The Grand Design (51 page)

Nina.

Nina’s hand shook, her jaw tightening with rage at the deception. She thought back to that night, weeks ago now, when her father had left to do his filthy business against his brother. Nina had wondered just how he had gotten Eneas out of Gray Tower.

Now she knew.

“Father,” she moaned. Then, uncontrollably, “Father!”

Suddenly she was in a rage, shaking and murderous. He had used her, made her a tool to murder a man she had once cared about. And …

Nina’s heart stopped, seized by an impossible notion.

“Oh, God, no,” she groaned. It couldn’t be true. She read the note again, over and over, until slowly a picture of a possibility formed in her mind.

Father?

“Who am I?” she asked desperately. “Who?”

“Home!” Cackle exclaimed. He began hopping insistently on her shoulder. “Home! Home!”

Nina flashed the note in front of him. “Did you know about this, you wretched beast? Who am I, Cackle?”

The raven stared at her. “Home! Home!”

“I’m not going home! For all I know this is my home!”

Cackle cawed and dug his talons into her shoulder, piercing the coat and the skin beneath. “Home,” he repeated. He gestured toward the window with his beak. “Angel.”

“No,” spat Nina, shaking her head. “We’re not leaving, Cackle.”

The bird screamed with anger, then flew from her shoulder. He paused before the open window, threatening her.

“Go if you want to,” said Nina bitterly. “I’m staying here.”

Cackle blinked at her sadly. And then, to Nina’s surprise, he spread his wings and dashed out the window, abandoning her. She watched him go, and felt an icy shudder of loneliness. Enli had worked his magic on the bird.

Enli. Her father? She didn’t know anymore. She had come to Gray Tower seeking answers and had gained a thousand questions for her troubles.

“Nina?” Nina’s eyes snapped open. Grath called for her again, and when she answered he appeared in the doorway.

“What the hell’s taking you so long?” he railed. “I want to get out of here.”

“I’m not going, Grath,” she said. “You go. I’m staying.”

Grath laughed. “Right. Enough joking. Let’s move it, all right?”

Nina glared at him hatefully. “I’m not joking, you pig. I’m staying.
This
is where I belong. And you can’t make me leave.”

“I can,” rumbled the mercenary. He took a threatening step closer to her. “Stop acting stupid. Your father wouldn’t want you staying here.”

Nina laughed bitterly. “My father? You tell that madman I’m not going back to Red Tower. Not ever. If he wants to see me, he can come and get me himself.”

“You idiot, how—” Grath stopped himself suddenly, looking around the room. “Where’s the bird?”

“Get out,” Nina ordered.

“Where’s the god-damn bird, you bitch?”

“Gone,” said Nina. “Looks like you’re on your own now, Grath.”

Grath catapulted across the room, taking her by the wrists and shaking her. “You ass! Why did you let it go?”

Nina wrenched free and pushed him away. “Don’t you touch me!” she hissed. “Don’t you ever! I swear, I’ll make Duke Enli cut your heart out if you touch me again. Now go! Leave me.”

“Go?” Grath barked. “How? You’ve killed us, you fool! Those ravens will tear us to pieces!”

“They won’t,” Nina assured him, not caring if it was a lie. “You saw how docile they were. They won’t hurt you. They’re lost without Eneas.”

“But the bird—”

“The bird’s gone,” Nina snapped. She turned toward the balcony and stared out into the desolation. “Nothing to be done about it. But you won’t need him. Just don’t disturb them. Walk quietly and they’ll let you pass.”

Behind her, she heard Grath’s nervous lingering. He wasn’t at all sure if she was right, and the thought of a thousand ravens pecking out his liver obviously had him afraid. His sword would be very little use against the ravenous birds. If they
were
ravenous. Nina didn’t know if they were or not.

“I’ll tell your father where you are,” said the mercenary at last. Then he added with a sneer, “He’ll come and drag you out of here, no doubt.”

“He can try,” said Nina.

She heard his footfalls leave the room and disappear
down the hallway. Stepping out onto the balcony, she saw the ravens down below and wondered absently what would happen to Grath and his men.

