The Grand Design (74 page)

“Hurry down.”

“I have the child,” said Simon. “Look out for her.”

The boat was positioned directly beneath him. Simon held Shani firmly and stepped out over the side of the ship. But before he placed his foot on the first rope-rung, he looked at the girl in his arms.

“Shani, you’ve got to hold on tight to me, all right? Don’t let go.”

Shani coiled her arms around Simon’s neck, readying for the descent. Simon slowly shimmied down the ladder, carefully holding the girl as he navigated the
rungs. It was a tedious trip, but finally he stepped into the shaking boat and gratefully felt the solid feel of wood beneath his feet. The sailor that had ordered him aboard tried to take Shani from him, but Simon guarded her jealously.

“Just take me to Prakna,” he snapped at the man. “And keep your hands off the girl.”

The Lissen smirked but said nothing, and soon the little boat shoved away from the
Intimidator
, rowing toward the waiting
Prince of Liss.

Within a few short days of coming to Karalon, Richius had learned a terrible truth about the young Lissens he was training—none of them had escaped the Naren war without scars. It was, he was beginning to understand, a disease that afflicted all the people of the Hundred Isles. And in a sense, these Lissens were all just different versions of Queen Jelena. Like their ruler, all of them had lost someone dear to them. It might have been a father or brother, or maybe a mother taken off and raped. Or, in the case of Shii, an infant son, ripped from her hands and drowned by Naren sailors. They were an inscrutable bunch, Richius had learned, eager to please but close-mouthed about their violent pasts. They trained hard and rose early in the morning, and they followed orders without question, because he was Lord Jackal and a hero, and because they simply had nowhere else to go. They were on a great and violent mission, these children of Liss, and nothing could stop them or ease their burning scars.

Just as Shii had claimed, his army was nine hundred strong now—enough, he was sure, to swarm over Crote and seize it from Biagio. They were like zealots, these Lissens. Unquenchable, they longed for Naren blood. And Richius had taken that thirst and tried to focus it, to channel it into something useful. He had seen the loss in Shii’s eyes, in all their eyes really, and
knew the fire in them could easily rage out of control. He wanted an army, not a band of berserkers. So he had set to work quickly, talking to them in small groups, telling them that they had worth and value beyond their need for revenge, and trying his best to tame the beasts within them. It wasn’t an easy job, and Richius wasn’t at all sure he would succeed. Shii, the one he depended on most, was a fiery woman, hate-filled and driven, and like Queen Jelena she was convinced of the rightness of their mission.

“An army isn’t built on revenge,” he had told his young assistant. “If we’re to be an army, we must have honor and discipline.”

The words had resonated in Shii. Day by day, she was becoming less the wildcat and more the soldier, inclined to think before reacting. Because he was Lord Jackal, Shii listened to Richius. And he got down in the mud with them all. Refusing to direct the training from a comfortable chair, he was with his army every day, getting filthy and insect-bitten, staying up late and rising early. He showed them how to move like an army, the way he had in his war against the Triin, how to slink through the brush with your sword at your side, how to side-wind through mud and cover your face with it. Prakna’s raid on Nar had won them a bounty of swords, and Richius instructed them in the art of close combat, recalling his early days in Aramoor at his father’s knee, and how the older Vantran had been relentless in his teachings—insisting that his son learn—because he had the foresight to know that war was inevitable.

Inevitable. For Richius, it was a sad truth, and he thought about it often as he taught his army. He wasn’t an expert in any of these things. There were swordsmen and tacticians far better than he, but he had experience and memories, and the young Lissens of Karalon respected him.

Of all the things Richius tried to teach them, the most important was how to listen. They were supposed to be an army, after all. With Shii’s help, he had organized them into platoons, each led by a capable young man or woman, so that he could confer with the platoon leaders and talk over certain troubles or concerns. He was open with them, always willing to lend an ear. After only a few days as their general, Richius was, he supposed, having an effect on them. And he was proud of himself.

