The Grand Design (82 page)

He would find Elliann, he decided. When he returned to the Black City, she would crawl back to him like the bitch she was, smelling wealth and power, and he would turn her away for the simple pleasure of seeing her scowl.

Biagio put down his glass. On his desk sat some loose leaves of paper, a journal of sorts that he had been keeping of recent events. He had chronicled everything meticulously, sometimes transcribing whole conversations, for he wanted a record of his grand design not
only as a souvenir but also as a guideline of sorts for his Roshann agents. They were still scattered throughout the Empire, awaiting his return. He would have much to tell them.

But sometimes his journal wasn’t about his reforms at all. Sometimes his notes were just the offerings of a cool, reflective mind. Biagio picked up his pen and began to write.

The Jackal’s wife is nothing like I imagined
, he wrote.
She sees my secrets with the eyes of a jaguar, and yet she seems not to care. Nor does she have fear of me. When I tell her my plans to take her to Nar, she hardly flinches. And she calls me mad. Clearly, my mastery of her means nothing.

Still, she has set my mind to thinking.

Biagio put the end of the pen into his mouth, chewing on it pensively. Thinking about what? His own mortality? Yes, that and so much more. He didn’t like having his sanity questioned, especially not by the Jackal’s wife. There were plenty in the Empire who thought Richius Vantran insane, yet that didn’t seem to bother Dyana. She was blinded by him, dazzled by his strange glamour. Just like everyone else.

And Biagio still hated him. Despite Dyana’s appeals, the count’s fury knew no satiety. His one wish was that he could be here on Crote when Vantran invaded. He would have liked to see his old nemesis again.

“Patience,” he counseled himself. “You have the woman.”

Dyana could lure Richius Vantran to the ends of the earth. She had proven that once already. Biagio leaned back, putting his hands behind his head and resting his feet on his handmade desk. Today, life was good. Tomorrow, it would be even better. He closed his eyes and started to daydream, but was quickly interrupted by a knock at his door. The count’s eyes snapped open with a growl.

“Leraio, if that’s you …”

“Master, please,” came his house slave’s voice. “It’s urgent.”

“Come in, then, damn it.”

Leraio opened the door and stepped meekly inside. He knew his master hated disturbances, so he got right to the point.

“A ship just arrived, Master,” said the slave. “One of the fleet.”

Biagio quickly pulled his feet off the desk and got out of his chair. “The
Swift
?”

“Yes, Master,” replied the slave. He had a worried smile on his face that made Biagio wonder.

“What else?” probed the count. “I can tell by that stupid grin you’re not telling me everything.”

“Captain Kelara has already come ashore, Master. He says he has to meet with you urgently.”

Biagio tossed up his hands. “Well? Bring him in here!”

“I’m sorry, Master, I just thought—”

“What, Leraio? What did you think? I told you I wanted to see Kelara the moment he arrived. So why are you wasting my time with this nonsense? Just bring him to me.”

“But, Master,” the slave implored. “It’s not what you think. Captain Kelara isn’t alone. He’s brought someone ashore with him. Another sailor.”

Biagio grimaced. Why were there so many surprises lately? “What sailor?”

“Master, Kelara says he’s from the
Intimidator.
”

The count fell back into his chair with a groan. “Oh, no …”

It wasn’t just interesting news. It was terrible news. Biagio tried to tame his emotions, but they were suddenly overwhelming. This unpredicted arrival could only mean one thing.

Simon was dead.

“Bring them in,” whispered Biagio. “Both of them.”

Leraio backed away with a bow. Biagio picked up
his sherry and quickly finished the glass, ignoring the pleasant sting it gave his throat. He wanted to run away suddenly, to hide where no one could find him. And he cursed himself for his foolishness, sure that the mission he had thrust on Simon had killed him. He set down the glass and stared at the threshold, waiting for his guests to arrive and bracing himself for dreadful news.

Captain Kelara appeared in the doorway first. He was dressed in a clean uniform, and readied himself for the audience by taking off his hat and giving Biagio a deferential bow.

“Count Biagio?” he asked. “A word, please?”

“More than a word, I hope,” replied the count. He beckoned him closer with a finger. “Come in, Kelara.”

Kelara stepped aside to reveal another man, a much younger sailor with fair hair and an eager look about him. He was thin and pale like many of Nicabar’s ilk, and when he saw Biagio he gave a quick, awkward bow, mimicking Kelara.

