The Grand Design (44 page)

Before he had left for Nar City, there had been four hundred mercenaries in his army, plus the two hundred men of his own brigade. That meant they would be outnumbered by the legion, and certainly out-gunned. If Nicabar and the heavy guns of the
Fearless
failed to make it to Dragon’s Beak, they would be routed. He gave a low curse, hating himself for making such a convincing case to Herrith. He had begged the bishop for the troops, and now bitterly recalled that old adage—Be careful what you wish for.

The coach driver got down from his bench and came around to open Enli’s door. A rushing stench of horse manure blasted Enli in the face. He got out and stepped into the trampled earth of the parade ground, swallowed by a cacophony of noise.

“Where’s Vorto?” he asked the driver. The slow-witted man pointed a bony finger at the officers in the center of the throng. Enli squinted to see past the press of bodies and detected the giant general among his men. Vorto’s shaved head stood taller than the rest. He was busying himself with a pair of officers, one of whom Enli had met two days before, the dour-faced Colonel Kye. Vorto was gesturing to a flat-bedded wagon, while a crew of engineers hoisted rocket launchers into the conveyance and strapped them down securely. Beside the wagon stood a dozen metal cannisters, oddly shaped and bigger than those of the acid launchers. Seeing that his driver wouldn’t lead him farther, Enli shouldered into the crowd and approached General Vorto. The bald giant caught a glimpse of him as he neared and a sardonic smile split his face.

“Duke Enli,” he bellowed, waving the duke over. “Come and see what I’ve done for you.”

Enli didn’t bother to greet the general or his underlings. “Are these your men?” he asked. “The ones dispatched to Dragon’s Beak?”

“Enough for you, I hope?” said Vorto. “We’ve been preparing throughout the night for the trip. With luck we’ll be ready to deploy on the morrow.”

“This is quite an army you’ve arranged,” said the duke, looking around. “How many are there?”

“A division,” said Vorto. “What you asked for.”

“And how many is that, precisely?”

Vorto and a young officer chortled. Colonel Kye remained quiet.

“A division is three units. Does that help you at all, Duke?”

Enli sighed, too tired to play the game. “They look like enough. And if they’re as good as you claim, we should win the day.”

“We will win the day.
In
a day,” Vorto prophesied. “Against that undisciplined rabble of Dragon’s Beak, it
will be over in an hour. Look …” The general gestured toward the crowd. “More men and materials than I took with me to Goth. We have war wagons, acid launchers, supplies for the trip, everything.” Vorto reached out and patted Enli’s cheek. “Don’t worry, sweet fellow. We’ll get your country back for you.”

The taunting gesture raised Enli’s hackles, but he checked his anger, saying, “This is wonderful, Vorto. You’ve done a very good job. Dragon’s Beak will thank you.”

Vorto’s enormous chest puffed out. “I want some pretty maids when we’re done with our work, Enli. Let Dragon’s Beak’s daughters show me their thanks!”

More laughing from the young lieutenant. More dark silence from Kye. A stray horse trotted by, then voided itself near their boots. Enli turned his nose away. Vorto’s round face reddened.

“I’ll see to it,” said Kye quickly. He took hold of the horse’s reins and led the beast away in search of its master. Vorto watched him go, keeping his eyes on the colonel’s back. Enli noted Vorto’s sourness.

“A good man,” said Vorto, “but no faith.” He turned to Enli and jabbed a finger into the duke’s chest. “You must have faith, Duke Enli. Do you?”

“Faith in what?”

“Faith in God almighty,” thundered Vorto. He took his finger out of Enli’s chest and pointed it at the flag flying in the center of the company. The Light of God, that ubiquitous symbol seen everywhere in Nar, fluttered in the wind. “That’s what we’re fighting for, Enli. Make no mistake. If our hearts are pure, God will deliver victory.”

Enli smiled thinly. “I welcome any help the Lord might offer. But don’t get overconfident. This won’t be the walk in a rose garden you’re imagining. It’s already winter in Dragon’s Beak. My brother has many troops of his own. And he has his army of the air.”

“Bah! I have heard of your brother’s trained birds. You make too much of them, I think.”

