The Grand Design (92 page)

R
ichius Vantran waited in the cold hours before dawn, watching the island of Crote through a spyglass. Biagio’s island was barely visible in the dark, and the
Prince of Liss
and her three escorts were reasonably far offshore, letting the night hide them from Crotan eyes. They had not seen any Naren dreadnoughts in the waters around the island and had moved in closer with confidence. The
Prince
stood at anchor, one nautical mile from Biagio’s mansion. A wicked ocean wind tore through Richius’ shirt. Like his troops, he wore no coat, only a thick woolen shirt topped with
a chainmail chest-guard. A pair of deerskin dueling gauntlets kept the cold from his fingers.

He peered through the lens, trying to penetrate the darkness. The Crotan shore was smoother than the shores of Liss, with a long, white beach and cleanly cut grasses that were visible even in the pale starlight. Richius was very quiet as he surveyed the terrain. On the deck beside him stood Simon and Prakna. Shii and a dozen Lissen troops were piling into the first launch, a long rowboat dangling off the side of Prakna’s flagship. A similar boat was filling up on the starboard side of the vessel, and on both sides of Prakna’s three other schooners. Each carried as many fighters as possible.

It was at least two hours until dawn. Enough time, Richius hoped, to surround Biagio’s mansion. He didn’t want his troops cut down trying to get ashore, so he was having them beach away from the mansion, where Biagio’s guards couldn’t see them. Simon had chosen a safe landing spot, a place the Naren promised would be free of sentries. From there Richius would march a small force onto the mansion’s grounds, taking out the sentries posted around the mansion. Here, too, Simon would be indispensable. Simon knew all the habits of the count’s household. Or so he claimed. Richius grit his teeth and handed the spyglass back to Prakna. He glanced apprehensively at Simon.

“I can’t see anything,” he whispered. “I hope you’re right about those sentries.”

“I’m right,” Simon assured him. “Biagio posts about a half dozen men around his grounds. I told you.”

Richius nodded. Simon had told him, countless times. But Richius kept running over the numbers anyway. Half a dozen men, two at each entrance and two roaming, patrolling the grounds. Those latter would be the hardest to find and eliminate. And they had to be found quickly. That would be Simon’s job. The Roshann agent had readied himself for the task, dressing in
black like a lean and hungry panther. He wore a dagger and short scimitar at his side, both simple, and had cropped his hair around his skull. In the darkness he cut a frightening image. His malevolent look reminded Richius that the Roshann were still a hidden danger throughout the Empire.

“How long a march to the mansion, do you think?” Richius asked. “Less than an hour, right?”

“A little,” said Simon. “We’ll make better time than the rest of them, though, since I’ll be leading.”

“The others have the maps,” Richius agreed. He was confident those groups would find their way to the mansion without a guide. And he wanted Simon to lead the first wave to Biagio’s home quickly. A smaller number could go unnoticed more easily. Shii and the others in the boat would come with them. The other three leaders, Tomr, Loria and Delf, would take up positions on the north, west and east, respectively. Together they would form a noose, tight enough to force Biagio out of hiding. Prakna, it had been agreed, would stay aboard the
Prince
with Marus and the other sailors, none of whom were experienced fighters anyway. Nevertheless, they had curved Lissen scimitars ready if they were needed. Richius didn’t plan on calling the sailors into combat, but Biagio might surprise them. He looked at Prakna in the starlight. The fleet commander’s face was grave.

“Time to get aboard, my friend,” he said, gesturing to the waiting launch. Then he stuck out a hand for Richius to shake. Richius took it warmly.

“Don’t leave without us, Prakna,” Richius joked. He felt the Lissen’s grip tighten.

“Richius, no matter what happens, I want you to know I’ve always thought well of you. Liss thanks you for what you’ve done.”

The peculiar sentiment flustered Richius. “Don’t worry, Prakna,” he said. “I plan on coming back.”

“A good plan.” Then Prakna turned to Simon, saying, “Naren, good luck to you as well.”

It was an unaffectionate good-bye, but Simon grinned anyway. “Luck to you, Prakna. I hope no dreadnoughts show up.”

“These waters are safe,” said the commander. “Just worry about yourself.”

“I always do,” quipped Simon. He stared at Prakna. “Isn’t that right?”

