The Grand Design (11 page)

“As I said, it’s simple.” Bovadin pulled on the lever at the thing’s domed top and opened it like a hatch. Two iron hinges groaned. “This is where the fuel goes. It loads like an ordinary flame cannon. Same basic idea. But the fuel doesn’t just stay in the fuel chamber like a cannon. It’s dispersed throughout the device by its own pressure. That pressure keeps the fuel moving through the hoses.”

“Uh-huh,” replied Biagio. Already he was regretting his inquiry. “Go on.”

The scientist fingered a little mechanism in the middle of the thing, a thin metal rod protruding from the device. “This is the starter,” he explained. “It will be set for a delay of one hour. Once this lever is moved from side to side, the countdown will begin.”

“It needs to be set easily, Bovadin,” the count reminded him. “That starter piece can’t be hidden.”

“It won’t be. Not if you deliver it as you said you would. The starter rod will be attached to the archangel. The angel has a large wing-span, remember? It will hide the lever behind it. When the angel is moved, the device will start.”

Biagio chuckled at the midget’s ingenuity. He remembered the marble archangel over the gates of Herrith’s cathedral. Bovadin had built the device exactly to plan. Now it was up to Biagio to see its delivery. The count had spent long weeks devising the perfect means of getting the device to Herrith. Biagio was pleased with himself. The angel would be innocuous and wouldn’t arouse Herrith’s suspicions. And it would be easy enough for Lorla to set.

“What about the fuel?” asked Biagio. “How will you keep it cool?”

“The hoses,” Bovadin explained. “The fuel will run through them constantly, getting contact with the outside air.” He pointed out the tiny vanes in each hose.
“See here? I designed the hoses myself. Strong, and the vanes increase air flow. The fuel will stabilize once I get it inside. But it shouldn’t be jostled, either. You know that, right?”

“I know that,” said Biagio. The scientist had reminded him a hundred times. He, in turn, would remind everyone else. There were a great many people involved in this scheme. The device would pass through untested hands before reaching Herrith. For Bovadin’s sake, Biagio tried not to look worried. The inventor had enough on his mind.

“I’m impressed,” said Biagio finally. “You’ve done a fine job, my friend. I only wish I could be there to see it used.”

“When we take back Nar, you’ll get to see the crater it leaves,” joked Bovadin. His blue eyes sparkled. “It will be like the sunrise, Renato.”

“Mmm, sounds perfect.” Biagio closed his eyes, imagining the sun’s scalding heat. If everything went properly, Herrith
would
see the device at work. And when he did, it would crush his very soul. “Remember—Herrith mustn’t be killed. I want him alive.”

“Don’t worry. Herrith should be out of the cathedral by then, giving Absolution.”

“If he’s not, my plan will fail.…”

“Stop fretting,” directed Bovadin. His smile sharpened. “Everything will work. I just need to test it.”

“Let me know when you’re going to test this thing,” Biagio said. “I want to be alerted of any danger.”

“There’s no danger. The device can’t really work unless it’s filled with fuel. The tests will only use a little, just to see how it works. Test for leaks, that sort of thing.”

It was all too technical for Biagio, who waved the remarks away. “Even so, I want to know. My whole life is in this place now. I don’t want it going up in smoke. And don’t test it alone. I’ll get you some assistants. I
don’t like you tinkering away down here by yourself. You look terrible. You need more sun.”

“Assistants?” scoffed Bovadin. “Kidnap some of my workers from the war labs if you want to get me help, Renato. I don’t need help from your olive pickers. I spend so much time down here because I’ve got work to do. I’m the one making the drug, remember, and trying to finish this damn machine. Savros and Nicabar—”

“Enough,” snapped Biagio. “Everyone is busy, my friend. Tempers rise. I understand that.” He let his voice take on its honey-sweet tone. “Now, you will be at dinner tonight. And dress for it for once. Put some shoes on. I want a civilized evening.”

“Renato—”

“I’m tired too, Bovadin. I want to go back to Nar. And I don’t want to bicker. Get some rest. Sleep. I will see you tonight.”

Simon spent the bulk of the day sleeping. Still exhausted from his long trip and the night in Savros’ dungeon, he found his bed an impossible enticement, and slept deeply and soundly until the sun slipped below the horizon. He hardly dreamed at all, but when he did the faces he saw in his mind were white and frightened. Hakan, the Triin he had captured, came briefly to haunt him. He asked questions in his arcane tongue, begging to know why Simon had abducted him, why he had delivered him to the madman with the knives. As Simon awoke he recalled the dream, and was suddenly glad it was time to get up. He crossed his chamber and went to the window. The carpet was cool on his bare feet. Outside in the distance he saw moonlight on water and the ubiquitous profile of the Black Fleet. Another ship had joined them. Bigger than the rest. Darker, too. Simon recognized the
Fearless
at once. Nicabar’s flagship.
The admiral was back from Dragon’s Beak. Simon smiled to himself. His master would be in a good mood tonight, maybe good enough to grant favors.

