The Grand Design (25 page)

“Very well,” agreed Nicabar, already tired of the argument. He sat down at the table across from Herrith and laid down his silver box. The bauble immediately caught the bishop’s attention.

“What’s that?” asked Herrith through a mouth full of pastry.

“This is a gift,” replied Nicabar. He slid the box across the table to Herrith. “From Count Biagio.”

“A gift? Is this your message?”

“No.” Nicabar slipped his hand into his uniform and pulled out the letter Biagio had given him. “This is my message, sealed with the Count’s own seal. You’ll recognize it, I’m sure. That other thing is merely a gift, as I’ve said.”

Herrith picked up the box and shook it like a child, a wide smile on his face. “What is it?” he asked, listening to it rattle.

“Holiness, please,” said Vorto. He held out his hands for the box. “Give it to me. I will open it for you.”

“You will not!” laughed Herrith. “It’s mine.”

“It may be a trick, Holiness. Something dangerous from the Crotan devil. Please, let me open it for you.”

Herrith’s eyes narrowed on Nicabar. “Is it a trick, Danar?”

“No trick,” said the admiral. “Just a present. And perfectly safe, I promise.”

“Hmm, just the same …” Herrith handed the box over to Vorto. “I think you should open it, my friend. The devil is the father of lies, after all. Be careful, though.”

Stupidly brave, Vorto opened the box quickly and
peered at its contents. Nicabar watched the general closely, gratified by the look of terrible awe on his face.

“Mother of God,” he whispered.

“What is it?” pressed Herrith.

Vorto turned his blazing eyes on Nicabar. “You sinful snake,” he seethed. “I should kill you for this!”

“Enough!” thundered Herrith. “Vorto, what’s in the box? Give it to me, I insist!”

“Holiness …”

Herrith snatched the box from Vorto’s hands and looked inside. He, too, was awed by its contents. But the bishop didn’t anger. He simply stared at it longingly. It was a vial of Bovadin’s life-lengthening drug, perfectly blue in its clear glass container, shining and desirable and worth a fortune. Herrith took the vial from the box and turned it in the sunlight, his hand trembling as he inspected it.

“Heaven help us,” he said. “What have you brought me, Danar? Damnation in a bottle?”

“You know what it is, Bishop,” said Nicabar carefully. “And it’s not from me. It’s from Biagio. Personally, I would never have given it to you, but the count insisted.”

“Of course he did!” raged Vorto. “That black-hearted beast. He wants to see us all dependent on his fiendish brew again. Damn him to Hell!”

Herrith held up a calming hand. “Be easy, my friend.” He continued admiring the beautiful liquid with his dull, dead eyes. Once Herrith’s eyes had blazed a brilliant blue, but they were flat now, desolate, less than alive. A familiar fire grew in them as they looked upon the drug. “Ah, Danar,” sighed the bishop. “Should I curse you or praise you for bringing me this? You and Biagio are devils, to be sure.”

“That’s a goodly supply, Herrith,” said Nicabar. “Enough to bring you back to how you were. Bovadin mixed it strong for you, so it would last. But it has to be administered slowly. If not, you’ll die.”

“He won’t be using it,” snapped Vorto. “You may take your poison back with you, dog.”

Herrith put the vial back in the box and closed the lid. But he did not return the gift to Nicabar. Instead he kept it near him, guarding it with a firm hand. “Sit down, Vorto,” he said softly. “We are arguing too much. I didn’t want it to be this way.” He picked up the letter but did not open it. Instead he handed it to Vorto. “Read this for me,” he directed. “Out loud, so we all can hear.”

Vorto took a chair next to his master and opened the letter, breaking the wax seal. He looked it over suspiciously for a moment, then started to read. “ ‘My dear Bishop,’ ” he began. “ ‘I hope this letter finds you well. I hope, too, that you are taking good care of the city and the Empire. These are dark days for us all, and I will not lie to you and say that I do not miss the Black City. I do, with all my heart.’ ” Vorto stopped to sneer at this. “Heart,” he scoffed. “What heart?”

“Go on, please, General,” ordered Herrith. The bishop kept his eyes on Nicabar as he listened.

