The Jackal of Nar (63 page)

“It’s terrible, Lucyler. I can’t.”

“Pretend then.”

“Tokka,” said Kronin, prodding Richius with his elbow and pantomiming taking a drink.

“All right,” said Richius wearily. “Tokka.” He took another sip of the impossibly peppery liquor, almost gagging at its noxiousness. The serving woman assigned to their table was setting down more cups and platters of food, each one less appetizing to Richius than the one before. There were whole fish swimming in green gravies, boiling bowls of red soup, and sliced meats piled high in leaning stacks, so fresh and raw that blood still dripped from the platter. Despite his hunger, the procession was unendurable. He watched the Triin devour their delicacies barehanded, for there was no silverware on the table, only circles of puffy bread for grabbing up whatever looked enticing. Lucyler and Kronin dipped continuously into the communal platter placed before Richius, and the clatter of dishes being passed around sounded through the banquet room. The musicians played and sang, the warriors ate like ravenous dogs, and Richius swayed in his seat, sickened by the noise and the unpalatable odor of the cuisine. Kronin nudged him none too gently in the ribs.

“Ish umlat halhara do?”

Lucyler leaned over to translate. “He wants to know why you do not eat.”

“I’m not hungry,” said Richius politely. Kronin scowled at him, as if he understood the lie.

“It does not matter if you are hungry or not, Richius. On Casadah everyone eats. These people have endured starvation just for this day.”

“I can’t eat, Lucyler,” said Richius through gritted teeth. “It’s disgusting.”

Lucyler reared back, stung by the insult. He put down his
wedge of bread and grabbed hold of Richius’ sleeve, pulling him close. “For over a year all I had to eat was whatever slop you and Dinadin could cook up. And I never complained. Now eat.”

Richius recoiled. “You’re right,” he said sheepishly. “Dinadin was a terrible cook.”

They both laughed and Lucyler picked out something he thought Richius could tolerate, a soupy lentil mixture for dipping breads and vegetables in. It wasn’t too hot, and if he ate sparingly Richius found that he could stomach it. The sweetmeats and tangles of octopus tentacles he left for Kronin, who seemed to have a love for such bizarre fare. The warlord ate without end and barely broke for conversation, and it was easy to tell his favorites from all the stains on his lapel. Lucyler was less extreme. He consumed his food daintily, the way he always had in the Dring Valley, careful to choose things he knew he would finish without waste. His manners were more like the cunning-men than the warriors. While the warriors ate as if they were about to battle giants, the Drol holy men seemed more concerned with conversation than with the plethora of food. They spoke genteelly, raising toasts to Tharn and sometimes joining in the more sedate songs, and at their master’s order were wholly unconcerned now with the Naren among them.

Tharn too seemed undisturbed by Richius. He hardly looked at him at all, only occasionally flashing him one of his deformed smiles. The master of Falindar ate practically nothing, playing with his food the way a child does and drinking water instead of wine. Richius followed Tharn’s example, waving over one of the women to fill his now-empty tokka cup with the blessedly tasteless drink. The water slid down his burning gullet like a spring breeze. He turned to offer some to Lucyler, who simply shrugged indifferently.

“I don’t know how you can manage this food,” said Richius. “It’s so hot.”

“You will get used to it.”

“No, thanks.” Richius glanced around the table and saw that the others were well liquored now, engaged in overloud conversations. A good chance to try again, he reasoned. “Tell me about Tharn,” he whispered to Lucyler. “What happened to him?”

“No,” said the Triin, exasperated. “The others may hear us.”

“No one’s going to hear us. They can’t even understand us. Come on, tell me. Is it a disease?”

“Not a disease,” answered Lucyler. “A judgment.”

“What do you mean? Someone did that to him?”

“The gods made him this way.”

“The gods? Oh, no, Lucyler. Don’t say it.”

“Keep your voice down,” chided Lucyler. “I told you about his powers but I did not tell you why he will not use them anymore, remember?”

Richius nodded. It was one of the things about Tharn he was most curious about.

“Do you recall that day in the valley when I told you about the Drol?”

“You said they would never use magic to harm another living being, I remember. So?”

“Is it not obvious?” asked Lucyler. “Look at him.”

“Lucyler, he has leprosy, or some other disease. That doesn’t prove anything.”

