The Grand Design (Tyrants & Kings 2)

by John Marco

  The rowboat ground against the hull of the Fearless. Nicabar called down to his men, ordering them to get Vantran aboard. Dyana hurried over to him, shouldering Nicabar aside and reaching out to her distant husband.

  Biagio stepped back, so as not to see their reunion. He heard the rope ladder fall and the sounds of his enemy climbing aboard. He was safe, certainly, and yet he feared the man coming toward him. Or rather, he feared seeing him. Richius Vantran was a potent reminder of all the things that had gone wrong in his life.

  The first thing Richius saw when he looked up was Dyana’s beautiful face. She was reaching down to him with tears in her eyes.

  ‘Dyana!’ Richius cried. He threw himself onto the warship’s deck and into Dyana’s waiting arms, ignoring all the sailors around him.

  ‘Dyana,’ he moaned. Her smooth arms encircled him in a rapturous embrace, and he buried his nose in her hair, smelling its sweetness. She kissed him savagely, refusing to let go.

  ‘Richius,’ she sighed, ‘I am all right. Do not worry . . .’

  He peeled her away and looked at her at arm’s length, running his eyes over her perfect body and seeing that she was, indeed, all right.

  ‘You’re all right,’ he gasped. ‘You really are . . .’

  Then he saw Biagio. The count had yet to step forward or say a word. Richius turned slowly toward his enemy, holding Dyana’s hand. Biagio’s golden face was lit with a strange fascination. He stared at Richius curiously, but remained remarkably hushed.

  ‘I’m here,’ said Richius, trying to sound brave. He wondered if Biagio could see him trembling. ‘Now, let Dyana go.’

  Count Renato Biagio merely looked at Richius, his blue eyes sparkling with unnatural light, his amber skin beautiful. He was frightening to behold. Richius could barely stand the sight of him.

  ‘Say something, you bastard,’ Richius demanded. ‘I’m here. Isn’t that what you wanted?’

  Biagio’s eyes flicked toward Dyana for a brief second. Then he offered a dazzling smile. For the first time in years, Richius heard his treacly voice.

  ‘Your wife says I have no quarrel with you, Jackal of Nar,’ said the count. ‘I wonder, what do you think?’

  ‘Let her go, Biagio. You don’t need her.’

  The count took a step closer, regarding Richius coldly, the way a scientist might stare at a specimen. ‘You haven’t changed very much, Jackal. A bit older. Still the same arrogance, though. Perhaps that’s what your wife loves so much.’

  The riddles enraged Richius. ‘Will you let her go or not?’ he flared. ‘I came aboard in an honorable exchange. Just for once, show the world you have some honor, too. Let Dyana go-’

  ‘First, answer my question,’ said the count. ‘What about our quarrel?’

  ‘Your quarrel,’ replied Richius bitterly. ‘I never had one. All I wanted was to save Dyana. That’s why I left Nar.’ He grit his teeth, trying to contain his rage. ‘And that’s why you killed Sabrina. God, I hate you, monster.’

  Biagio laughed. ‘That is the second time today I’ve heard that,’ he mocked. ‘But continue, please. Have you no quarrel with me at all?’

  ‘I would kill you if I could,’ said Richius, meaning every word. ‘But I give myself to you instead. Let Dyana go. I won’t fight you.’

  ‘And if I let you both go free?’ asked Biagio. ‘What then?’

  Richius was stunned. So was Dyana. She let go of Richius, taking a step forward.

  ‘What are you saying?’ she asked. ‘Would you let us go?’

  Count Biagio’s face was impossibly serene. His expression brightened when he looked at her.

  ‘You have given me much to think about, Dyana Vantran. Perhaps I owe you something in return.’

  ‘Don’t play with us,’ Richius growled. He took a step toward the count, only to be halted by Nicabar’s sailors, who grabbed at his coat and dragged him backward. But Biagio raised a hand to them, making them release Richius. Richius looked around, unsure what was happening.

  ‘A trick,’ he sneered. ‘Dyana, don’t believe him.’

  Biagio ignored him. ‘Lady Vantran, I offer you back your wretched husband. You’re free to leave.’

  ‘What?’ blurted Nicabar. ‘Renato, what are you doing?’

  ‘Repaying a debt, Danar,’ replied the count lightly. He reached out and took Dyana’s hand, then gave it a gentle kiss. Richius couldn’t believe his eyes.