“You wouldn’t say that if you’d ever seen them,” observed Enli. A tremor of anticipation overcame him. “Or fought against them. They’re not just ravens, not like you’re used to. These are bloody beasts, big as your head. Bigger, even. They feast on eyeballs and drink blood, like a bunch of bloody vampires.”

The lieutenant standing next to Vorto blanched at the description. “How big?” he queried. He held his hands a foot apart. “Like this?”

“Bigger,” said Enli. “Not like your head, boy. Like the general’s.”

Vorto frowned. “That’s all brain.”

“Whatever. These ravens will eat that too, if you let them.” Enli grinned at the young soldier. “Take a helmet with you, lad.”

“General?” squeaked the soldier.

“He’s trying to scare you, Vale. You just keep your wits about you. We’ll swat those damnable birds right out of the sky.” He turned on Enli and laughed. “Bloody birds. The day I’m afraid of a bird I’ll hang myself.”

The duke shrugged. “That day may be sooner than you think. But we’ll worry about that then, eh?”

“General …?”

“Shut up, Vale. Enli, I’m looking forward to dealing with those butcher birds. This legion wears the armor of Heaven.” Vorto folded his meaty arms across his chest. “We have some surprises of our own for your bastard brother.”

“Such as?”

With his chin, the general pointed toward the flatbed of rocket launchers. “That.”

Enli shook his head. “It won’t work. It’s already winter up north. Too much wind for rockets.”

“Not rockets, Duke Enli.” Vorto leaned in with a conspiratorial smile. “Something better.”

Enli’s eyes flicked toward the cannisters. “What’s in those? Acid?”

Vorto put his arm around the duke and led him toward the wagon. The engineers worked a little quicker as their leader approached. Enli squirmed at the general’s touch but did not pull away.

“This is something very special,” whispered the general. “Something not even the army of the air will be able to escape from. A present from the war labs.”

The cannisters were the size of a helmet, polished metal containers smooth to Enli’s touch. He ran his hand over one and felt its cool surface for flaws. Instead, he found a machined perfection.

“The rocket launchers have been modified to fire the cannisters,” Vorto explained. “They don’t need to be as accurate as rockets.”

“What’s in it?” asked Enli. He picked up a cannister and gave it a gentle shake. Inside, something liquid sloshed about. He cocked his head to listen, unsure what he was hearing, then very slowly put the container down, horrified by the thought. When he lifted his eyes to Vorto he saw the general grinning.

“Goth,” said the duke breathlessly. “Don’t tell me—”

“Formula B,” said Vorto. “Perfected, no thanks to Minister Bovadin. Just the thing to deal with your brother’s flying pests.”

“No!” railed Enli. “You can’t let this poison loose in Dragon’s Beak. I won’t allow it!”

“You won’t?” laughed Vorto. “Enli, it’s not your choice. This is my army.
My
war to wage.”

“It’s my country, you idiot! I won’t let you turn it into a wasteland just to wipe out some birds.”

Vorto smoldered at the insult. “It’s the north fork we’re fighting for, not your territory. And I’ll do what I must to take it. The Renaissance, Enli. That’s what this is about. I’m going to eradicate it in Dragon’s Beak
just as I did in Goth. And if you get squeamish on me …” His three-fingered hand snatched Enli’s lapel. “I will throw you to your brother’s birds and watch them peck your liver out.”

Very slowly, Duke Enli took hold of Vorto’s hand and removed it. But he did not back away from the wild-eyed general. Instead he matched his steely gaze. “I won’t let you murder my country, Vorto. You’re coming with me to quell the rebellion. And that is all. When you’re in Dragon’s Beak, you’re under
my
dominion.”

It felt good just to say it. The general didn’t bother stepping back, but Enli sensed the surprise in him nonetheless.

“It is there if we need it,” said Vorto. “And if we need it, I will use it.”

“If we need it, then we will all be dead, General.” Enli noted the size of the cannister. “If you launch that poison in a stiff wind, there won’t be anywhere for us to hide.”

“God guides me,” replied Vorto with confidence. “If it is His will to use the formula, He will protect us.”