“What’s your name, sailor?” asked the count.

“Boatswain Dars, sir,” replied the young man nervously.

“Boatswain Dars of the
Intimidator
, is that right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How is that possible?”

The boatswain grimaced, shifting his eyes toward Kelara for support. Kelara took a step forward. His expression grew grave.

“We rescued him, Count Biagio. I’m sorry to say, the
Intimidator
was lost. Dars here was the only survivor.”

“Lost,” echoed Biagio. “How?”

“We were rammed by a Lissen schooner,” the young man interjected. “She came out of the dark and struck us amidships. We didn’t even see her coming. Captain N’Dek and the rest of the crew went down with her.” His eyes hit the floor guiltily. “I’m all that’s left.”

Biagio felt his insides twist. No other survivors. Not Simon. And not the Vantran child. He let out a heavy groan.

“There’s something I’m not understanding,” he said. “The
Intimidator
was struck by a Lissen schooner. And then, what …?” The count shrugged. “You swam to Liss?”

“No sir.”

“Then how did the
Swift
find you?” pressed Biagio, losing patience. “Where the hell was the
Intimidator
?”

“Uh, Count Biagio, I think I should explain,” said Kelara.

“Yes, Captain, that would be very nice.”

“Count, the
Intimidator
wasn’t en route to Crote as planned. She was in Lissen waters when she went down. That was her heading … on the orders of Simon Darquis.”

“What?” hissed Biagio. His eyes darted between Kelara and Dars. “What are you saying, man? Explain yourself.”

“It’s true,” said Dars. “Simon Darquis was aboard. He had the Jackal’s daughter with him. He ordered us to Liss.”

“Darquis took Captain N’Dek hostage in his cabin,” added Kelara. “He ordered the
Intimidator
to Liss on authority of the Roshann.
Your
authority, Count Biagio. N’Dek did as he was told, and they dropped Simon off on the islands. According to Dars, here, Richius Vantran was on Liss, too. Darquis stayed with him.”

“Darquis said it was all part of your plan,” said Dars. “We didn’t understand it, but when they let us go we didn’t care. Only they didn’t let us go. We thought we were free, but then the
Prince
came.”

“The prince?” probed Biagio.

“The
Prince of Liss
,” Kelara explained. “Prakna’s flagship. And he didn’t really let them go. When they thought they were safely away, the
Prince
came after
them in the night. Sunk ’em.” The captain shook his head ruefully. “I saw the whole thing, but I was too far away to do anything. And the
Swift
doesn’t have any cannons. All that I could do was rescue poor Dars here.”

Biagio listened, appalled at the tale. He didn’t care that the
Intimidator
had been sunk, or that a whole crew was dead. What fixed his mind—what screamed at him—was that Simon was on Liss. It was unthinkable, and yet the word that best described it rang unceasingly in his mind.

Betrayal.

“This is impossible,” he gasped. “What business had Simon in Liss? I gave no such orders!”

“I swear, it’s true,” insisted Boatswain Dars. “Every word of it. Simon Darquis took control of our vessel and sailed us to Liss. That’s where we left him.” The young man sneered. “That lice-ridden dog. He betrayed us, and on your orders, sir. He did, and I’ll go to my grave saying so.”

“I’m sorry, Count Biagio,” added Kelara. “But it’s all the truth. We picked up Dars and then sailed for Crote. I thought you’d want to hear this news quickly.”

Biagio was silent. Kelara looked at him questioningly.

“My lord?”

“Yes, yes,” whispered Biagio. “You did the right thing, of course, Captain.”

Kelara and Dars exchanged puzzled glances. Biagio saw them only peripherally. He was lost in a fog, crushed by the news and unable to lift himself from the chair. Simon had betrayed him. The thought of it was agonizing. It had been painful to think him dead. But this new revelation was crippling.

“Thank you, Captain Kelara,” he said finally. “But you must return to your patrols.”

“Yes, my lord, just as soon as we’re ready. We’ll take on some supplies and head back. I thought maybe
we could rest a day, maybe take on some fresh crewmen from the other ships.”

“Whatever you wish,” replied Biagio absently.

