The Grand Design (40 page)

Biagio glanced back at his bed, so cold and sterile. His was an excellent chamber, large and immaculate, with priceless heirlooms dotting the walls and shelves. But he gleaned no comfort from these things, and the urge to leave his rooms became overwhelming. In the great music room was a piano, and when he was troubled he would go to the piano and thunder out a song and lose himself. It was odd therapy but it worked for him, and so he pulled off his night clothes and chose some simple garments from his many closets, dressing hurriedly. Sliding his feet into a pair of slippers, he went out into the deserted hallway of his wing, where the only sound he heard was the faint sizzling of flames from the oil sconces along the wall. His shadow leapt across the floor, large and ominous, and as he walked his slippers squeaked. There were no guardians to disturb him, no servants around to grovel. Biagio walked in a trance to his music room, eager to bang on the piano keys. But when he reached the chamber he found the door half open and a light glowing inside.

Curious, the count slowed. Eris, his treasured slave, was alone in the room, gliding across the floor in a silent, expressive dance. Biagio held his breath. She was lovely. She moved with the grace of a dove, her long legs twirling her effortlessly through pirouettes, her arms stretching heavenward, as if imploring God to hear her. Her face was aglow in the light of a single candle, flush with sweat and shadows. And her wide eyes seemed to cry as she danced, sadly, purposefully, oblivious to all the world in her melancholy.

Count Biagio watched, utterly enthralled. She was his greatest prize. When she danced for him the angels wept with jealousy. He knew as he watched her why Simon’s heart was hers. As a woman she was perfection. As a dancer, she was a goddess. No man could resist her. Especially not poor Simon.

When she was done with her dance, Eris crumpled to the floor, bowing her head into her lap and lying
there, motionless. Biagio thought he heard her whimper. Very gently he pushed open the door. Still she did not hear him.

“You were wonderful,” he whispered. “Thank you.”

Eris looked up, mortified. “Master!” she cried, springing to her feet and lowering her eyes. “Forgive me, I … I was practicing. I didn’t know you were here.”

“Don’t apologize,” said Biagio, floating into the room. He put his cold hand to her chin, lifting her face and looking into her eyes. “It was a pleasure for me.”

Eris looked embarrassed, but didn’t pull away. “I am glad,” she managed. “I was just practicing.”

“You were not,” Biagio corrected. With his frozen thumb he brushed a tear from her cheek. “I have never seen you weep when practicing. What tears are these?”

“Nothing, Master. The piece I was dancing is emotional, that’s all.”

“What was the piece? I did not recognize it.”

He watched her face twitch as she decided to confess. “Only something of my own imagining. I was restless tonight. There are things occupying me.” She struggled to smile. “But unimportant things, my lord. Truly not worth bothering with.”

Enjoying her fear, Biagio dropped his fingers to her neck and the golden collar she wore. His fingernail picked at it.

“I would curse the day you could not tell the truth to me, dear Eris,” he said. “Why don’t you explain this to me? I, too, was sleepless tonight. I thought I might play some music. You were an unexpected surprise.”

“Forgive me, Master,” begged the girl. Her age showed when she spoke, so small was her voice. “I will go now, if you like.”

“No, I would not like that.” The count let go of her collar. He turned and went to his piano, sitting himself down on its crushed velvet bench. Eris stood uncertainly
in the center of the room. His eyes washed over her, drinking in her loveliness. “This is not a good night for me, Eris. There are things on my mind, too. It might help me to hear your own troubles, to put mine aside for a while. Tell me, please. What is obsessing you?”

“Oh, Master, it’s truly nothing. I would never burden you with such trivia.”

“I insist.” Biagio gestured to the floor at his feet. “Come. Sit here by me.”

Eris complied. He was a tall man, and when she sat he towered over her. But he was in a gentle mood tonight, and he had suspicions why the girl might be troubled. Their troubles might be twins. Eris looked up at him, and her sad expression made him reach out and stroke her dark hair.

“Be at ease, girl,” he said. “I only want to talk to you. Or more truly, to hear you. This is about your lover, isn’t it?”

“Master …”

“Stop. I know all about it, remember? I gave you to Simon, after all.”

“Yes, Master. Thank you. I don’t know how to repay that.”

“You repay me every time you dance, child. And when we get back to Nar and you dance for them in the Black City, that will be a triumph and all debts will be paid.” Biagio felt a rush of exhilaration. “The three of us will return to Nar together. It will be glorious.”

“I would like that,” said Eris. “To dance in the Black Palace for all the lords of Nar. I’ve dreamt of it since I was young.”

“You will dance for them, Eris, and it will be a conquest. The lords of Nar will swoon at your feet. Your name will be famous throughout the Empire. I promise you that.”

“And we will marry? Simon and I?”

The count’s heart sank. “If that’s what you wish. I
stand by my word to Simon Darquis, girl. You are his, just as soon as he does this thing for me. When he returns, you may marry. That soon, if it’s what you want.”

“I do, Master. Very much. He is dear to me. And I to him.” She stopped abruptly, realizing what she was saying. “But many things are dear to him, of course. Serving you is dear to him. It’s all he talks of.”

“I’m sure,” said the count dryly. Eris lied very poorly. “And how dear are you to Simon? I wonder. You’ve been given a great gift, child. Performers in the Empire would willingly sell their souls for your talent. Which do you love more?”

Eris crinkled her nose. “Master?”

“If you had to choose, which would it be?”

“But I could never choose,” said the girl. “They are both part of me. I love Simon dearly. But dance is what I am. I would be nothing if I couldn’t dance. I would be dead.”

Dead. Biagio lingered on the word. He knew what it was like to feel so close to something. It was how he felt about Nar, even about his dead emperor. Only now, a full year later, was he starting to recover from Arkus’ death. Surprisingly, he was glad for Eris. Her life had direction, something too many Narens lacked these days.

