The Grand Design (7 page)

“Forgive me,” said Simon softly, hurrying his hand onto Biagio’s. “I know how you grieve, Master. The emperor’s death still stings us all. I merely thought to suggest a revenge that is possible. To take his daughter or his wife is—”

“The only revenge fitting,” said the count. “He must suffer as I have suffered. I will take from him what is most precious, just as he took Arkus from me.” Biagio
squeezed Simon’s hand hard. “Understand me, my friend, I beg you. I am alone here but for you. These others don’t know me. They follow me out of ambition alone. But I must have your devotion, Simon.”

“Always, Master,” said Simon. “You know you have my loyalty. The Roshann will always be with you.”

And it was true. Even as Simon doubted his fealty, there were others in Biagio’s secret society scattered throughout the fractured Empire. Biagio had formed them from the dust of Crote’s farms, used them to overthrow his father and later to serve the emperor. No matter what became of Biagio or his designs on the throne, the Roshann would always be his. He was their founder, their god, and their guiding light. Biagio was the Roshann, and his agents adored him.

“It does no good to dwell on Arkus’ death, Master,” consoled Simon. “Think on other things. We need you. Nar needs you. Only you can make the Empire whole again.”

Biagio gave a chuckle. “No one can fill the Iron Throne like Arkus did. But I will try if I can.”

“Soon?” probed Simon.

“Time is a luxury we have that our enemies do not, my friend. We have Nicabar’s fleet to protect us, and all the wealth of this island. Herrith and his cronies cannot touch us here. And we have the drug.” Biagio’s face became sardonic. “I wonder how Herrith is feeling these days. By now his withdrawal should be quite unbearable. Bovadin thinks it might ultimately kill him.”

“Fine,” said Simon, wiping the sweat from his brow. “That would make a quick end to our exile.”

“But not as sweet as the end I have planned for him,” countered Biagio. “Trust me, my friend. The usurpers have some surprises coming to them. Let them suffer without the drug and wonder what we’ve cooked up for them. Herrith always said suffering is good for the soul.”

They both laughed, imagining the portly bishop starving for the life-sustaining potion. Since Biagio and his loyalists had fled to Crote, there had been no one left in Nar who could synthesize the drug. Herrith might have the throne, but Biagio had Bovadin, and the little scientist had always been tight-lipped about the formula. More importantly, the count had Admiral Nicabar. The commander of the Black Fleet had made their exile possible. His dreadnoughts had abandoned Nar and Archbishop Herrith, and even now the admiral’s floating war machines could be seen bobbing darkly on the horizon, patrolling the waters around Biagio’s island. Crote had become their adopted home, and the count had been more than gracious. They all lived like kings here, sharing Biagio’s wines and fine foods and being attended to by his servants. In their homesickness they had even dubbed the tiny island “Little Nar.”

“I have been away a long time, Master,” said Simon. “What other news from the Black City? Does Herrith sit on the throne now?”

“Not alone. It is as I suspected. He has co-opted Vorto to act in his stead. The general pretends to be emperor now, though he doesn’t dare call himself thus.”

Simon raised a worried eyebrow. “Then there is no chance of the army joining us?”

“There was never that chance. Vorto is too ambitious to let the throne go. And we never cared for each other, even when Arkus was alive. He knows the only-way to seize power is to side with Herrith.” Biagio sneered. “Our bloody bishop is a clever man. It is land versus sea now.”

“Then we must be sure of Nicabar’s loyalty, Master. If we lose his navy, we are doomed.”

Biagio seemed shocked. “Simon, you surprise me! Danar is canny, but he has never been traitorous. He is my friend, as you are. I won’t have you speaking against him.”

“It’s my duty to look out for you, Master,” explained Simon. “I will watch him, not because I doubt you, but because I care for you. We’ll need his navy if we’re to have any chance at all against Vorto’s legions.”

“Oh, Simon,” laughed the count. “You are my mother hen. Do you think I’ve not been busy while you were gone? There are wheels in motion.” He made a circular gesture with his finger. “Vantran is not the only one I have designs for. Herrith and Vorto will soon see what it means to trifle with Count Biagio.”

