The Jackal of Nar (79 page)

The driver heard him and turned to look. Richius smiled at him. The man turned back around.

“You shouldn’t be talking to me,” warned Dyana. “Voris may see you.”

“So let him. You’re supposed to be teaching me to speak Triin, aren’t you? He knows that.”

Dyana was contemplative. “Not now,” she said after a moment. “Maybe when we reach Dring. When we can be alone.”

“Why are you ignoring me?” asked Richius flatly. He liked the cold preciseness of the question, the way it made Dyana flush. She toyed with the baby, feigning surprise.

“I am not,” she said.

“Yes, you are. I haven’t seen you for days. How come?” Now Voris heard them. The warlord tossed a warning scowl over his shoulder, which Richius blithely ignored. “Are you angry with me?”

“No,” said Dyana quickly. “Not angry. Please, I cannot explain.”

“Is it about Tharn? Are you angry with him?”

No answer. Richius grinned.

“That’s it, isn’t it? You’re worried about him. He told me you wouldn’t speak to him.”

Dyana scowled at him. Her voice was ice as she said, “You men are all so smart.” Then she reached for the door and slid it closed.

Dumbfounded, Richius let the carriage pass.

But he was determined to get an answer, and that night, when the moon rose and a fog settled down and all the others were asleep, he twisted silently out of his bedroll and stalked toward Dyana’s coach, avoiding the dying light of the fire. The warrior who had driven the coach was asleep against a tree, his jaw slung open in exhaustion. Richius moved past him silently, then past the sleeping Voris, masking his footfalls beneath the warlord’s copious snores. He reached the coach and sneaked around to the side, well hidden from any restless eyes, and pressed his ear to the wall. What sounded like a baby’s breath reached him through the cloth. But there was no movement. He peeked around the front of the coach, satisfied that Voris and his men were asleep, then moved back to the door and put his mouth to it.

“Dyana,” he whispered. “Dyana, wake up.”

He held his breath and listened. Nothing.

“Dyana, it’s me, Richius. If you can hear me, open up.”

Now Shani started to stir, awakened by his voice. She let out a disgruntled whimper. Richius smiled.
Good girl. Wake up Mother.
He scratched at the door with his fingers, hoping Dyana would see the fabric bulge. Shani’s whimper grew to an irritated cry. Richius could hear Dyana starting to wake.

“Dyana.”

There was a short, panicked gasp, followed by a stretch of confused silence. The shadow of Dyana’s head bobbed as she strained to see past the cloth door. Richius tapped on the white fabric.

“Dyana, it’s me,” he said. “It’s Richius.”

“Richius?” she answered unsteadily. “What do you want?”

“Let me in, I have to talk to you.”

The door slid open quickly and Dyana peeked outside. She
looked at him, then past him. “What is wrong?” she asked. “Are you all right?”

Richius put up his palms to quiet her. “I’m fine. Nothing’s wrong. I just need to speak to you.”

She blinked. “Now?”

“Yes,” said Richius. He squeezed his head and shoulders into the cab, looking about for some empty space. There was precious little, but he flashed Dyana an ingratiating smile and asked, “Can I come in?”

Dyana pulled her blanket closer. “Richius, what do you want? It is very late.”

“I want to talk to you. Please. No one will see us.”

“We will be at Castle Dring soon,” said Dyana, shooing him away. “We can talk then.”

Insistently Richius pushed himself farther into the cramped cabin, his foot missing the cranky Shani by inches. Dyana snatched up the baby and stared at Richius in disbelief.

“I don’t want to wait until we get to the castle,” said Richius sternly, pulling the door closed behind him. “We must talk.”

“Why?”

“Dyana, I don’t understand this. What’s the matter with you? You haven’t spoken to me since we left Falindar. Why are you avoiding me?”

Dyana turned away from him. She began fussing with the baby, adjusting her swaddling and rocking her to silence. Richius reached out for her, lightly tracing the skin of her hand. She flinched at his touch.

“Dyana, what is it? Tell me, please. You’re frightening me.”

“How can you not know?” asked Dyana. “It should be plain to you. We are together now, Richius. Without Tharn.”

Richius shrugged. “We’ll be all right without him.”

“No. Do you not see? Look what he has done to us. He has left you alone with me. You are free from him now.”

