’s grin widened. ‘I’m going to drown them all. They all think they’re such great sailors, let’s see how well they do under water.’
The comment made Biagio giggle like a schoolboy. ‘And the channels, Danar. Tell him about the channels.’
‘You don’t know it because you’ve never been there, Vantran, but there are these channels around the coasts of the islands, shallows they call them, like some kind of maze. I’ve lost dozens of ships in them. Do you know what I’m going to do with those channels?’
Richius shook his head dumbly.
‘I’m going to turn them red. The men will be hauled out to sea for shark food, but the women and the babes will be bled until every channel in Liss runs scarlet.’
Biagio howled with laughter and slapped Nicabar on the shoulder. So amused was he by the admiral’s plans that little tears began to trickle down his cheeks. He pulled a brightly colored handkerchief from his vest and daintily blotted his eyes with it.
‘Oh, I love to hear you tell that story, Danar,’ said Biagio. ‘Isn’t that a delicious vengeance, Prince Richius?’
Richius said nothing. It was plain to him now why Biagio had wanted him to meet Nicabar, and he felt like a fool for being led into it. He shifted uncomfortably under the admiral’s stare, cringing inwardly as Biagio put a long cold arm about his shoulder.
‘The prince looks overwhelmed,’ said the count. ‘Perhaps I should take him to his seat now, let him get some food. Enjoy yourself, Danar. We will speak later.’
The admiral inclined his head, letting Biagio lead Richius away from the table. There was a brief silence in their wake and then a round of poorly hidden chortles that made Richius’ jaw tighten. When they were safely out of earshot, Biagio put his lips to Richius’ ear and asked softly, ‘Well, Prince Richius, what do you say now?’
‘That wasn’t necessary,’ snapped Richius. ‘I told you that I know what Nar is capable of. I didn’t need him to explain it to me.’
‘Forgive my bluntness, but I thought you should hear it from someone else. Danar has quite an imagination, and he wasn’t at all pleased when he learned about your father losing the war in Lucel-Lor. He went on for days about what he would do to Aramoor, given the chance.’ Then, suddenly serious, Biagio added, ‘So let’s not give him the chance, agreed?’
Richius only nodded. There were many things he would be able to do as king, but defying Nar and its Iron Circle would not be one of them. He walked soberly beside the count, and wondered how his father would have reacted to it all. Darius Vantran was a stallion, fiery and stubborn and unbreakable even under the whip of Nar. Richius had always imagined that he too would be a stallion when the time of his reign came, but now Biagio had pulled out a gelding knife. Miserably, he lifted his goblet and tilted the rest of the wine down his throat. Today, he knew, happiness would come only from a bottle.
Across the room, not far from the Iron Throne, a long table ran along the wall. Though it was large enough to accommodate a score of hungry celebrants, only four men were seated at it, their heads partially obscured behind heaps of sliced meat and fruit baskets. Richius let out a long-held breath as he recognized Patwin waving at him. Little drips of gravy fell from the mutton joint in Patwin’s fist. Beside him, Barret reclined lazily in his chair while a pair of giggling maidens tossed grapes into his mouth. Next to Barret, Ennadon was hard at work constructing the largest plate of food Richius had ever seen. So high was the pile of treats that Ennadon had to balance it expertly in both hands to keep it from toppling while he spied the table for additional delicacies. Gilliam too was making good use of Nar’s hospitality. He sang along with the chorus, though he clearly did not know the song. Empty beer mugs were strewn out before him like captured game pieces. It was a scene reminiscent of Aramoor, when they used to come home from a good day’s hunting and gorge themselves on venison steaks, and Richius was pleased to see his men enjoying themselves. This, at least, he had accomplished.
‘I will leave you to your men for a while, Prince Richius,’ said Biagio. ‘The ceremony won’t begin for some time yet, so enjoy yourself. Be careful with the drink, though, and remember what we spoke about.’
‘All right,’ grunted Richius, walking away from the count. Barret shooed away the girls, and he and Patwin got to their feet as Richius approached.
‘Where’ve you been, Richius?’ asked Barret. ‘We’ve been waiting for you. You’d better hurry to the beer before Gilliam drinks it all.’
‘Sadly, I’ve been told to go easy on the drink,’ said Richius.
‘Who said that?’ asked Patwin. ‘Biagio?’
‘Yes. It seems everyone here has got their eyes on us. Biagio told me to be careful, not to say anything to offend anyone.’
‘Well, then,’ said Ennadon. ‘Just take a seat and don’t talk.’ He put the plate down and held out a chair for Richius. ‘Here, sit.’
‘With pleasure,’ groaned Richius, practically falling into the chair. At once the steward assigned to their table placed another goblet before him. Richius sighed and stared down into the wine. A wavy reflection stared back at him, and it seemed to him that he didn’t know the oxblood face in the glass. But he lifted the goblet anyway and took a deep pull of the wine, hoping Biagio was watching.
To hell with you, Biagio.
He lowered the glass to the table with a determined thud, turning suddenly to Patwin.
‘Do you know who’s here?’
‘Who?’
‘Gayle. They actually invited that scoundrel to my coronation!’
Every head at the table turned. Ennadon’s jaw dropped open in disbelief, displaying a mouthful of half-chewed food.
‘What?’ erupted Patwin. ‘Did you see him?’
‘But why?’ asked Patwin, pushing away his plate as if the news had robbed him of his appetite. ‘I can’t believe he’d even want to come here, not for this occasion.’
‘I know,’ said Richius. ‘It’s unthinkable, isn’t it? How dare that bastard ruin this day for us?’
‘Oh, my lord,’ interrupted Gilliam’s pale voice. He pointed his fork toward the crowd. ‘There he is.’
Worse, he was coming toward them, sauntering through the crowd like some green and gold golem, the buttons on his uniform straining to contain the fabric stretched across his chest. A sword hung loosely from his leather belt, slapping against his tree-trunk thigh as he walked, and his oily jet hair was pulled back in a tail and knotted with a fashionable braid of gold. Despite the warmth of the room he wore a cape of emerald wool trimmed with wolf fur. But most remarkable of all was the mask. It was just as Richius had heard, a silver façade covering the left half of Gayle’s face. The eye behind it blinked, bloodshot red.
‘Look at that,’ whispered Patwin softly. None of them had seen Blackwood Gayle since Lucel-Lor, but they had all heard the story of his maiming. A low, expectant murmur passed among them as they watched him approach the table. His blistered lips twisted into what barely passed for a grin. The beard was gone now, and his clean-shaven face showed the damage of fire. Even the skin not covered by the mask was pocked with poorly healed scabs, and the flesh on his forehead seemed to be rupturing and peeling backward along his scalp. He looked more monstrous than he had before, like a well-dressed corpse that had somehow escaped its own burial.
‘Vantran,’ called the baron in his booming voice. ‘I have come to welcome you.’
Richius hardly stirred. ‘Welcome me? How so?’
‘I have come to welcome you into the family of Naren Lords,’ answered Gayle. ‘The emperor has asked me to extend my good graces.’
‘I see. And was it also the emperor’s idea to have you come all this way to give me that message? You could have just as easily sent me a letter.’