The Grand Design (89 page)

“But I am not powerless,” he whispered. “This, at least, I can do.”

Slowly, haltingly, his hand reached out and picked up the vial again. Then he undid the lid and poured the contents on the floor.

T
he Naren vessel
Swift
had been in Lissen waters for barely a day. Captain Kelara, weary from the recent voyages back and forth he had endured, spent most of his time above deck, scanning the horizons with his lookouts. For his mission to succeed, he
needed to sight the Lissen invasion force well in advance, and to remain undetected himself.

Kelara did not expect to see his quarry so soon.

Out on the horizon, he caught a glimpse of a big schooner through his spyglass. Quickly he tabulated the speed and distances. From the size of her, she could easily be the
Prince.
A second later, a lookout in the crow’s nest verified his sighting.

“Four ships!” came the cry. “Off starboard, ten degrees!”

Boatswain Dars, who had eagerly accompanied the small crew back to Liss, rushed up to Captain Kelara’s side. The young man shielded his eyes with a hand, squinting out over the ocean.

“I can’t see anything,” he said, annoyed. “Where are they?”

Kelara didn’t need his spyglass anymore, so he handed it to Dars. The boatswain hurriedly pointed the lens ten degrees off starboard, paused, then let out a venomous curse.

“That’s the bastards!” He snapped the spyglass closed and turned to Kelara. “What now?”

The captain backed away from the railing, ready to give the order. “Now we head back to Crote, Boatswain,” he said. “Here’s where the fun begins.”

A
lone in the cabin he shared with Simon, Richius sat at the tiny table built into the wall, staring at his journal. Writing was an old habit he had neglected since the end of the Triin war, but the tedium of the sea voyage had reacquainted him with the task. It took his mind off the boredom and the questionable things to come. The
Prince
was four days out of Liss. Prakna’s best estimates put them in Crote in three more days. The battle was joined, looming ever nearer, and Richius daydreamed as he sat in the flickering candlelight, contemplating the violent times ahead.

We are not far now
, he wrote.
In three more days we will make landfall in Crote, and I do not know what we will find there. Perhaps Biagio’s guardians will surrender peacefully. If not, they will have a massacre on their hands. These nine hundred orphans I bring with me are bloodthirsty. I have done my best to tame their anger, but they still seethe for vengeance. Seeing them reminds me a little of myself. They are all the things I’d hoped never to be.

Richius stared at the line he’d just written. He was sorry for his feelings, but there they were, put down on paper, making them real. Long ago, his father had given him a valuable piece of advice; that a general must love the men he leads. If not, the men will know it and not fight for him. Richius sighed miserably. Did
he love these Lissens? He didn’t think so. He respected and admired them, but he didn’t love them. What he felt was more like pity. The realization frightened Richius. He lowered his pen, unable to continue.

In Aramoor—if Aramoor still existed—he would have been a king. It was a title he never sought or craved. He never wanted to go against the emperor or fight in Lucel-Lor or earn the name Jackal, and suddenly he felt the years rush over him.

“I’ve changed,” he whispered.

For the first time in his young life, Richius felt old. He was afraid of going to Crote, and of facing Biagio. Much as he wanted to cut the count’s heart out, he also wanted to turn the ship around and sail back to Falindar to see Dyana’s bright face. It wasn’t his own mortality that worried him; his fears concerned his soul and his sanity. Sometimes, both seemed to be slipping away. He might live forever as a madman, like some hero in a Naren fairy tale who could not be harmed by any blade but whose mind slowly devoured itself.

“Enough,” he chastised himself, throwing down the quill. He needed to focus.

Suddenly the cabin door opened and Simon staggered inside. It was very late and normally they both should have been asleep, but Simon’s seasickness always kept him awake and above deck. The Naren’s face was shadowed with an unhealthy pall. He closed the door and collapsed into his bunk with a groan. Richius noticed the stains of vomit on his coat.

“You look terrible,” he remarked.

“You stayed up to tell me that?” snapped Simon.

“No.” Richius closed his journal and pushed it aside. “Just thinking.”

“My guts are on fire,” Simon groaned. “You shouldn’t have made me eat.”

“Starving yourself won’t help. You’ll only waste away. And I want you strong when we reach Crote.”

Simon rolled over and glared at him. His eyes were lusterless. “Staying up all night worrying won’t help, either, you know. You can go over those plans a thousand times, but you’ll never know what’s going to happen until it happens. Words of wisdom, boy. Learned the hard way.” Simon’s vision narrowed on Richius’ journal. “What are you writing in there, anyway?”

“Just things,” said Richius evasively.

Simon smiled. “Come on, I can tell you want to talk. What is it? What’s on that sharp mind of yours?”

Richius didn’t answer right away. He listened to the gentle rocking of the ship and its endless creaking, and considered the man sharing his cabin. Still, after all that had happened, he liked Simon Darquis. Richius turned his chair toward his cabin-mate’s bunk, deciding to trust him.

“Simon, don’t you ever wonder about yourself?” he asked softly.

Simon chuckled. “What?”

“I saw you when you came to Liss,” Richius pressed. “Do you remember how sorry you looked?”

Simon glanced away. They had never really talked about that, and Richius had thought it best to stay quiet. But he had seen such remarkable sorrow in Simon that day. It had made him wonder.

“I remember,” replied Simon. “It’s not something I enjoyed.”

“It’s a regret, though, isn’t it?”

“Richius, you’re not making any sense,” said Simon, annoyed. “What are you asking me?”

