The Saints of the Sword (15 page)

Biagio considered the baron as he walked through his Wax Works. It was very near midnight and the crowds had long since gone. Biagio’s high heels clicked on the stone floor as he paced through the museum, marvelling at the lifelike figures. He was in the Imperial Wing where the former rulers of the Empire were immortalized. Each had an elaborate display, a diorama corded off with velvet rope, and they had all been constructed with painstaking precision. Emperor Dragonheart had the largest display. He was the father of Arkus and the first real Emperor of Nar, and his wax likeness depicted him in dazzling silver armor atop a black charger. There was a bloodied lance in his hand, presumably soiled by a dragon he had recently
slain. Biagio paused as he passed the elaborate creation. Dragonheart was the source of countless stories. He was one of Nar’s heroes, a man whose name was invoked by nobles during public speeches. His reputation for courage had obviously been exaggerated, but no one seemed to mind. Narens appreciated heroes—just as they crucified cowards.

Biagio yawned. The lateness of the hour had drawn bags under his eyes. He looked around the hall wondering if he was alone. It wasn’t quite midnight, but Dakel was always prompt. Biagio had half expected the Inquisitor to be early, but all he saw was his own pair of guardians down the hall standing soundlessly as if they too were made of wax. Biagio forced himself to relax. Dakel would be here. Then it would be off to the harbor where Kasrin was waiting. There would be no rest for him tonight.

Slowly he moved through the hall, studying the visages of past rulers and wondering if his wax countenance would ever join them. Not if he were emperor during Nar’s destruction. Terrible things were on the horizon. Within a year his beloved Wax Works might be gone, burned to the ground or trampled beneath the hooves of Talistanian horses. Suddenly his plans to turn the tide seemed foolish. Maybe Kasrin was right about him. Maybe he was still insane.

But Biagio knew he had no choice. He had no allies left in the city. Now he needed new allies, people crazy enough to understand his vision. Certainly he wouldn’t find them among the dandies of Nar. This time, he needed men with dirt beneath their nails.

And women
, he added wryly.
Like Jelena
.

In a few days he would face the Lissen queen, assuming she didn’t sink the
Dread Sovereign
on sight. He would use all his charm and candor, trying to convince her to join his coalition. She needed peace as badly as he did; Biagio was certain of that. You couldn’t just sit on a throne and watch people perish. It wasn’t that easy, not if you were sane.

And I am sane now
, he told himself. Eventually, he
would even be whole again. In time the headaches would cease and the cravings would disappear, and he would know what it meant to be normal.

At the end of the Imperial Wing was a very special exhibit, one that Biagio always visited when coming to the Wax Works. It was sort of a shrine for him, an embodiment of the man whom he’d loved like a father, and who had given him so much in his overly long life. Biagio’s eyes drifted upward as he reached it, tracking over the wax depiction of an ancient figure.

Arkus of Nar looked down from a fake Iron Throne, almost alive as he contemplated his visitor. His hair was long and white and his eyes were a dazzling blue, fit with two real sapphires to approximate their preternatural light. A golden robe fell around his lean body, and his fingers were circled with gemmed rings. It was an odd depiction of Arkus, without the desiccated skin and sickly pallor of his later years, but it was striking nonetheless. It was Arkus as he once had been—as he should have remained—and the sight of him hurt. Alazrian Leth had been right. Arkus’ death had been the most terrible thing Biagio had ever endured. It had taught him the meaning of pain.

“I’m emperor now, Arkus,” whispered Biagio. He glanced up at the strong wax face. “I’m doing my best, but it’s so hard. I wish you were here to help me. I wish you were still emperor, and everything was the same.”

But everything wasn’t the same, and this Arkus was a fraud. Biagio sunk his chin into his chest.

“You don’t know what it’s like these days,” he remarked. “You could never know.”

Arkus had been stronger than Biagio, and Biagio knew it. His patron had been the most ruthless, brilliant man he’d ever met, and he never let sentiment get in the way of things. But he was also insane and hopelessly addicted to Bovadin’s drug, and in the end that madness had ruined him, turning him into a weeping shell desperately afraid of dying. Biagio straightened. He wasn’t afraid of dying. The only thing he’d ever feared was obscurity.

A sound at the other end of the corridor startled him.
Biagio turned and saw Dakel in the shadows. Biagio flushed. His guardians were used to him talking to himself, but he didn’t think Dakel should know him that well.

“Come,” he called, his voice echoing down the corridor. Dakel seemed confused. He wore a ruby evening coat that billowed out behind him as he walked.