“After dinner,” Simon reminded himself gently. “Take it easy …”

Eris would be so pleased, and he loved her too dearly not to ask this of the Master. Simon knew of no other Roshann agent who had married, except when it was convenient for a role, but he knew he was more than just an agent to Biagio. In some strange way the two men were friends. And Simon was no slave. He was a free man who had served the count long and loyally, and free men had the right to ask for rewards. Though Biagio’s aristocratic blood kept them from ever being equals, Simon knew he had a special place in his master’s heart. Tonight he would exploit it.

Hurriedly he cleaned his face and hands. The splash of water revived him. Biagio would be expecting him soon, so he combed his hair, giving himself a cursory check in the mirror. The Master was looking forward to the evening, and Simon wanted to look his best. If Biagio were at all disappointed in him, his favor might be declined. When he was satisfied with his appearance, Simon went to his closets and selected a fine shirt and trousers. He completed the outfit with a broad leather belt and a shiny, supple pair of thigh-high boots. Simon grinned at his reflection, then left his rooms to find Biagio.

The mansion was characteristically quiet. As he moved through the halls, Simon could hear the muffled sounds of servants in the distance and the delicate smells wafting from the kitchens. His stomach grumbled slightly, reminding him of his appetite. Crote had the finest food and chefs in the Empire, that’s what all Crotans thought. Simon’s own mother had been an extraordinary cook, though she was not native to the island. He missed her whenever he was hungry. Sometimes he missed Crote too much to ever leave again,
and if they never returned to Nar, Simon wouldn’t object. Nar was cold and tall, whereas Crote was warm and flat, a good place for a man to settle. Eris would love it here, Simon was sure. So far she had only known the gilded cage of Biagio’s mansion, but if just once he could take her to the markets or walk with her along the shore, she would fall for his magnificent island.

Simon crossed the hallways to the count’s private wing, passing the avenue of sculptures and the walls hung with tapestries. A vast window looked out over the grounds, flooding the corridor with purple moonlight. Here in the Master’s wing, the air was sweet and smelled of lilacs. Open windows funnelled in the briny scent of sea water. When he was a boy, Simon would look up at this white palace on the hill and imagine the wealth of the man inside. The vision had fueled the young boy’s dreams, had drawn him to Biagio’s glamour. He had been poor then, hungry for gold and the power it could buy. And all the while as he grew to manhood, the white palace on the hill taunted him with its magnificence. Now, years later, Simon still felt a rush when he walked its halls.

When at last he came to Biagio’s private chambers, he found the double doors open. Simon peered inside. Biagio was seated on a red leather chair near the window, his back to the door, slowly draining a glass of sherry. The count’s golden hair glinted in the reflected moonbeams. Before Simon could knock, Biagio spoke.

“I’ve been sitting here, thinking,” said the count softly.

Simon hesitated. Was that an invitation? Carefully he inched into the chamber, drawing closer to his master. Biagio’s breathing was languid, as if he were drunk or very close to sleeping.

“Master?” probed Simon. “Are you all right?”

“Oh, I’m quite all right, dear Simon. Just relaxing. It’s beautiful here, isn’t it?”

Simon stopped a pace behind Biagio’s chair. “Yes, very beautiful. I’ve been thinking that myself, lately.”

“I wish I could spend more time here. I’ve been away too long, neglected things.…”

“The call of duty,” replied Simon lightly. “Nar has needed you.”

“Yes.” Biagio put down his sherry. The jeweled hand beckoned Simon closer. As Simon approached Biagio looked up at him, his preternatural eyes glowing a furious blue. “I want you to stay close to me tonight. And I don’t want you to say anything. Just be near.”

Simon shrugged. He was always near his master. “Of course. You don’t have to worry about that, my lord.”

“The others are growing restless. And Nicabar has brought news with him from Nar. I’m worried how they might react. Stay close. Remind them of my strength. Things are going forward, but the others can’t always see that. I need them to trust me. Or I need them to fear me. I don’t care which.”

“My lord, I will be with you. Always.”

Biagio smiled warmly, one of his wild, insane smiles. He put up a hand for Simon to take. “You’re my finest friend,” he said. “Come. Let’s go to dinner.”

Simon took the count’s hand and lifted him from the chair. Though loose clothing gave him a delicate look, Simon knew his lord was far from frail. The drugs he took to keep him vital had other side-effects. Besides the color of his eyes, Biagio was among the strongest men Simon knew, possessed of an almost super-human vigor. No one could run farther or longer without becoming winded, and no one could lift more weight above his head. Still, the count liked being pampered, and very rarely bragged about his strength. He ate sparingly and only of the freshest foods, and the wines he chose were always from his own, well-controlled vineyards. In old Nar, Biagio had enjoyed a
reputation as a fop, but no one ever called him that to his face.

