The Grand Design (77 page)

C
aptain Kelara of the Black Fleet vessel
Swift
stood on the prow of his ship as it swooped out of the rising sun. A full wind filled the sails of his fleet-footed ship, speeding her along like a dolphin. For three weeks the
Swift
had been on patrol in Lissen waters, carrying out Biagio’s orders. They were to wait until the Lissens set sail for Crote. Then they were to fly home with all the speed of Heaven to warn the count of the coming invasion. It was a task for which the scout ship was well suited, for she was of the Leopard class, the only vessels in the Black Fleet capable of pacing Lissen warships. She had a keel like a knife and seven wide sails slung low on her masts, and with a complement of only twenty seamen, she wasn’t fat amidships. She had no armaments or cannons to slow her, no extraneous weight at all. Built for speed, she had but one purpose—to be as fast as her Lissen enemies.

Captain Kelara admired Renato Biagio. Because he believed the Crotan count to be a peerless tactician, he had taken this perilous commission with pride. Through careful planning and well-placed lures, Biagio had managed to lull the Lissens into a sense of superiority. Soon, Biagio had promised, the Lissens would launch their attack on Crote. And Crote needed to be ready for it. Most importantly, they needed forewarning. That was
Kelara’s mission. And with the
Swift
at his command, he was sure he would succeed.

But Captain Kelara hadn’t counted on the
Intimidator
, and when he’d seen it heading recklessly toward Liss, all the bravado had left him. He had tracked the dreadnought from a distance, careful to stay hidden in the sun’s glare. And when the warship had gotten too close to Liss and disappeared, he had not pursued it. That had been nearly fifteen hours ago.

Then she had reemerged.

And she wasn’t alone.

Kelara had watched through his spyglass as the
Prince of Liss
rammed the unsuspecting
Intimidator.
He had been about to give the order to rendezvous with the dreadnought when he’d seen the schooner. Too late to warn his doomed comrades, he had witnessed the dreadnought’s quick destruction. The
Prince
had remained in the dark waters for nearly an hour, watching the
Intimidator
go down. Only when the Lissens had gone did Kelara finally order the
Swift
forward.

Now, with lookouts posted high in the masts, the Naren scout ship raced to the place where the dreadnought had been, scanning the sea for survivors and the horizon for the
Prince.
Thankfully, Kelara saw no Lissen ships. He barked orders to his crew, telling them all to look sharp. He didn’t like approaching Liss in the daylight, and after seeing the bloody murder of the
Intimidator
, he was taking no chances. As they approached the area where the dreadnought had gone down, bits of flotsam and buoyant wood floated up to greet them. Kelara ordered the vessel to slow, scanning the dark waters. The impact of the Lissen ram had been enormous, shattering
Intimidator
’s hull. She had cracked like an egg.

Not far off, he began to see the bodies. They were stiff in the freezing water, bobbing slowly on the waves among the remnants of their ship. Each of the corpses had turned an icy blue.

“Seven hells,” cursed Kelara, shaking his head. He was too late. If there had been survivors, they had already frozen to death. The captain smashed a fist into an open palm, infuriated with himself. The
Swift
was a fine vessel, but without guns she could do nothing against a schooner. A feeling of impotence engulfed Kelara. Someday, the Black Fleet would return to Liss. And when they did …

“Captain, look!”

The cry came from the masts above. Kelara looked to the crow’s nest, then to the place in the ocean where the sailor was pointing. At first he saw nothing but empty water. Then his vision focused, revealing a bobbing speck far off starboard. Instantly the captain snapped open his spyglass and located the object—a living man, waving at them.

“Holy Heaven!” Kelara exclaimed. “Lieutenant Nan, bring us about. There’s a survivor!”

At the captain’s orders, the
Swift
pitched starboard toward the flailing man. Kelara’s heart leapt with new hope. If there was one, there might be others. Quickly he scanned the area, looking for survivors and finding none. The man was surrounded by bloated, blue corpses.