  ‘Why?’ he gasped. ‘I don’t understand.’

  Count Biagio turned and went to him. ‘You have a remarkable wife,’ he said with soft anger. ‘This favor is for her, not you.’

  ‘Biagio, if this is a trick. . .’

  ‘It is no trick, Vantran,’ said Biagio. ‘I have an empire to rule now. I cannot entertain myself with trifles like you any longer.’

  Richius was astounded. ‘That’s it? You’re letting us go? After all you’ve done?’

  ‘Biagio,’ said Dyana, coming up to him. ‘Look at me.’

  The count obeyed. Dyana studied his face. After a moment, she slowly nodded.

  ‘I believe you,’ she said. ‘But why?’

  Biagio scoffed, straightening proudly. ‘Count Biagio does not explain himself,’ he said gruffly. ‘And Jackal, know this – our quarrel is done. Do not try to seek your revenge on me again. If you do, I will most certainly kill you.’

  Richius was speechless.

  ‘Go in peace,’ Biagio added. ‘Keep your hands off of Nar, and I will keep mine off Lucel-Lor. Are we agreed?’

  ‘Yes, but . . .’

  ‘Good,’ smiled the count. ‘You are a cagey opponent. Richius Vantran. It has been interesting dueling with you. But I’m tired of it now. Please leave me alone.’

  ‘You do the same,’ said Richius. ‘Then we will have a bargain.’

  Biagio rubbed his hands together, grinned wickedly, then said to Dyana, ‘Farewell, Lady Vantran. We will not be seeing each other anymore. But you were a graceful guest. I will miss you.’

  Dyana put a hand to her mouth. ‘Thank you,’ she gasped. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘The boat will take you to the Black City. From there you’ll be brought back to the Lissens on Crote.’

  ‘What?’ flared Richius. ‘Take us back to the Prince?

  ‘I cannot,’ said Biagio. ‘It wouldn’t be safe for you there.’ He glanced at his admiral. ‘Danar, Black City and Intruder can escort them back to the Lissens, can’t they?’

  ‘I suppose,’ replied Nicabar. ‘But, Renato, I don’t understand . . .’

  Biagio smiled. ‘You will,’ he said lightly. Then, to Richius and Dyana, ‘Go now. And do not trouble me again, Jackal’

  Astonished, Richius wondered what Biagio had planned for Prakna. But he realized also that he had just struck a remarkable bargain with the count, one that might evaporate without warning. So he took Dyana’s hand and led her quickly off the Fearless, accompanied by a sailor who would explain Biagio’s orders to the captain of the Black City. Before she descended the rope ladder, Dyana gave a last lingering look at the inscrutable man of gold. Then she followed Richius into the rowboat, as amazed as her husband to still be alive.

  Prakna watched in mute fascination as the little boat left the Fearless with Richius and his wife aboard – then set off in the wrong direction. She was headed toward the lead dreadnought, the one just behind the Fearless on her port side. Prakna stared at the rowboat uncertainly. He could see Richius standing up in the boat, shouting and waving his arms wildly.

  ‘What’s he saying?’ Prakna asked.

  Beside him, Marus studied the goings-on through a spyglass. ‘He’s waving us off,’ said the first officer. ‘I think he wants us to go.’

  ‘Go? Go where?’

  Marus shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Maybe Biagio set them free.’

  ‘And sent them to another dreadnought? What for?’

  Even as he left the rowboat and climbed up the side of dreadnought, Richius continued shouting at them. With his free hand he went on wavi
ng, trying to signal them. Prakna let out a frustrated curse. What was Vantran saying?

  ‘Shall we move off?’ asked Marus. ‘They have him. If they’re not letting him go, we won’t be able to get him back.’

  Prakna considered the option. He waited a very long time before answering, long enough to see the two rear dreadnoughts unfurl their sails again and pick up the wind, pulling away from the Fearless. But the big flagship still made no moves. Prakna snatched the spyglass from Marus and scanned her deck. He saw Nicabar on board, scowling at them.

  ‘That whoreson,’ Prakna rumbled. ‘He’s waiting for us.’

  On the forecastle of his giant ship, Admiral Nicabar watched his nemesis across the narrow gap, impatiently hoping that she’d open fire. Even without the protection of Black City and Intruder, he knew the Fearless could devour the Prince. Biagio stood beside him, tapping his foot impatiently. The insipid noise did nothing to break the admiral’s steely concentration.