A grin split Biagio’s face, and Simon felt suddenly foolish. Of course his master had been hard at work. How could he have doubted it? It was a cerebral work, and difficult to penetrate, but it was clever and cruel. It was why men pledged themselves to him, why Simon had become a Roshann agent himself. Biagio was brilliant. Not like the scientist Bovadin or the demented Savros. Biagio had been born with a genius for secrets. Arkus himself had seen it, and had made the count his closest counselor. In the days of the old Empire, Biagio’s Roshann, his “Order,” were more feared even than Vorto’s military. His was an invisible army, a legion of ghosts.

Simon settled back, letting the hot air loosen his muscles. It felt good to be out of the dungeon, and even better to be free of the ship. He had spent most of the voyage below-deck, trying to keep his stomach from thundering up his throat. And all the while he had daydreamed of the Triin in shackles in the hold, and wondered why he had participated in such a thing. These days, it wasn’t enough to tell himself he was Roshann. For some reason, he seemed to be developing a conscience.

“May I ask you something, Master?” he ventured.

“Of course.”

“We saw no Lissen ships on the entire journey home. I was wondering what has become of them. Do you know?”

Biagio glanced at Simon. “I think you already know the answer to that, my friend.”

“So they’ve begun their attacks?”

“Nicabar has told me they have been hitting Naren shipping lanes for some time now. While you were gone they raided Doria.”

Simon was astonished. “So close to the Black City? What’s Nicabar done about it?”

“Nothing,” said Biagio icily. “You know this, Simon. Don’t look at me with such villainy. You must trust me. It is all part of my plan.”

“Nar will not be able to defend itself from them, Master. Not without a navy.”

“I know this.”

“Yet you do nothing?”

Biagio’s blue eyes flared a warning. “I won’t explain myself, not even to you. It wasn’t I who stole the Empire, remember? Our people have Herrith to blame for the Lissen attacks.”

“But the Black Fleet can stop them, my lord. We’re talking about innocents.…”

“That’s enough,” said Biagio, putting up a hand. “Really, Simon, sometimes I think I indulge you far too much. You have upset me now. My bath is ruined.”

Simon lowered his eyes. “I’m sorry, Master.”

Biagio continued to pout but said nothing until Simon got up to leave. Then, “Where are you going?” asked the count sharply.

“I thought it best to leave you now.”

“Are you going to see
her
?”

There was so much jealousy in the question Simon could only shrug. “If I may, Master.”

Biagio looked away. “I don’t care.”

Simon hovered near the door. “My lord, if you don’t wish it …”

“You have been very rude to me today, Simon. Yes, yes, go to your woman. But remember who it is that
makes this relationship possible. It is by my grace that you may consort with her. You are Roshann, Simon. You are supposed to be devoted to me only. I tolerate this infatuation only because I care so much for you. Don’t abuse me.”

“Yes, my lord,” said Simon sheepishly.

“Oh, just go,” bid Biagio, waving him away. “But be around tomorrow.
I
want to spend some time with you too.”

Simon headed for the door, but Biagio called after him yet again. This time the count’s tone was softer.

“Simon,” began Biagio. There was real concern in his eyes. “This is difficult for you, I know. But I ask for your trust. I know what I am doing.”

“I have no doubt, Master.”

“In a few days I will know more. We will all sup then together, and I will try to explain things to you all. Wait until then before you judge me too harshly.”

“As you say,” replied Simon with a bow. He backed out of the chamber, leaving his master encased in the scalding steam.

Simon waited until mid-morning to see Eris. She would be worried about him, but he wanted to bathe properly and discard his soiled shirt. Because he was Biagio’s favorite, the closets in his chambers bulged with fine clothes to choose from, and he selected a light shirt of red Crotan silk. He shaved his beard, combed his hair, and did his best to pick the dried blood from beneath his fingernails. While he dressed servants brought him a breakfast of milk and biscuits which he promptly devoured, and when he was sure his master had left the baths and started in on his day’s work, he returned to the east wing of the mansion. There he found Eris alone in the music room, absently stretching against the exercise bar. Her green eyes seemed to stare into nothingness as she warmed up her muscles. Simon
paused in the doorway to watch her. She looked sad, and that made him wistful. He wished he had plucked some flowers from the garden for her. Stealthily he slipped over to the piano and depressed a key. Eris looked up, startled by the note, and beamed when she noticed him.

“Hello, sweetling,” he said softly.

“Simon!” Eris freed her leg from the bar and darted over to him, wrapping her arms around him and burying her head in his chest. Simon groaned and kissed her dark hair, loving its lilac scent.

