The Grand Design (36 page)

“You are not to mention the war labs,” he had insisted. “Forget what you know about them. You are Lorla Lon now, from Dragon’s Beak. An orphan. Remember the Master, Lorla. He is depending on you.”

They were all depending on her now, and it was like a great weight crushing her. Even Nina was depending on her. The duke’s daughter had kissed her good-bye and hugged her, but not before warning her that she had to succeed. There was war in Dragon’s Beak now. And the Master was counting on her.

The Master. Always the Master.

Lorla had never met Count Renato Biagio, but she had never had a truer father. It was his voice she heard when she wondered about herself, his decrees that
rang in her head like church bells. She had been taught in the war labs that Biagio was the source of all knowledge and goodness, and that he loved her very much. It surprised Lorla that she loved Biagio as well. Or at least she supposed it was love she felt. Truly, she didn’t know precisely what love felt like. But when she thought of the Master she felt fear and a kind of gratitude at having been made special according to his orders, and that was love, surely.

Duke Enli had only told her snippets about what was happening in Dragon’s Beak, but Lorla had been able to guess the rest. It was a simple matter to put things together, and Nina’s evasiveness had helped Lorla to fill the gaps. The duke hated his brother. The duke had soldiers all over his castle and grounds. And now they were travelling to Nar to ask the bishop’s aid and to beg soldiers from the Black City. Whatever elaborate plan the Master had set into motion, Lorla knew Dragon’s Beak would never be the same. The two forks were at war now. She had even overheard some of Enli’s own men saying that Eneas was dead. She wondered if Enli felt sorry for his brother. But Enli was tight-lipped. He had given her Biagio’s orders, and had volunteered no further information.

Lorla’s expression soured as she rode. Enli’s back was turned toward her, the way it always was now. She had tried to be a good houseguest, yet he had spurned her. It hurt her to wonder what he really thought of her. Still, she did not speak or try to get the duke’s attention. That had always been a useless ploy. Duke Enli was lost in his own grim world. Even his men couldn’t speak to him. He seemed remarkably sad.

Alone with only her pony for company, Lorla rode behind the rest of the column, studying the trees. Soon they would be in Nar City. It had been many, many months since she had left her room in the war labs to live in Goth. Lorla craned her neck to try and peer
over the hills, but she could not even sense the first inkling of Nar’s skyline.

Still, knowing it was there kept her going. She was eager to be off the road, and Duke Enli had told her that Herrith would pamper her. He was not going to be able to resist her, he had promised. The claim had made her uneasy. Was she so beautiful? Or had Biagio’s servants in the labs created her especially for Herrith? Lorla trembled a little, afraid for herself. Herrith was said to be an insatiable monster. She wondered how young girls figured in his appetites.

At the end of the day, when the sun began to dip and the air grew cool, Duke Enli spoke the first words he had in hours, bringing his small caravan to a halt. It would be dark soon. Time to make camp. The duke helped his soldiers unload the provisions from the backs of the horses while others made a fire not far from the road, spying a clearing in which they could spend the night. Lorla, who was accustomed to the routine now, undid her own bed roll and laid it by the fire, then went into the forest to help gather sticks to keep the flame alive. Faren, the duke’s aide, made them dinner and told off-color jokes as they ate. Faren was a simple man, and Lorla liked him. He was also dangerous and handsome and even a bit arrogant. But he was kind to her and generous with water and food, enough so that Lorla trusted sleeping near him. She never slept near the duke, for Enli kept to himself even at sleep time, never getting too near the others. That night the duke ate his supper alone, taking his tin plate with him and sitting under a dark and brooding tree, absently listening to the laughter of his men. Lorla stole glances at him as she ate, feeling sorry for him. How quickly he had lost the mirthful glint in his eyes that had been there when they’d met. Now his eyes were dead. He was dropping weight, too, hardly touching his food. And in the morning he was always the first to rise, glad to be free of his restless slumber. His men dared
not whisper behind his back, but Lorla knew they sensed the change in him.

After eating, the men stayed around the fire and talked. Lorla remained with them, listening without speaking, wondering about the Black City and her new home with Herrith. Enli strolled off by himself and was missing for an hour before he returned. His face was ashen in the firelight. Lorla looked up at him through the smoke.

“Lorla,” he said softly. “Come here.”

Lorla did as the duke asked, getting up and wiping the dirt from her clothes. Faren and the others watched her go, then quickly resumed their conversation. The duke stretched out his hand for Lorla. It was big and cold and she took it warily.