“Is that why you’re afraid?” asked Richius, instantly offended. “Lord, Dyana, how could you think such a thing? Don’t you know I would never harm you?”

Dyana looked at him pleadingly. “You misunderstand me.”

And then suddenly he did understand. He could hardly speak or even breathe. He reached out for her again, and this time she did not shrink away.

“I am thinking of the baby,” she said. “Voris will kill you if he thinks you have dishonored me.”

Richius chuckled. “He will not, Dyana. He’s Tharn’s friend, and Tharn told him to work with me.”

“No, you do not understand. Voris came to me, Richius. On the night of the council. He warned me not to disgrace Tharn. He said he would kill you if I let you touch me.”

“When were you going to tell me this, Dyana? I should have known sooner.”

“I was trying to avoid you,” she said with annoyance. “But you are so stubborn. He must not suspect anything from us. He will kill you. And maybe me. He thinks I am bad for Tharn. He will take the baby from me.…”

“No harm will come to Shani,” said Richius. “Or to us.”

“Tharn loves me so much, Richius. He is sick for me. Voris knows that. And …” Dyana’s eyes filled with confession. “I spent the night with Tharn.”

“You did?” Richius said, not hiding his astonishment. “How?”

“He came to me, the night before he left. He was so sad, and he wanted me, wanted to be cared for. He shared my bed. And I felt nothing for him but pity.”

“Tharn is miles away, Dyana. He cannot harm us.”

Dyana shook her head. “No. Voris will tell him. He must never see us together, Richius. Never. Please …”

“Easy,” crooned Richius. “Don’t be afraid. I will not come to you again on the ride. But when we reach the castle—”

“No, not even there. Nowhere, Richius.”

Richius sighed. “Tharn told you to teach me,” he said. “So teach me. That way we can be together without making Voris suspicious.”

“Can we?”

“I can be strong. We can still talk and see each other. You can teach me your language. Let Voris be suspicious. He won’t have any proof. We won’t give him any.”

Dyana bit her lip. “The baby …”

“Shani will be safe. We won’t betray Tharn. I promise you that. But I cannot be away from you.”

“Nor I you.”

Richius beamed. He kissed his finger, then put it to her lips.
“Until the castle, then,” he said, and didn’t wait for her reply before silently opening the coach’s door and springing out. He waved at her and she nodded, then closed the door.

Richius skirted around the coach and surveyed the campsite. The first thing he noticed was the silence. Voris’ incessant snoring had stopped. He peered through the darkness to where the warlord slept, but he could not see the man’s face clearly, only the steady rise and fall of his chest. Richius eased past him, never once taking his eyes from the man. When he was barely ten feet away he noticed the flashing of eye whites. Voris was staring at him. Richius froze.

Unsure what to do, Richius did nothing. The warlord’s face contorted into a disapproving grimace. And then, remarkably, Voris shut his eyes and rolled over.

T
he Black City, as Nar had long been called, earned its name from the constant clouds of ash and smoke that drifted eternally above the city. It was an apt name, and particularly suited the place on warm spring days, when the wind was impotent against the heavy pollution choked up by the incinerators. On such days the sunlight struggled to reach the earth, and the shadows of the labyrinthine skyscrapers were rich and dark. There was a mood to the city on these days, a colorless depression shared by all in the ancient capital. It struck both the beggars in the streets and the royal fops in their posh apartments, for it was an ailment of the mind and crushing to the human spirit. Those with means escaped the city on these days, taking horse or carriage or boat to a place where the air was more natural. There were many places in the Empire a man could go to find clean skies. Count Renato Biagio had seen almost all of them. But he always considered himself lucky when he came home again, back to the bizarre city he adored. Nar was his truest love, more so even than Crote, and every time he saw its jagged silhouette he swooned.

Yet today, as he raced through the corridors of the black palace, he hardly noticed the splendor of his home. He had been called back to Nar unexpectedly, and the shock of it had jarred him. Biagio was afraid. For the first time he could remember, something valuable to him was at mortal risk, something more dear to him than Nar itself.