“All right,” said Kelara. “Just the one. I was quick enough for him, at least.” He whirled back to Lieutenant Nan, who was carefully guiding the ship toward the man. “Faster!” the captain bellowed angrily. “Get him aboard before he freezes to death!”

T
o Dyana, who had known both privilege and poverty, Count Biagio’s mansion was a marvel. Since coming to Crote, she had lived like a pampered pet, hardly a prisoner at all, with all of the count’s splendid surroundings about her. She admired his private beaches, ate his exotic foods, and dressed herself in silk, the softest she had ever felt. Biagio spared no expense for her comfort. He had no argument with her, he had explained, only her husband, and had left orders with his vast staff of slaves that she was to be well treated. He had even given her a splendid room, a rambling chamber with antique furnishings and glass doors leading to a garden. At night she heard the ocean as she slept, and she roused each morning to a delectable breakfast laid out for her by Kyla, the young slave that had greeted her on her first day in Crote. Dyana didn’t know how long her captivity would last, or when Biagio would take her to Nar as promised, but he had obviously decided to make the last days of her life exceedingly comfortable.

With nothing to occupy her, she spent most of her days wandering the mansion’s manicured grounds, admiring the gardens and extraordinary topiaries, and reading books from the count’s impressive libraries. She avoided the other Narens, who Eris had explained were exiles like Biagio. They weren’t at all like Richius.
They were pale-skinned and oily, and even the men painted their lips. Eris said they were Naren lords. Dyana wondered exactly what that meant. In Aramoor, Richius had been a king. But he had never been girl-pretty like Biagio or the others. She feared going to Nar City as Biagio had threatened. Of all the tales Richius had told her of that place, only now was she beginning to believe them.

Among the Narens there was one that Dyana feared the most, the lanky one named Savros. He had been watching her. Sometimes, when she was alone in the gardens or reading, she suddenly felt his eyes on her back. Eris had warned Dyana to stay clear of Savros. She had said that he was a torturer, one of Biagio’s close confidants, and that he was called the Mind Bender. He killed for pleasure, Eris had told her, and the claim made Dyana shudder. There was murder in his eyes. Dyana had seen it, along with a kind of childish adoration. He was a volatile creature, and Dyana did her best to avoid him.

She hardly saw Biagio, either. The count had spoken to her only once since her arrival on Crote, and only then to make small talk, to see if she was comfortable in her rooms. Dyana thought him a braggart. He had shown her the marvelous gardens and then walked away with a regal smile, his sapphire eyes burning brightly. After finally meeting the Count of Crote, Dyana still didn’t know what to make of him. Eris claimed he was insane, but that he hadn’t always been so. He could be kind and gentle, she had told Dyana, and Dyana had actually seen some of that, two virtues she would never have expected of Biagio. Still, he had a remarkable cruel streak. He still used her as a lure, and would probably kill her when his game was done.

Of all the people in the mansion, only Eris was a friend. She and Dyana spent long hours together, took their meals together, and gossiped over the goings-on in the Empire across the sea. Dyana told Eris all about
Richius and Shani, whom she missed beyond words, and Eris danced her beloved ballets for Dyana, taking Dyana’s mind off the constant horrors plaguing her. When Dyana watched her perform, perfect and without music, she would stare with wonder and forget her troubles for a time, marveling at the way a trained body could move. Dancing was the girl’s life. She loved it more than anything—even more than she loved Simon—and she seemed not to mind her slave status at all. Biagio had made her a great dancer, she told Dyana. He had trained and shaped her, for he had an ear for music and an eye for greatness. Back in Nar, his vast fortune had paid for the finest tutelage. As much as she feared her patron, Eris also loved him. And she truly believed he loved her, too.