  ‘Ready, my friend?’ asked the count.

  Nicabar nodded. ‘Yes, thank you.’

  ‘It’s nothing,’ quipped Biagio. ‘I just thought it was time I paid you back, as well. You’ve been very loyal, Danar. I appreciate that.’

  The admiral smiled. It had been a great gamble to side with Biagio against Herrith, but now his bet was paying off. He balled his hands into fists, anticipating the coming battle. If he knew Prakna as well as he thought, the fleet commander wouldn’t run from the fight.

  ‘He’s baiting me,’ said Prakna. ‘He wants me to fight him.’

  The deck of the Prince had gone quiet. Sailors stood ready, awaiting their captain’s orders. Marus leaned against the rail beside Prakna, both of them considering their options. Nicabar was giving them a chance to turn and run. Or a chance to land the first blow.

  ‘We could leave,’ Marus suggested.

  Prakna nodded. ‘Aye. We could.’

  They looked at each other. Two men who had served together for years, who had both lost sons to the devils of Nar, gazed deeply into each other’s eyes and saw the same restless need for vengeance.

  ‘Or we could fight,’ said Marus.

  Prakna clasped his comrade’s shoulder. A lot of people had died today. In the great scheme of things, a few more hardly seemed to matter. And for Prakna and his crew, it was the difference between living like sheep or dying like lions.

  ‘Give me full sails, Marus,’ said Prakna. ‘I want speed.’

  *

  When he saw the Prince unfurl her sails, Biagio frowned, surprised that he had been wrong. ‘They’re moving off,’ he said incredulously. ‘They’re not fighting.’

  ‘No,’ replied Nicabar, blackly jubilant. ‘They’re just giving themselves some room to maneuver.’ The admiral turned to his waiting lieutenants, shouting orders down the line. ‘Full sails!’ he cried. ‘Bring us five degrees starboard. Don’t let them out of our sights. And tell the gun deck to stand by.’

  The warship sprang to life, lurching forward as the endless yards of silk sails ate up the wind. The Fearless banked gently starboard, still paralleling the Prince. Nicabar knew she had put all her mobile cannons on her port side. She wouldn’t waste time trying to turn.

  ‘Renato, you might want to go below,’ the admiral suggested. ‘It’s about to get damn noisy up here.’

  Prakna stood amidships on the Prince, waiting near the cannons. His crew had primed the guns with grapeshot and had aimed them at the Fearless’ masts, hoping to tear her sails. The Prince was picking up speed, trying to pull away from the dreadnought. Surprisingly, the other two dreadnoughts had kept back so not to join the fight. Prakna considered the move respectfully. Nicabar knew he already outgunned the schooner. Anything more than the Fearless would have been gratuitous, and not really worth bragging about.

  ‘And so we go down,’ sang Prakna softly, remembering the lines to a sailors’ poem. ‘To the bottom far, far below.’

  Prakna knew his vessel had no chance at all, but he didn’t really care. He was prepared now to die. So were his crew. Today they had struck a blow for Lissen freedom. Today was a good day to go to the bottom. He hoped J’lari would understand.

  Because her cannons didn’t have the reach of the Naren guns, the Prince would have to fire early, hopefully damaging the Fearless and slowing her. But the Fearless had guns on both sides, while the Prince’s were already committed to port. The fleet commander wondered how much damage four good shots could do to the black behemoth.

  He gave the order to fire.

  The flash from the Prince’s deck caught Nicabar by surprise. He hadn’t expected it to come so early. But he didn’t bother to duck. He knew Prakna’s targets were the sails. A great, fiery eruption exploded overhead as the grapeshot from the Prince burned the foremast, chewing at its sails. Nicabar surveyed the damage, impressed with the aim. He knew Prakna’s crew were preparing another volley. A few more similar shots would slow the Fearless to a crawl. And the Prince was too quick to let go easily. A piece of burning silk fell down onto his shoulder, singeing his coat. Nicabar batted it away with a growl. Off the starboard bow, he saw the Prince pulling away as her crew worked diligently to cram another round of powder and shot into her guns.

  ‘Lieutenant R’Jinn,’ shouted Nicabar. ‘Return fire.’