Grath was furious as he left the room, furious and a little daunted at the prospect of having to walk through the ravens unescorted. The whole day had been wasted with that spoiled bitch, and now he had to explain this, somehow, to her father. He swore that he wouldn’t be swindled by the old man. If Enli tried to hold back payment, he would cut his heart out.

“Bitch,” he spat as he descended the stairs. Hotheaded. Like her father. Let her stay here and rot with the corpses.

When Grath reached the hall leading to the doors he paused, considering things. He stroked his chin nervously. He pulled his sword halfway from its scabbard. What to do? The weapon might frighten the bloody beasts. It wasn’t wise to entice them. Grath let the sword slip back down.

“Damn it!” he cursed, unsure of himself. They had let him pass once, when he’d fought at the castle, but things had been different then. Now he was horribly outnumbered. He wondered how his men in the woods were faring.

“You won’t beat me, girl,” he vowed, going to the doors and slowly pulling them open. Wind rushed in and struck his face. He licked his lips and peered outside. The ravens were there, just as he’d left them, studding the fences and perched in the trees. Across the yard, Grath could see his men looking worried. He took a small step outside, gingerly avoiding the dead man in the threshold, and waved to them. The signal caught their attention and they waved in return, eager to be on their way.

Grath took a breath to steady himself. The ravens
looked at him without interest. Feeling confident, Grath moved out among them. They parted like a tide as he strode through.

“You’re not so tough, eh?” he whispered to the birds. “Black bastards.”

A raven at his feet ruffled its feathers, and that was all. Grath wanted to kick it. They were disgusting creatures, the product of a warped mind. Grath didn’t wonder why Enli wanted his brother dead. He must have been a sick man indeed to conceive of such nightmares. The mercenary scanned the yard as he walked. There were so many of them, yet they hardly seemed a threat at all. He began to wonder if all the tales he’d heard were only stories told by Eneas to frighten people.

Halfway to his men, Grath noticed a particular bird gnawing on the finger of a dead soldier. His hand was sprawled open on the ground and the raven stood inside the palm, pecking wildly at a ring around the man’s finger. A giant ruby caught the light, and Grath’s attention. The raven was trying to free the ring. It had worked most of the flesh loose and was chewing intensely at the bone, anxious for the shiny bauble. Slowly, Grath approached the bird. He remembered something his father had told him once, about how ravens and crows sometimes collected shiny things and brought them to their nests. Grath didn’t know why, but nothing was shinier than the ruby ring. It was worth a fortune, no doubt.

Carefully, so carefully that the snow didn’t crunch beneath his boots, Grath made his way to the dead man and the raven pecking furiously at his finger. He stopped breathing as he drifted over the bird, letting his shadow fall lightly across it. Still the bird ignored him. It kept up at the impossible task of breaking the bone, taking the finger in its beak and trying to crack it like a nutshell. Grath flicked his hands at the bird, hoping to frighten it just enough to move it away.

“Shoo,” he said softly. “Go. Go!”

The raven looked up at him, annoyed, its eyes blazing with black intelligence. The gaze infuriated Grath, who flicked at the thing forcefully.

“Away!” he growled. “Move!”

Finally angry, he dislodged the bird from the corpse with his boot, nudging it away. The bird bit at his foot, and when Grath tried to take the ring, the beast came forward, snapping at his hand. Without thinking, Grath’s fist snapped out and batted the bird away. Quickly he freed the ring, then stood up and admired it in the dim light.

“My God,” he said, turning it so every facet gleamed. “Beautiful.”

A sudden explosion of feathers filled his vision. Grath screamed with an awful pain. The raven had flown up into his face, driving its talons into his cheeks and nose and tearing open the skin. Grath’s arms flailed, trying to dislodge the bird, but its claws only dug deeper. With both hands he clamped down on the raven, pulling it free even as its talons sliced open his nostrils.

