The Grand Design (96 page)

Nicabar nodded, looking out in the direction of Crote. “They’ll be here,” he promised. “Prakna won’t be able to resist.”

“How soon?”

“Soon,” said Nicabar. “The
Prince
is a fast ship.” His smile widened. “But not fast enough. When she opens fire—”

“
If
she opens fire,” Biagio interjected. “And not until she does. Control yourself, Danar. I want the Jackal on board first.” Then, more mildly, he added, “Don’t worry. The Lissens are too bloodthirsty to leave without a fight. You’ll get your chance at Prakna. And after we return to Nar, I’ll turn you loose on Liss.”

Nicabar snorted. “I don’t understand you anymore, Renato. You’re not the man you used to be.”

Biagio looked at his friend curiously. “No?” he asked. “Maybe not. Please do as I say, Danar. This one last time.”

“I’ll do it,” promised Nicabar reluctantly. “I won’t start anything until the Jackal is aboard.” The admiral glanced across the deck. Then, “Renato,” he said, pointing off toward the stern. “Look there.”

Biagio followed Nicabar’s finger and saw Dyana Vantran above deck, staring aimlessly over the ocean. A group of sailors milled around her, but Dyana seemed not to notice their glances. She merely watched the nothingness of the ocean, lost in a fugue. Biagio studied her. She was a curious creature, and he wasn’t sure what he really thought of her. At first he had hated her, simply because she was the Jackal’s wife. Now he sometimes surprised himself by liking her.

“Excuse me, Danar,” said the count, then strode across the deck. The sailors parted like a curtain when they noticed him, scurrying back to their work. Biagio went to the railing beside Dyana. He saw her eyes flick
toward him momentarily, then back out to sea, ignoring him. She wore a cape around her slight shoulders to stave off the cold, but Biagio could tell she was shivering.

“You should be below, out of the wind,” he observed.

“Why have we stopped?”

Biagio thought before answering. “We’re waiting.”

Dyana nodded. “For Richius.”

“Indeed.”

She looked at him. “So this is how it ends, then? You will kill him here and now? No torture?”

The count smiled mildly, ignoring her insults. “Liss will send a schooner with him. We’ll be here to greet it.”

She glared at him, her gray eyes full of pain. “I hate you,” she said. “I thought I could make you understand how wrong you are, but you are too insane to understand anything but revenge. And now …”

Her voice trailed off as she looked away. She pushed at him to leave her. “Go,” she pleaded. “Leave me alone.”

But Biagio wouldn’t go. There was still a magic about her that enamored him, making him want to be near her. And it wasn’t a lusty attraction, either. It was something else, maybe just her gentleness. Either way, Biagio couldn’t leave her side.

“Nar will be mine soon,” he said. “I will make changes in the Empire.”

“Please …”

“Do not doubt me, Dyana Vantran,” he warned. “Others have underestimated me before. Now they are dead.”

“And you are proud of that?”

“My enemies deserved to die. They stole the Empire from me, when they knew it should have been mine. I am not a usurper. I am merely Nar’s rightful heir. And when the Iron Throne is mine, there will be a change.”

“Your Black Renaissance,” spat Dyana. “Yes, I have heard of it. A madman’s fantasy.”

The count shook his head. “You understand so little, you and your husband both. The Black Renaissance brings peace to the Empire. There are no wars, no civil strife. I’ll rule with an iron hand, because that is what an empire requires. You may think it cruel—”

“I think it is insane,” Dyana argued. “Now go. Please. Leave me alone.”

She turned from him and looked back at the horizon, refusing to acknowledge him, even as he stood there watching her. Finally, Biagio backed away.

“Make yourself ready. It won’t be long,” he said, then returned to the forecastle.

The
Prince of Liss
tore through the ocean in pursuit of the
Fearless.
She was three hours out of Crote with the sun high in front of her. Marus and the officers kept a tight leash on the men, trimming sails and spinning the wheel to make the most out of the wind. Great gusts filled the schooner’s sails, speeding her along, and the cannoneers readied their weapons, preparing powder and shot. Richius stood with Prakna on the prow, spying the endless ocean before them. He was exhausted and full of dread, and the
Prince
simply couldn’t go fast enough for him. His every thought was of Dyana, captured and at the mercy of Biagio. All sorts of wicked imaginings played in his mind. If he had hurt her …

“There!” cried Prakna, pointing northeast. Richius jumped at his shout. He tried to focus on a little speck bobbing on the horizon. A call came from the crow’s nest, affirming the commander’s call.