Enli turned away, his argument lost. Vorto was Herrith’s puppet, and if Herrith had told him to bring the formula, then bring it he would. And he would launch at the first raindrop or thunder clap or falling leaf—whatever he saw as a sign from God. The duke poked at one of the cannisters with his foot, testing its veracity. He hadn’t imagined Herrith would dare use the formula against Dragon’s Beak. Bleakly he wondered if Biagio had miscalculated the bishop’s mettle.

General Vorto, his pride clearly wounded, sauntered over to Enli and spun him around by the shoulder. “I thought you would be pleased,” he said bitterly. “Look at all I’ve done for you.” He made a sweeping gesture with his hand, indicating the mass of men. “Are you going to get weak-kneed on me? Like
Colonel Kye or some woman? This was your idea, remember.”

“This is fine,” said Enli. “All but the poison.” He walked past Vorto heading back to the coach. “Be ready to leave on the morrow.”

“The Black Renaissance,” Vorto called after him. “We’re going to eradicate a cancer!”

Enli flashed a hidden smile as he walked away.
So long as you believe that, madman.

A
s the sun descended, Simon Darquis stalked through the halls of Falindar, closing the distance to Dyana’s chamber. It was dinner time for the Jackal’s wife, who ate with the other women of the citadel in the main kitchen on the ground floor when her husband was away. Simon moved with practiced deftness, keeping to the shadows and to the lamp light equally. His head pounded and his hands trembled. He had ended his struggle with his conscience and had put it on a shelf, someplace in the trained recesses of his brain where it wouldn’t nag at him. Tonight, he was Dark-Heart.

The Vantrans’ chambers were at the end of a corridor, unguarded, surrounded by other modest rooms like it. The doors in the hall stood half-open, some vacant,
some issuing unsuspecting voices. At evening mealtime, the people of the citadel always gathered together downstairs, far away from the Vantran rooms. Simon had copiously observed their rhythms. He knew with the perfection of a time-piece when Dyana was with Shani—and when she was not. He had hardly spoken to her since Richius had left for Liss, for she was distant now. All of Falindar was buzzing with talk of the Jackal—how he had left his wife and child behind, how his blood-lust couldn’t be slaked.

Today, Simon had analyzed Dyana’s every movement. From the shadows he had stalked her, ghostlike and invisible. He had watched her walk with Shani in the garden, watched her dissolve into tears and walk back again, and he had done it all with remarkable detachment. Too distraught to feel his eyes on her, Dyana had gone on about her daily business, oblivious to the Roshann agent breathing in her perfume. And now she had left Shani with Tresh to dine with the others.

With easy nonchalance, Simon crossed the corridor to Dyana’s chamber. He paused outside the door to listen and heard the shuffling of light footsteps. Inside the room, a door opened, then closed again. The sound of ruffling clothing, the unknown din of something scraping. Simon devoured the sounds and filtered them through his quick mind. One person, light enough to be the Triin nurse. The baby was asleep, perhaps. He took a breath, steadied himself, and knocked on the door with a painted smile.

The light footfalls approached the door and opened it. The Triin woman called Tresh stood in the threshold. Her eyes widened when she sighted Simon.

“Simon?” she asked through her thick accent. They barely knew each other, and the proper name startled Simon. “What is it?”

“Dyana,” said Simon. He opened his hands. “Shani. Dyana wants Shani, downstairs.” He pretended to
struggle with the words. “Downstairs, yes? Do you understand?”

“I speak your language,” said the woman. Her eyes narrowed. “Is Dyana all right?”

“She’s fine. I was just down with her, supping.” Simon gave a shrug. “She misses the child. This thing with Richius, I suppose. She was going to come up for her herself, but I told her I’d bring her. Would you come downstairs with us?”

Tresh grimaced. “Shani sleeps now. Dyana knows this. That girl …” She shook her head, exasperated. “Her mind is mud these days.”

Simon sighed knowingly. “Richius.”

“Yes, that husband of hers.” Tresh wagged a finger in Simon’s face. “You are his friend. You should have stopped him. Now Dyana is mad at you.”