“Bitch!” screamed Grath. Blood gushed from his nose. The raven flew from his grasp, attacking anew. Grath put up his arms to protect himself, running blindly through the maze of birds, which suddenly rose up in a chorus of cries.

In a moment, they were all on him.

A thousand frenzied avians dug their talons deep, dragging him backward even as he tried to run for cover. He heard his garments tear, saw his men look on in horror as a flock of ravens came for them, too. Grath’s world disappeared in a cloak of sable, as bit by bit the flesh was torn from his bones.

Up on her balcony, Nina watched in horror as the birds engulfed Grath and his men. There was an eruption of sound, a shrieking frenzy that tore open the sky. Over it, almost buried in raven sounds, were the
gurgling cries of Grath, being dragged backward by a hundred insane ravens. The horses bolted, stranding the men. Grath’s mercenaries began to scream. Nina stood frozen, watching it all in disbelief, and then at last had the good sense to run from the balcony, locking the doors.

Then she dashed down the stairs as fast as she could and began shuttering every window in the palace.

H
igh Street was one of the Black City’s busiest thoroughfares. It was wide and tall and in the best section of the old city, near the apartments of the princely lords and just across the river from the Cathedral of the Martyrs. On summer evenings, when the sun threw long shadows across the city, High Street teemed with vendors and merchants; caterwauling slave traders peddling their captured flesh, travelling hunters with trussed-up game birds, beggars and thieves and harlots and prostitutes, and, amazingly, the occasional toy shop. There was money in this part of Nar, looted from a thousand successful campaigns, and the well-heeled of the city liked to spoil their greedy offspring. Naren women walked along High Street with their broods of arrogant children trailing out behind them, peering into the dressed-up windows
of the shops. The bakery was most popular. It stood in the center of High Street near a money-changing shop, and was frequented by the Archbishop of Nar himself, a connoisseur of confections. The bakery’s aroma was one of High Street’s great treats, a welcome respite from the choking gases of the war labs. Children came just to stare in the bakery’s window and coax a few cookies from the proprietor and his wife, and when they left, full of fresh-baked treats, they always noticed the other attraction of the street—the Piper’s toy shop.

Besides the bakery, the toy shop was the real wonder of High Street. It had been in business for nearly forty years, and very few of the city’s lords could recall a time without it. They were grown now, but each could still remember a special toy from the Piper’s factory, some special doll they had dragged around until frayed, or perhaps a mechanical boat that skimmed across the water when wound. Made with typical Naren ingenuity, the toys in the Piper’s shop were something unique, something worth making a long trip to see and purchase. The Piper was renowned in the Empire, a master toymaker who had studied with the craftsmen of Vosk before coming south and setting up his shop. He was legendary and beloved in the Black City, and his toy shop, a meager-looking storefront sandwiched between a candlemaker and a blacksmith, was frequently crowded with children and curious adults seeking guilty pleasures. But it was the toy shop’s window that drew the most accolades.

Made of tall rectangles of glass, the window showed off the best of the Piper’s creations. Here was a circus that could be viewed from the street, free of charge. There were toy soldiers with silver guns and brass cannons, and dolls with luxurious hair and exquisite dresses, their feet capped with meticulously made shoes, so tiny one wondered if human hands had crafted them. There were stuffed animals with real fur; stringed instruments of polished wood; and fabric-covered flying
machines that actually glided through the air, suspended from the ceiling by translucent wire. Grand vessels floated in basins of water, and ships in bottles vexed young minds with the impossibility of their construction. A three-foot wooden model of an elf played on a flute, its animated fingers clicking with mechanical perfection as it blew out its endless tune. The elf’s name was Darvin, and every child in the city knew his name. Darvin and his pipes were the symbol of the Piper’s toy shop, as much a fixture of the city as the Black Palace or the Cathedral of the Martyrs. Each morning, when the Piper opened his toy shop, Darvin played the opening song, a long and complicated melody that had taken the toymaker nearly a year to set into the doll’s clockworks. Like all the Piper’s creations, Darvin had astonished the citizens of Nar, a difficult accomplishment for a city that had birthed the war labs.