The Jackal of Nar (38 page)

“What do their parents say about it?” he asked finally. “Are they proud of what’s been done to their children?”

Biagio seemed not to hear Richius’ sarcasm. His smile sharpened as he said, “Why shouldn’t they be proud? Not every child can be of such service to the emperor. Only the very best are chosen. It’s a very high honor, and their families are well taken care of.”

An attendant refilled Richius’ goblet. “The
procedure
must be painful.”

“Not very,” said Biagio. “The children are given things to calm them.”

“Really? What kind of things?”

Biagio’s strange eyes flashed at Richius but he did not answer for a long moment. At last he said, almost inaudibly, “We have things here in Nar to ease pain, Prince Richius. The children do not suffer. No one who serves the emperor suffers.”

Richius started to speak, but a stunning, richly tanned woman interrupted him, slipping between him and Biagio with a twist of her shapely hip. Sure that Biagio would have something surly to say about the breach of etiquette, Richius stepped back. But the count’s face only brightened at the intrusion.

“Ah, you look enticing, my darling,” he said, taking the woman’s hand. He waved Richius closer. “Prince Richius, allow me to introduce my wife, Elliann.”

Richius took the woman’s offered hand. He bent to kiss it, smelling the strong odor of liquor beneath the painted nails.

“My pleasure, madam,” he said, and when he looked into her dark eyes he saw the same odd transiency he had always noticed in Biagio. She gazed back at him, and yet seemed to be gazing past him, too. But he didn’t stare, not at her eyes nor at her alluring figure. The Countess Elliann pulled her hand back slowly, letting Richius’ fingers caress her own.

“No, Prince Richius. Mine is the pleasure.” Her voice was syrupy slow, like her husband’s. It had a kind of sultriness that Richius found at once attractive, and he had to force himself not to look at her eyes. With her arrogant manners and catlike gait, she was every bit Biagio’s mate.

“My wife was eager to meet you, Prince Richius,” said
Biagio. “I have told her about you and your adventures in Lucel-Lor. Perhaps later you might entertain her with a story or two?”

Richius frowned. “Perhaps.”

“That would be wonderful,” said the countess. “I do like a good war story, and I’ve heard that Lucel-Lor was dreadfully bloody. You’re not shy talking about it, are you, Prince Richius?”

“No,” lied Richius. “Not really.”

“I’m so glad. I have so many questions, but none of the others will talk to me about it. Not even Baron Gayle.” She leaned closer, saying in a whisper, “He was there when Tharn took Tatterak, you know.”

Richius nearly dropped his goblet. He turned to Biagio and asked sharply, “Is Blackwood Gayle
here
?”

“Of course,” said Biagio. “Is that a problem? I did tell you all the rulers of Nar would be present.”

Richius quickly scanned the giant room for Blackwood Gayle. He saw several men in the green and gold of Talistan, but none of them was the baron, and he muttered under his breath just loud enough for Biagio to hear. This was an insult beyond imagining, and he had no intention of letting it go unchallenged. To hell with etiquette. There were some things even Arkus had no right to do. He watched the people parade by, hoping to spot Gayle, to catch a glimmer of the silver mask he was said to wear now. But he saw nothing. Relieved, he settled himself with another sip of wine just as a group of revelers parted before him. There, across the crowded throne room, he glimpsed a girl. She was young, barely sixteen, with hair the color of honey. A name popped into his brain.

Sabrina.

The Lady Sabrina of Gorkney hadn’t seen him yet, preoccupied as she was with wiping a wine stain off the shirt of her driver, Dason. The big carriage man looked pitifully out of place in his worn boots and bulky woolen jacket. His hair was tousled and his beard was badly in need of a trim, a stark contrast to the impeccably groomed noblemen milling around him. Sabrina, however, was stunning. Her lithe frame was draped in a gown of sapphire-blue silk that made the gold of her hair sparkle like sunlight on an ocean. Perfectly painted lips drew back in an embarrassed smile as her fingers worked a handkerchief into the rose-colored stain on Dason’s shirt. Though he had only just
met her the day before, Richius was comforted by her familiar face. He stepped forward without thinking, calling out to her and waving.

“Lady Sabrina!”

