The Grand Design (Tyrants & Kings 2)

by John Marco

‘Then I want one for my own,’ said Lorla happily. ‘One that’s just for me! He’ll do that for me, won’t he? He can build whatever I want!’

  ‘Come,’ said Herrith, taking her hand again. ‘Let’s ask him.’

  Like Lorla, Herrith was on a cloud when he walked into the toy shop, overwhelmed at the girl’s exuberance. The strong smell of paint and sawdust greeted them in the shop, filling the air, and the Piper’s many handmade gadgets whirred and spun and whizzed by on wires overhead. Lorla giggled at the sight, enchanted, and Herrith, who had only seen the toys from the window, laughed with her. Redric Bobs’ shop was a wonderland. But as soon as the toymaker noticed his holy guest, Redric Bobs went white, ignoring his current customer, a Naren nobleman with a big stomach and, obviously, an equally large purse. The nobleman scowled at Redric Bobs insistently, then stepped back in shame when he noticed Archbishop Herrith.

  ‘Your Grace,’ said the Piper shakily. He was a lanky man with thin fingers like the dolls he made, and when he spoke the sawdust in his hair fell like dandruff to the floor. ‘I wasn’t expecting you.’ He bowed suddenly, as if he’d forgotten all protocol. ‘Welcome to my toy shop.’

  ‘Rise, Redric Bobs,’ commanded Herrith. ‘This is festival day. No need for all the pomp. I came here like all these other good folks, to do business with you.’

  The Piper came a little closer. He looked enthralled, just as Lorla had when she’d seen the dollhouse, but it wasn’t awe of Herrith that brought the strange expression to his face. It was Lorla. The toymaker stared at her, sizing her up, as if she reminded him of someone or something long lost. Thoughtfully, he dropped to one knee in front of her. A crowd had gathered in a circle to watch them, but Redric Bobs hardly noticed them.

  ‘You’ve brought this child here for something special, haven’t you, Holiness?’ he said, never taking his eyes off Lorla.

  ‘Yes,’ said Herrith. ‘For her birthday.’

  ‘Birthday,’ trilled the Piper. ‘How nice.’

  ‘I’ll be nine,’ Lorla explained.

  ‘Nine,’ Redric Bobs parroted. He was being nonsensical, and it disturbed Herrith.

  ‘Yes, man, nine years old,’ said Herrith sharply. ‘And she wants one of your dollhouses.’

  Lorla pointed back toward the window. ‘I saw the pink one. It’s very beautiful’

  ‘Ah, Belinda,’ said the toymaker proudly. ‘Yes, that’s my favorite, too.’ He reached out and playfully messed up her hair. ‘Belinda always brings little girls like you into my shop. But she’s not for sale, I’m afraid. She was built for my wife.’

  Herrith maneuvered himself between Lorla and the toy-maker. ‘We don’t want to buy that one. We want something special. One of your custom-made houses. You can do that for her, can’t you?’

  The Piper rose from his knees, and Herrith glimpsed the smallest resentment in his eyes. ‘Of course I can,’ said Redric Bobs. ‘That’s what I do, after all. I can make a dollhouse for the girl. Anything she wants.’ He looked around at the shoppers staring at him. ‘But let’s go somewhere and talk about it, away from everyone else, all right? I have an office where we can talk.’ He gestured invitingly toward the side of his store. ‘Holiness?’

  ‘Very well,’ agreed Herrith, pushing Lorla along and guiding her toward the office. Piper cheerfully told his patrons to browse, then followed them through a doorway into a tiny room with a handmade desk. A collection of tiny toys sat on the desktop, waiting for a curious playmate. There was a chair next to the desk, and Lorla quickly claimed it. Redric Bobs closed the door to his office, shutting away the outside noise.

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t have anything in here to offer you, Holiness,’ he apologized. ‘I don’t get many visitors from the church in my toy shop.’

  ‘I’m already full of pastries and drink,’ said Herrith. ‘And I don’t care to stay long.’ He sauntered over to stand beside Lorla. ‘Now, tell us what you can do for us, toy man.’

  The Piper smiled. ‘You’re looking well, Your Grace,’ he remarked, ignoring Herrith’s question. ‘I saw you in your carriage some months ago. You’ve gained some weight back. If I may say so, you look quite fit. Your color is better, too.’

