The Grand Design (90 page)

“I heard you.”

“And you don’t believe me?”

“That’s right.”

“Why not?”

Simon cursed. “God almighty, haven’t you been listening? You could have been satisfied letting the Lissens go to Crote themselves. They would have killed Biagio for you, and you know it. But you weren’t satisfied with that. And you won’t be satisfied when you get back to Falindar, either. You’ll always be whining about how you betrayed Aramoor. You should listen to Dyana, Richius. You’re not a king anymore. The sooner you realize that, the sooner you’ll start living again. Now, good night!”

Richius said nothing. Simon’s outburst had left him speechless.

I’ll just get Biagio
, he told himself.
I will. Then I’ll go home.

The words echoed endlessly in his mind. Even as he heard them, he fretted over their truth.

On the other end of the sleepy schooner, Fleet Commander Prakna was also awake in his cabin. He was at his writing desk awaiting a visitor. An open flask of wine waited with him, accompanied by two mugs. It
was very late, and Prakna was weary. He would have preferred to be sleeping, but he had business that could only be attended to when curious eyes were closed. Confident that Marus could pilot the
Prince
without him, Prakna had come below decks hours ago. He had whiled away the time writing a letter to J’lari. In it he had told her how much he loved her, again, and how much he missed her. Again. The commander was sick of writing his heart-wrenching notes. Each one was an ordeal. They reminded him of how old he was, and how much he’d lost. They reminded him that J’lari wasn’t whole anymore.

In three more days, they would reach Crote. Soon, no one would dare call his homeland Liss the Raped.

“Never again,” he mumbled darkly.

There was work to do. They would take Crote in a lightning attack, then look eastward toward the mainland. The Narens would tremble when they heard the news of Crote’s seizure. Prakna smiled grimly. He liked the thought of Narens trembling. So many of his own men had trembled, brave as they were. It was time for some retribution.

Prakna poured himself a little of the wine just as the expected knock came at his cabin door. “Come in,” he called softly, then poured wine into the second mug. The door opened to reveal Shii. The young woman stood in the threshold questioningly.

“Sir?” she asked. “You wanted to see me?”

“Step inside, Shii,” said Prakna. “Close the door.”

Shii did as Prakna bid, quickly and without question. The effect of his rank was obvious. She stood before him dutifully, waiting for him to speak. When he offered out the wine mug she declined.

“No, thank you,” she said politely.

Prakna smiled. “You’re nervous. Don’t be. You’re doing nothing wrong.”

The young woman relaxed almost imperceptibly. “No, sir.”

“You know that, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good.” Prakna eased the mug into her hands. “Then drink with me.” He got up and offered her the only chair in the cabin, seating himself on the edge of his bunk. Shii hovered over the chair before sitting, then took a sip of the wine, obviously trying to relax. Prakna watched her closely. She was a good soldier. Loyal, both to Liss and her Lord Jackal. He didn’t like seeing her squirm.

“Shii, please be at ease,” he said. “I just want to talk to you, that’s all. There’s no reason for you to be afraid.”

“I’m not afraid,” she said defensively. “It’s just, well …” She paused, careful with her words. “You told me not to tell Lord Jackal about our meeting. I’m uncomfortable with that.”

“I understand,” said Prakna. “Vantran has done a fine job with you. All of you.”

“He’s made an army of us,” declared Shii.

“And I appreciate that. You’ll make him proud when we get to Crote, I know that. I just want to make sure you understand our mission.”

Shii blanched. “Sir?”

“Our mission, Shii,” Prakna repeated. He leaned closer, his tone growing grave. “Do you understand it?”

“Yes, of course I do,” said Shii. “We’re to take Crote.”

“And?”

“And?” asked Shii. “That’s it. We’re taking the island and securing it for Liss. You’re going to use it as a base for your fleet.” She looked at him curiously. “Isn’t that right?”

“Mostly,” said Prakna. “But our mission is more than to just take Crote. We want to make a statement to the rest of the Empire. When we seize Biagio’s island, we’ll be saying to all of Nar that Liss isn’t the
Empire’s plaything anymore. And we’ll be striking a blow for all the people we’ve lost.” He let that last part work on her. “Do you understand me, Shii?”