Richius shrugged. “Maybe nothing. I’m just a little worried, that’s all.”

“About Crote?”

“And about myself,” said Richius. He glanced away, unable to explain it. Dyana hadn’t wanted him to go on this journey. She had warned him that revenge was folly, and seeing Jelena and all the rest of Liss’ orphans made him reconsider his wife’s advice.

“If you’re worried that you’re doing the wrong thing, don’t be,” Simon said. “I know what Biagio did to your lady. I heard about it when I was in the Empire. He’s a beast, Richius.”

Richius frowned. “He’s your master.”

“That doesn’t mean anything. So I followed a beast. Maybe that makes me a beast, too.” Simon closed his eyes. “Is that what you mean by regrets? If so, then you’re right about me. I’m not proud of the things I’ve done.”

“And what about all this?” asked Richius. “Will you be proud when we kill Biagio?”

“
If
we kill Biagio,” corrected Simon. “And no, I won’t be. You don’t understand what it’s like to be Roshann, Richius. Biagio gave me an identity. He gave me something to believe in.”

“So why are you doing it? Just for Eris?”

“Mostly. But also because Biagio isn’t the same. The drug has made him a wild man. Personally, I think he’s insane. We might be doing him a favor by killing him.”

“A favor?” barked Richius. “I’m not going to kill him for sentimental reasons, Simon. You can think whatever you want, but for me it’s just plain old revenge.”

“And he deserves it,” agreed Simon. “I’m not arguing with that. Just don’t expect me to be happy about it. Biagio will always mean something good to me. I don’t think there’s anything he could do to change that.” He glanced over at Richius and gave him a knowing look. “If you knew Biagio ten years ago, you’d probably feel different about him.”

“I doubt it,” said Richius sourly. Biagio’s impending death was the one thing he had no qualms about. “I don’t know how you can say he’s a good man after all the evil things he’s done. Maybe I was wrong about you, Simon. Maybe you haven’t changed a bit.”

“Easy, boy,” warned Simon. “I’m not so sick I can’t
stuff you through a porthole. And I never said he’s a good man. All I meant was that he’s not the man he used to be. People change, Richius. Sometimes for the better. Sometimes for the worse, like Biagio.”

“People change,” Richius echoed, nodding. “That’s what I’m worried about.” He leaned back in his chair, watching the candle flicker in its glass enclosure. “Before I left, Dyana warned me to be careful. I thought she meant she wanted me to watch out for myself, to not get killed. Now I think I know what she meant. She sees the change in me.”

“What change?”

“Oh, it’s hard to explain,” sighed Richius. “It’s what revenge does to a man. I wasn’t always like I am now, either. I guess I’ve changed, too—just like Biagio.”

“And me,” Simon reminded him.

Richius smiled. “I suppose.”

Simon sat up, putting his legs over the edge of the bunk. “Richius, listen to me. You’re a good man. After you finish this business with Biagio, you can go back to your wife and child and start over. You’ll be able to put all this dirty business behind you. With Biagio dead, you’ll be forgotten in Nar. No one’s going to come hunting for you again.”

Richius closed his eyes. “Sounds wonderful.”

“And your daughter can grow up strong and healthy, and you won’t have to worry about war anymore or spies crawling through your window. It will be a whole new life for you. You can forget all about Biagio and Nar. Forget Aramoor—”

“What?” blurted Richius, his eyes snapping open. “Simon, I can never forget Aramoor.”

“You must,” said Simon relentlessly. “Or it will haunt you forever. It’s not your kingdom anymore. Forget about it.”

“I can’t,” Richius argued. “It’s impossible.”

“Do it,” Simon urged. “You’d be a fool not to. Because Aramoor is never going to be yours again, Richius. Never.”

The words hung in the air. Richius swallowed hard. Part of him had never dared acknowledge what Simon was telling him, that Aramoor was lost forever.

“Then what’s all this for?” he asked softly. “Why am I even here?”

Simon grinned. “You know the answer to that one, friend.”

Richius nodded.

“Strike a blow for Aramoor,” said Simon. “Ease your conscience the best you can. Take out Biagio, then walk away.”

“I don’t know …”

“Don’t know what?” thundered Simon. He leaned forward on his bunk. “You don’t know if you want to live the rest of your life in peace? Or watch your daughter grow up? Let me tell you something, Richius. I think you’re a fool for being here. The Lissens could have invaded Crote without your help. They’re fools, too. But you’re smarter than them. You should have had the brains to ignore Prakna when he came to Falindar. But you chose a vendetta over the love of a good woman. I think that’s incredibly stupid.”

Abruptly, Simon fell back into his bunk, turning his back on Richius. The cabin fell uneasily quiet. Richius stared at Simon.

“You don’t understand,” he said.

“Right,” said Simon. “No one ever understands poor Richius. That’s the story of your life.”

“Simon, be fair. You’re not a king. You don’t know what it’s like for me.”

“Good night, Richius.”

“You didn’t betray a kingdom!”

“Blow out the candle, would you, please?

Seething, Richius blew the candle out, then sat quietly
in the dark, staring at Simon’s back.
Did
he like Simon? He wondered about that now. The Naren was crass and thoughtless.

But he was also remarkably perceptive.

After pulling off his boots, Richius climbed into his own bunk and drew the covers over himself. A light draft made him shiver. There would be no sleep tonight; his mind was too full.

“I’m not like the Lissens,” he whispered.

“You’re right. You’re not. Go to sleep.”

“I’m not! You heard what I told Jelena. I just want to get Biagio and then go home.”