The Jackal of Nar (40 page)

Richius gasped, and Gayle burst into laughter.

“I told you she was a beauty. Her name’s Sabrina. She’s Duke Wallach’s girl, from Gorkney.” The baron’s eye lit up lecherously. “And she’s just of age. What do you say to that?”

“She’s agreed to marry
you
?”

“Not yet, but it doesn’t matter. Her father’s put her on the market now that she’s sixteen, and I hear he’s eager to be rid of her. I have but to ask the emperor for her and she’ll be mine.” Gayle smacked his blistered lips, turning back to look at Sabrina. “Take a good look at her hips, Vantran. I’d wager she gives me a dozen sons.”

The thought made Richius cringe. Not only did more Gayles
mean trouble for Aramoor, but to think of such monsters springing from such an innocent womb made him want to retch. Yet what Gayle said was probably true; Sabrina would have almost nothing to say about whom her father and the emperor married her to, and that made it all seem even more criminal. If it happened, Richius knew, her life would be little better than hell. He glanced over at Patwin and saw that his comrade’s face was white with dread.

“Maybe you should reconsider your choice, Baron,” said Patwin. “You’re a bit big for her, don’t you think? A girl like that might easily die giving birth to your sons. Perhaps you should look for someone more sizable.”

“Ridiculous,” rumbled Gayle. “She’ll take care of herself, I’ll see to that. And if any of you whelps have your eyes on her, forget it. She’s mine.”

There was a finality about the word
mine
that made Richius’ patience snap. He glared at the baron, saying, “Is that all you’ve come for? Really, Gayle, you’re gloating over nothing. I certainly wouldn’t choose a wench as frail as that. And she’s a throwaway, you say? My lord, if her own father doesn’t want her, why should you?”

“Enough,” said Gayle. “I have come at Arkus’ behest to give you my good wishes. Take them or do not.”

“I do not,” said Richius. “And I don’t appreciate having you here. You may tell the emperor for me that I have no wish at all to get along with you, Blackwood Gayle. Nor do I share his hope, if that is what it is, that Aramoor and Talistan should be allies.”

“You may tell him yourself,” came a curvaceous voice from behind Gayle. Biagio stepped out from behind Gayle’s cape, a secretive smile on his face. “Are you ready, Prince Richius?”

“Ready?” Richius asked. “For what?”

“Why, to meet the emperor, of course.” The count took the goblet from Richius’ hand. “I hope you haven’t been drinking too much.”

A
rkus of Nar was known by a thousand different names.

When he was young, so long ago now he could scarcely recall, Arkus had relished the names the vanquished gave him. They were good names, strong and full of fear. And each land that fell to his machines gave him another to tie on his armor like a ribbon, so that all the others could see him coming, brightly dressed and ready to conquer. Upon the siege of Goss he was called the Lion, and at the fall of Doria the women of that ruined city anointed him Child-Slayer. In the tongue-twisting speech of the Eastern Highlands he was the Bear; and the Crotans, who went to their knees almost without a struggle, called him the Bull. In the tall, cold hills of Gorkney he was the Ram, and in the deserts of Dahaar he was the Adder. He was the Conqueror in Casarhoon, the Plague in Criisia, and the Beast in Vosk. The twin dukes of Dragon’s Beak called him Lord Protector, and the Gayles of Talistan called him father.

In Liss he was the Devil.

But of all these fanciful names, Arkus himself preferred only one—Emperor. He was old now, and he thought he had earned the simple dignity of the title. Long since tired of his ferocious nicknames, there was a part of him that acknowledged the quiet desire for recognition. He had forged the Empire out of a hundred warring cities, had led the continent into the greatest age of enlightenment it had ever known, yet no one called him Arkus the Great the way they had his grandfather, and he supposed that only rarely did anyone thank his war labs for the medicines they discovered. A century ago there had been no oil to keep the lamps alive at night, no simples to cure the blood cough, and no roads to reach the northern lands. There had not even been the day-to-day order of things that so many took for granted. All these things existed now because he had willed them into being. He was, in his mind at least, a visionary.

