by John Marco
"Where is Duke Wallach?" he asked the soldiers. "I must speak to him at once."
One of the men pointed toward the shore, where a towering machine stood, piercing the fog. "The duke is at the shoreline, my lord, working on the boom."
"Working? Is there some trouble?"
The two soldiers exchanged glances. "There is always trouble. He has engineers helping him, but . . ." The man shrugged. "It goes slowly."
"Yes," Leth muttered. "Too damn slowly."
He dismounted and handed his horse to the soldier. Shinn did the same, then followed Leth toward the shore. The huge machine seemed about to topple. It groaned as the workmen milled around it desperately operating levers and lines. Off on the water, a small vessel was tethered to the machine, fighting against it as the tide pulled her out. A handful of men were in the water trying to hold the boat steady. Leth shook his head. Duke Wallach's work camp looked like a circus.
Quickly he scanned the bedlam, sighting Wallach in a huddle of workers. These were engineers, mostly, covertly hired out of the Black City. They had all come to Talistan willingly--once they smelled Wallach's gold. Two of them were shouting at the Aramoorians, ordering the boom into position. A dozen men worked the lines, trying to straighten the creaking giant. Hooks flailed and pulleys screeched as the Aramoorians toiled under the watch of overseers. Wallach stood with his hands on his hips shaking his head disgustedly. He was a stout man, about the age of Tassis Gayle, and he suffered from gout--an ailment that had given him a limp. The duke paled when he noticed Leth and Shinn approaching.
"Wallach, what the hell is this?" asked Leth, pointing at the wooden crane. "You're about to lose that ship. Have someone on board drop the anchor before the tide takes her out."
"We are trying, Leth," said Wallach waspishly. "Captain Zerio knows what he's doing."
Leth looked around for Zerio but didn't see him. The captain had come to Talistan with Wallach, promised command of the privateer fleet. He had beady eyes and a well-earned reputation for lechery, and a good part of his salary went to prostitutes. Leth was relieved he wasn't in sight.
"Zerio is a fool, not an engineer." Leth glared at the so-called experts around the duke. "And any idiot should be able to pull that little ship ashore."
Duke Wallach purpled. "This is a delicate process, Governor. It isn't like reeling in a fish. Those ships have been built for the sea, not land. If we pull them ashore too quickly, they break."
"Hull fractures," added one of the engineers. Leth remembered his name was Nitis. He was a native of the Naren capital, and had that city's pasty pallor. "See that galleon over there? We almost lost that one getting her ashore. Her hull breached just as she reached land. Could have flooded her to the bottom. Now we have repairs to make."
"Bloody hell," hissed Leth. "How long is that going to take?"
"Don't know. A couple of days at least. We'll start moving parts of her soon. Masts and sails first, but the hull will have to wait."
Leth rubbed his forehead. He didn't know if it was the noise or the many annoyances, but he was getting a headache. Once, this project had seemed a fine idea. It was the only practical way of getting the ships to Aramoor's south shore, since circumnavigating Lucel-Lor was impossible and rounding the Empire was too dangerous. Too many eyes in the Empire; too many things to go wrong. But now, faced with a quickly approaching deadline, either option seemed better.
"Wallach, take a walk with me," said Leth. He put his arm around the old duke and led him away from the engineers, with Shinn following. Wallach tried to keep step with the governor, his gouty foot dragging. Leth led him out of earshot of the others and away from the eyes of the Aramoorians, stopping at last beside a collapsed pier with rotted mooring posts. The sea lapped at the shore, rolling out of the fog. Leth tried very hard not to sound angry. The last thing he wanted was to offend his banker.
"Duke Wallach, do you know what day it is?" he asked.
"It's late. I know. I'm doing the best I can."
"Well your best isn't good enough. How many more men do you think I can get you? The farms around here are empty. You've got them all, Wallach, every able-bodied man. Hell, I'm already under pressure from the Black City. Biagio knows something is going on. How long can we keep this a secret, eh?"
"As I said, I'm doing the best I can. Coming to pressure me only slows things down. You should know that. Look at the way the Aramoorians watch you. Now I'll not be able to get a decent day's work out of them. All they will talk about 'til sundown is you."
"Then put the screws to them!" Leth growled. "Your men from Bisenna have whips. Let them use them for a change. Make some examples of this rabble!"
