The Grand Design (43 page)

If he could.

He wasn’t at all certain about that anymore. He knew he would see Dyana’s face for the rest of his life. And Richius would haunt him, too. The Jackal would come after him. He would forgo his vendetta against Biagio and dedicate his every breath to finding the man who had kidnapped his daughter. And he would fail. Like Biagio would fail. Simon was the Roshann. The years had taught him tricks.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered sadly, staring at the moon. “It’s just the way it has to be.”

He would have wept if he were more of a man, but Roshann conditioning had erased that part of him, too. The lump in his throat was contention enough. He wondered what Eris would think of him if she ever learned the truth. She already knew the sort of work he did for the count, but he was certain she could never understand this. Most likely, the baby would be murdered. Simon hoped it didn’t wind up in the Mind Bender’s hands. He put a hand to his forehead to banish the image.

Quickly!
he shouted in his mind.
Make it quick, you bastard. She’s only a child.

In the end, though, Biagio’s whim would determine how much the child suffered. If he felt magnanimous, the baby might die swiftly. If not, she might linger for months. Simon fell back against the brick wall of the garden and slowly melted to the ground. He sat there for long minutes, finding it impossible to move.

Four more days.

A boot scraped the pavement on the other side of the garden. Simon snapped out of his stupor and looked left. Past a nest of ferns a figure was approaching.

“Simon?” It was Richius.

Simon sat very still, hoping to pass unnoticed. But Richius rounded the ferns and saw him sitting on the ground with his arms wrapped around his knees. The young man stopped a few yards away.

“Simon? Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.”

Richius chanced a step closer. “What are you doing out here?”

“Good question. What are you doing?”

“Looking for you. The guards told me they had seen you out here.” Richius looked around for something interesting, then, seeing nothing, looked back at Simon. “Why are you sitting here in the cold?”

“I like the cold,” said Simon. “And my privacy.”

Richius refused to take the hint. “Is something wrong?”

“No.”

“Tell me.”

“What do you want, Richius?” Simon spat. All his anger at Biagio foamed over. “Can’t you see I’m busy?”

“I can see you’re brooding,” said Richius. “That’s all. I was hoping I could talk to you. I’ve been looking for you for an hour.”

“Well, you found me.” Simon patted the cold bricks beside him. “Sit down.”

To Simon’s surprise, Richius didn’t hesitate to slide down next to him. Simon stole a glance at the younger man, sizing him up. Richius was studying the moon.

“You’ve got something on your mind,” Simon declared. “Spit it out.”

“All right,” said Richius. “I’m going to Liss with Prakna.”

Simon nodded. “I thought you would. Have you told your wife?”

“I have. She’s angry.”

“And what has the Lissen promised you? A chance to fight for Aramoor? Some Naren heads?”

“Oh, much more than that. He’s promised me Biagio.”

Dumbfounded, Simon could only blink. What the hell was Prakna planning?

“Biagio?” he blurted. “How?”

“By invading Biagio’s island,” Richius explained. “Says he’s been decoying the Black Fleet away from Crote. Apparently Nicabar’s ships have been lurking around Crote, protecting Biagio. But all the Lissen raids on the mainland have finally lured the Naren dreadnoughts back to imperial waters. Prakna plans to invade just as soon as he has an army ready.”

Good God almighty!
Simon looked away, trying hard not to betray his shock, but he was staggered by
the news. An invasion of Crote? And Biagio didn’t know? There would be hundreds killed. More, maybe. Maybe Eris.

“What does he want you for?” asked Simon. “To help him fight?”

“Sort of. He wants me to lead his army. Train them, too.” Richius laughed bitterly. “He thinks he needs me. The Lissens are sailors, not soldiers. They need someone experienced to lead them.”

“And you’re the best they could get?” exclaimed Simon. “Good luck to them.”

“I’ve led men before, Simon. I think I can do the job. Besides …” He rubbed his hands together. “It’s my chance to get that bastard Biagio. If we capture him, I can do what I want with him. Prakna said so.”