“It’s them, Prakna,” said Marus. The first officer had hurried up to his captain’s side. “That’s the
Fearless.
”

Prakna stared studiously through his spyglass. “Yes. And she’s not alone. There are two other dreadnoughts
with her.” He paused, puzzling over the sight. “But they’re hardly moving.
Fearless
has her sails pulled. What the hell is she up to?”

Richius understood instantly. “They’re waiting for us,” he said. “Biagio knew we’d come.”

Prakna lowered his spyglass. His face was set in the most disquieting way. “The
Fearless
,” he whispered. “Look at her, Marus.”

“Aye, sir,” the first officer replied. “She’s a big bitch.”

“Too much for us, do you think?”

Marus smiled. “Doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try.”

“They won’t make us fight them,” said Richius. He was certain of Biagio’s motives. “Biagio wants me. He’s not going to open fire until he has me aboard. You can get away if I go to him.”

Prakna shook his head. “Very brave, boy, but I’m not giving you up that easily. If Nicabar wants a fight, he’ll get one.”

“Prakna, please,” Richius implored. “Don’t open fire. You wouldn’t stand a chance against them, and you know it. Just bring us in, and let’s try to talk with them. Maybe I can get Dyana off the ship. Biagio might trade for her.”

“You instead of your wife,” said Marus darkly. “A sick trade.”

Richius knew he had no choice. “If that’s what it takes,” he said. “I think Biagio might agree. It’s me he wants, not Dyana.”

“Very well, Jackal,” said Prakna. “We’ll get in closer. Let’s see what the devil wants.”

Dyana noticed the Lissen schooner just as the call came from the masts above. All along the deck of the warship, men made ready for the conflict. She heard the admiral barking orders and the strange creaking of
metal monsters below her feet, where the gun deck held Nar’s infamous flame cannons. Biagio flew to the ship’s railing, pointing out the incoming ship.

“There she is!” he shouted. “The
Prince of Liss.
” He shook his fist in victory. “I told you they’d come, Danar. I told you.”

Admiral Nicabar wasn’t listening. He was getting his ship into position, ordering it around to face the interloper. Dyana watched in confusion as sailors along the deck signaled the two other dreadnoughts with colored flags. The dreadnoughts signaled back, responding with shouts and movements of their own. Together the two ships broke their mindless pattern and slowly came into formation, flanking the flagship and turning their starboard guns toward the Lissen schooner. Dyana panicked.

“No!” she screeched, dashing along the deck toward Biagio. “Do not fire! Please!”

She grabbed a fistful of Biagio’s cape and tugged wildly, fighting to make him listen. Biagio seized her wrist, almost lifting her off the ground.

“Let go, little beast!” he hissed. “I’m not going to fire unless I have to!”

He tossed her aside, sending her tumbling backward. She scrambled up again, refusing to be ignored.

“Listen to me,” she begged. “Richius is no threat to you. You do not have to do this. Please!”

“Shut up, woman,” Biagio snapped. “I can’t hear myself think.”

Dyana grabbed his hand, falling to her knees before him. “You want me to beg?” she asked angrily. “All right, then, I am begging. I am your prisoner. You have won. You have already beaten him.” She stared up at him, hating herself for pleading. “Please, Biagio. Do not kill my husband.”

Count Biagio looked down at her. For a moment she thought he would strike her, but there was no rage
in his eyes. He took her hand, squeezing it with surprising gentleness.

“Do not beg me, Dyana Vantran,” he insisted. “Rise.”

He lifted her to her feet. Dyana trembled. Why didn’t he
do
something?

“Count Biagio, please …”

“I’m going to call the Jackal aboard,” he said. Then, without explanation, he turned his back on her and went to Admiral Nicabar.

Prakna piloted the
Prince
toward the waiting dreadnoughts, ordering her cannons moved to her port side. The starboard guns of the
Fearless
and her smaller sisters tracked the
Prince
’s movements as she slipped closer, still at full sail. They were barely a quarter mile away, and the three dreadnoughts grew in their vision, looking ominous. The Black Flag of Nar flew from their masts, stiff with wind. Richius waited on the
Prince
’s prow, cracking his knuckles nervously. A boat was descending off the side of the
Fearless.
In it were a handful of sailors. Richius couldn’t tell exactly how many, but none of them looked like Dyana.