  R’Jinn cried the order. The command quickly ricocheted down to the gun deck. Nicabar felt the wood beneath his feet rumble. He stuck his fingers into his ears, waiting for the concussion.

  Three long-barreled flame cannons opened up. Fire flew across the water, rocking the Fearless and blowing apart the morning. Nicabar waited for the smoke to clear, then saw the Prince enveloped in flames. She was still moving away from them, burning but intact.

  Nicabar ordered continuous fire.

  Prakna scrambled across the deck of the Prince, rallying his men. The first blast from the Fearless had torn away the stunsail and a big chunk of the prow. The Prince’s cannons opened up again, returning fire and catching the dreadnought amidships. More of the Naren’s sails caught flame. Prakna ordered his ship hard about, steering her away to narrow her profile. But even the Prince of Liss couldn’t outrun the Naren guns. They opened up in a non-stop volley, one by one hammering at her hull. The whole world turned orange. Prakna’s breath burned in his lungs. He choked up a ball of blood, stumbling through the haze. Another shot crashed against the hull, blasting a hole in it. The Prince began listing to port as water flooded her holds.

  It was over before it had really begun. Prakna searched the burning chaos for Marus, but couldn’t find his friend. He craned his neck to see, forgetting the battle, wanting to die near his first officer.

  One more shot from the Fearless blew him off the deck, scattering pieces of him over the ocean.

  Richius and Dyana watched the carnage from the deck of the Black City, covering their ears to shut out the bombardment. Dyana huddled close to Richius, her head against his chest, blinking in disbelief as she witnessed the awesome firepower of the Empire. The Prince of Liss was quickly being incinerated. Constant volleys from the Fearless had tattered her sails to burning husks and excavated a giant hole in her hull. She limped over the waves, directionless, letting her giant rival pummel her. It was hopeless for Prakna and Marus and the rest of them. The ship that had been their home and greatest love was suddenly an inferno. The Prince sent up huge plumes of fiery smoke, opaquing the horizon. The Fearless hammered her ceaselessly. Somewhere on the dreadnought’s deck, Richius knew, Nicabar was crowing, pleased with himself for finally vanquishing his old nemesis.

  And Biagio was with him. Biagio the mystery, who had somehow puppeteered an entire empire into his palm. As Richius watched the Prince of Liss fade to ashes, he thought about the ruthless Count of Crote, and all the fears he had engendered. Biagio had reached across a continent and snatched a baby from its parents. He had somehow convinced his greatest enemy to come to Crote and be murdered. He was a great and powerful enigma, and Richius knew he would never fully understand hi
m, or why he had let Dyana go free. Richius lowered a hand from his ear and stroked Dyana’s hair, kissing her. She was a remarkable woman, his wife, extraordinary enough to make any man think twice – even Biagio.

  The Prince of Liss slowly began to sink like a burning sun.

  Forty-Five

  Outcast

  Simon ran from Biagio’s mansion, racing like the wind.

  He ran until he thought his heart would burst, seeking cover where he could, and never looking back at the massacre taking place at his master’s former home. And when Simon could not go on, when his muscles screamed with fatigue and all his body burned with pain, he stopped running. It was late morning. Biagio’s mansion was far behind him, but the news of the Lissen invasion had already swept through Crote. Simon had made it to the town of Galamier, where he had grown up. The fishing village was aghast at the sight of Lissen schooners on their shores. Already fleets of scows were abandoning Crote, desperately fleeing to the mainland. And Simon, who still had his wits about him despite the shocking morning, found his way onto one of them.

  The sun was overhead as the little vessel slipped away from Crote, going unnoticed by the Lissen invaders. She was smelly and packed with panicked people, and the owner of the boat urged them all to keep calm, shouting above the sea and the cries of children. But Simon didn’t need to be yelled at. He was already perfectly calm. His Roshann-trained mind had focused on survival.

  On the horizon he watched Crote float away. Something told him that Biagio had already fled. Richius wouldn’t find him. Simon knew it instinctively. Biagio was already safe. Somewhere.

  Simon forgot his seasickness. In his mind was a vision of Eris, dancing across her practice floor. The memory was flawless. Eris had been very beautiful. Simon pulled her dancing shoes out of his pocket. A girl standing next to him eyed the shoes curiously. Simon smiled to her, then tossed the shoes overboard. The girl blinked.