Prakna shrugged, not wanting to argue. “As you say, Simon Darquis. As you say.”

“Let’s get aboard,” said Richius, taking Simon’s shoulder and steering him toward the rowboat. Four sailors waited by the rail with ropes, ready to lower the launch into the water. Shii waited onboard, standing amongst her sitting troops. She looked resolute in the murky light, the perfect symbol of Lissen honor. Richius felt profoundly proud of her. He took the first step into the boat, squeezing past the other troops who looked up at him with earnest faces. He recognized Johr in the crowd and his sister Teeli, and the youngest one of the group, Griff, a boy of barely sixteen. Griff looked afraid, just as he had the night before, when Richius had told him he didn’t have to go ashore. But Griff had been adamant about invading Crote. He gave Richius a nervous nod. Richius winked back at him, taking a seat beside Shii. Simon entered next, without a smile or greeting of any kind. He was still an outcast among the group and as such took a seat at the prow of the boat, away from them all. Four of Prakna’s sailors would row them ashore, so not to tire out the troops before their march.

“Let us down,” Richius ordered. On his command the pulleys began to squeal as the rope-men lowered the launch. Across the water, he saw other boats begin dropping from the sides of the escort vessels. Richius glanced up as the rowboat sank and saw Prakna staring at
them. The fleet commander offered a little wave. Richius looked at him, perplexed. He had expected Prakna to be elated. The rowboat slipped down the
Prince
’s side and splashed into the water. The oarsmen quickly took to rowing, shoving them off from the side of the flagship and pointing them toward the dark coast of Crote. Simon guided them in. Other boats took their point, following them through the gloom. Richius drew a breath of salty air and tried to still his racing pulse. Beside him, Shii had gone white. He nudged her a little with his elbow.

“You all right?”

Shii only nodded.

“You sure?” he asked. “You don’t look it.”

“I’m fine,” replied Shii distractedly. She licked her lips, betraying her fear.

Richius raised a hand to get his group’s attention. “Listen to me, everyone,” he whispered. “We’re about to do this thing, and I know you’re all afraid. But that’s all right. I’m afraid, too.”

“You’re afraid?” asked Griff. Richius smiled at him, remembering other young men like him from Aramoor.

“It’s normal to be afraid,” he said. “But you’ve all trained hard and you know what to do. And if we’re lucky, Biagio will simply surrender.”

They all glanced away, looking sheepish.

“I know you don’t believe me, but Biagio isn’t impractical,” Richius went on. “When he sees how many of us there are, he just might surrender.”

“We’re all right, Lord Jackal,” said Shii imploringly. “Please …”

Richius said nothing more. He could tell that Shii was nervous, so he let her collect herself on the trip to shore. Simon sat in the prow, guiding the boat with hand signals. He had promised Richius that he knew a place on Biagio’s vast property where the count’s sentries couldn’t see them land. Richius still feared it
might be a trap. As much as he wanted to trust Simon, there remained a nagging suspicion. Perhaps even this was part of Biagio’s elaborate scheme. Perhaps the count knew they were coming and that Simon was leading them.

“There,” whispered Simon to the oarsmen. “Put in there.”

A lagoonlike inlet appeared out of the darkness. The Lissens piloted the rowboat into it. It was wide enough to accommodate a dozen boats and was bordered on all sides by secretive, sandy hills. Richius smiled when he saw it. Simon had kept his word.

One by one the other boats followed them into the inlet. Delf’s boat was first. He waved to Richius when he saw him. Richius looked over Delf’s shoulder to the other incoming launches. The
Prince
and her sisters were barely visible on the horizon, but he could just make out the image of more departing rowboats. The boats would have to make multiple runs to get the nine hundred fighters ashore.

Quickly, Richius got out of the boat and splashed through the water. His troops followed. Soon the inlet was filled with bodies. Richius watched them carefully, sizing up their precision. They moved just as he had taught them—silent and swift, and without any wasted moves.

“All right then,” he said to Shii. “Let’s go.” He turned to Simon, who would lead the first dozen to the mansion. “Ready?”

“Ready,” said Simon, then turned and stalked off up the northern hillside. Richius followed him, ordering Shii and the rest of the platoon after him.