“I came as quickly as I could,” he told Bovadin as they darted up the stairway. The little scientist had greeted his coach at the palace gates. Biagio hadn’t waited for an explanation. They talked while they ran, Bovadin trailing in Biagio’s wake as he attempted to answer the count’s endless questions.
When did it happen? Is he strong enough to speak? How long has he been asking for me?
Biagio only half heard the answers. His thoughts were on fire, as they had been for all the three long weeks since he received Bovadin’s urgent plea to return. He had still been in Talistan when the letter came. From there, he had arranged transport aboard one of Nicabar’s warships. The ship was called the
Swift,
but the journey had still seemed agonizingly slow.

“He will be glad to see you,” said Bovadin, already winded from the climb. “It will cheer him.”

“What is it?” asked Biagio over his shoulder. “The drug?”

“Just age,” replied the scientist. It was the answer Biagio dreaded.

They stopped when they came to the corridor outside the emperor’s bedchamber. It was unbearably warm. There was a blazing fire in the hearth at the hall’s far end, spitting flames up the chimney. Biagio’s perpetually cold flesh drank in the warmth like a flower.

“We’ve been keeping him as warm as possible,” explained Bovadin. “It doesn’t seem to be doing much good. His skin is like ice.”

Biagio tossed off his cape and handed it to Bovadin as he hurried to the door. The scientist grabbed his arm. “Wait,” he urged. “I want to prepare you.”

“Is it that bad?”

“He can’t walk, and he can’t see. He can talk reasonably well, but hearing is difficult for him. You’ll have to speak loudly.”

Suddenly Biagio couldn’t move. It was all too much, and his voice constricted in his throat. “My God,” he whispered. “Can’t you do anything for him?”

Bovadin crinkled his insect-like nose. “I’m not a wizard. The drug can only do so much.”

“Well, make it stronger,” said Biagio. “Double it: anything.”

“I’ve tried all that. Nothing works. I’m sorry, but he’s grown immune to it. It’ll probably happen to us all eventually.”

“I don’t care about eventually,” snapped Biagio. “You have to do something
now.
Find a different drug. Make up some new potion. Kill a hundred virgins, I don’t care. Just do something!”

Bovadin stiffened. “I’m trying. But it’s not that simple. And he’s not expecting
me
to save him, my friend. It’s
your
turn.”

Biagio didn’t reply. All his life he had known this moment would come, and now that he faced it he was like a child, fearful of the monsters in the closet. He hesitated outside the bedchamber, hovering just out of range of the knob. Arkus was more like a father to him than any man had ever been. The thought of life without the cruel genius was unbearable.

“Does he know I’m here?”

Bovadin made the most serene face. “No. He knows I sent for you, that’s all. Nicabar is in with him now.”

“Danar? What’s he doing here?”

“Arranging troop transports to Lucel-Lor,” sniffed the scientist. “Your orders, I believe.”

Biagio nodded. “Good. While he’s here we can discuss things.”

“Not too much,” warned Bovadin. “Don’t get Arkus excited. I’ve already heard how things are going in Lucel-Lor. You haven’t found anything yet. The emperor doesn’t know that. He’s been asking Nicabar about the war, but so far we’ve been able to keep things from him. He’s going to ask you, so be careful what you say.”

“I will,” said Biagio. There was really little choice. Bad news could ruin Arkus now. He would have to be optimistic.

He reached for the ornate doorknob and twisted, pulling the door silently open. Immediately the scent of burning wood assailed him. In the corner of the lavish chamber was another hearth, rumbling with the same monstrous fire as in the hall. Biagio could hear its insistent crackling over the muted conversation. Against the wall was a massive iron bed, thick with lavender pillows and silky, cream-colored sheets. A golden harp stood unused by the bedside, a little stool resting vacant beside it. And reclining
on the bed—so lightly that he hardly made an impression in the mattress—was the reedy, emaciated body of Arkus. His bony hand rested in the meaty grip of Admiral Danar Nicabar. The admiral did not see Biagio standing in the doorway.

“Danar?” called Biagio softly. He forced himself to step into the chamber.

Nicabar turned to glare at him, then his hard features softened with recognition. He waved Biagio forward.

“Who is it?” asked Arkus, lifting his head to stare blindly at the door. Gone was the golden voice, replaced by a hoarse croaking. “Danar, is someone here?”

Danar patted the emperor’s hand as Biagio approached. “Yes, my lord,” he said cheerfully. “Guess who?”

“Do not play with me, Danar. Is it he?”

“It is I, Great One,” declared Biagio. He looked down at the man in the bed, almost weeping at the sight of him. “I have come as you’ve asked.”