The young woman nodded. “I know about loss, Fleet Commander. That’s why I volunteered to serve with Lord Jackal.”

“An admirable decision, no doubt about it,” said Prakna. “All of Liss is proud of you for that. But don’t forget that you’re a Lissen. You have an obligation to your people. Lord Jackal isn’t one of us. He might not realize all that we need to accomplish.”

Shii looked flustered. “I’m sorry, sir. I’m not understanding you. What do you mean?”

Tired, Prakna decided to be direct. “I mean to destroy Crote utterly, Shii,” he said flatly. “I don’t want there to be a living thing left in Biagio’s mansion when we leave. When we get to Crote, our dead sons are going to be watching us. I don’t want to disappoint them.”

The young woman grimaced. “Sir, my orders come from the Jackal. He hasn’t said anything about this to me. I know he wants to take the island with as few casualties as possible.”

“The Jackal isn’t Lissen,” Prakna reminded her. “When it comes to the Hundred Isles, the Empire has a lot to answer for. I certainly don’t want to disappoint my sons when they look down on me. What about you? Your infant son deserves vindication, doesn’t he?”

Shii hesitated.

“Doesn’t he?”

“Yes,” cried Shii. She put down the mug and rose from her chair angrily. “Don’t make me say it!”

“There’s a thousand more like him, Shii,” said Prakna. “All of them dead. Think about it. A thousand mothers who will never hold their babies. You think they have that problem in Nar? They take their children for walks, feed them, play with them. All the things you’ll never get to do.”

Shii turned away from him. It was working; Prakna knew it. He waited a moment before speaking again.

“It’s justice,” he said softly. “Some people call it revenge.”

“I don’t care what they call it,” spat Shii. “I just want it.”

Prakna smiled inwardly. “We all want it, girl,” he said gently. “Even the Jackal. That’s why he’s here with us. Revenge. I know him. He plans on pulling Biagio’s heart out for what the count did to his wife. And why shouldn’t he? Don’t you think Biagio deserves it?”

“Yes,” gasped Shii. She was on the verge of angry tears.

“And do you think the Narens that slaughtered your son deserve to die?”

Unable to speak, Shii gave a strangled nod. Prakna walked over to her. He put his hands on her shoulders and his lips to her ear.

“So do I,” he whispered.
“That’s
why we’re going to Crote.”

Suddenly, the hard young woman seemed insubstantial in his hands. In a few minutes he had diminished her. Awful memories could do that to a person. Gently, he turned her around, making her face him. She looked up at him, her eyes full of pain.

“It’s time,” he said softly. “We are obligated to your son, and to my sons. To all our sons. You know that. Are you with me, Shii?”

Shii couldn’t bring herself to look away. He was the Fleet Commander of Liss, more of a hero than the Jackal himself. Prakna knew the power he had over his people. He could see it reflected in Shii’s impressionable eyes.

“I’m with you,” said Shii finally.

“It’s the right thing to do,” Prakna promised her. “In three days, we become the servants of justice.”

Without thinking, he placed a light kiss on her forehead. Shii melted. Prakna sighed. He hated making pawns of these fine men and women. Shii bent easily to his will, almost crying when she felt his loving kiss. Prakna held her close. She was desperate for the contact. It was what war had made of Liss’ children; forlorn, touch-starved orphans. Like Jelena.

“Be easy, Shii,” he whispered gently. “In three more days, we’ll start to ease some of your pain.”

“Will we?” asked Shii hopefully.

Prakna considered the question for a very long moment. Finally, he decided to lie. “Yes,” he said softly. “It can’t last forever.”

B
arely two days after leaving Nar, the
Fearless
and her escorting dreadnoughts arrived in Crote. Biagio watched the warships from his beach, immensely satisfied with himself. Around him stood an entourage of bodyguards, a well-groomed group of peacock-colored Crotans with their sidearms still sheathed. The count didn’t expect any trouble, but he wanted to make a show. He still didn’t know how many of the Naren lords were aboard the ships. He hoped there were enough of them to have made it all
worth his efforts. Still, Herrith was aboard—that much Biagio knew for certain. Nicabar had left Crote with clear orders not to return until the bishop was with him.