“ ‘We are not so different, you and I,’ ” Vorto continued. “ ‘Our past has made us enemies, but our future holds promise if we work together. There are things I can offer you, and would give you gladly. Bovadin’s drug is merely one of these. None of us need die, dear Herrith.’ ”

Herrith interrupted Vorto with a chuckle. “He’s a long-winded one, isn’t he?”

Nicabar said nothing.

“Go on,” said Herrith. “Let’s see if he ever says anything useful.”

Vorto continued reading. “ ‘I propose a meeting between all the Naren lords, to take place here on my island of Crote. It is the only safe place where I know I will not be harmed. We can discuss our differences amicably, and make a new beginning. I urge you to consider this offer carefully. We can rule Nar together, as
Arkus would have wanted. The drug can be yours again. Nar can be strong.’ ” Vorto looked up from the paper. “That’s it,” he declared. He tossed the letter onto the table before him. “You’ve got an audacious master, Nicabar. How dare he think he can buy us off with promises of peace? And a meeting in Crote? Is he serious?”

Nicabar did not address Vorto, only Herrith. “I am to wait for your response and then return to Crote with your answer,” he said. “I will wait aboard my ship in the harbor. Get me your answer by the morrow.”

“There’s no need to wait,” said Herrith simply. “I already have my answer.” Herrith reached across the table and picked up the letter, crumpling it into a ball and bouncing it over to Nicabar. “The answer is no.”

Nicabar smirked. “As I thought. Biagio is too good to you, Herrith. I told him not to bother offering you peace, but he insisted. Apparently he thinks you have a brain somewhere in that thick skull. I do not.”

“If and when I decide to talk peace with that hellspawn,
I
will say when and where. These are not his terms to dictate. I’m no warrior, but it’s the victor who makes terms, isn’t it?”

“You will not be victorious, Herrith,” said Nicabar calmly. “You don’t have the means. The nations of Nar will never follow you, because they simply don’t believe your fairy tales. And now you have Liss to deal with.” The admiral winked sardonically. “And I know what a handful they can be.”

The mere mention of Liss erased all pleasantness from the bishop’s face. “It is your fault what happens with Liss, Danar. They raid our coasts and you do nothing. They sink our ships and you do nothing. You say you are an Admiral of Nar? I think you are laughable. If you were truly the hero some say, you would be defending Nar.”

“But I am, Holiness,” said Nicabar. “I’m defending it from you.”

“Blasphemer,” rumbled Vorto. The general rose from his chair, toppling it over. “Show some respect in this house of God, or I swear I will kill you!”

“Sit down, Vorto,” directed Nicabar. “You’re very tiresome. Bishop, as I’ve already explained to this primate, anything that happens to me will be revisited on the Black City a hundred fold. The
Fearless
has her guns trained on the cathedral. She might be able to reach it, or she might not. Either way, the city burns. So I would be very careful what you or your dog soldier say to me, because I am sick of being threatened.”

Herrith considered the implication, searching the tone for a bluff. When he found none he gestured for Vorto to sit. Reluctantly, the general retrieved his toppled chair and took his place beside the bishop. Herrith drummed his pudgy fingers on the silver box.

“What shall I do?” he mused aloud. “I had hoped our talk would be beneficial, Danar. Shame on me, but I had actually hoped you had come to your senses and seen the truth about your count. It’s been so many years that you have been friends with him. Can’t you see the truth yet?”

“
The
truth?” asked Nicabar. “Or
your
truth?”

“They are the same, Danar,” warned the bishop. “My truth is the honesty of God, the bread of angels. Biagio is a sodomite, a sinner. Even his marriage was an abomination. He lies with men. You know this, yet you defend him? A full-blooded man like yourself?”

“Aye, I know the truth of him,” said Nicabar. “And truly, I don’t care. Neither did Arkus. It may be a sin in your eyes and in the vision of your mythical God, but not in mine. He is a friend. And a far better one than you ever were, Herrith.”

“A warning, Danar,” said the bishop. “Biagio’s time is past. The Black Renaissance died with Arkus. And its small remnants are being dealt with.”

“Yes,” hissed Nicabar. “Like Goth.”

Herrith’s face hardened. “Like Goth,” he echoed. “It is God’s will.”

