The Grand Design (24 page)

“It’s him,” said the admiral confidently. Lieutenant Garii nodded. The lieutenant held a small metal box, plain and unadorned, barely the size of a man’s hand. A gift for the Archbishop of Nar. “Have him come aboard, Garii,” ordered Nicabar. “I want him to feel welcome. Give him whatever he needs—food, drink, anything. Understood?”

“Aye, sir,” said the lieutenant. The young man called out to the sailors in the rowboat to come alongside. A rope ladder was lowered amidships. The sailors in the rowboat waved and shouldered the little craft up to the warship. Father Todos looked at the hulking
Fearless
, his jaw set. Nicabar stared down at him, grinning. Todos was a decent man. He believed in his church and that made him an enemy, but in the days of Arkus they had almost been friends. The admiral had no desire to hurt this gentle man, and hoped Herrith had planned no betrayals. If he did and Nicabar was captured or killed, Todos would die.

The sailors in the rowboat helped the priest shimmy up the rope ladder. Nicabar went to greet him. Halfway up, the Father noticed his host and stopped.

“Come ahead, Father,” boomed Nicabar. “Nothing will happen to you, not by my doing.”

Father Todos grimaced but continued up the ladder anyway. Admiral Nicabar extended out a hand, which the priest reluctantly accepted, and pulled him aboard. The sailors in the rowboat remained behind, waiting
for the admiral. Father Todos cleared his throat nervously and stared at Nicabar, trying to look brave.

“I’m here, as requested,” said Todos. “God protect me.”

Nicabar chuckled. “You have
my
protection, priest,” he said. “Nothing will happen to you, so long as nothing happens to me.” He looked out over the docks to where Vorto’s garrisons were pompously arranged. “Safe passage through those legionnaires, to the cathedral and back again. That’s the deal, right?”

“Yes,” said Todos. “The archbishop will be waiting for you. Have your talk with him quickly. Take care of your devilish business and return to your ship. I won’t leave until you come back.”

“I’d say not,” laughed Nicabar. “It’s a long swim.” The admiral turned to Garii and took the metal box from him. Todos noticed it, eyeing the thing suspiciously.

“What is that?” he asked.

“A gift for your bishop,” replied Nicabar. “From Count Biagio.”

Todos made a disgusted face. “He won’t accept it. It’s an insult. How dare that demon try to buy the bishop’s pardon!”

“There’s food and wine aboard, Father. Lieutenant Garii will see to your needs. Be comfortable. I will return when I can.”

“What news do you bring the bishop, heretic?” asked Todos. “Has your twisted count come to his senses?”

Nicabar bristled but tried to ignore the insult. He backed down onto the rope ladder, tucking the metal box under his armpit. “You’ll know when you get back to the cathedral, Todos. Enjoy my ship’s hospitality.”

“Admiral?” said Todos.

Nicabar stopped and looked at the priest. “What?”

Todos crossed the air in front of him. “Go with God.”

“Yes,” said Nicabar dryly. “As you say.” Then he dropped down below the railings and out of Todos’ sight, lowering himself on the rope ladder until he reached the rowboat. The sailors on board fumbled to help him but he shook off their hands. They heaved away from the
Fearless
and sat down, taking up their oars and rowing toward shore, but Nicabar remained standing, ever defiant as he faced the legionnaires gathered to greet him. He was resplendent in his perfect uniform of black and gold, and the ribbons and medals on his chest gleamed in the sunlight. In his vest pocket was the note to Herrith, while in his hands he held the little silver box, the gift Biagio had ordered him to present to the bishop. Nicabar smiled, wondering how Herrith would react to the present. It would be unexpected, certainly.

Almost at shore, the rowboat skidded toward a dock lined thickly with waiting soldiers. The heavily armed men did not bow or show any deference to Nicabar as he stared at them. They merely waited, stone-faced, while their brothers behind them held back the curious push of spectators who had gathered to gape at the returning admiral. Danar Nicabar smirked at the crowd and the helmeted soldiers, but his cocky smile vanished when he noticed the carriage waiting for him. It was a large conveyance, one of the dead emperor’s own, trimmed in jewels and pulled by four white stallions. And near the carriage, looking down from his great black warhorse, was General Vorto, battle axe strapped across his back. It had been nearly a year since Nicabar had seen the general, and Vorto’s ugly features hadn’t softened a bit. More huge than ever in his brawny armor, Vorto still seemed like one of Nar’s statues—cold and sterile and completely immovable. The general trotted his charger toward the dock as the rowboat slid into a slip. Admiral Nicabar waited for his sailors to cleat the boat before he stepped onto the dock. Vorto was waiting for him, watching
mischievously, but he did not dismount from his snorting beast.