“I’m sorry, my love,” he whispered. “I couldn’t see you earlier. I arrived last night, but—”

She hushed him with a kiss. Simon stole another, and when they were done he looked at her hungrily.

“Oh, I’ve missed you,” he said. “How are you? Has he been treating you well?”

The girl laughed. “Of course. Why wouldn’t he? I’m his prize.”

“You’re my prize,” Simon purred, lifting her off her feet and twirling around the room. Eris squealed with delight. “You see? I can dance too!” Simon sang, spinning across the tiled floor. He came to rest on the piano bench, setting the little dancer upon his lap as he nibbled at her neck. Eris giggled some more, then tossed back her head and groaned. It had been endless weeks since they had touched each other, and neither of them could stem the tide.

“Not here,” cautioned Eris. “Not now.”

“Tonight, then,” Simon insisted. “When he goes to sleep.”

“Yes, tonight,” she agreed. “Oh, my love, I was so worried.…”

“Do not be,” said Simon. He cupped her face in his hands and stared into her eyes. “Look at me. I told you I’d come back, didn’t I? And here I am.”

“Yes,” she said breathlessly, wrapping him in her arms. “Don’t leave me again.”

He grimaced. “You know I can’t promise that. Don’t make me lie to you.”

“I know,” said Eris. “But you’re back now, and there’s nowhere for any of us to go, not until the Master moves against Nar. And that may be months yet.” She sighed dreamily. “Months together …”

“Or less,” interjected Simon. He didn’t want to shatter the moment, but she had to know the truth. “I don’t know what Biagio has planned for Herrith, or even Vantran. He may need me for something.”

“Not yet,” begged Eris. “Not so soon. You’ve just returned. Tell him to wait.”

Simon laughed. “Oh, yes, he’d love to hear that. Sorry, Master, but your slave doesn’t want me to go. You can put off all your plans, can’t you? You can? Wonderful!”

“Plans?” scoffed Eris. “Does the Master have plans? You wouldn’t think so from the way everyone is acting.”

“Then they don’t know him,” said Simon. “The Master always has a strategy. And I think he’s going to tell us about it, in a few days. At least that’s what he told me.”

Eris traced her finger over his lips. “Mmm; then that gives you time to talk to him about us, doesn’t it?”

“I can’t. He’s already angry with me. I can’t ask him for anything now.”

Eris uncoiled her arms from his neck. “Simon, you promised.…”

“I know, but it’s different now. He’s too obsessed with Vantran. I think he wants me to go back to Lucel-Lor.”

“No,” Eris shrieked. “You said you would ask him when you returned. He already knows about us anyway. He won’t refuse you this. Not you. I’ve seen him with you, Simon. He can refuse you nothing. He’s in love with you.…”

“Stop,” Simon warned, putting up his hands. “Don’t say it. I know what the Master is. But I am Roshann, Eris. No Roshann agent has ever married before.”

“He will make an exception for you,” said Eris evenly. “I’m sure he will.”

Simon wasn’t sure at all. He loved Eris; he had ever since Biagio had purchased her and brought her back to Crote, but he had taken an oath to the Master long ago. He was already married to the Roshann. He was bound to the Order for life, and such exceptions simply weren’t made. More, they were never requested. He had promised Eris he would ask Biagio to bend the rules and stretch their strange friendship, but now that he was back under the count’s dark wing his enthusiasm had chilled. Biagio was too enamored to share him with a woman.

Simon fingered the golden collar around the girl’s slender neck. Except for that unwanted piece of jewelry, she hardly looked like a slave at all. Her skin smelled of expensive oils and perfumes, not the coals of the kitchens. She was Biagio’s pampered pet, his prize dancer, and he had paid a royal ransom for her. He adored her—not in the way Simon did, but as a collector would adore any fine piece. There were portraits and statues aplenty in Biagio’s rambling mansion, all of them priceless. But Eris was his greatest possession. She was perhaps the finest performer in the Empire, a prodigy not unlike Biagio himself. When Biagio looked at her, Simon knew, he was seeing some of Heaven.

“I will speak to him,” said Simon sullenly.

“When?” Eris pressed. “After he sends you away again?”

“
If
he sends me away again,” Simon corrected. “I don’t know what he has planned yet. It may be he has nothing for me. I’m very popular around here, it seems. You both like to keep me close.”