An icy hand seized Nicabar’s heart. Something was horribly wrong with Herrith. Perhaps the drug had rotted his mind like it had Biagio’s, or maybe it was the awful withdrawal. Either way, it seemed an impossible task to talk rationally with this man who believed his own genocidal messages.

“Very well,” said Nicabar, rising from his chair. “Then our business is concluded.”

The bishop spread out his hands. “It seems so. Please give the count my answer, Danar. And tell him that I will pray for the repose of his soul.”

“I’m sure he’ll appreciate that,” quipped Nicabar. “And shall I thank him for the gift? Or will I be taking that back with me as well?”

Vorto’s eyes shifted to the box, then to Herrith, then back again. The bishop’s hand curled over the gift greedily.

“I think I should hold on to this,” he said. “And after all, it’s a gift. Thank Biagio for his thoughtfulness.”

Vorto blanched. “Holiness …”

“Shut up,” growled Herrith. “Danar, thank you for coming to see me. You may not believe this, but it was a pleasure. The general will escort you back to your ship now. Safe journey, old friend.”

Nicabar left the chamber without saying good-bye, trailed by the dumbfounded Vorto. As he left, he stole a glance over his shoulder to see Herrith caressing the box.

A
fter a morning of travel, Richius and Simon returned to Falindar. The spires of the citadel were a welcome sight to the men, who were both exhausted from each other’s company. Seeing that his odd companion was hardly in shape to make the trip, Richius had let Simon share his gelding’s back, and they had each walked while the other enjoyed the comfort of the horse. It had been the only choice left to Richius. Simon seemed near collapse. And Richius, well rested from a year in Falindar, had welcomed the exercise. So while Simon rode, Richius walked and considered things.

Out in the wilderness, he hadn’t found the answers he was searching for. Despite Karlaz’s advice, his talk with the sky had been a one-sided conversation. And although he was eager to see Falindar again, part of him dreaded confronting Dyana. She would be expecting some change in him, and would be disappointed.

Simon had proved a pleasant enough travelling companion. Inquisitive but thoughtful, he often fell into the same contemplative silences as Richius, and only occasionally did they get on each other’s nerves. Because Simon couldn’t travel tethered, Richius had undone his bindings. Simon had repaid the favor by doing nothing threatening. He explained to Richius that he really had nowhere to go anyway, and though he feared
the citadel’s violent reputation, the promise of a roof and warm food spurred him on. Richius almost liked the deserter; if that’s what Simon truly was. After a full day together, Richius still wasn’t sure about the Naren, and his doubts troubled him. He knew Biagio’s capabilities. Every Naren had heard the stories. The Roshann were everywhere. Ruthless and subtle, Biagio’s secret society permeated every strata of imperial life. They were like the air. Invisible. Inescapable.

And so it was that when they arrived at the citadel, Richius at once took the awestruck Simon to see Lucyler. As master of Falindar, it would be Lucyler’s decision to cast judgment on the stranger, to determine whether he was a spy or if the citadel’s hospitality should be extended to him. But Lucyler was preoccupied upon their return. The warlord Ishia had come from his mountain keep to seek counsel from Lucyler, and Lucyler was locked in his meeting chambers with strict orders not to be disturbed. Given the opportunity to see his wife and child, Richius went to his own chambers. Simon was relegated to a guarded room, left there to wait. He said good-bye to Richius with a worried smile, and Richius couldn’t help but try to ease his fears.

“If you’re telling the truth, nothing will happen to you,” he promised as he shut the door. A Triin warrior had been stationed outside the room. Meals, clothing, and a bath were ordered for Simon, and Richius went off to see Dyana. His wife was pleased to see him, though there was still tension between them. Little Shani gave him a hug that made things better, but not completely. Richius and Dyana slept together that night, but still with that strange wall separating them, and in the morning Richius went off to see Lucyler. His Triin friend had risen early. Ishia, warlord of Kes, had ridden out of the citadel, and the warriors of Falindar were buzzing about him. Richius listened, troubled by the talk. Ishia’s ongoing feud with the
warlord Praxtin-Tar hadn’t calmed very much in these peaceful days. If there was trouble in Kes, Lucyler would almost certainly be dragged into it.