In mid-afternoon of his fifth day on Karalon, Richius worked in a tent just outside the parade field where his platoons were drilling. He was leaning back in an uncomfortable chair, fretting over a map he was drawing. Despite his appeal to Jelena, he still had no maps of Crote, only vague charts put together by Prakna and other sailors. Lissen intelligence about their target was spotty at best, and their chances of a successful invasion would be vastly slimmer without more information. Richius knew only what he had heard throughout his years in Nar—that Biagio lived in a great villa near the sea, and was protected by a contingent of personal bodyguards, all of them Crotans, who watched over their master day and night and who, presumably, had learned some tricks from their Roshann teacher. Whether or not there were actual Roshann agents on Crote was another thing entirely. Richius supposed there were some, at least—especially since there were members of the Iron Circle who had fled to Crote with Biagio. And they all might have their own bodyguards, another factor Richius had to consider. It wasn’t actually the numbers that frightened him, though. He had nine hundred crazy Lissens on his side. What concerned him was the imprecision. Unless Biagio’s villa shined like a beacon, they might not even find it. They might be stranded on the Crotan beaches with no sense of where to go, and that troubled him greatly. He could
teach these people how to use a sword, but not how to sniff out Biagio.

As he studied his charts and papers, Richius ran a worried hand through his hair. He hadn’t been sleeping lately, and his eyelids drooped as he tried to read his scratchy penmanship. A draft from the tent flap stirred the papers on the table and crept over his skin, making him shiver. He poured himself another cup of hot tea and wrapped his hands about it for warmth, then saw Shii in the doorway, watching him. She was a bold woman normally, but shy when around her new lord. She didn’t smile when he noticed her, but instead offered an apologetic grimace.

“Shii?” Richius asked. “You need me?”

Shii wavered in the door. “I’m sorry, Lord Jackal,” she said. “There is someone to see you.”

“Who?”

“Fleet Commander Prakna,” said the woman. “He’s just arrived. He says he needs to speak with you urgently.”

“Prakna?” Richius sprang to his feet. He hadn’t seen the commander since coming to Liss. “Here?”

“Yes, Lord,” said Shii. “But he’s not alone. He’s brought someone.”

“Shii,” said Richius mildly. “I don’t understand. Who’s with Prakna?”

“Lord Jackal, I think it’s a Naren,” Shii replied. “I saw him from Prakna’s boat.”

Richius drifted slowly over to Shii, making very sure he understood her. “A Naren is here with Prakna?”

Shii shrugged. “He looks like a Naren, dark like you. I saw him from a distance. Prakna was landing his catboat. He called across to us, saying it was urgent he see you. I think you should come.”

“I think you’re right.” Richius buttoned up his coat and pushed back his hair, eager to see Prakna again but worried about who—or what—the commander
had brought with him. Maybe a prisoner, caught in one of the Lissen raids. Or a spy, perhaps. Whoever he was, Prakna wouldn’t have brought him to Karalon without the best of reasons.

Richius followed Shii out of the tent and onto the field where teams of Lissens worked with spears, training with them just as he’d shown them, burying the blunt ends in the ground to deflect a charging horse. Richius frowned a little. He didn’t even know if Crote had horses! He might have been training them for nothing. He followed Shii toward the dunes. Prakna was already coming toward them in the distance. Three well-armed Lissen sailors were with him, surrounding a fourth man with a bundle in his arms that looked like a child. Richius squinted to see better. The man was tall and lean, dark like a Naren. When he saw the man’s face, Richius had an odd flash of familiarity. It looked like …

He paused. “Son of a bitch!”

Shii turned on him, worried. “Lord Jackal? What is it?”

It was impossible. Richius knew it was, and yet there he stood, walking with Prakna.

“Simon,” he whispered dreadfully. “What the hell …?”

“Simon? You know that man?”

Richius wasn’t listening. Prakna was coming closer, his face rigid. Neither he nor Simon waved at Richius when they noticed him. Richius couldn’t move. That was Simon, wasn’t it? What was he carrying? The men and women on the field stopped what they were doing. They had noticed the commander and his odd companion, and looked as shocked as Richius at the intrusion. But as they drew closer Richius lost all doubt about what he was seeing. Simon’s face was perfectly clear. And the child in his arms was no less a mystery. When he realized it was Shani, Richius bolted forward in terror.

“Shani!” he cried, racing toward them. “My God, what’s wrong? What happened?”

Prakna put up his hands quickly. “Easy, boy,” the commander urged. “There’s nothing wrong. Your daughter’s safe. I looked her over myself.”

Richius caught up to them and ripped his daughter out of Simon’s arms. Shani squealed with delight when she saw him. Richius put his hands to her face, holding her close, thrilled and horrified to see her.