“He was not diseased until he used his powers to end the war, Richius. He used them to kill your Naren brothers, and the gods punished him for it.”

Richius rolled his eyes. “You’re really falling for him, aren’t you? You never believed that nonsense before. It’s a coincidence, nothing more.”

“It is not coincidence,” said Lucyler. “His power is from heaven. But the gods give their gifts for unknown reasons, and they are never to be used to kill.” Again he gestured toward Tharn. “You see the consequences there. He delivered us from Nar, and now he suffers for it.”

“Well, he’d better be willing to pay again,” said Richius blackly. “He’ll need his powers if he hopes to defeat Arkus.”

“He will not do it again. He has sworn it. The gods have spoken to him through his body. He knows now that what he did was wrong.”

“Oh, I think he’ll change his mind,” said Richius playfully. “When he sees the legions of Nar.”

“He will not!” said Lucyler, slamming his fist down on the table and rattling the glasses. The others around the table glanced at him, but he continued fiercely, “Can you not see what has
happened here? He is a prophet, Richius. Sent by the gods to unite Lucel-Lor. And when he broke with them he suffered. To me it is very plain.”

“All right,” said Richius. “Believe what you want, I don’t care. I’m only here for Dyana. I will speak with him tonight. If he releases her, I’ll talk to Arkus for him and be on my way in the morning. I only hope he means what he says. He will talk to me tonight, won’t he?”

“He has much on his mind,” replied Lucyler. “There is a reason why he did not see you last night.”

“And you’re not going to tell me what it is.”

Lucyler sipped languidly at his drink. “Right.”

“Your loyalties have certainly changed,” said Richius, more disappointed than angry. “I remember a time when you didn’t keep secrets from me.”

Lucyler sighed. “
Times
have changed. You do not know Tharn the way I do, not yet at least. If you did you would understand.”

“I don’t want to understand, Lucyler. I just want to get Dyana out of here.”

They ate in relative silence for a time, until a small Triin woman entered the banquet room. She was dressed in a simple white frock, unremarkable except for the blotchy crimson stains it bore. An expression of worry suffused her face. She dashed across the banquet room and up to Tharn, bending down to whisper in the monarch’s ear. Tharn’s hideous face blanched, his eyes widening horribly. There was an abrupt exchange between the two before Tharn struggled to his feet, calling out to Kronin to help him. The warlord sprang from his chair and was at his master’s side in an instant, lifting him up and guiding him toward the doorway. The music and eating stopped, and all watched with alarm as Tharn painfully left the room, obviously pushing his body to its limits as he limped away.

“What is it, Lucyler?” asked Richius. “What’s happening?”

“It is what I warned you of,” answered Lucyler. “I’m sorry, Richius. You will not be seeing Tharn tonight.”

W
hen Renato Biagio was a boy, he lived in splendor on the southerly island of Crote, a tiny nation renowned for its wine, its love of art and food, and its temperamental inhabitants. For nearly two centuries the Biagio family ruled Crote, growing fat on its olives and the sweat of its peasants, and ruling their dominion from a sparkling villa of marble and gold, a. palace surrounded by beaches and crystalline seas and hung with giant windows that drank in the island’s hot sun and turned the skin of the royal family amber.

The young Renato enjoyed a regal existence in his ancestral home. His every need was met instantly, and his every curiosity was satisfied by his father’s many servants. When he grew to manhood, there were slaves to pacify his lusts. Like most Crotans, Renato Biagio’s tastes were varied, and keeping himself from boredom was always a challenge. He had books and music rooms to occupy his mind, men and women to please his body, and all the wealth of a Crotan nobleman with which to explore the world. But he was landlocked in those days, for in his youth the world beyond the seas was dangerous. The Black Renaissance was sweeping the continent, and little Crote was soon to be caught up in Arkus’ grand design. Ever restless, Renato Biagio watched the Black Renaissance swallow nations, watched the ideals of Nar and its passionate emperor with youthful longing, and hoped for the day when it would reach the untouchable shores of his island prison. His father, a man of meager imagination, was quite incapable of foreseeing the military giant his foppish son would become.