“Lord Emperor,” he said, greeting Biagio. “Good evening.” He shifted his walking stick from hand to hand, unsure what to say next. “I received your summons, my lord. I’m here as you asked.”

Biagio regarded him with a smile. “Thank you for coming,” he said. He had always liked Dakel. The Inquisitor was something of a protégé these days. He had a keen mind and a sharp sense of duty that Biagio admired. In other times, he might even have trusted Dakel. “You look concerned,” Biagio observed.

Dakel looked around. “Forgive me, my lord, but this is an unusual place for a meeting. May I ask why all the secrecy?”

“It’s necessary,” replied Biagio, unsure how much to divulge. If Dakel was to rule in his absence, he had to be safe. And sometimes safety came from ignorance. He put a hand on the younger man’s shoulder and tried to sound reassuring. “I am sorry for the furtiveness. But I needed to be sure no one would overhear us tonight, and the walls of the palace have grown ears lately. Come, walk with me.”

Biagio put his arm around Dakel and steered him out of the Imperial Wing, away from the curious eyes of the dead emperors. His Shadow Angels made to follow, but Biagio kept them away with a flick of his delicate fingers. They would wait for him until he returned no matter how long it took. As they walked, Dakel glanced around uneasily. They were now in the mythology exhibit, a vast chamber with a high domed ceiling housing bizarre creatures and false deities. Ahead of them was a statue of the goddess Vree, a beautiful woman except for the snakes she used as arms.

“Why here, my lord?” Dakel asked. “I’ve never enjoyed this place.”

“No?” said Biagio. “Well, the place isn’t important. It’s
the privacy that matters. I come here often at night, to think and consider things. I knew no one would be here to overhear us.”

“Ah, so we are going to have an important conversation. Should I be worried?”

“Perhaps.”

Dakel’s expression became grave. “Tell me.”

There was a bench against one of the walls. Biagio guided Dakel toward it, bidding him to sit.

Dakel relaxed, crossing his legs and staring up at Biagio. For Biagio, it was like looking in a mirror. Despite Dakel’s jet hair and alabaster skin, he had the manners of a Crotan nobleman. His blue eyes bore into Biagio imploringly, and for a moment Biagio wondered if Dakel thought of him the way he had always thought of Arkus. The idea softened the emperor’s voice.

“You’ve done a very fine job with the Protectorate, Dakel,” said Biagio. “I want you to know how pleased I am with you. When I chose you I had no doubts about your ability, of course, and you’ve proven me correct.”

Dakel inclined his head. “I am glad to please you, my lord. But I am Roshann. I could never do anything but my best for you.”

True enough, Biagio knew. All his Roshann agents were zealots. They were the only constant thing in his life. In all the years of the Roshann’s existence, only one member had dared to betray Biagio, and that had broken his heart.

“You are my truest servant, Dakel,” Biagio continued. “And perhaps my only friend. You’ve done remarkably well for me. The Protectorate has been a success, mostly.”

“Mostly, my lord?”

Biagio smiled. “Nothing is perfect, despite your efforts. The Protectorate has been effective—”

“Sir, it’s been more than effective. We’ve tried almost two dozen war criminals. We’ve sent half that number to the gallows. People everywhere now realize you’re a strong leader—”

“Stop,” ordered Biagio, holding up a hand. “I’ve not summoned you to criticize you, Dakel. You’re right. The
Protectorate has had many successes. And we’ve done well with smoking out Tassis Gayle.”

“Yes,” agreed Dakel. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”

Biagio sighed. The question was impossible, because he wanted so much. And so much of what he wanted could never be explained, not even to a genius like Dakel. Dakel was young and idealistic. He believed in the Black Renaissance and the reign of his emperor. But he hadn’t lived long enough to know loss, and he still thought absolution came from a vial.

“Dakel, I’m going away,” said Biagio. “While I’m gone you will be in control of things.”

Dakel’s face was blank. “Away? What do you mean, my lord?”

“I have important business,” said Biagio. “Things that only I can take care of. While I’m gone you will act as emperor by my decree. No one must know of my absence, either. That is why I have not attended any public functions and have stayed to the shadows in the Protectorate. I don’t want the citizenry thinking something is wrong. For them, life must go on as usual. Do you understand?”

Clearly, Dakel didn’t. His mouth hung open in shock. Biagio sighed.

“Say something, Dakel.”

“My lord,” stammered Dakel, “This is madness! You are emperor. You can’t simply leave the city.”