“Welcome home, Danar,” boomed the general. There was a mocking quality to the voice. “It’s so wonderful to see you again.”

“I would say the same, but I would be lying,” said Nicabar. He didn’t bow to the general or show any of the usual niceties. Not dismounting for him was clearly an insult, and Nicabar had no intention of showing the butcher any respect. “I’ve come bearing a message for His Holiness, Vorto. I have nothing to discuss with
you.
”

“Our discussion can wait then, seaman. But I promise you—we will talk again. Get in the carriage. I will take you to the cathedral.”

Nicabar looked around at the swelling crowd. “You and your bishop have cast quite a spell on these people. I suppose I should congratulate you. But it won’t last. That’s
my
promise to you.” The admiral gestured to his flagship anchored in the harbor. “Take a good look at my vessels. If anything happens to me, they have orders to open fire. They’ll blast a whole in Nar City so big even you could walk through it.”

“God forgive your blasphemy, Danar. Truly, I pity you. Get in the carriage. Just for today you have my word—you will be unharmed.”

Vorto’s word was meaningless, but Nicabar got into the carriage anyway. It was empty, and the plush velvet seats were unbelievably comfortable. Nicabar sat down and leaned out the window. A few bold Narens in the crowd waved to him and he waved back, suddenly delighted with the strange homecoming. He had missed Nar. Life at sea was only bearable when you had a home to return to, and he had none. Losing the Black City was like losing a beautiful woman. She was unforgettable.

Vorto barked orders at his columns to depart, and the carriage lurched forward, bearing Nicabar away
from the docks and through the avenues of Nar City. Colossal skyscrapers rose up quickly around him, burying him in their shadows. Haze and fire obscured the sky as the towering smokestacks vomited up clouds. In the distance, Nicabar saw the towers of the Black Palace, former home of Arkus, and the giant mausoleum on its great lawn, built by Biagio to remember his beloved emperor. Sunlight played on the river Kiel, that wide, polluted waterway, and as the carriage crossed the iron bridge Nicabar gazed across the river through his open window, seeing all the splendor of sprawling Nar feeding from the Kiel’s banks. The Cathedral of the Martyrs rose into view, blocking out the sun behind its girdered steeple. The carriage rolled over the bridge and was swallowed by the church’s shadow. At the head of the column, General Vorto guided the procession through the Avenue of the Holy, toward the great open gates of Herrith’s home. A thousand people had gathered around the cathedral to catch a glimpse of the admiral, and Nicabar’s heart sank at the sight of them. He was one of them, and not at all like the languid Crotans he was forced to live among. At that moment, he would have given anything to end the stalemate.

But this was a war of ideals, he reminded himself, and his resolve strengthened as the garish cathedral loomed. It was both glorious and terrible, and the fanatic at its core was two-hearted, with one made of gold and the other of iron. Herrith was Nar’s perfect master, inscrutable and capable of the most far-reaching atrocities even as he fed the city’s starving children. Arkus of Nar had been a butcher too, but what Herrith had done to Goth had made the emperor’s worst massacres seem pale. The tales coming out of the Walled City had made even Biagio’s blood run cold. Nicabar detested Herrith almost as much as Vorto himself. Vorto he hated because the general was stupid. Like a good dog he followed Herrith’s edicts blindly.

General Vorto stopped the march just outside the cathedral’s doors. The portals of oak hung open, but Nicabar could see nothing inside the church’s secretive folds. A group of acolytes waited, their faces obscured in white cowls. The priests seemed to float there, bodiless. Nicabar got out of the carriage, still clutching the metal box. At last Vorto got down off his horse. The general came up to Nicabar and scowled.

“This is a holy place, Admiral,” he said. “I would ask that you show it some respect. If you don’t, I will pull your head off your shoulders with my bare hands. Do you understand?”

Nicabar gave Vorto his best stone face. “You are still the same brute, aren’t you, Vorto? I would advise you strongly not to threaten me again. The
Fearless
hasn’t fired her cannons in a while. We could use the practice.”

Vorto chuckled. “God would strike you down before you fired a shot. He protects this place. It is free of your villainy.”