Very near dawn, Archbishop Herrith left his luxurious rooms in the mansion’s west wing and went in search of Count Biagio. Like all who had been addicted to Bovadin’s drug, Herrith was an early riser, sometimes
going the entire night without sleep. Because he knew Biagio suffered from the same insomnia, Herrith was sure the count would also be awake. It was the day after Herrith’s arrival, and the bishop was eager to begin his talks with the devil of Crote. His stay had so far been restful, and Herrith felt refreshed despite his gnawing cravings. A month’s supply of the drug had been waiting for him in his rooms when he’d arrived. It was a well-appointed room, and Herrith had taken pleasure in dropping the blue liquid onto the carpet. Kivis Gago and the other Naren lords had been given similar apartments in the mansion’s west wing. Herrith had been awed by Biagio’s wealth. He had always known the count to be a man of expensive tastes, but there were Daragos in his home and works from other renowned artists, and everything seemed to be made of gold or silver, or upholstered in the finest leather, or sculpted from the best imported marble. All the hallways were gilded, and all the sheets were silk. And Herrith had hardly been able to concentrate from the parade of slaves offering him foods and services. He had spent the day before talking with the other Naren lords. All of them loved the lavish lifestyle, and all agreed that the talks with Biagio should take place on schedule. But none of them knew what that schedule was, because Biagio hadn’t come to them, and neither had any of his aides. So Herrith had elected himself spokesperson for the group, and had decided not to wait for the sun to rise. He wanted to see Biagio. Now.

But now was very early, and as he moved through the empty corridors, the dearth of servants did not perplex him. Even slaves needed their rest, and the eleven lords and their numerous bodyguards had kept the count’s staff ridiculously busy with petty requests. Herrith moved quietly through the halls, not wanting to disturb anyone who might be sleeping.

Herrith paused in the hallway for a moment, staring
through a bank of body-length windows. The island was very dark and he could barely see the ocean for the lack of light. It was a peaceful moment, the kind he liked to think God created to make men thoughtful. Today, Herrith was very thoughtful. Lorla would have loved this view, and this magnificent place. But she wasn’t alive anymore to share such things—if she ever really had been alive. She was a creation of the war labs—Biagio had practically admitted it. That made her something less than human. And, in a way, something more than human, too. Herrith still ached over her death, and he didn’t care if she had been spawned for the sole purpose of seducing him. In the end, she had tried to trade her life for his, and that was all that mattered.

I’ll make you pay, Biagio
, thought Herrith relentlessly. He caught a glimpse of something moving in the distance outside, but in his rage ignored it.
We’re not done, you and I. Not yet.

He wanted to squeeze every bit of blood out of Biagio’s body and feed it to rats. He wanted to peel off Biagio’s golden skin and upholster a chair with it. Herrith realized how clouded his mind had become, but he could do nothing to stop it. His daughter, his beloved cathedral, even Darago’s laborious masterwork; all gone in a blaze of madness. When Herrith shut his eyes, he saw his life in flames. He had so many regrets on his shoulders these days, he could barely stand. And not all of them were Biagio’s fault.

When I get back to Nar I will do things differently
, he swore. There would be no more Formula B. He would keep peace some other way, without murdering children. He had thought the Black Renaissance the greatest threat in the world, worthy of the most drastic means imaginable, but he had been wrong. All the while he had thought God was speaking to him, but now Herrith knew the voices were only in his mind.

Herrith opened his eyes and saw something peculiar
outside the window, something quick and shadowy. He squinted to see better, but was quickly distracted by the call of his name from down the corridor.

“Archbishop Herrith,” said the voice. “Good morning, Holiness.”

It was Leraio, Biagio’s manservant. Herrith had met him two days before, but it took a moment to recall the face. Leraio was coming toward him with a smile. Herrith recoiled, unsure why. Perhaps because Biagio had a penchant for having underlings deliver bad news—like Vorto’s head.

“It’s very early,” Herrith observed. “What are you doing up and around?”

“Looking for you, Holiness,” the slave answered. “Count Biagio wanted me to deliver a message to you. He told me you might be up very early, and that I should speak with you as soon as possible, as a matter of respect to you.”

“Biagio? I was on my way to see him,” said Herrith, baffled. “What’s your message?”

Leraio reached into his silky vest and pulled out a letter, another of Biagio’s dreaded envelopes. Herrith groaned when he saw it.