Talistan wasn’t Crote. It was cold and rugged and the people here had the skin tone of cadavers. But it was quiet in the House of Gayle, and the inactivity afforded Biagio time to consider things. Since Blackwood Gayle’s departure to Lucel-Lor, some weeks ago now, the castle had seemed deserted. The absence of the baron and his army had given Biagio time to plan. Only
occasionally was he interrupted here, usually by servants seeing to his numerous needs, and he never once saw the ailing king of Talistan, Blackwood Gayle’s decrepit father. Like his son, Tassis Gayle had always been loyal to Nar, and he had given his blessing to let the head of Arkus’ Roshann use his home as a command base.

And command he did. Biagio had worked wisely these past weeks, hurrying Blackwood Gayle and his horsemen into Lucel-Lor to find a cure for the emperor. He had conscripted the fools of Aramoor, enslaving them to Talistanian masters, and he had sent the Lady Sabrina to the citadel of Falindar in search of her wayward husband. Sure that he was doing all he could to aid his beloved Arkus, Biagio was moderately satisfied. He had even summoned an old friend to the House of Gayle.

This morning Biagio awoke at the same time he always did, just past dawn. As was customary, the house slave assigned to him provided him with a light breakfast of tea and biscuits and a little jar of jam. Biagio dressed before pouring himself a cup of tea, then took his steaming drink to the giant window and opened it, stepping out onto a sizable balcony. His chambers provided a magnificent view of the cold ocean, and though he usually shunned the cool morning air, Biagio decided to rest a moment outside and let the sea remind him of his far-off Crote. He dragged a chair out onto the balcony and sat down, sipping at his hot beverage as his sluggish blood thawed. A slight tremor rippled through his hand, making his teacup shiver. The count put a palm to his forehead and felt the skin. Freezing, he decided with a frown. He would need another treatment soon. It was a small matter really, since he never traveled anywhere without his life-sustaining drug, but the treatments were uncomfortable and bothersome, especially when he had things on his mind. Tonight, perhaps. Or definitely tomorrow …

The count stopped fretting when an object on the horizon snared his gaze. His sharp eyes focused out across the sea. A ship was approaching. A very large ship. Count Biagio smiled.

“Hello, my friend,” he said, getting to his feet. “Welcome to Talistan.”

• • •

It took the
Fearless
almost an hour to reach the coast. The giant flagship of the Black Fleet crested the seas like a leviathan, parting the waves effortlessly under its enormous keel. Its triple masts and dozen dark sails swelled with the ocean air, bearing the warship toward land at a speed that seemed impossible for such an immense craft. At its center mast, flying high and proud, was a single flag of black.

Count Biagio greeted the arrival of the
Fearless
with glee. It had been far too many months since he had seen the proud vessel, and the sight of the beautiful war machine heartened him. She was the pride of the Black Fleet, the terrible messenger of Arkus. Rimmed with flame cannons and stout with fighting men, she was unequaled in all the world’s navies. Just like her commander.

Admiral Danar Nicabar stepped lightly from the dinghy that brought him ashore, his polished boots sinking fast into the wet sand of Talistan. When he saw his old comrade, a devious grin cracked his rocky face. He was a tall man, and only rarely did his countenance change to express pleasure. Like his flagship, Danar Nicabar was peerless, the most excellent naval commander the Black Fleet had ever produced. Because he was a member of the Iron Circle, his eyes shone the same narcotic blue as Biagio’s, a trait all who used the drugs shared. He was crass and terrible, and Biagio counted him among his closest friends.

“Danar,” said Biagio with exuberance. The delicate count waited for Nicabar to step out of the mud before going to meet him. They embraced. Biagio kissed the admiral’s cheek, ignoring the inquisitive stares of the sailors that had brought the officer ashore, then took Nicabar’s giant hand and led him away.

“You’ve come quicker than I expected,” said Biagio. “I’m glad.”

“I am not,” said Nicabar harshly. “Renato, what am I doing here?”

Biagio smiled. He had expected the admiral’s poor reaction to his summons. “When did you get my message? Where were you? Near Liss?”

The admiral shook his head. “Off of Casarhoon. We were on our way back to Nar City when your message arrived. I had news I wanted to bring Arkus.” Nicabar looked up at the looming
House of Gayle in the distance. “Renato, what is all this? What’s happened?”

“It’s a very long story,” sighed the count. He put his arm around Nicabar’s shoulders and directed him toward the castle. “Come. There are too many ears here.”