Sabrina ceased her rubbing and looked around the room uncertainly. Again Richius called to her, and this time caught her eye. She glanced over at him, confused. Then, as if with sudden recollection, she turned from him, hiding her face with a quick twist of her head. A second later she disappeared into the crowd, leaving her dazed driver alone with his drink and his soiled shirt.

Richius started after her, then abruptly stopped himself. Surely she must have recognized him. What sort of greeting was that? He frowned, a boyish feeling of rejection creeping over him, and wondered just what gaffe he had committed to make her act so strangely.

“Do you know Lady Sabrina, Prince Richius?” asked Biagio. There was an overfamiliarity about the question that made Richius uneasy.

“Not really. I helped her and her driver get their carriage out of a bog yesterday.” He glanced back at the crowd into which Sabrina had vanished. “I thought for certain she’d have recognized me.”

“Did you speak to her?”

Richius turned again to the count. Even his wife seemed to be hanging on his answer.

“Briefly. Why?”

“She’s an attractive girl.”

“I suppose.”

“There are many attractive women here, don’t you think, Prince Richius?” asked Countess Elliann. She took hold of Richius’ arm and squeezed. “A man like yourself has to be careful, or some young thing will have her claws into you.”

“Stop it, my dear,” said Biagio easily. “You are making our poor guest nervous.” He removed his wife’s grip on Richius. “Forgive my wife, Prince Richius. She has an eye for fine-looking men.”

“I’m flattered that your wife thinks me so, Count,” said Richius. He bowed to the countess. “Excuse me, my lady, but there are many guests for me to greet, and I seem to have lost
track of my own men.” He took her hand and forced himself to kiss it again. “It was a pleasure to meet you. Your husband is a fortunate man.”

She pretended to blush. “Maybe we can talk later?”

“I’ll look forward to it. Count, you have some others for me to meet, yes?”

“Indeed,” said Biagio. “Come.”

Richius followed the count through the maze of perfumed bodies, past rows of tables teeming with fresh breads and colorful fruits arranged like rainbows. When they came to a suitably quiet corner of the chamber, Biagio stopped and took Richius’ goblet from him, placing it and his own on a nearby table. The count glanced around furtively, his expression growing suddenly serious. He clamped an icy hand onto Richius’ shoulder and drew him close.

“You have many talents, Prince Richius,” he said softly. “You’re a far better diplomat than your father ever was. My wife has so many of these fools sniffing around her like dogs. But not you.”

“Believe me, Count, I meant no insult. I merely—”

“Do not apologize. The way you handled her was exquisite. Not many men have the courage to say no to Elliann. But you did better than that, didn’t you? You had her absolutely charmed. You will do well here, I think.”

“Forgive me, Count, but you must explain yourself. Your meaning is lost on me.”

Biagio pulled Richius closer, taking him around the shoulder the way a father does a son. Richius glanced around the room, hoping no one was watching. But they seemed to be wholly alone, for the rest of the guests were all involved in their own conversations. Biagio pointed his finger toward the chamber’s other side.

“Look, across the room. Do you see it?”

And Richius did see it. The Iron Throne of Arkus.

It was not as grand as he had imagined. In fact, he was struck by its remarkable plainness. There were no jewels inlaid in it, no ornate carvings or runes drawn in its metal. There were no cushions upon its seat, nor did its back tower pretentiously to the ceiling. There was only the rough utilitarian-ness of iron, cold and unapproachable. The throne sat stark and empty upon its tiny
dais, strangely out of place in the opulent chamber, yet in all the vastness of the Empire, nothing bespoke power more than this shabby, roughly forged chair.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?”

Richius had to agree. It was so much like his father’s own throne that it made him wonder about the emperor that sat upon it. How simple was Arkus of Nar, conqueror of the continent, that he should be satisfied with such plainness? What kind of man had summoned him to Nar?

“It’s remarkable,” said Richius at last. He had many questions about the throne, all of which he decided not to ask Biagio. There was something more the count intended of this conversation. “What do you want to tell me, Count?” he asked.

“There are things we must discuss, Prince Richius. Things you should know before you meet the others.”

“Others?”

“Others like myself. Men who are as close to the emperor as his own thoughts.”

“I think I know these men, Count. In Aramoor we call them the Iron Circle.”

“We are called that here in Nar, too,” said Biagio. “It is not what we prefer to call ourselves, though.”