“I would like to test that theory, General. And I will at the smallest opportunity. Now take me to Herrith and stop babbling. I’m already sick from the sight of you.”

Vorto turned from Nicabar and strode toward the cathedral and its waiting priests. Nicabar followed, as did two of the general’s bodyguards, both fully armored and bearing drawn swords. The general bowed deeply to the ghostlike priests, who did not speak a word but simply led them into the cavernous cathedral. The vaulted ceiling rose up above them in a magnificent arc, gold-leafed and detailed with the finest manmade minutiae. There were angels and demons, white-bearded images of God and bare-breasted reliefs of His Mother. Bright lamps lit the ceiling and the frescoed walls, and the altar far in front of them burned with incense and a chalice filled with flaming liquid, the symbol of eternal life for Herrith and his believers.
The expansive chamber was empty, and as they walked their footfalls echoed loudly off the walls and statues, and the sounds of the crowd outside died off behind them as they reached the altar. Vorto and his men all fell to a knee before the altar, as did the legionnaires. But despite the general’s earlier threat, Nicabar remained standing. When they had finished their short prayer, the priests led them out of the chamber into a corridor and then to an endless flight of stairs that seemed to ascend into Heaven itself. The legionnaires stayed behind.

This was a private area. Only the highest ranking soldiers were allowed here, and only then by invitation. The stairs went up in a ceaseless spiral, but after long minutes of climbing they finally ended, spilling them into another hallway. This one was lined with stained glass—a marvelous wall of transparent colors depicting scenes from the holy book. Nicabar could barely see through the glass but he could tell they were very high. His fingers tingled a little with the cold draft.

They came at last to a door at the end of the hall. The priests entered without knocking. Vorto said nothing, waiting patiently for the acolytes to return. At last they did reappear, opening the door wide for the general and Nicabar. Nicabar peered around Vorto’s enormous girth and saw inside the chamber. It was another big room and flooded with sunlight. An immense window made up the entire far wall, showing off the expanse of the Black City. And at the window, staring blithely through the clear glass, was Archbishop Herrith, his hands clasped casually behind his back. The priests left the room and disappeared back down the hall. Nicabar waited. Vorto wasn’t moving.

“Enter, my friends,” said Herrith at last. His voice was pure, like the sunlight he bathed in. It seemed to Nicabar that the bishop had lost some weight, no doubt a result of the drug withdrawal. He snickered to himself, pleased with the image of Herrith’s mortality.
His eyes would be dim now, like Vorto’s. General Vorto finally moved into the chamber. Nicabar followed him. He had never been in this chamber and he marveled at the huge window, tall as a tree and wide as a river. From here he could see all of eastern Nar City and the ocean beyond, with his small armada bobbing in the harbor. Vorto went to the bishop and dropped to his knees. Without turning from the window Herrith listlessly put out his hand. Vorto seized it and kissed it.

“Your Holiness,” said the giant softly. “I’ve brought him for you.”

“Yes, thank you, my friend. I noticed.” Herrith turned his head and rewarded Vorto with a smile. “Arise, General. Admiral Nicabar …”

Nicabar didn’t bow or crack the smallest smile. He simply walked into the center of the room, saying, “I have a message for you, Herrith, from Count Biagio. I would like to give it to you and be on my way.”

Herrith smiled serenely. “Danar, it’s been so long. Please, let’s not talk like enemies.” He gestured to a table at the far end of the room, a sunny spot complete with plates of breakfast foods and cups of steaming beverages. “I’ve arranged a meal for us. I would like to sit with you awhile.”

“I’m not hungry,” said Nicabar.

“Pity,” said Herrith, going to the table and sitting down. “I am. Please …” He gestured to one of the chairs. “If you don’t sit with me I will take it as an offense, old friend. And we have so much to talk about.”

“We have very little to talk about, Herrith. I have a message, and that is all.”

“Sit down, you blasphemous fool,” seethed Vorto, barely containing his rage. “I warn you, Nicabar …”

“I don’t take well to warnings, Vorto,” said Nicabar coolly. “And I don’t care to speak long with either of you. Herrith, will you accept my message or not?”

Herrith was folding a napkin onto his lap. “Yes,
yes. Of course I will, Danar. But there’s time enough to eat, surely? I can’t believe you’re not weary from your voyage.” He picked up a pastry from the table and popped it into his mouth, sighing with satisfaction. “Oh, now, that is
good.
Really, Danar, you should have something.”