  Herrith grimaced. Was that meant to be a compliment? Redric Bobs was a strange character in Nar City. Perhaps he’d been breathing too much paint vapor.

  ‘I’m well,’ said Herrith. ‘Now . . .’

  ‘Some of us didn’t expect such a remarkable recovery from you,’ Bobs continued. ‘We all prayed for you mightily, Your Grace. God must have heard us.’

  God delivered a little blue bottle to me, thought Herrith bitterly. Since taking the drug, he had been a whole man again. But Redric Bobs knew nothing of the drug, nothing but the rumors that constantly floated through the Empire. Herrith narrowed his eyes on the Piper, trying to penetrate his cryptic facade. He didn’t like being reminded of his addiction, especially not by a peasant toymaker. And the drug Biagio had sent him was running perilously low. Soon, Herrith knew, he would have to strike a bargain with Biagio to obtain more of the stuff. But that was in the future, not today. Today was a good day, and Redric Bobs was ruining it. When at last Herrith addressed the Piper again, his voice was low, almost threatening.

  ‘Why don’t you tell us what kind of dollhouse you can build for Lorla?’ he said. ‘We’d like to get back to the festival before it’s over.’

  ‘I want a big one,’ said Lorla, stretching out her arms for emphasis. ‘Like the ones in the window.’

  ‘I can build whatever you’d like, child,’ said Redric Bobs. ‘Any style or color. As big as you like, too. Do you know what you’d like, Lorla?’

  ‘Any style?’ asked Lorla.

  The toymaker nodded. ‘That’s right.’

  ‘No matter what?’

  ‘No matter what.’

  Lorla smiled. ‘Then I know what I want you to build for me, sir.’ She turned to Herrith and smiled at him secretively. ‘I want you to build me something very special. The best thing you’ve ever built! And I want you to build it for both of us, me and Father Herrith.’

  ‘What?’ blurted Herrith. ‘Lorla . . .’

  Lorla looked at the toymaker again in earnest. ‘Sir, I want you to build me a dollhouse of the Cathedral of the Martyrs.’

  Herrith was astonished. He faltered back against the workbench, staring dumbfounded at Lorla. ‘Child, what are you saying? The cathedral? Why?’

  ‘Because it’s my home,’ said Lorla softly. ‘My new home. The only home I’ll ever have now.’ She reached over and grabbed Herrith’s fingers. ‘It’s special to us both, Father. And it will be something everyone can enjoy. Like Darago’s ceiling! We can even keep it in the great hall, under the painting. People can see both of them, two beautiful things.’

  ‘But, Lorla, that’s not a gift for a little girl. I want you to have a dollhouse like the pretty ones in the window. Something pink and sweet-looking. Something to enjoy.’

  ‘But I will enjoy it, Father,’ said Lorla. Her smile was bright, imploring. ‘It’s what I want. More than a monkey or just some toy. I want something special’

  It was all too perfect. She was such a remarkable child, this orphan Enli had given him. At that moment, he realized she was truly a gift from Heaven.

  ‘Well, Redric Bobs?’ he asked over his shoulder. ‘Can you make this for us?’

  There was a pause while the toymaker considered the request. ‘It’s very complicated,’ he said, stroking his chin. ‘The cathedral has many details. It will take a lot of work. And time. When do you want it?’

  ‘In time for Eestrii,’ said Herrith. ‘I want it to be on display for all the Black City to see when we show off Darago’s masterpiece.’

  ‘Eestrii,’ muttered the toymaker. ‘That’s not much time. Less than a month. I’ll have to work hard to get it done so quickly.’

  ‘Work as hard as you need to,’ said Herrith. ‘From dawn to dusk, I don’t care. I’ll pay whatever it costs. But do a good job, Redric Bobs.
This is a very special gift you’re making. I want it to be perfect.’

  ‘Everything I do is perfect,’ said the toymaker defensively. ‘Your Holiness will be astounded by what I build for the child, I promise that.’

  ‘Then send me your bill, toymaker,’ said Herrith. ‘I will gladly pay it.’ He lifted Lorla out of the chair, set her down gently on the floor, then led her out of the office. ‘Good day to you, Redric Bobs. Enjoy the festival. And remember – by Eestrii.’

