The Grand Design (39 page)

“I would like that,” she said. “I don’t want to be an orphan anymore.”

C
ount Renato Biagio stood on his private beach and watched his men at work, his polished boots soiled with sand. It was a warm day, like most in Crote, and the breeze off the ocean stirred the count’s silken shirt and made his hair fall into his eyes. Beside him stood Admiral Danar Nicabar, looking tired and agitated. Thirty feet away, a handful of his men were struggling with a huge wooden crate, fighting to fit it into the boat that would ferry the parcel to the warship anchored in the distance. Bovadin directed them, shouting at them to be careful. It was the day Nicabar had dreaded—the day that they loaded the device.
Biagio smiled sunnily, hardly concerned at all. Bovadin had built the device with all the necessary tolerances. Despite the twisted worry on the scientist’s face, Biagio knew Bovadin was confident about his creation. It would not detonate until its time, Biagio was certain. The count folded his arms over his chest, satisfied. His exile on Crote had grown long in the tooth lately, and he was grateful to see this day’s arrival.

“You’re afraid, Danar,” said Biagio. “Don’t be. Bovadin knows what he’s doing.”

Nicabar snorted. “It’s loaded with fuel, Renato.”

“Bovadin has taken precautions. Trust, my friend, trust …”

“Look there,” snapped Nicabar, pointing at his men. They had nearly dropped one side of the crate. Bovadin was screaming at them. “Lord, almighty. Maybe we should back up a bit.”

Biagio laughed prettily. “Dear Danar, if that thing was such a threat I wouldn’t have let Bovadin build it in my home, now would I? The dangerous part is done.” Then he grinned maliciously, adding, “At least for us. It’s Herrith’s problem now.”

“Darago’s almost done with his painting. Have I told you?”

Biagio nodded. Nicabar’s memory wasn’t always sharp, an unfortunate and unpredictable effect of the drug. “Yes.”

“Herrith’s very proud of it. I saw part of it when I went to the cathedral.”

When he turned down my peace plan
, thought Biagio. Herrith was a perfect fool. “A shame, really,” he remarked casually. “For Nar, I mean. Darago is a great artisan. But alas, these are the prices we pay.”

Out on the banks, Bovadin was jumping into the boat, guiding the ungainly crate. The boat hardly moved with his diminutive weight, but when the first half of the crate creaked aboard, the vessel dipped noticeably. Bovadin gave a nervous grimace, obviously
afraid for himself. Biagio’s smile finally vanished. Was the boat big enough?

“Danar …?”

“Don’t worry,” chirped the admiral. “She’ll hold it.”

“She’d better. Bovadin counted on blowing himself to bits, not drowning. I don’t think the little monkey can swim.”

Nicabar didn’t laugh. He merely stood there, stone-faced, watching as his men struggled with the crate. Biagio stole a glance at the admiral, noting his anxiety. It was good to have him back. He was glad Nicabar wasn’t delivering the device to Nar personally. Since Simon had left for Lucel-Lor, there had been precious little company for him. Bovadin was always busy with his tinkering, and Savros the Mind Bender was the quiet sort, keeping to himself. Of all of them, Biagio counted only Nicabar among his friends. And friends were a scarce commodity these days. It was the sad truth about being the head of a secret organization—no one trusted him. In Nar, when Arkus was alive, there had always been people around—gilded women and ambitious princes ready to bargain—but they had all been treacherous and never really interested in friendship. But not so Danar Nicabar. He was one of those rare specimens; a man of high ideals. Perhaps it was some military code that made him righteous, or perhaps a noble upbringing. Either way, Biagio trusted him. He cared for Nicabar as almost none other.

Except for Simon.

It had been many days since Simon’s departure for Lucel-Lor, and many more lay ahead until his return. The mansion was dreadfully quiet without him. Biagio had tried to pass the time with plans of revenge, and with training his protégée, Eris, but always Simon’s handsome face strong-armed its way back into his brain. The count’s good mood evaporated. He missed Simon more than he wanted to. Worse, it was something like
the loss he felt over Arkus, something in his heart that ached. It was not something he could explain or talk away with Nicabar, though, and so the count forced the memory down, concentrating on the scene before him.