“You speak as if I have something to fear from these men,” said Richius. “Do I?”

Biagio chuckled. “Oh, Prince Richius, you have no idea!”

“Tell me.”

“We are the emperor’s eyes and ears. When we advise, he listens.”

“So?”

“So it would be wise for you to handle the others just as you did my wife. They will be watching you, waiting for you to show the same taint of treason as your father. A stupid man might give them what they want. But you’re not stupid, are you?”

Richius could hardly speak. He had never expected Biagio to be so bold about his father’s treason, and he had no idea how to answer.

“Why are you telling me this, Count?” he asked. “What is it you want from me?”

“I assure you, Prince Richius, I want nothing more than to see you succeed as king.”

Again, Richius made no attempt to hide his skepticism.

“You don’t believe me?” asked Biagio. “You should. You already know how important peace within the Empire is to us. But the others are unsure of you. You will have to prove yourself.”

“And if I don’t?”

Biagio raised his eyebrows. “That would be very bad. For you see, not everyone in Nar is as forgiving as I am. And my influence with the emperor is limited. But if you can convince the others that you are not so much your father’s son, they will have nothing to report to the emperor. Then you can return home to Aramoor secure in your kingship, and I can do my job without interference.”

“Oh?” asked Richius. “And just what is your job?”

Biagio smiled dispassionately. “Watching you.”

There was a pause between the two men that lasted only a moment, but it was long enough for a simple phrase to form in Richius’ mind. It was a phrase everyone in the Empire knew, one that Richius had learned at his father’s knee. It still made him shudder when he thought of it.

The Roshann is everywhere.

“Very well,” said Richius finally. “It seems I have no choice but to appease these men.”

“It’s for the good of Aramoor, Prince Richius,” said Biagio, returning Richius’ drink.

“I’m sure. Where are they, then? Show me.”

“One is directly behind you. Do not turn around quickly.”

Slowly, deliberately, Richius turned his head back toward the throne, casually sipping at his wine. He surveyed the room lazily, wondering who he was looking for, when his eyes fixed on a conspicuously small man ahead of him. Like Biagio, the man was richly dressed. He was well under five feet tall, and he seemed not to notice them as he gazed up at the long-legged beauty towering over him, her glass poised at the level of his nose. A pair of eyes like those on a cockroach repeatedly shifted from the woman’s face to her bosom.

“Who is that?”

Biagio turned away. “Don’t stare,” he said sharply. “His name is Bovadin. Nar’s minister of arms.”

“Oh, yes,” said Richius.
The man who keeps the war labs busy.
Even in Aramoor he had heard of this diminutive genius. The
creator of the flame cannon and the war wagon and the acid launcher, Bovadin had the dubious honor of bringing science to Nar. He was old now but he didn’t seem so, another curiosity that Richius noted, and over the decades his machines had torn down the walls and pride of a hundred cities. It was this kind of man who had made Aramoor bend its knee to Arkus without a fight. It was Bovadin who had made swords and spears as ineffectual as sticks and stones.

“Do you want me to introduce myself?”

“No. He doesn’t like to talk to other men. You’ll be in Nar long enough to meet him, though. He will find you when he’s ready.”

“But I thought you wanted me to speak to them, convince them of my loyalty.”

“I want you to remember the faces, that’s all. Before this day is done you will meet most of them. When you do, you will know not to say anything stupid.”

Richius nodded wearily. “Who else?”

Biagio cocked his pinky toward the doors. A man in a robe of brilliant white was entering the chamber, his arms spread wide as well-wishers rushed up to greet him.

“The bishop,” said Biagio.

Bishop Herrith walked with practiced grace through the crowd, patting cheeks and giving absolution out like sweets. He was a fat man but his movements were elegant. A train of cowled acolytes trailed behind him, their heads bent in silent reverence. The sight made Richius wince. Like most Aramoorians, he was not overly religious, and cared little for the rituals of the Naren priests. It was no coincidence that most of the churches they had built in Aramoor stood empty on the sabbath day. Though men like Herrith claimed that the Gods of Nar and Aramoor were one, the Vantrans had always done their best to dispel this myth.

“I don’t want to meet with him,” said Richius coldly. “We have priests enough in Aramoor.”