“Walk with me,” he said, pulling her away from the light. Lorla tried to smile but couldn’t. They went to a dark place in a grove of birch trees. Enli paused and looked skyward toward the bloodred moon. His red beard and red lips glowed with lunar fire. He squeezed Lorla’s hand tightly.

“Tomorrow we will reach the city,” he said. “I will be giving you over to Herrith and we won’t see each other anymore.”

Lorla nodded. “I know.”

“It’s a very important thing you’re doing. You must not forget that.”

“I won’t forget.”

The duke smiled down at her. “I know you won’t. It’s true, everything I had heard about you. You are a very remarkable girl, Lorla. And now you’re going to do a very remarkable thing. You may not understand everything the Master asks of you, but it’s a great task you’ve been given. History will be made by what you do these next few weeks.”

The weight of the statement weakened Lorla’s knees. “I will do my best, Duke Enli. Thank you.”

“You know what to do, then?”

“Yes,” said Lorla. They had gone over it a dozen times. She was Lorla Lon, an orphan from the war in Dragon’s Beak. Duke Eneas had attacked them. Her parents had been killed by Eneas’ men. And now she needed Herrith’s help to survive. He would, if Enli’s estimation was correct, be unable to resist her.

“How long until your birthday?” he drilled her.

“Two weeks.”

“And the name of the street with the toymaker?”

“High Street,” she answered. “On a corner near a candle shop.”

Enli sighed. “Good.” He let go of her hand slowly, letting it fall away, and stared up at the sky. “All you have to do is play your part,” he continued. “Herrith will love you. Biagio is right. He knows the bishop better than any of us, and he has spies. Earn Herrith’s confidence. Get him to take you to the toymaker. Biagio will do the rest.”

“I will,” Lorla promised.

“I believe you,” said the duke. “Truly.” He sighed again, and this time it was loud, almost painful to hear. He dropped to one knee in the dirt and took hold of Lorla’s shoulders. His giant hands ensnared her like a python, but his touch was soft and gentle. “I want to tell you something,” he said. “And I want you to listen carefully. It’s something you deserve to hear.”

Lorla braced herself. “Yes, Duke Enli?”

“I want you to hear the truth,” said the duke. “My truth. I want you to listen. Will you do that for me?”

“Of course,” said Lorla. “You can tell me anything. I’m good with secrets.”

“Yes, you are. Then listen well, because it will serve you. You need to know I killed my brother.”

“I had guessed that,” Lorla said. “You had reason, I’m sure.”

“I had good reason,” said Enli. “Or I thought I did. But what matters now is that Eneas is dead, and that I am fighting for Dragon’s Beak. Biagio is helping me.
But I won’t be able to win this war if you don’t help me, Lorla. If you fail, I’ll lose Dragon’s Beak and the war there will go on. Many people will die. Do you understand that?”

“No,” Lorla answered honestly. “I don’t understand anything. I never have. I just do what I’m told.” She looked down to avoid the duke’s eyes. “And I hate it. I hate being this thing I am. I hate being used by you and the Master. I’m …”

She stopped herself. How could she tell the duke she was lonely? He would laugh at her.

“What, Lorla?” asked the duke. “Tell me.”

Lorla looked up at him. “Duke Enli, I will do what I am asked to do, because I want what is best for you and the Master. And because I can’t do anything else. Something inside me stops me even from thinking of it.” She felt emotion rising in her, tears threatening to burst. “I will go to Herrith and make him love me. If that’s what the Master wants, I’ll do it for him.”

“Lorla, I promise you, this is more than something Biagio wants. And it’s more than something I want. The Empire is depending on you.”

Lorla nodded, hoping she wouldn’t cry. “Yes. I know all this.”

“Oh, child …”

“I am not a child!” she flared, yanking herself away from him. “I’m sixteen. Almost a woman.”

“A woman in a child’s body,” the duke corrected. “You’ve been bred for this moment. It’s like they told you in the war labs—you’re something special.” He reached out to stroke her fine hair. It was all the contact Lorla needed to start the tears flowing. “Don’t forget that,” sighed the duke. “Don’t forget your mission or who you are. The Master needs you. Nar needs you.”

“It’s a lot,” Lorla sniffled. “Maybe too much.”

“Small shoulders, but strong,” the duke joked with a smile. “I know you can do it.”

“I’m afraid.”