Boatswain Dars stepped forward. “Sir,” he asked. “I’d like to go back with the
Swift.
I’d like to take my revenge on those Lissen pigs in any way I can. With your permission …”

Count Biagio glanced up. “Revenge?” he said bitterly. “Certainly. Why not? If Kelara can find a place for you, you have my permission to go with him. Take all the revenge you want, crewman. Gorge yourself on it.”

The two sailors bowed politely and left the chamber. Biagio listened sadly to the closing of the door. A powerful feeling of aloneness settled over him. He glanced at his sherry glass and found it empty. He looked absently out of the window and saw no one in his garden. Past the glass doors, there was only silence, not even the distant call of a bird. Winter was coming to Crote, walling them up.

“Why?” Biagio whispered. “Oh, my dear friend. Why did you do this?”

There were no answers. He had given Simon everything—including Eris. He had lavished his favorite friend with gifts and freedom, opulent clothing and jewelry galore, yet still Simon had betrayed him. Like so many fools before him, he had fallen for the spell of Richius Vantran. Biagio swatted the wine glass from his desk, sending it shattering against a wall, then rose from his chair, shoving it violently backward.

“How dare you do this to me!” he roared. “I am Count Renato Biagio!”

Near his bookcase he found the sherry bottle. In a rage he tipped it to his lips, swallowing down great gulps and spilling it over his satin shirt. He didn’t care about being genteel anymore. He didn’t care how he looked or what others thought of him. That game had been played-out long ago. Now he drank like one of
Nicabar’s sailors, ceaselessly and without a breath until almost all the bottle was drained. Then he threw the bottle against the wall, too, striking a priceless painting and splattering it with glass and wine stains.

“Oh, I’m not done with you, Simon,” he rumbled. “I loved you. And you spurned me!”

His eyes darted around the room for something to smash. An ivory bust of Arkus was the nearest item. He stalked toward it, suddenly hating his old mentor, and with a grunt hefted the statue off its pedestal and tossed it through his garden doors. The glass shattered.

“Damn you, Arkus. You and Simon both!”

He was out of control and he knew it, and the sherry was burning a hole in his guts, snaking up toward his brain. It was a delicious madness, and the count did nothing to stop it. He was possessed with loathing and the sting of unrequited love. But the smashing and the screaming did nothing to ebb his growing pain. His mind flashed with pictures—of Elliann, the wife who had left him, and Arkus, the emperor who had died on him. But most of all he thought of Simon, and the image of the man burned him and tore at his heart. The great wall Biagio had erected around himself began to crumble, and with it went all his self-control.

“Hurt me?” he growled. “No, Simon. I will hurt
you.
”

He raced from the room in a blind rage, and the servants in the halls gave him a wide berth as he thundered past them, shoving aside any who got in his way. Simon didn’t have very much in Crote. He had possessions, of course, but they were meaningless because he was a Roshann agent and accustomed to being away from home. Biagio had thought of burning his clothes, of throwing all his trinkets into the ocean and forbidding his name ever to be spoken. But what harm would that do his treacherous friend? None at all, and Biagio
wanted to do harm. He was in that nether-world between normality and madness, clear-headed enough to think but powerless to stop himself.

Abruptly he found himself outside his music room, its doors shut tightly closed. But he didn’t stop. With a great howl he kicked open the doors. As expected, Eris was inside, stretching against the warmup bar. She jumped at his intrusion, frightened. Biagio saw her through a red veil.

“Master?” she asked. “What’s wrong?”

Biagio stalked toward her. “You took him from me. You turned him against me!”

Eris backed up against the wall, terrified. The count’s tall shadow fell over her face.

“Master, please!” she stammered. “What’s happened to you?”

He seized her, clamping a hand around her windpipe. Eris screeched in fear and struggled against his icy fingers. Biagio’s voice trembled.

“He was dear to me, girl,” he hissed. From beneath his cape he produced his Roshann dagger. “Now I will take what is dear to
you
!”

Twenty slaves heard Eris scream. Not one of them dared to help her.

Dyana had spent most of the afternoon in her private chambers, far removed from the slave quarters. It was a quiet area of the mansion, and since she had already eaten her mid-day meal, she sat undisturbed as she read through volumes from Biagio’s library, practicing the Naren language. She could speak it almost flawlessly now. But she still had trouble reading the Naren tongue and making the strange symbols on paper, and as she read she studied everything with careful clarity, sometimes reading aloud to be sure her interpretations were correct.