"I'm not a butcher," said Wallach. "I'm only here because--"
"Because of your daughter. Yes, yes," interrupted Leth. "I've heard your sad song, Wallach. Frankly, I'm sick of it. We all have our reasons for doing this. Every one of us has a score to settle with Biagio. So let's settle it!"
"I am trying," spat Wallach. "I've spent my entire fortune on this. Don't lecture me, please!"
"Well someone should, because we can't make a move until you get your ships ready. We need their protection, Wallach. Nicabar won't let us get away with attacking the Highlands. When we do, he'll come after Talistan, because Biagio will order him to."
Wallach was about to retort when another figure stepped into view.
"Nicabar will do nothing of the sort," declared the man. He flashed Leth a broken smile. "Good day, Governor."
Leth had thought he'd been lucky, not encountering Zerio. Obviously, his luck had run out.
"Good day, Zerio," he said. "I thought you weren't available. Shouldn't you be looking after your ships? There does seem to be some problem with them."
"Nothing we can't handle." The privateer smirked. "You were talking about Nicabar?"
"We were."
"Don't be concerned, Governor. Nicabar is obsessed with Liss. He won't retaliate when you attack the Highlands."
"Don't be so sure," countered Leth. He had already had this argument with Zerio. "You underestimate Nicabar's loyalty to Biagio. When we attack the Highlands, Biagio will know we are threatening the Black City. He will retaliate the fastest way he can--with his navy."
"It isn't his navy."
"Don't argue with me," flared Leth. "I was the one called before the Protectorate, Zerio, not you. I know what Biagio suspects. We must be ready before we attack the Highlands. You must have your fleet ready!"
"We'll be ready. If Nicabar comes to attack us, and I say if, we will meet him."
"Yes, and you must defend Talistan with all your heart. Are you prepared to do that? This isn't just about money."
"Zerio goes where the gold is best," said Duke Wallach. "I have vouched for him, because I know he is loyal to my deep pockets. That's good enough for me."
"Yes, it would be," growled Leth. "Mercenaries, both of you."
The duke glowered. "I am no mercenary."
Captain Zerio laughed. "I am."
"Fine," snapped Leth. "But just so you know, we can't make a move until your ships are in position. There will be no attack on the Eastern Highlands until we can defend Talistan from the Black Fleet."
"Leth . . ."
"Those are the king's orders. And mine. You will be ready. And you will work these damn Aramoorians harder."
Captain Zerio bowed deeply. "As you say, my lord," he said, then turned and strode off.
"That man is a brigand," Leth said. "I don't trust him."
"He is loyal enough," said Wallach. "He knows who pays his debts. And Zerio has many debts in Gorkney. We will have our ships ready when you need them."
"Very good. Now all you have to do is convince the king. He wants to see you this afternoon."
"Me? What for?"
"The king is nervous, as am I. He wants your personal assurances. And it's time to make plans. From what I hear, Ricter and her troops have reached Talistan. The king wants you two to meet."
A
smile crossed Wallach's face. "Ricter. Oh, that's very good news. Things are finally starting to happen."
"Indeed they are," said Leth. "It's almost time for you to avenge that daughter of yours. You should be happy."
"I will be happy when I have Biagio's head in a box." The duke shook his head ruefully. "I wasn't the best father, I admit that. But Sabrina was my only daughter. She was supposed to be a queen! She didn't deserve what he did to her."
Leth was sickened by Wallach's lies of love for his daughter. Wallach cared for only one thing--gold. Having a daughter as a queen might have made him far richer than he was today. For that, he was endlessly vengeful.
"Don't worry, Wallach," said Leth. "Biagio may be a genius, but even he can't change his past. Finally, his chickens are coming home to roost."
TWENTY-SIX
Tassis Gayle stood at the far end of the graveyard, his head bowed in prayer. Before him loomed his family's mausoleum, an imposing structure of engraved limestone containing the bones of his forebears and children. A light drizzle fell on his uncovered head and banks of fog crawled across the grass. Tassis Gayle was not aware of the time, but he knew he had been at the mausoleum for many hours. The headstones of fallen heroes and soldiers rose like fangs out of the earth. Behind him, he could hear the singing hinges of a distant gate. The rain was warm on his head and neck, and he kept his eyes open as he prayed.