“My God, what are you doing here?” he roared at Simon. “What happened? Where’s Dyana? Is she safe?”

“Richius,” Simon sputtered. “I swear to God, Dyana’s safe. I swear to God.”

Richius stepped up to him. “What is this, Simon?” he hissed. “Answer me! What are you doing here? Why do you have Shani?”

“He came here on a Naren ship,” Prakna answered. “We intercepted her on her way here to Liss. She was coming here for you, Richius. This Naren said he had your daughter. I brought him here as soon as I could.”

Richius looked at Simon. “What’s going on?”

Simon went white, chewing his lip with consideration. He glanced at Prakna, then at all the Lissens in the field, staring at him. “It’s … difficult,” he said. “I don’t really know where to start.”

Prakna exploded, bringing up a flashing boot and kicking Simon in the back. The blow sent Simon sprawling to his hands and knees in the dirt before Richius.

“You’d better talk, you Naren pig,” Prakna threatened. “Or I’ll cut your heart out and eat it.”

“Simon,” began Richius gravely. “I think you’d better give me an explanation.”

Simon didn’t get to his feet. He merely knelt in the dirt with his head bowed, sighing miserably. “I took your daughter,” he said. “I’m not who you think I
am.” He raised his face to Richius. “You were right about me the first time, Richius. I’m Roshann.”

Roshann. The word hung in the air. Richius stared down at Simon, a man he had come to call friend, and all the world came crashing down on his shoulders, suffocating him. He glared at Simon in disbelief, not believing, or not wanting to believe.

“It’s true,” said Simon. “I’m sorry. I took your daughter away from Dyana. My mission was to bring her back to Crote for—”

“No!” roared Richius. “Do not say it!”

Simon closed his eyes. “I’m sorry, Richius. It’s true.”

Richius hugged Shani closer, looking her over with worry. She seemed fine, albeit pale, and she laughed happily, running her fingers over her father’s face. A knot of emotion swelled in Richius’ throat. He wanted to weep, or to run from them all with his daughter, to dash across the ocean to Dyana and hide them both away. But something else grew in him, too. Without thinking he handed his daughter to Shii, then lunged at Simon.

“Bastard!” cried Richius. He was straddling Simon and wringing his neck. “How could you do this?”

“Had to …” Simon gasped. “Had to!”

A crowd was gathering, but Richius hardly saw. His vision had gone red.

“You tell me what that devil Biagio wants!” he roared. “You tell me or I’ll kill you!”

Simon could barely breathe. His face purpled as he tried to speak. “Shani,” he managed awkwardly. “Your daughter …”

“Why?” Richius lifted Simon’s head, then banged it hard against the ground. “What for?”

The Naren stared at him sadly, uttering a remarkable word. “
You.
”

Suddenly, Richius stopped. He sat on Simon’s chest, reflecting. Biagio was still on the hunt. Even after all this time.

“Did he send you?” Richius asked. He was breathing hard and shaking with rage. “Did Biagio send you to take my daughter?”

Simon looked away in shame. “Yes. He wanted me to take her back to Crote. I think he wanted to lure you there.”

“Where’s Dyana?” asked Richius. He took up fist-fuls of Simon’s clothes and gave him a violent shake. “If you’ve hurt her …”

“I didn’t, I swear,” said Simon. “She’s safe. She’s still in Falindar.”

Richius sat back, closing his eyes. Dyana must be in agony, he knew, and the thought of his wife in so much pain was staggering. Losing control, he made a fist and slammed it against Simon’s face. Simon winced at the blow but did not cry out. He only stared back at Richius as blood gushed out of his nose.

“Richius, I—”

“Don’t talk to me,” hissed Richius. “Don’t you ever. You may have killed my wife without knowing it, you bastard. I should have known when I met you what filth you are.”

“My God, we will kill him,” spat Prakna. “Let me take him away, Richius. Give me the honor of gutting this pig, please!”

Still Simon said nothing. He seemed lost, almost like a child.

“Is that what you want, Simon?” Richius barked. “Should I have Prakna cut your liver out?”

“It’s what he deserves!” Prakna flared. “Jackal, please!”

“Say something, Simon. Please say something to keep me from killing you.”

Still Simon wouldn’t answer. He closed his eyes, blocking out the world.