It was the love a collector feels for gems, Dyana knew, but she didn’t tell that to Eris. That truth would have broken the girl’s heart, and Dyana had no wish to shatter Eris’ illusions. So she let Eris believe as she wished, listening to her stories and watching her dance, grateful to have a friend.

On a night like every other, Dyana awoke to the strains of the distant sea. The shades were open over her glass doors and she could see the island beyond her rooms. Swaying grasses in the garden tossed shadows on the walls, and Dyana sat up in the grip of fright, recalling a nightmare with awful clarity. She had been on a ship with Richius and Shani. A storm had come and sunk their vessel, and she alone had swum ashore. Dyana put a trembling hand to her forehead. Richius and Shani
were
gone. Somewhere. And suddenly, it was all too much for her. She wanted to weep but found herself empty of tears. Instead, she sank back against her pillows and stared out the glass doors. Shani might still be on her way to Crote, but that seemed unlikely now. And Richius was lost, too, gone off on some fool’s vendetta. Dyana was alone. Again.

Unable to sleep, she rose from the bed, feeling the
urgent need to move. She dressed in a fog, putting on some of the expensive clothes Biagio had supplied, and slipping her feet into a pair of leather shoes with soft soles that wouldn’t make noise when she walked. A quick check in the mirror revealed a face lined with exhaustion, but she ignored the frightening visage, going for the door and stepping out into the echoing hallway. The marble corridor stretched out on either side of her, decorated with sculptures and scalloped woodwork. It was immensely quiet this late at night. Dyana closed the door behind her, quickly deciding on a direction.

Count Biagio was a very private man. Though he had given her full run of his palace, he had his own private wing that was forbidden to all, even his Naren henchmen. Dyana was resolute about seeing it. He meant to kill her anyway, she reasoned. She might as well see what he was hiding. She moved swiftly through the corridor, and passed the place where the slaves were quartered, far from her own rooms but no less elegant. Even Biagio’s servants were coddled. Past the servants’ area, she came to an enormous, circular chamber with white columns and decorated with portraits of Biagio’s family, all lean and golden like the count. Dyana paused to regard the paintings. She caught Biagio’s likeness in most of them, but none had his blue eyes or girlish beauty. Biagio was far more striking than any of his kin.

Dyana left the chamber and soon found herself near the count’s private wing. An archway of baby-smooth plaster separated the place from the rest of the villa. Festoons of flowers hung on the walls, perfuming the air, and a small fountain babbled in the corridor. From the mouth of a naked nymph, water cascaded over smooth, white rocks. Dyana listened, loving its sound, then heard something else in the distance down the hall. Music? She cocked her head to listen closer.

What sounded like a piano rang in the distance. It
was very late, and the sound drowned the melody of the fountain. The music was harsh and thunderous. But it drew Dyana forward. She moved toward it, following its strains through bends in the halls, until at last she was deep in Biagio’s private wing, outside a pair of slightly open doors. Behind the portals she could hear the fractious music and the determined slamming of fingers on a keyboard. Dyana slid closer to the doors, peeking inside. The music was atrociously loud. Inside, she saw a room of pink marble and thick, wine-red rugs, decorated with porcelain busts and furious-looking portraits. At the edge of her vision she saw the end of a white piano, but she couldn’t see who was playing. Feeling bold, she pushed the door open a little more, and saw to her astonishment a crazed Biagio.

He was hunched over the instrument, violently hammering the keys as sweat dripped from his face and drenched his flying, golden hair. The music he made screamed from the piano, shaking the room and its fragile decorations. He was lost in it, pounding it out like a madman as he swayed to the fierce rhythms. He was dressed in his usual silks, but the sleeve of one arm had been torn from his shirt, revealing golden skin and a flashing needle. A tube ran from the needle to a vial on the piano. The vial jumped along the piano with each pound of the keyboard. Biagio’s face was set, his eyes gushing tears, his jaw tight. He looked to be in enormous pain, but he didn’t cry out, nor even utter the smallest moan.