But they never see that
, he thought bitterly. He leaned back in
his chair and watched the liquid swim into his veins. It was bluer than usual, like indigo or ink. Twice the dose of a normal treatment, that’s what Bovadin had said. Arkus felt a small shudder go through him. Even he, as emperor, had been hard pressed to obtain such a dangerous dosage of the drug. Biagio was always watching, making sure no harm came to him, and the count was very vocal. No one really knew what such a strong blend could do, not even Bovadin. But in the end the scientist’s macabre curiosity had won out over Biagio’s motherly concern, and the count had peevishly relented. Arkus was the emperor and his word was law, no matter how self-destructive some of his edicts might be.

The overturned vial that held the concoction was nearly empty, so Arkus forced himself to settle down and endure the last of it. His treatments were always so much worse when his moods were bad, and he had a throne room full of guests not to vomit on today. But he was in a melancholy mood, and restfulness would not come easily. It was the thirtieth day of winter. The chill outside his high tower was wretchedly bitter. Of late his body had become a rebellion, requiring ever more of the potion to keep it together and make it obey him. That every king in Nar might see him like this enraged him. But if this potion worked the way Bovadin supposed…

He closed his eyes, suddenly feverish with hope. Just enough to look strong, that was all he wanted. For the past two decades he had endured an ordeal like this almost daily, puncturing his wrist with a needle to feed himself the life-sustaining potions. He was addicted to it now. They all were. But he was so much older than the others of the Circle. Bovadin certainly looked younger than he should, and Biagio would likely have his golden beauty forever. Only he, the one who made it all possible, the one whose vision had given birth to the labs, was forced to live in the body of a mummy. It was almost the body he had had when Bovadin first discovered the potions. But only almost. Absently he ground his teeth together. Old teeth, no longer good for chewing the meats he set out for others.

“Time,” he muttered. “How I hate you.”

Quickly he stopped himself. He needed to relax. The young prince would be coming soon, and it would be best to have his wits about him. A little smile cracked his face. At least his mind was still sound. That, Bovadin had assured him, would probably
never deteriorate. There was something about the way the potion worked on the brain. It kept the tissues vital, even when the rest of the body continued to creep toward death. And that was the problem, the damnable mystery of it all.

Across the dim chamber Lady Pennelope played lovingly on her harp. Arkus settled into the leather grip of his chair, letting her music tranquilize him. It wasn’t at all like the piercing arias of the chorus. He loved those, too, but this was different. This was intoxicating. Lady Pennelope had a gift like none he had ever heard, and it was always she who soothed him and saw him through his treatments. He had no use for physicians when she was around. The chamber was cold, but she didn’t seem to mind it. Like him, she was lost in her music, and she stroked the strings of her silver instrument as if she were alone in the room, the firelight of the hearth dancing on her face.

Nearly every afternoon was the same, and they played out the horrible ritual like two venerable actors. He would sink down in his heavy chair and fix the shiny needle to his wrist. The vial of whatever powerful concoction Bovadin had prescribed would start dripping into his veins, sometimes forcing him to cry out before it took him in its narcotic embrace. The lamps would be dimmed, the little pitcher of water would be iced, and they would be alone while she played for him and tried to make the treatment endurable. She would have seen him like no other ever had, twisted and in pain, greedily claiming more life that wasn’t his, life he had no right to anymore. She would have seen the translucent light of his eyes start to twinkle again as the potion snatched him from whatever grave he should have fallen into. But Lady Pennelope could see none of this, for a blessedly tragic thing was amiss with her.

She was blind.

Never to tell of the things she saw in Arkus’ chamber, she was his quiet, trustworthy slave, and he adored her for it. She alone had the power to make the gruesome act of resurrecting himself bearable. Her music carried him off to a place where the nausea of the drugs didn’t exist, a place where he was young again. And she had a marvelous gift for playing to his moods. Today it was one of his favorites, a dark, somber melody whose name he could not recall in his maudlin state of mind. Arkus of Nar listened to the beautiful music and wept.