The head of the Roshann had dressed for dinner. His sable-trimmed cape made a peculiar rustling sound as he rose from the chair, and his luxurious hair hung loosely around his shoulders. Nearly all of his digits boasted a shiny bauble, and his teeth gleamed when he smiled, giving him the uneasy appearance of a prowling wolf. The count inspected Simon. A grin of approval graced his face.

“Ready?” Simon asked.

Biagio nodded. “Let’s go.”

As always, Count Biagio took the lead, exiting the chamber with a graceful stride that made his cape billow out behind him. Simon kept back the customary pace, close enough to hear his master yet far enough back not to overshadow him. Not that overshadowing Biagio was possible. The count shined like a beacon.

They crossed the corridors quickly, leaving Biagio’s personal wing behind and entering the main living area of the villa, where the count’s Naren guests were quartered. This part of the mansion was only slightly less garish than Biagio’s own. A pair of gilded glass doors hung wide at the entrance, bidding Biagio and Simon forward. Over the huge, octagonal table was a chandelier of blue and white crystal that glinted hypnotically in the candlelight. Biagio slowed a little before entering, and a practiced, theatrical smile appeared on his face. The servants in the dining room paused when they saw him. The men seated around the table looked in his direction. Simon dropped back a step and let Biagio make his entrance.

“Good evening, my friends,” crooned the count. He opened his arms to the gathered Narens. “It’s good to see you. Thank you all for coming.”

Each of the Naren nobles greeted their host, their uniformly blue eyes watching him coolly. Simon quickly
sized up the group. At the far end of the table was Savros. The Mind Bender rose from his seat and beamed. Next to the torturer sat the diminutive Bovadin. Too fascinated with his plate of appetizers, the scientist remained seated. Biagio seemed not to notice the snub. He was pumping the hands of another man, a giant in the uniform of the Naren navy. Nicabar, Admiral of the Black Fleet, embraced Biagio with a good-natured laugh.

“Renato,” said Nicabar. “You look well.”

Nicabar’s chest was a rainbow of ribbons and medals he had earned in countless campaigns. Biagio seemed to disappear in his embrace. Simon watched Nicabar carefully, studying the hard face for any trace of insincerity. The count and the admiral had known each other many years. Biagio counted Nicabar among his closest friends. Together they had left Nar to Herrith and had orchestrated the secession of the Black Fleet. They had even convinced Bovadin and Savros to join them. They were, in Simon’s estimation, an odd and dangerous team.

“I’m so glad you’re back, my friend,” said Biagio. The count placed a kiss on Nicabar’s cheek. “And undamaged.”

“Good to be back,” said Nicabar, “though sailing the Empire’s oceans was a pleasure. I miss them, Renato.”

This got Bovadin’s attention. “We all miss them,” he said peevishly.

“Please, sit,” Biagio bid Nicabar, ignoring Bovadin’s jibe. The count took the admiral’s arm and led him back to his seat. Simon followed, and when Nicabar was seated he pulled out his master’s chair for Biagio to sit. Only when they were all seated did Simon take his own chair, the one at Biagio’s right hand.

“Let’s have wine,” suggested Biagio. A clap of his hands brought servants from the shadows, collared men and women expertly balancing silver platters and
flagons of Crote’s fragrant vintages. As usual, Simon was served last. He waited for them all to take a sip before tasting the wine himself. It was typically excellent, and he watched the strange gathering as he sipped. From his position across the table, the midget Bovadin seemed hardly more than a disembodied head. Savros was chatting aimlessly with him. Nicabar was silent as stone. Of the four, only Biagio was married, to a woman he had left behind in Nar City. Countess Elliann hadn’t shared her husband’s lust for power, and had disappointed him by siding with Herrith. Now no one knew exactly where she was, and Simon doubted Biagio even cared. Nicabar was fond of saying he was married to the sea, and Savros was far too bizarre for any woman. Bovadin had the excuse of his affliction to ward off wedding bands. To Simon, the little man belonged in a grotesquery anyway. But not the golden count. He was handsome in an androgynous sort of way, and Elliann had never minded the way he bedded both women and men. Like him, she was of noble birth, and equally fickle in matters of the bedroom. What she hadn’t liked—what had appalled her about her husband—was his desire to continue the Black Renaissance. Elliann wasn’t a warrior. She was a pampered she-wolf who wanted only perfumed sheets and the good things of her birthright. She belonged in Nar. Not surprisingly, Biagio had let her stay.