"Holy Father," he whispered, "comfort and guide me. Show me Your hand in all this blackness, and I will accept it. Thy will be done."
Inside the mausoleum were the bones of Blackwood and Calida, Gayle's children. They were rotting away, and Tassis Gayle couldn't unravel the mystery of it. He was very old, and it seemed to him that a man should not outlive his offspring. But this was Tassis Gayle's curse, and if it was his fate to suffer it, he demanded to know why.
Yet God had no answers for him.
Beside the mausoleum was another, much smaller, monument. This one had been erected only recently. Made of stone and carved into the likeness of a holy child, it bore a single sad inscription.
Here marks the death of Alazrian Leth.
Gayle blinked against the raindrops. He had come up with the inscription himself, and thought it fittingly vague. The circumstances of Alazrian's demise prevented a more definite epitaph. According to Shinn, Alazrian had died in an ambush, one more victim of Jahl Rob's Saints.
No one knew for certain where his body lay, so retrieving it was impossible. Too many rebels, Shinn had claimed. The Dorian had barely escaped with his life. The other members of his patrol had shared Alazrian's bitter fate. But only Alazrian had a marker near the mausoleum.
Tassis Gayle began to weep. Great sobs racked his body, and if anyone heard him, he didn't know or care. Alazrian had been a good boy, like his uncle. It was one more of Biagio's crimes, one more mark in his bloody ledger. There would be no Saints of the Sword if not for Biagio. Tassis Gayle held Biagio accountable for everything.
"Herrith was right," he muttered. "He is a devil." He lifted his face toward heaven. "Can you hear me, Father? Are you listening?"
The wind picked up. Gayle took it for a reply.
"Empower me," he cried. "Let me cast this devil down!"
He crossed himself, then gazed down at Alazrian's solitary marker. Lying at the foot of it was a wreath of vines and flowers. Gayle had made the wreath himself. Every day he made a new one for Alazrian, laying it carefully in the same place. And every day the one before disappeared. Gayle suspected the servants of taking them, but it really didn't matter--he was becoming very good at weaving wreaths. Even the ladies of the castle praised his handiwork.
Was that work for a king? Probably not. But it kept him busy, occupied his fevered mind. Gayle wasn't sure, but sometimes he felt the stirrings of senility. Try as he might, he couldn't swat back its greedy hands. So he occupied himself with small things, biding his time until he could have his revenge.
The sobs left him as quickly as they had come. Gayle's face became a featureless mask. He thought of praying again, but did not. He thought of getting out of the rain, but did not. He merely stood like one of the headstones, unmoving, listening to the wind. Sometimes, if he listened hard enough, he could hear it speaking.
"My lord?"
Gayle jumped at the call. A boy was coming toward him through the drizzle, one of the house servants. What was his name? The king couldn't recall. He smiled as the boy approached. He had Alazrian's light coloring; very near the same age, too. The boy bowed, ignoring the mud around his boots.
"My lord, I was told to fetch you," he said. "Visitors have arrived. A lady, and a gentlemen. Sir Redd asked me to get you."
"A lady?"
"Yes, my lord. The Baroness Ricter. Duke Wallach has come, too."
"Duke Wallach . . ." Gayle rubbed his chin. He had sent for Wallach, hadn't he? And the baroness; wasn't she expected? "Yes, all right. I'll be in directly," he said. Then he looked the boy up and down. "What is your name?"
The boy laughed. "My name, sir? You know my name."
"Don't tell me what I know and don't know. The king has asked you a question!"
"Jimroy, sir," said the boy. His eyes narrowed. "I'm your body servant."
"Ah, yes. Good man, Jimroy. But you're not doing a very good job looking after my body now, eh? Look at me! Mud!"
"I'm sorry," stammered Jimroy. "I suggested you wait 'til the rain stopped, but--"
"Look at your boots," said Gayle, pointing at the boy's soaked feet. "You're a disagreeable sight. How can you look after me when you can't even tend yourself?"
"I'm sorry, my lord, I--"
"Well, this won't do at all!" The king stooped, waving Jimroy closer. "Come on, get on my back. I'll have to carry you."
Jimroy looked scandalized. "Sir?"
"Come on, up you go," urged Gayle. He made loops of his arms to catch Jimroy's legs. "Don't keep me waiting. We have guests!"