“You are a great prize to me, Eris,” he said. “But I give you to Simon because he is also dear to me. He has served me very well, for years now. When he returns, you will be his. He may free you if he wishes, but I ask only that you come to Nar with me and perform. And you will do that, yes?”

“Oh, yes, Master,” said the girl. “Happily.”

“And Simon will come with you, and the three of us will live together in the Black City. Perhaps together in the Black Palace, eh?”

Eris didn’t smile at the notion. “If you wish, Master.”

Biagio sighed. He was tired and making foolish
statements. Simon had no interest in him, and that was the truth of it. Simon was in love with this fragile thing on the floor, with its green eyes and soft breasts and its mortality. When they did return to Nar—if they did—Simon and Eris would go off and have a family of their own, and Biagio would be alone in the Black Palace, without a wife or emperor to comfort him.

Carefully, Biagio reached out again for the girl and stroked her raven hair, loving the feel of it between his fingers. Eris bowed her head submissively. Biagio sensed the fear in her but ignored it. Much as he craved her, he would not take her to his bed. He was a man of his word, and he had promised her to another.

She belonged to Simon now.

S
harp as a razor, the
Prince of Liss
sliced through the waters of northern Lucel-Lor. Three weeks out of Nar, she had rounded the cape of Kes and was charging full-winded toward the isthmus of Tatterak. It was midday and the visibility from the warship’s deck afforded a perfect view of the horizon. The crew of the
Prince
gathered on the prow, their curious eyes fixed on their destination. For days they had hugged the coast of Tatterak, navigating the cold and unfamiliar waters. They were weary and homesick and
a little afraid, but the sight of the citadel put joy back in their hearts.

Fleet Commander Prakna looked up at Falindar and felt his world diminish. He had seen many things in his life, had been many places, but nothing had prepared him for this. The mountain castle dominated the landscape, climbing in a shining arc toward Heaven, its white spires agleam, as if adorned with shattered diamonds. At its zenith the citadel was a stepladder for angels, at its base a sprawling metropolis of stables, gardens and grounds, all cut defiantly into the side of a mountain. Prakna felt a rush of exhilaration. They had made it.

“It’s amazing,” said Marus. “You were right.”

“Unforgettable,” said Prakna. The fleet commander had only seen the citadel once before, and then only from a distance on a cloudy day, but it still had been awesome.

“We should send up a signal,” suggested Marus. “Let them know we’re coming.”

Prakna laughed. “Don’t you think they see us from up there?”

“It’s not that. It’s been a long time since a Lissen ship has been in their waters. We shouldn’t be furtive.”

“We’re one ship, Marus. And they’ll recognize our colors as friendly.” As he spoke he pointed to the Lissen flag snapping above their heads. “We’re not so easy to forget, either.”

Satisfied, Marus settled down. They were piloting the
Prince
directly toward the citadel, preparing to anchor offshore. Prakna himself would row ashore to meet Vantran and the other one, the new lord of the castle. Prakna struggled to remember the name. Lucyler? But Vantran would remember him, certainly. As if reading his commander’s mind, Marus floated a question.

“What if Vantran isn’t here? What then?”

“He’s here,” replied Prakna. “Where else would he be?”

“It’s a big land, Prakna. He could be anywhere.”

Prakna didn’t answer, because he had no answer. All he had was hope. If Vantran wasn’t in Falindar, they had wasted the trip.

“You talk too much, old friend,” Prakna told Marus.

“Maybe,” admitted Marus wryly. “But even if he is here, how are you going to convince him to come with us? You haven’t explained
that
to me, either.”

“You are full of questions today.”

“Yes, I am. Why aren’t you?”

“I’m not worried,” said Prakna. “Convincing the Jackal to fight against Nar is like convincing water to flow. No need to even try.”

“That was a long time ago,” said Marus. The officer nodded toward the citadel. “Living in such a grand place might change a man’s mind about things.”

Prakna turned to his friend. “Really? Do you think living in a palace would change your mind about avenging Liss, Marus?”

“Of course not.”

Prakna said no more. He turned and watched the citadel grow closer. Vantran
would
join them, he was sure of it. It was the same need that had driven them all against Nar, made them leave their families and homes, turned them into pirates. Vantran was no different. Like all of them, he knew about loss. It had glowed in his eyes like fire when they’d met. And a fire like that didn’t just extinguish itself. Prakna knew that from experience. So did Marus.

“I would like to meet this Vantran myself,” said Marus. “I hope he comes aboard. I could tell my wife I’ve met him.”

“You’ll have bragging rights to that, don’t worry,” Prakna assured him. “When he hears what we’re offering, he won’t turn us away.”

Richius Vantran stood on shore, staring at the Lissen schooner in the distance. He had been in his chambers with Dyana and Shani when he’d heard the news of the ship’s arrival, and had raced to his window to catch a glimpse of the vessel.

She was unmistakable.

In the absence of Lucyler, Deemis was in charge of the citadel. Deemis had been one of Kronin’s men, and Lucyler trusted him implicitly. It was Deemis that had brought Richius the news of the ship, guessing correctly that Richius would want to accompany them to greet the vessel. Without waiting for Dyana, Richius had followed Deemis down the mountain road to the shore. After finding a nurse to look after Shani, Dyana had joined them. Now she stood beside her husband, pale-faced and silent as she watched the schooner in the distance. Deemis and his warriors stood proudly in front of them, their jiiktars strapped to their backs. A little boat was dispatched from the schooner, rowing toward them with three men inside. Richius fought to still his anticipation. He couldn’t see the vessel’s occupants, but he was sure he knew one of them already.