“That’s all right,” said Enli. His voice became a whisper. “To tell you the truth, I get frightened, too. It doesn’t make us less brave, though. We do what we must.” He brushed a strand of hair from her forehead. Lorla closed her eyes and took a deep, shaking breath. All the faces came flooding over her; Duke Lokken’s gentle smile and the lips of his wife, Kareena. She thought of Goth, destroyed by Herrith, and of her new friend Nina, whom she missed like a long-gone sister. She wanted them all to be proud of her, even the ghosts.

“I will do what you and the Master have asked of me,” she resolved. “I won’t disappoint you, Duke Enli.”

“I know you won’t. I have great faith in you, as does your master.” Duke Enli replaced his hands on her shoulders, firmly now so she couldn’t pull away. “I haven’t been a very good host to you. I’m sorry for that. You deserved better. But there are so many matters that plague me.” He smiled weakly. “I will miss you, Lorla.”

“You will?”

Enli nodded. “I’m not such an evil man, am I? Please tell me I’m not.”

“You’re not,” laughed Lorla. “You do the Master’s work. How can you be evil?”

Enli’s face turned gray. His hands dropped from Lorla’s shoulder, stopping to dangle deathly still at his sides. “Of course,” he said blackly. “The Master’s work …”

And then the night enveloped them as a cloud crossed the moon. “Herrith is a devil,” said Enli as he contemplated the sky. “Remember that. No matter how kindly he acts toward you, remember what he is. That advice is the only protection I can give you.”

“I will remember it,” said Lorla. “Thank you.”

She watched the duke pensively, and he did not seem to mind her stare or even notice it. He was lost in
the stars above. Tomorrow they would go to Nar and she would meet this strange bishop at last, and if she could she would corrupt him and steal his heart away. But that was hours away yet, and the night and moon had conspired to attenuate time so that her mission seemed a lifetime away. Tonight, she would sleep and remember what she could of her old life. And in the morning, she would die and be reborn.

In the Cathedral of the Martyrs, in a high tower overlooking the city streets, Archbishop Herrith lay in his bed, unmoving, his eyes locked on the ceiling. Morning sunlight streamed through the big window, warming his satin sheets. A holy book lay open on his chest, unread, rising and falling slowly with the rhythm of his breathing. The archbishop gasped, straining to bring air into his lungs. At his bedside stood a tall and twisted apparatus of silver metal, a rack holding an upside-down bottle of blue liquid. From the bottle came a hose that snaked away from the rack toward the bed. The hose terminated in a shiny needle. The needle terminated in Herrith’s arm.

The bishop kept very still as the liquid dripped into his vein. Occasionally he flexed his fist to coax it along. His eyes burned as if scalding water was flowing over them. His body felt torn, cleaved down the center as the potent mixture moved through his vessels. But even in his pain the Archbishop of Nar did not cry out. It was a glorious agony, easily endurable. And it was, very slowly, returning him to life.

Biagio’s devilish gift had not been poison as Herrith had feared. It was what Nicabar had promised, a very potent distillation of Bovadin’s drug. At Nicabar’s warning Herrith had mixed the solution himself, diluting it with water into manageable dosages. It would be a weekly ritual now. Like it had been before he’d conquered the habit. But it was so delicious to be vital
again. Herrith closed his eyes, hating himself. Biagio was a clever devil. In all the years they had served together under Arkus, Biagio had never once spoken openly against Herrith, even as the bishop whispered curses in the emperor’s ear. But the hatred between the two of them had grown into a mighty thing. Herrith had thought he had gained the upper hand. Now, as he sat in his bed sampling the count’s malevolent gift, he wasn’t so certain.

But he had time. Time to think. And plan. The little bottle Nicabar had delivered wasn’t a third empty yet. He could get more. Biagio was eager to talk. He would bargain with the beast, Herrith told himself. By the time the vial was empty, he would have more. If Biagio ever wanted to be part of Nar again, he would give up more of the precious drug.

“You’re not the only one that’s clever,” Herrith hissed. “I can play, too.”

It was a vast and dangerous game for Herrith. He wasn’t a tactician or spy. But Herrith had lived a long time in the Black City and he knew the pulse of the place. He wasn’t entirely without influence of his own. The bishop’s lips twisted into a slight smile. The drug burned inside him. Yet he endured it, loving it, feeling the potion work its magic on his joints and teeth and muscles, tightening and strengthening them, making him young again and halting the march of time. Already his eyes had regained their brightness. When he looked in a mirror now he saw two azure gems staring back at him.