“What the hell’s he doing?” wondered Prakna. “Sending over a launch?”

“It’s for me,” said Richius. “He wants me to come aboard.”

“Well, you’re not going,” said Prakna. “Not just like that.”

“Yes, I am. It’s my decision, Prakna. Please don’t try and stop me.”

The fleet commander groaned. “All right. We’ll have to get you closer, then.”

He ordered his crew to slow them. The sailors responded with their usual precision, working the sails and yards until the schooner lost the wind and drifted
toward the waiting dreadnoughts. But he made certain that his cannons were ready, ordering his gunners to stay alert.

Slowly the
Prince of Liss
approached the dreadnoughts, coming up alongside of them and matching their speed. Hardly a ship’s length lay between them. The little launch struggled across the gap, rowed by four brawny seamen. Richius went amidships. Prakna and Marus followed like two older brothers. All the Lissen crewmen watched as Richius waited for the rowboat. He could feel their eyes boring through his back and wished suddenly that he had never left Lucel-Lor. Biagio had beaten him. Now, his only hope was that he could get Dyana free.

“Wait for my wife,” he said to Prakna. “If Biagio lets her go, take her back to Lucel-Lor.” He smiled awkwardly at the fleet commander. “Will you do that for me, Prakna?”

Prakna’s hard face melted. “God, you honor me,” he said sadly. “I am pleased to have known you, Richius Vantran.”

“Will you, Prakna? Promise me. A real promise, this time.”

“I can’t make that promise, Jackal,” said the Lissen. “Nicabar won’t let me go. Even if your wife comes aboard, she would only die in the battle.”

Richius knew Prakna was right. Nicabar’s hatred of Prakna was legendary. And mutual. So he settled for shaking the commander’s hand, and hoping that somehow, Biagio would let Dyana go.

“Good luck to you, Prakna,” said Richius. The graveness of the moment seemed to erase the earlier events. Now they were just men again, rivals against Biagio. “Tell Jelena I’ll be thinking about her.”

“Richius,” said Marus, gesturing over the rail. “The boat’s here.”

Richius looked down and saw that the rowboat had
indeed reached the
Prince.
The four Naren sailors glanced up anxiously.

“Are you here for the Jackal?” Prakna called down to them angrily.

“We are,” replied a sailor.

Marus gave the order to drop the rope ladder, then told the crew to slow the
Prince
to a standstill. Richius gazed down at the bobbing rowboat, so small and insignificant beside the grand schooner. A rush of fear overwhelmed him for a moment, but he subdued it quickly. In many ways, he had lived longer than he should have. Today, at last, his charm of protection had worn off.

With a final nod to his Lissen comrades, Richius straddled the rail and dropped over the side, catching the rope ladder and easing himself down toward the waiting Narens.

Biagio stood beside Nicabar, his heart thundering with anticipation. Across the gap between the
Fearless
and the
Prince
, the little rowboat they’d dispatched was returning with Richius Vantran. The Jackal sat up straight, scanning the deck for his wife. Dyana leaned over the railing, calling out to him with tears in her eyes.

“Richius!”

The Jackal saw his wife and smiled, holding out his hands as if to touch her. Biagio watched their reunion, astonished. Richius Vantran looked much as he had two years ago—dark and brash and far too young to have brought an empire to its knees. Seeing him made Biagio’s jaw go slack. The count listened to Dyana’s cries, wondering if he should silence her. But he did not. He let her call out to her husband.

The rowboat ground against the hull of the
Fearless.
Nicabar called down to his men, ordering them to
get Vantran aboard. Dyana hurried over to him, shouldering Nicabar aside and reaching out to her distant husband.

Biagio stepped back, so as not to see their reunion. He heard the rope ladder fall and the sounds of his enemy climbing aboard. He was safe, certainly, and yet he feared the man coming toward him. Or rather, he feared seeing him. Richius Vantran was a potent reminder of all the things that had gone wrong in his life.

The first thing Richius saw when he looked up was Dyana’s beautiful face. She was reaching down to him with tears in her eyes.

“Dyana!” Richius cried. He threw himself onto the warship’s deck and into Dyana’s waiting arms, ignoring all the sailors around him.

“Dyana,” he moaned. Her smooth arms encircled him in a rapturous embrace, and he buried his nose in her hair, smelling its sweetness. She kissed him savagely, refusing to let go.