“I can and I must, for the good of the Empire.” Biagio slid down next to Dakel on the bench. “The Protectorate is not enough, you see. There’s a lot going on that you don’t know about, my friend. And I can’t tell you everything because it might jeopardize my plans. The less you know, the safer you will be.”

“No,” insisted Dakel. “I cannot accept that. You must tell me where you’re going, my lord. Is it Talistan?”

He seemed genuinely hurt by Biagio’s evasiveness and the pain in his eyes surprised Biagio. Biagio looked away, slightly embarrassed, knowing that Dakel would fight him once he knew the truth.

“I’m going to Crote,” he confessed suddenly. His eyes
flicked back to Dakel and registered the Inquisitor’s shock. “Before you say anything, let me tell you my mind is made up. I’m going to meet with Queen Jelena. I’m going to try and convince her to end her war against Nar.”

“But my lord, that is impossible! Jelena and her dogs will rip you to pieces the moment you step foot on Crote. You won’t stand a chance!”

“Don’t,” snarled Biagio. “I have been through this before. It’s the only way. We must have peace with Liss. We
must
, Dakel.”

“But my lord—”

Biagio rose from the bench and began pacing the chamber, circling like a panther as he tried to explain it. He told Dakel of his plans with Kasrin and how he intended to destroy Nicabar for the sake of peace. Dakel listened in shocked silence. Biagio’s temples pounded as he spoke. He didn’t want to be here explaining his every move to a protégé. What he wanted was an empire secure of war and genocide, the empire Arkus had envisioned. But every day, that dream seemed to grow more and more distant. Finally, he collapsed against a wall and stared up at the domed ceiling.

Dakel was very quiet.

“How long will you be?” asked the Inquisitor finally. “It’s not very far to Crote. When can I expect you to return?”

Biagio hesitated. He still hadn’t told Dakel everything.

“After Crote I am going elsewhere,” he said. “I must do my best to aid young Alazrian. If he brings Vantran and the Triin to Talistan, there must be others there to greet them.”

“What others?” asked Dakel. His blazing eyes narrowed on Biagio. “What else haven’t you told me?”

“Watch yourself,” Biagio warned. “I have indulged you this much because you’ve been so loyal. But do not forget whom you’re addressing.”

The Inquisitor colored. “Forgive me,” he said. “I meant no offense, my lord. It’s just that I’m concerned. Please, I beg you. Tell me where you will you go after Crote.”

“You are Roshann, Dakel,” said Biagio. “So you will
understand this. I cannot risk telling you everything. I will not say where I am going after Crote.” He looked at the younger man carefully. “You see, a child is never so frightened as when his parents are afraid. It is like that for rulers, too. The city must never know that I am gone, and they must never know where I am. So I will not tell you, Dakel, because I cannot risk any loose tongues.”

“If that is your decision.”

“It is.” Biagio put a hand to Dakel’s face. “Do as I ask. I have made some arrangements with my staff. They know you will be ruling in my stead. I give you full authority, my friend. Keep the Protectorate alive. Summon anyone you wish before your tribunal, except the House of Gayle. Use all the powers of your office. Execute whomever you must, and make certain the Empire believes we are in control.”

Dakel took Biagio’s hand from his cheek and kissed it. “I will make you proud, my lord,” he said. “I will do as you ask.”

“And whatever happens, keep a hold on the throne. When I return—if I return—I will truly be emperor.”

“As you command.”

Renato Biagio reached out and clasped Dakel’s frozen hand tightly. He said, “Now you are acting emperor, my friend. And may all the angels of heaven defend you.”

“Push, damn it!” ranted Kasrin.

“I am pushing!” Laney retorted angrily. The first officer of the
Dread Sovereign
had his shoulder against an enormous crate, beads of sweat popping on his forehead as he strained to shove it forward. Beside him were three other crewmen, all in the same position.

“Get on the winch!” Kasrin bellowed. At the other end of the loading plank another team of men worked the ship’s winch fighting desperately to get their heavy cargo aboard. The rope and plank groaned with effort threatening to snap, and Kasrin shook his head angrily cursing Biagio and the men from the war labs. As promised, the labs had delivered the cannon fuel. But the huge iron carriage that had brought the cargo had left it unceremoniously on
the dock, and the harbor had no loading arm for lifting such a large item aboard a ship. Usually, dreadnoughts were put in to the main harbor back in the city, where there were workmen and tools for such specialized jobs. Not so in this tiny fishing village. Now the gigantic crate hung suspended over the water halfway between the dock and the
Dread Sovereign
. The loading plank bowed beneath its weight, and all the men the ship could spare were lending their muscle to the job. Kasrin watched the giant box teeter sideways.