Almost time, Herrith
, he mused.
Tick-tock, tick-tock
 …

He wondered what Herrith’s reaction would be. The bishop cherished his cathedral, like Biagio cherished Crote. But prices had to be paid.

“It’ll take about three days for the
Sea Shadow
to reach Casarhoon,” said Nicabar. “From there another three to Nar City.”

“Make sure Thot gets it on a speedy ship,” said Biagio. He didn’t want the delivery delayed by switching ships, but he knew it was necessary. Every eye in the Black City would see the
Sea Shadow
coming; they needed a merchant ship to deliver the device. Biagio was glad Bovadin was going along.

“Captain Thot knows what he’s doing,” said Nicabar curtly.

“Of course, Danar. I meant no insult. But the device has to get there on time. This is all planned out perfectly. A tiny slip, and my grand design falls apart. I won’t have that.”

“There will be no slips,” promised Nicabar. “Trust
me
for once. Thot and the
Sea Shadow
will get the device there on time. And I have no doubt Bovadin will be yelling at him the entire trip, making sure he’s quick.”

As if he’d heard his name, Bovadin lifted his head toward shore, staring at the admiral. The scientist gave the crate a glance and, satisfied it was safely aboard, jumped out of the boat and waded ashore, his bare feet breaking the surf as he stomped toward them. His little features seemed less distressed now, almost relieved. He strode up to Biagio and Nicabar and sighed, pointing a thumb over his shoulder.

“We’re taking it aboard
Sea Shadow
now,” he said.

Biagio smiled down at Bovadin. “Good journey, my friend. Enjoy Nar. I almost envy you.”

“If this goes right you’ll get back there soon enough,” said the scientist. “And to tell you the truth, I wish I was staying. I don’t much like the thought of being on rough seas with that thing.”

“You built it,” snapped Nicabar. “Don’t tell me it’s not shipworthy. That’s my vessel out there.”

“I didn’t say that. But there are risks. If anything goes wrong, if there’s a leak in one of the hoses—”

“You said you tested the damn thing!”

“I did! But there are always risks.” Bovadin looked to Biagio for support. “Tell him, Renato.”

Biagio merely yawned. “I suppose. The important thing is that it’s on its way. But be smart, Bovadin. Don’t rush it. Let Thot do his job and steer the ship. If he says the seas are too rough, you let him go around or wait it out. Do you understand?”

“You said I had to get it there on time, Renato,” argued Bovadin. “Let me do my job. I’ll find this toymaker and get him the device. You just make sure your little girl doesn’t forget her birthday.”

Threats didn’t rest well with Biagio, but he let it pass. Bovadin had done fine work. He deserved a little slack. “Just be careful,” said the count. “That’s all I ask.”

“I will. And I’ll see you both back in Nar.” What passed for a smile flitted over Bovadin’s face. “Good luck.”

“To you, too, my friend,” said Biagio, striking out his hand. Bovadin took it and gave a weak shake, then turned and departed for the rowboat, all weighed down with the crate and sailors. Biagio watched the scientist go, relieved. He hadn’t really expected a mishap, but then Bovadin had never built anything like the device before. And though he had made elaborate drawings and performed his inscrutable tests, even Bovadin
couldn’t swear to the thing’s stability. It was a dangerous creation, maybe the greatest weapon ever produced, and Biagio didn’t really want it on his island. Soon, if all went according to plan, Crote would be in dire trouble anyway; the count saw no need to hasten his homeland’s demise. He watched Bovadin shuffle into the rowboat. The vessel shoved off, bearing the crate out to where the
Sea Shadow
waited. Onboard the big ship he could see the anxious faces of sailors, fearful of their cargo.

“Let’s go inside,” said Biagio. “There is nothing else to see here.”

“I’ll wait,” replied Nicabar. “I want to be sure.”

“Suit yourself, my friend. But don’t be too long. I want to talk to you about Dragon’s Beak.”

Nicabar looked over. “What about it?”

“You’ll need to be leaving soon. We should discuss it.”

“I know the way, Renato.”