  The toymaker bowed as they left, but Herrith hardly noticed. The drug and Lorla’s love had invigorated him, making him feel truly immortal. They still had the whole afternoon before them, and Herrith was determined not to let it slip away. Today he was happy. Tomorrow or the next day he would hear bad news, learn about deaths in Dragon’s Beak or some other faroff place, but today was the great festival of Sethkin. With a smile on his face, he walked out of the toymaker’s fanciful shop, back into the revelry of High Street with his adopted, perfect daughter.

  Twenty-Nine

  Lord Jackal

  The nights in Liss were heavy and still. Haran Island echoed with the sound of water and winter breezes and the occasional stirrings of birds, but very few voices or footsteps marred the silence. Jelena’s palace took on the bleakness of a tomb at night. It was a lonely, almost desolate place, too big for its young occupant. With its high ceilings and empty corridors, the palace was a constant reminder of everything Liss had lost in its long war with Nar. There weren’t men and women talking noisily, or little children of the royal family scrambling through its halls. There was only the cold quiet of duty, and the stone-faced guardians of Queen Jelena rarely cracked a smile or uttered an unsolicited word. In the light of day the palace was a wonder, but at night, when the world was asleep, shadows ruled.

  Richius had only been in the palace for three days, but already he knew its habits. Like the rising and setting of the sun, life on Jelena’s island was predictable. Her guardians and servants saw to her every need. Catboats and jarls constantly navigated the island’s lake front and canals, delivering supplies, and the enormous water gate continued to make Richius marvel. Other than that, life in the palace was a hellish bore, and Richius longed to be gone from it.

  Since his coming to Liss, Queen Jelena had treated him like royalty. She had given him rooms not far from her own, a palatial spread on the ground floor of her palace with a view of her prized water garden and haran fish. There was always food and a warm fire for him, and a staff of eager servants to cater to his needs. Clean Lissen clothes had been put in his closets, a blessed relief from the sea-stinking garb he’d arrived in, and he was provided all the quiet he needed to think and plan his strategy against Crote. It was a marvelous arrangement for Richius, perfectly conducive to thought. Except for one problem.

  He had no idea where to begin.

  For three days he had been isolated on Haran Island, with only Jelena for company. Prakna had disappeared – to be with his wife, Jelena claimed – and the crew of the Prince hadn’t returned to visit him. And there was no army yet, either, only the promise of one. Tomorrow, Jelena had assured him, Prakna would return to Haran Island and bring him to his waiting soldiers, but to Richius that promise rang hollow. Worse, he feared it might actually be true. Despite the finery of his surroundings, the things he really needed were denied him. He needed maps of Crote, of which there were none. He needed experienced fighters to explain the terrain to him, and weapons for his men. He needed timetables and lieutenants, predictions about Crote’s abilities and ideas on their weaknesses. There were plans to be made and scenarios to draw up, attack strategies and failure contingencies. There was absolutely everything to win or lose, and Richius was alone, a general without an army and horribly afraid. This time his arrogance had ruined him. He had finally taken on an impossible challenge.

  ‘Dyana was right,’ he muttered. He shouldn’t have come to Liss.

  The night was wistful. Richius wandered from his rooms and found himself on the mooring docks just outside the palace, watching the catboats slip in and out. It had snowed erratically for the past three days, but tonight was clear and bright with clouds. The wind had stilled to a gentle breeze that blew his hair haphazardly over his eyes. His hair was getting longer, becoming more unkempt by the day. He hadn’t shaved recently, either. But his clothes were fresh and clean, and he still wore the navy coat Marus had given him. He liked the feel of it, the way it kept his legs warm. And he liked the reflection he cut with it in mirrors. When he wore it, he felt very far away, on some great, nameless adventure that didn’t include his troubled past. Richius leaned against a stout mooring post fitted with rusty chains and looked up into the sky. A blanket of stars swept to the horizon.

  ‘Hero,’ he scoffed. ‘Jackal of Nar.’

  That’s what they called him here. Even Jelena. She didn’t seem to care that it was an insult. It was simply how she knew him. In Liss, the Jackal of Nar was some sort of saint, a great warrior who had beaten back the Black Empire and saved the Triin homeland. To some, it was a great story. To Richius it was a distorted joke. But it followed him everywhere now, and no matter how hard he fought it, no matter how many times he corrected people, they always called him Jackal or Kalak, and they always expected something grand from him.

  ‘Can I do this thing?’ he wondered aloud. Now and then he still talked to the sky, just as Karlaz had taught him. He was still waiting for it to answer. ‘They want so much from me. And I have nothing. Where’s my army?’

