The Grand Design (63 page)

“I cannot,” said Dyana. She tried to withdraw her hand but Eris grabbed hold of it.

“Lady Vantran, I don’t think Simon hates you. Or your husband. He does what the Master tells him to do, that’s all. If he does have your baby, I’m sure she’s safe.”

Dyana had to swallow hard to keep from crying. The thought of Shani in Simon’s dangerous hands was too much for her, and she desperately wanted to believe the girl. She remembered her brief times with Simon in Falindar, how impenetrable he’d been, and she wondered if there was anything human under his mask, anything at all that would make him care whether Shani lived or died. Eris seemed to think so. Dyana hoped so, too.

“What is wrong with your master?” Dyana asked. “He is insane. I could tell when I met him. And his eyes! They are like blue diamonds. Why?”

Eris nodded dreadfully. “It’s the drug.” She explained how Biagio was addicted to the potion that kept him alive, and how she and Simon both believed it had eaten away part of his brain, made him demented. Dyana had known of the drug from Richius, but hearing about it from the girl and seeing Biagio’s alien eyes had struck at her heart. Eris whispered when she talked, afraid she might be overheard. “He wasn’t always this way,” she continued. “When he was younger he was normal. But now the drug rules him. And he hasn’t been the same since Arkus died.”

“Arkus,” Dyana groaned. “That is a name I know
too well. Your master blames my husband for his death. I tried to tell him he is wrong, but he would not listen.”

“He will listen to no one about that,” Eris agreed. “He still grieves for the emperor. The old man was like a father to him. Simon says it’s destroyed him. He has so little, you see. No family. Only the Iron Circle.”

“Iron Circle?”

“His henchmen, the ones that sided with him against Herrith.” Eris smiled. “There’s a lot for you to learn, Dyana Vantran. A lot about Biagio you don’t understand.”

Dyana nodded. “Then you will teach me, Eris. I need to know these things if I am to survive here. Biagio means to take me to Nar. I want you to tell me everything you know.”

A wicked smile crossed the girl’s face. “I know a lot,” she whispered, then proceeded to tell all she knew about Biagio and his unrequited love for Simon.

A
dmiral Danar Nicabar, full from a meal of beer and fish, drew his woolen collar close around his neck and stared out into the night, toward the two vessels trailing his flagship through the cold ocean.
Black City
and
Intruder
, his two escorts, were
barely visible in the murkiness. A storm from the south was chasing them northward, racing them to Dragon’s Beak. Nicabar could see the electric flashes of lightning on the horizon, briefly yellowing the sky. A fierce wind ripped at the deck, pulling at his coat and hair, but the admiral stood firm, hardly feeling it at all. Years of service had toughened his skin to leather. He had heard about the vaunted winters of Dragon’s Beak and laughed. Nothing on land was as harsh as the sea.

Certainly not General Vorto.

Three dreadnoughts. And one of them was the
Fearless.
Nicabar grinned, satisfied. Biagio had wondered if three would be enough, but Nicabar had confidence in his guns. Vorto might go to Dragon’s Beak with an entire legion, and still they would be too few to stand against a bombardment. If Enli had done his job and secured his brother’s ravens, and if the mercenaries purchased by Biagio had already taken the north fork as planned, three dreadnoughts would be enough.

Nicabar’s smile shifted to a frown. It suddenly seemed like a lot of ifs. But Duke Enli was a clever man. And Vorto was not. Biagio, of course, was the most clever by far, and since his grand design had succeeded up to now, Nicabar had few doubts about its ultimate outcome. It was a complicated and precarious scheme, and sometimes even Nicabar wondered about its veracity, but Biagio was a master puppeteer. When he pulled the strings, the whole world danced.

A jagged blade of lightning sliced the southern sky, leaving its impression in Nicabar’s vision. The admiral waited for the inevitable thunder. Then he heard it, louder than God, rumbling from Heaven. It would be like that in Dragon’s Beak, he thought. When the
Fearless
opened up her cannons, the earth would tremble. Nicabar pulled off a glove, then reached out to caress a nearby mast. The wood felt stout and invincible against his fingers. Nothing Liss had ever built could compare to the
Fearless.
She was without peer, perfect, and
Nicabar’s greatest love. Some men longed for women; others, like Biagio, for the hearts of men. But Admiral Danar Nicabar had been born and bred to command mighty vessels. He knew this as certainly as anything. God on His throne had reached down and chosen him, saying, “Here is the man to command the seas. I give him dominion.”

Nicabar’s chest swelled with pride. It wasn’t the fate of Liss to rule the waves. That was his destiny alone. The Lissens were pretenders. They thought their island gave them claim to the world’s waters. They were wrong. So was Prakna. The thought of his nemesis made the admiral grin. Prakna was a sad, pathetic man. A good sailor, to be sure, but outclassed. Someday, Nicabar determined, he would prove that. Biagio would owe him for so much loyalty, and Nicabar wanted only one thing in payment.

Liss.

“Ah, but that must wait,” whispered Nicabar. He gave his ship an affectionate pat, then pulled on his glove, blowing into his hand to warm it. His first duty was to deal with Vorto in Dragon’s Beak.

Not an unpleasant task at all.

O
n a day bright with sunlight, the great festival of Sethkin began in the center of Nar City near the Cathedral of the Martyrs. As was customary, Archbishop Herrith opened the festival with a rousing speech. It was the one day of the year when the Holy Father walked amongst his flock unguarded, as though he were one of them and was concerned with their lives. Colorful banners and long, flowing streamers capped the streets, and religious icons brooded over the avenues, tall and baleful. Musicians played and street vendors loudly hawked their wares. The air was filled with foreign smells, while animals and magicians entertained the crowds. Along the sidewalks, Naren noblemen sat with their families, enjoying the procession and the clean air, for it was at the bishop’s holy order that the foundries were closed today, so that their belching smokestacks didn’t ruin the festivities.