“This is no joke,” said Biagio sternly. “If Vorto goes to Dragon’s Beak as Enli asks, he’s going to need you there to help him. My mercenaries won’t be able to stand alone against the legions. I promised Enli you’d be there.”

“I’ll be there,” pledged Nicabar. “I wouldn’t miss it. And the army of the air?”

“I don’t know yet,” Biagio said honestly. News from Dragon’s Beak was always scarce. “All the more reason for you to get there on time. If Enli doesn’t have control of the ravens, he may need a quick escape from Vorto. You’ll have to help him with that.”

Nicabar shook his head. “I’m not going to Dragon’s Beak just to pull his ass out of the fire, Renato. I’m going there to decapitate Vorto.”

“Oh, let’s hope so,” said Biagio with an evil grin. “That’ll be just about the time for me to send another message to Herrith. You’ll deliver that for me, won’t you, my friend?”

The admiral took the count’s meaning. “With pleasure, my friend.”

That night, Count Biagio slept restlessly on his expensive sheets, sick with anticipation. The device Bovadin had built dominated his dreams. He saw the great Cathedral of the Martyrs and the little toymaker’s shop on the corner of High Street, that busy thoroughfare where well-to-do Narens shopped and sated greedy whims. And in his dreams Lorla came to visit him, her eyes shining unnaturally green. In the dream she spoke to him, but when Biagio awoke he could not recall her words. It was well past midnight when he awakened. The moonlight through his window was pale, tinting everything an eerie silver. Lorla’s face winked out of existence as his eyes opened. Startled, Biagio swung his naked feet over the bedside and rubbed his forehead. The world was perfectly quiet. He had gone to bed alone tonight, as he had most nights recently, and the slaves he usually awoke to were gone. He glanced out the window to the fruit tree in the garden and saw a crow looking back at him, smiling crookedly. Biagio sneered at the thing, reminded of Eneas’ ravens. There was too much in his mind tonight, too many grinding thoughts. He was weary, so tired he couldn’t sleep. On his bedside table was a crystal goblet of half-consumed brandy. He reached for it, but in his daze knocked it over, spilling it.

“Damn it!” he growled. The brandy splashed onto the expensive carpet. The count watched it stain, helpless.

I’m tired
, he reminded himself.
So bloody tired.

It hadn’t always been this way. When he was in Nar and at the height of his power, he had been razorsharp. He and Arkus had tread the world like gods, and he had been the emperor’s closest friend—the only one of the Iron Circle who had truly been like a son to
the elderly ruler. Now he was an outcast, forced to scheme every minute. The effort was dulling him. Even Bovadin’s drug wasn’t keeping him vital. Biagio was exhausted.

Ignoring his ruined carpet, he went to the window and opened it, taking a deep gulp of air. He could smell brine on the breeze. Music came from the far-off surf. The crow on the fruit tree leapt at his intrusion, flying off. Biagio cursed after it. If it ever came back, he promised the bird, he would have it for lunch. The sight of the fleeing bird cheered him a little. Crote was his. And it always would be, no matter what happened to it. He would get it back from the Lissens after it fell. When Nar was his, so too would be the world.

As happened too often these days, he thought again of Simon. He wondered if Simon knew his true feelings. Simon was Crotan, after all, and Crotans often experimented. But Simon wasn’t like that. He was more like Herrith, really. Hardly pious, but unwilling to try things. The count’s shoulders slumped. He didn’t like fawning over lovers. He felt like a schoolboy, dazed and impotent. Elliann, his wife, had always thought him cold, even during their most savage lovemaking. Elliann could bed a tiger and come out alive. She was truly a wild animal, and she had been exciting during the first years of their marriage. But like Naren lords are apt to do, they had both grown quietly tired of each other, and neither of them had quarrelled when the other took different lovers. Biagio still liked his wife and bore her no ill. War and rebellion wasn’t what she was bred for, and she had sniffed at the thought of it. And because she had thought Herrith would win their struggle, she had sided with him. Biagio had let her go, willingly. He stared out into the darkness, imagining her somewhere in the Black City, probably asleep by now with a suitor in her sheets. A little smile crossed his face. Perhaps he would send for her when he returned to Nar.