  Silence. The sky twinkled, ignoring him, and Richius looked away with a wry smile. He gazed across the great lake separating Haran Island from the rest of Liss. On the other side, he saw canals reflecting starlight and high, spanning bridges. Tall buildings reached heavenward, their windows blinking with candlelight. Silhouettes moved across the horizon, men in boats and women with golden hair. They were a beautiful race, these Lissens. And they were all enigmas to Richius, no more comprehensible to him than the Triin he had struggled so long to understand. Especially Jelena.

  The thought of the queen made Richius close his eyes. She was very lovely. Like Sabrina. And her loneliness was palpable. It was a dark aura around her, a pall that never waned. She had lost her parents and identity, and had grown a vendetta to replace them, but still she was just a child. To Richius, she seemed a little girl playing in her mother’s wardrobe; dressing like a queen, sometimes acting like a queen, but always through a thin veneer of adolescence. He liked Jelena. But just like Prakna and all the rest of them, she expected something impossible from him. She wanted a hero. She wanted a dragon-slayer from Naren mythology. Alone on the dock, weaponless and without an army, Richius felt barely able to defend himself, much less a nation.

  As he always did when he felt alone, he thought of Dyana. It was very late. She would have put Shani to bed by now, and if he were there with her she would be in his arms, loving him. Prakna was with his wife. Marus might be with his wife, too. What the hell was he doing here, halfway across the world? But then the answer came to him like a hammer-blow.

  ‘Biagio.’

  He said the name so loudly, it echoed down the dock. Behind him, the two guards that had been shadowing him cocked curious eyebrows at his outburst. Richius waved at them.

  ‘Just talking to myself,’ he quipped. ‘Crazy men do that.’

  ‘And so do sane men,’ came a voice from the darkness. Startled, Richius whirled to see an hourglass silhouette walking toward him. Jelena lit the dock with a smile. She wore a long stole of white fur around her shoulders and a braid of sparkling silver in her hair that caught the starlight. As she approached him he drew back a little, annoyed at the intrusion.

  ‘Jelena, what are you doing out here?’

  ‘I’ve been looking for you,’ she said. She slid up to him on the dock until they were face-to-face. ‘When I didn’t find you in your rooms I got concerned.’

  ‘Well, you found me. What do you want?’

  Jelena frowned. ‘Ric
hius, what’s bothering you?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Richius lied. ‘I just wanted to be alone, that’s all. Why were you looking for me?’

  ‘I wanted to see how you were, that’s all. Tomorrow is an important day for you. I know you have a lot on your mind.’ The queen shrugged demurely. ‘I thought you might want to talk.’

  ‘Not particularly,’ said Richius. He leaned back against the mooring post, trying not to look at her. Sometimes seeing her was unbearable. The resemblance to Sabrina was uncanny. ‘You can go back inside now. I’m fine.’

  Jelena maneuvered herself in front of him, forcing him to look at her. ‘I’m very good at telling when a man is lying. If you were fine, you would be asleep, resting for tomorrow. But you are not fine, so you are out in the cold, staring like a dog at the moon.’ She looked at him demandingly. ‘Tell me what’s wrong.’

  ‘Why don’t I tell you what isn’t wrong?’ he snapped. ‘That would be a much shorter list.’

  ‘All right, then. What isn’t wrong?’

  ‘Nothing. Everything is wrong, Jelena. My being here is wrong.’

  Jelena sighed. ‘Richius, you’re just afraid about tomorrow. You’re nervous. But I tell you, everything will be all right.’

  ‘You’re not listening to me, Jelena.’ Richius took her by the shoulders. ‘I’m very, very angry. Understand? And you’re not helping me any. I need you to stop telling me how great I am and start giving me the things I need.’

  The queen stared at him, stunned. Her guardians, who had been lingering in the shadows, now rushed onto the dock. Richius saw them but didn’t release her. Instead he stared back at her, eyes blazing.

  ‘I need an army,’ he said flatly. ‘I need maps and men. And I need them now, Jelena. No more waiting. I need to know what I’m getting into.’

  ‘Richius,’ said Jelena softly. ‘Let go of me.’

  ‘Are you listening to me?’

  The girl nodded. ‘I’m listening. So are my guards. If you don’t release me quickly they’ll cut your head off.’ She tried to calm him with a smile. ‘Please . . .’