The old training rose up in Simon like a wave. He thought of pulling his dagger and ramming it through Vantran’s ribs. He thought of smashing his smug head against the wall until it cracked. Like the old days. But he just sat there and did nothing, reminding himself of his role and mission.

“You’re a damned fool,” Simon said finally. “You’re starting down a path you won’t ever come back from.”

“I have to do this, Simon. I have a responsibility to Aramoor, and to Sabrina. It’s—”

“Stop fooling yourself, Richius. This isn’t about Aramoor, and it isn’t about your first wife, either. This is about revenge.”

“So what if it is?” rumbled Richius, getting to his feet. He glared down at Simon, his eyes wild. “I thought at least you would understand! You know what Nar is like. Is it so wrong to want revenge?” He jammed a thumb into his chest. “I want revenge, Simon. And God damn it all, I’m going to have it!”

Simon smiled mercilessly. “Good for you. Is that why you wanted to see me? To tell me about your heroic quest?”

“No,” said Richius. “I have a favor to ask. I want you to look after Dyana and Shani while I’m gone. Be Dyana’s friend for me. She’s alone here, especially with Lucyler gone. But she likes you, I think. You can protect her. Will you do that?”

Simon refused to think about it. “No, I won’t,” he said flatly. “Your wife and daughter are
your
responsibility, Richius. Don’t try to push them off on me.”

Even as he said it, Simon felt nauseated. But he had already broken one promise to Richius, that day when he had met Dyana and the baby in the field. He had sworn not to harm them, and that pledge was going to be broken in four more days. He wasn’t about to leave Lucel-Lor with another shattered oath on his conscience.

“Simon, I’m asking you as a friend,” said Richius. “Look after them for me, just for a while; until I return.”

“And what if you don’t come back, Richius? What am I supposed to do with them?”

“Simon, what is this?” asked Richius. He knelt down on the hard ground of the garden. “Why are you so angry with me? I thought you of all people would understand.”

“Wrong.” Simon looked away, unable to stand Vantran’s earnest face. Yet he knew it wasn’t hatred he felt. It was shame. “Don’t make your problems mine. I’ve got a plateful of my own.”

“Please,” Richius cajoled. “I’m leaving with Prakna the day after tomorrow. Say you’ll change your mind by then. Don’t make me leave worrying about them. Without Lucyler—”

“I said no! Are you deaf? I’m not going to look after them. I’m not going to give you my blessing, and I’m not going to say everything is all right. So make this stupid decision without me!”

Richius was stunned. Very slowly he got to his feet.
He lingered over Simon for a moment, then turned and stalked away. But before he was gone he paused near the ferns and cast one last look in Simon’s direction.

“I don’t know what I did to make you so mad, Simon,” he said softly, “but I thought we were friends.”

He was gone as quickly as he’d come, swallowed up by the darkness. Simon buried his head in his arms and closed his eyes.

“You want to know why I’m mad, you fool?” he whispered. “Because when you’re gone and I take the baby, Dyana will have nothing.”

D
uke Enli sat back into the cushions of the coach, highly satisfied with himself. Barely three days had passed since he’d come to Nar’s capital, and already Vorto’s army was readying itself. At the duke’s urging, the Archbishop of Nar had wasted no time in preparing for the coming battle in Dragon’s Beak. That night he had summoned Vorto to the cathedral and together the three of them had laid plans. General Vorto had been vocal and displeased, but had acquiesced to Herrith’s demands. And despite his opposition to the long trek, Vorto had moved with amazing speed. Through the windows of his coach
Enli glanced at the driver who had brought him the news. He was a small man in service to the general, and had come unannounced to Enli’s room in the cathedral.

“General Vorto wants you,” he had said. “Quickly.”