It was a clear day, and Biagio could see the rowboats coming toward him. Some still dropped from the sides of their mother ships, laden down with Naren nobles and their guards. Biagio’s sharp eyes scanned the blue ocean. The lead boat came from the
Fearless.
At its prow stood Nicabar, guiding her in. With him was a white-haired man in priestly garb, barely visible behind the admiral’s impressive bulk. Biagio licked his lips, anticipating Herrith’s arrival. He had pulled a lot of strings to make this happen, made a lot of puppets dance. He even felt some remorse. Vorto was a fine general. His death would make ruling the Empire all the more difficult. The count sighed, shrugging off the consequences. He wanted his mind unburdened. No doubt Herrith would engage him in verbal fencing. Biagio closed his eyes for a moment, sharpening his foil.

Since learning of Simon’s treason, Biagio had been unable to relax. He paced his mansion like an angry cat, stalking the halls at night and freezing in the gardens with only a cape to warm him. He felt friendless and profoundly misunderstood, and Dyana Vantran had kept her promise to shun him, refusing his polite smiles. She locked herself away in her rooms, desolate of human contact. Eris’ suicide had struck her hard. Biagio’s mood soured. If he had known his prize dancer was going to kill herself, he might not have been so drastic with her.

Control
, he reminded himself.
Control.

That was his biggest struggle now. Lately, his mind had been slipping into daydreams and flashes of rage. It was the stress, he knew, and the all-importance of his grand design, but that didn’t excuse some of his actions. Biagio kicked distractedly at the sand beneath
his boots. Dyana Vantran was on his mind often these days. She was a perceptive little gadfly, and she annoyed him. More, she had started him thinking about things he’d wanted to keep buried. Insanity came only to the feeble-minded; he had always been sure of that. And Arkus wasn’t insane, was he? The drugs that kept them all vital did almost nothing to the brain.

Or so Biagio wanted to believe.

“She’s a witch,” he scoffed. “She’s trying to distract me.”

The count squared his shoulders. Nicabar’s launch was approaching. He could see Herrith more clearly now, staring at him from across the water. The bishop’s eyes were lusterless. Biagio frowned. Hadn’t Herrith taken the drug? Nicabar had offered it to him, surely. The count tried to relax. Eventually he’d get the bishop hooked again. Herrith was so malleable.

When the rowboat approached, two sailors splashed out of the vessel. They dragged it onto the sand, bringing it to a halt. In the boat was another man, sitting beside Herrith, coming into view as Nicabar stepped out. Biagio’s pleasure grew enormously.

Kivis Gago.

Nar’s Minister of Arms had made it to Crote. It was a pleasure the count hadn’t really expected. Like Herrith, Kivis Gago had always hated Biagio. Biagio tried not to let his grin overwhelm him. He cautioned his bodyguards to keep back as Gago’s servants stepped out of the boat and shielded their master. Instantly they drew their swords in a net of steel. The tiresome show irked Biagio but he did nothing to stop it. He merely watched as Kivis Gago stepped out of the boat and waded through the water. Gago’s face was set with ice. He looked different from when Biagio had last seen him. The blue of his eyes was gone, replaced with a natural, vastly less interesting brown. He had dropped weight, too, an obvious consequence of the withdrawal.

“Welcome to Crote, Gago,” said Biagio. He offered his enemy a mannerly bow. “I would say it’s good to see you, but that would be a lie.”

Gago paused, stunned at the statement. Hatred bloomed on his face. “Still an impertinent little elf, eh, Biagio?” he said. “I had hoped your exile might have changed you for the better. But I see it has only made you more bitter.”

Biagio wasn’t listening. He was looking over Gago’s shoulder toward Herrith. The old bishop was struggling out of the boat and coming ashore. Refusing Nicabar’s help, Herrith walked alone, his head held high despite his weakened appearance. Behind him came Nicabar, his expression stoic.