"Don't think I can do it, do you? You think the old man's lost his stamina, eh? Well, I'm twice the man you'll ever be, Alazrian. Now, come along . . ."
"I'm Jimroy, sir. Not Alazrian."
"Don't argue with me. That's an order, Jimroy. Let's go!"
His mouth agape, the boy climbed onto the king's back. Gayle let out a whoosh, then hefted himself straight with a triumphant grin.
"Ha! You see? I have the body of a twenty-year-old! Now, where are my visitors?"
"Sir Redd took them into the ward, my lord. I don't know where from there."
"Sir Redd is a boring old biddy." Gayle was euphoric suddenly and didn't know why, but he liked having the boy on his back. "To the castle," he shouted, then trotted off through the graveyard with Jimroy on his back. The boy's arms encircled his neck, and before long Gayle heard him laughing, too. It was a good laugh. Gayle realized how long it had been since he'd heard any good laughter. He bore Jimroy through the graveyard gate and across the green tor leading to the castle. A group of men grooming horses on the parade ground saw the duo and stared.
"Look!" cried a boy leading a cart of hay through the rain. "That's the king!"
Gayle didn't wave, but he did whinny. Jimroy laughed, delighted by his royal mount.
"Sir, you can stop now," he said. "It's fun, but you're the king!"
"If I'm king, then I can do anything I want!"
Gayle galloped across the parade ground toward the castle where several sentries blocked the lowered drawbridge. "Away, away!" shouted Gayle, shouldering through them. "King Jimroy has urgent business with the Duke of Gorkney!"
"Jimroy, get down this instant!" roared one of the guards.
Gayle raced past them, ignoring their cries. Lately they had all been treating him like a retarded child, and he was sick of it. He began singing an old war chant he had learned when he was young. And he kept singing until he reached the center of the inner ward, where his servant Redd was waiting for him. Redd's jaw dropped open. He dashed toward the king, forgetting the cover of an eave and splashing throu
gh the muddy ward.
"My lord! What are you doing?"
Gayle stopped singing and looked at the man. "What?"
Redd could barely speak. He glanced around at all the other astonished faces, then leaned toward the king and whispered, "Sir, you were . . . playing."
"And why not, eh?" Gayle looked over his shoulder at Jimroy. "All right, boy, down you go. Fun's over. Old Redd's ruined it for us."
"My lord!"
"Stop screeching like a woman, Redd." Gayle rubbed his hands together. "Now, where are these visitors of mine? Young Jimroy tells me a lady is here." Redd stared at the king.
"Well?" barked Gayle. He snapped his fingers in Redd's face. "You awake? Where is the woman Jimroy tells me about?"
"The Baroness Ricter, my lord," corrected Redd. "Sir, are you all right?"
The question perplexed Gayle. How was he feeling? he wondered.
"Yes, the Baroness Ricter . . ." He cleared his throat and smoothed down his soaked garments. "Yes, all right."
"She's here to talk about your plans, my lord. You remember that, don't you?"
"I have a mind like a steel trap, Redd. Where is she?"
"In the council chamber, waiting with Duke Wallach. He's come too, at your--"
"At my request. Yes, yes. I know all of this already. You don't have to baby me. I've been off breast milk for some time now."
"But, sir, you seem . . ."
"What?"
Redd hesitated. "Out of sorts, sir." Gently he took the king's arm and led him under the eave. Dismissing Jimroy, he smiled. "My lord, you've had a great many worries lately. After this meeting with the baroness and duke, why not take some rest?"
"Rest is for old men," said Gayle. "Why not ask young Jimroy how old I am? I carried him here from the graveyard, running all the way."
"Yes, you're very fit, my lord. Still, all your worries . . ."
"A complaint for lesser men, Redd. Now, take me to the baroness. And no fussing with my clothes. I'm not going to change. It's raining. If they can't accept that, the hell with them."
Redd sighed, but acquiesced. Without another word, he led the king into the castle and through a maze of hallways toward the public areas of the castle. Gayle took steady breaths as he walked. Gradually the giddiness was ebbing. He reminded himself that there was business at hand. As Redd took him through the halls, he patted down his hair and tried to look respectable. People had been whispering behind his back; he had heard them. They were saying that the king was mad.