Now it was just past dawn. Enli rubbed fatigue from his eyes. He had thought of sending the driver away, but he thought it best not to antagonize the general. Vorto was the key to their entire plan. Enli wanted his trust. Alone in the comfortable carriage, Enli pondered their destination. They had crossed the bridge over the river Kiel and were heading toward the Black Palace, the vacated seat of Naren power. Enli put his cheek against the glass to see better. In the Black City, the palace was called “the onyx jewel,” and now Enli knew why. It was an awesome structure. Not beautiful the way the cathedral was, but chilling and strangely stunning. The sun was coming up behind it, setting it aflame. Compared to his own Red Tower, the palace was massive, fit for giants.

His driver had neglected to tell him where they were going, so Enli had guessed. Vorto, he supposed, had taken up residence in the palace.

Balls of iron
, thought the duke.

Outside the window, the breaking dawn tossed shadows through the streets. The smell of the polluted river and the smoke of the war labs wafted through the glass, stinging Enli’s nose. An umber sky lit their way as sunlight struggled in the haze. The Black City was awakening. Already vendors and merchants pushed through the avenues, dragging their wares to the market. A slave trader and his convoy shuffled past, and a band of beggars stretched in an alleyway between two houses, roused by the light. They would breakfast on rats, and if they were lucky pick a few pockets, for this was life in Nar for the poor. But higher up, in the towers and tall spires, the Naren lords awoke in splendor in perfumed beds, their skin soft and oiled, their minds
cloudy with narcotics. Weary from a night of lovemaking, they would go to the window and check the weather, and not think twice of the toil in the streets. Enli’s eyes narrowed as his gaze drifted upward. Biagio was one of those lords. And the count didn’t give a damn about the destitute or the depraved. He only wanted Nar.

The carriage driver steered them through a broad street and ascended the palace road. The Black Palace had only one approach, a wide avenue trimmed with golden lamps and marble bricks that wound snakelike up to the impressive castle. But though Enli had expected to find the road deserted, it was not. A caravan of soldiers was walking toward the castle, while another was coming down. Men wearing the insignia of the Naren legions walked and rode on horseback and dragged packs and animals up and down the way, and the street quickly choked with activity. Enli rapped hard on the carriage wall with his boot, bidding the driver to hurry. But the driver kept his slow ascent up the mountain road, leaving the duke to puzzle. Aggravated, Enli pressed his nose up against the glass to study the throng of soldiers. There was purpose in their movement, and Enli realized at once that this was the force Vorto had arrayed for him.

His heart sank.

So many men. He had asked for a division without really knowing what the number meant to Vorto. It was Biagio’s plan to get as many legionnaires out of the city as possible, but now the success of the count’s design became apparent. Enli’s eyes widened. Vorto had taken his plea for help with all seriousness. Quickly Enli tabulated the figures. He had the army of the air back at home, and Biagio’s mercenaries, all waiting for him in Dragon’s Beak. He also had Nicabar’s Black Fleet, if the admiral was on his way as Biagio had promised. But were they all enough? This really
was
a division, and the sight of it withered Enli’s confidence.

The coach picked its way through the swarm of soldiers, finally stopping at the apex of the hill, just outside the sprawling parade grounds at the base of the Black Palace. Enli waited inside, awed by the sight before him. Hundreds of men, garbed in metal and heavy coats, toiled in the new-day sun, stuffing backpacks and shoeing horses, sharpening steel and loading carts. Horned greegans, the huge, armor-plated beasts used to pull war wagons, honked and snorted as trainers brushed their scaly hides and fixed their mouths with bridles. Horsemen trotted by, dwarfing the scurrying infantrymen in their high-topped boots. In the center of the grounds stood a gang of officers, chatting among themselves and shouting directions to their men. Barechested slaves heaved their shoulders against the nearly immovable weight of steel wagons, pushing them into position while their brethren hooked up the flame cannons. Acid launchers waited atop wheeled frames, their baglike bellows slack. Cannisters of munitions stood beside them, filled with the corrosive agents that could eat through human flesh.

“Too many,” Enli whispered nervously. “Too bloody many.”