Throughout High Street, regal princes from around the Empire shouldered up to unwed maids, bragging about their wealth, and deep-pocketed merchants lavished their mistresses with dresses and trinkets from the shops, all of which were open and greedy for the tide of money washing through the city. Sethkin was more than just a religious day. It was Nar’s great holiday from itself, when the nobles came down from their
towers and mingled with the poor, and no one was excluded from the festivities.

On Herrith’s decree, the doors to his orphanage had been flung wide. High Street was choked with parentless children, their faces glowing with excitement. The cathedral’s many acolytes moved through the crowds, keeping a watchful eye on the brood and doing their best to remind the citizenry of the day’s holy meaning. Kren was a time for fasting and reflection, a stretch of penance that culminated in Eestrii, the highest holy day of the Naren church. For the next month, believers were expected to be prayerful, to attend services regularly and to give their most generous offerings to the church. Most importantly, they were to beg God for His infinite mercy, and to forgive them for their sins. Herrith knew Nar had many sinners. He wasn’t among them, but even he needed to be humble in the sight of Heaven. Heaven’s vision was particularly keen during Kren.

Tomorrow they would all begin their spartan march toward Eestrii, but today they were free to frolic in the good things God had given them, and the Black City had turned out in force. Menageries from Doria had taken center stage in High Street, an awe-inspiring assortment of animals that left both children and adults slack-jawed. There were tusked elephants and tawny lions, dogs that danced and monkeys that laughed. Trainers and keepers spoke to the crowd, explaining about their strange pets and offering the children rides on the elephants. And while they directed their magnificent beasts, minstrel music played and merchants showed off their finery, and High Street wasn’t commonplace anymore. Its yearly transformation had occurred, turning it from a busy, jaded thoroughfare into a little glimpse of paradise.

Archbishop Herrith walked happily through the crowd, giving out smiles to the curious Narens begging
to touch the hem of his garment. Lorla Lon was with him, holding his right hand. With her left hand she held a frozen confection, a lump of fruit-flavored sugar on a stick that Herrith had purchased for her. She licked at it covetously, slurping with enjoyment, and the sight of the Dorian menagerie had captivated her. Herrith had already stuffed himself with pastries from the bake shop. Now his stomach was stretched, satisfied. Since taking Biagio’s drug, his appetite had come roaring back. It wasn’t a problem for him to inhale a dozen of the bakery’s best.

Herrith led Lorla to a bench on the sidewalk. A man and his family had been sitting there, but when they saw the Holy Father they quickly vacated so the bishop and his ward could sit. A pair of acolytes who’d been trailing Herrith took up positions on either side of the bench. On this day, Herrith wasn’t supposed to be guarded, but his cowled priests never took such chances. These two had long dirks beneath their robes. Lorla sat down on the bench first, her little legs dangling over the edge. Impatiently she craned her neck to see the parade of animals. Garbed in the blue dress Herrith had brought her for the occasion, she looked like an angel or one of Nar’s beautiful, privileged young women. Herrith sat down beside her, tucking his long robes beneath his knees. The crowds, noticing the Holy Father, parted a little so he could see better.

“Enjoying yourself, child?” Herrith asked over the tumult.

Lorla nodded. “Oh, yes, Father. It’s wonderful!”

It
was
wonderful. For Herrith, it was the culmination of a dream. As God’s servant, he had never married or taken a woman since his vows. A family, and children like Lorla, had been long forbidden him. But now he had a sense of that normalcy he craved. He had God and a child to adore, and he was happy. Lorla had taken to him, more than he’d dared to hope. She
didn’t just call him “Father.” Since coming to live in the cathedral, she had truly come to be a daughter. There was a blessed bond between them, and Herrith didn’t care who noticed it or snickered behind his back. There was always gossip, even among priests. Some were saying unwholesome things about him. But Herrith knew his heart was pure. When he looked at Lorla, he saw nothing but a life he wished was his, and all the potential of youth. God loved children. God bade humankind to love children. What he was doing, Herrith was sure, was according to Heaven’s law.

He took Lorla’s hand again, pointing out the different animals, and surprising her with his knowledge. He had been through countless festivals, and every year the Dorians came with their menageries. Herrith knew all their routines. But his familiarity with the animal tricks didn’t dampen his enthusiasm, and when the elephants stood on their hind legs and raised their trunks in a raucous trumpeting, Herrith laughed like the rest of them and covered his ears.

“Ohhh!” cried Lorla happily. “Loud!”

So loud she almost dropped her treat, but she was quick enough to rescue it before it tumbled onto her dress. Deciding her mouth was the safest place for it, she began to suck on the frozen sugar again, happily bobbing to the music. And as she ate, Herrith watched her peripherally, glad to be with her. In a few more days it would be her birthday. She would be nine years old, and he wanted to make it special. At that age, every year was a milestone for a child. Herrith wanted Lorla to have no doubts about his affection for her. It was why he had given her full run of the cathedral, why he allowed her to bother Darago periodically and marvel at his ceiling, even when he himself was kept from it. Lorla had already endured too much for so tender an age. The Black Renaissance had made her life a wasteland, stripping her of her parents and identity. But now she had a new life in the cathedral, and
Herrith had one more little reason for crushing Biagio and his cancerous crusade.