It was the potion, he knew, yet he couldn’t stop himself.
Memories flooded into his brain, as if a great wind were blowing the dust off all the portraits of his life. His boyhood in Nar City, the great, violent campaigns of his youth, comrades dead and missing—it was all a red, unstoppable torrent. Flashes of rainbows danced on his eyelids, a cabaret of dizzying colors with faces both familiar and terrifying. He saw a father in the fractured mirror of his mind: Dragonheart, the first king of Nar to call himself emperor. He saw a mother whom he’d hated with a brother whom he’d killed, and countless, begging cousins who would have slaughtered cities to ingratiate themselves to him. Trophies taken in brutal battles screamed at him, heads on pikes and the wailing of the crucified beyond the city gates.

And there were women. He had known so many of them in his time, had seduced some and simply taken others to his bed. Pretty things with breakable bodies. Princesses and harlots, gifts given by ambitious fathers, and slaves whose names he never knew. So many painted faces. They were his one great vice.

Silently he cursed his dysfunctional body. These were pleasures no longer possible. Though Bovadin and his tinkerers had tried desperately to cure his impotency, they had consistently failed. They had ground the horns of fire lizards and drizzled rose petals into tiger’s milk to make him a man again, but none of their secret sciences had made him youthful enough to take a woman, and after a while he had become content to simply look and admire without touching. He knew how ghastly his appearance was, how abhorrent he must be to women now. Despite the drugs he took to sustain himself, despite the brilliant Bovadin’s efforts to keep him vital, he was rotting. The drugs did a miraculous job of slowing time, but even they couldn’t stop its march entirely. His old bones ached with every breeze that blew through the stones of his tower, and a stubborn roundness was taking over his back. In his youth his hair had been like a lion’s, but the decades and the drugs had bleached it white and killed it so that now it hung from his forehead like blades of dead grass. Hands once capable of breaking a neck now threatened to break themselves, his brittle fingers so feeble they could hardly squeeze the juice from a fruit, and his legs were so weak they could scarcely bear his weight.

Only his eyes seemed unaffected by his age. They were as bright as they had ever been, an oceanic, iridescent blue. Like all who shared the potions of the labs, Arkus’ eyes were
mesmerizing. It was a side effect of the drugs even Bovadin couldn’t explain, and it marked them all as the ageless, time-cheating addicts they were.

He sighed weakly. The music grew around him. Pennelope’s graceful hands ran through the strings a little quicker now—the song was nearly over. When her concert was done she would leave him as she always did, abandoning her harp until tomorrow’s performance. A nagging feeling of agitation crept over him. Today he ached for her to stay, for the music to continue. In his alien state, he was feeling something he had felt only rarely in his life—unspeakable fear. Two hundred feet below him, a gaggle of young and beautiful noblemen were drinking his wines and admiring his women. Fat capons and rare, bloody steaks were being consumed with abandon, and the chorus was charming the assemblage with their flawless, artificial voices. It had been six years since the last coronation of a Naren king, but in that time he had changed. Remarkably, he had actually
aged.
Except for the Iron Circle, no one had seen him since that long-ago day, and the thought of being pitied by so many smooth-skinned youths maddened him.

No. It terrified him. Worse, he had dirty business to attend to today. Somehow he had to convince Prince Richius that Nar had value, that it would be worth his while to listen to what an old, desiccated emperor had to say. It wouldn’t be at all easy. Darius Vantran had been one of the hardest kings in the Empire to deal with. If his son had half the talent for skepticism…

But no, that was unlikely. The prince was too young to be so cynical. And he wouldn’t object to what Nar had planned for him, either, not with Aramoor’s sovereignty at stake. There would be some raised eyebrows, certainly, but in the end the prince would consent.

Arkus’ old heart thrummed a little faster. He wondered if Biagio had done as he was told. He hoped so. It would make his own task so much easier. He hated to threaten, especially those he respected. And this one was worthy of respect. Biagio had been very thorough in his study of the prince, returning to the city with some impressive reports. According to the count, Prince Richius had served with quiet distinction in Lucel-Lor, doing the will of the Empire even against impossible odds. He had been wounded on two occasions, had held the Dring Valley against the
overwhelming forces of its warlord; he had even sent several letters to his father, begging him to send more troops to the valley. Though Biagio believed that the prince had had knowledge of his father’s treachery, there seemed to be no indication that the prince himself approved of it, and that was what made the difference. It convinced Arkus that his plan just might succeed.