by John Marco
All that and more, thought Alazrian. He smiled, trying to relax his host.
‘I didn’t believe you until I touched your hands. Now I see the truth. But I still don’t know what I should do. I’m afraid to go to Lucel-Lor. I’m afraid of what the lion riders will do to me. And I’m afraid of Vantran. I belong to the House of Gayle after all. He might kill me.’
‘No. I know the Jackal. He is not a murderer. He will listen to you because he will know you are sincere, and because you alone have the means to give him back Aramoor. When your grandfather is dead, his throne will be empty.’
Alazrian took his meaning. ‘I’m not interested in ruling Talistan, Lord Emperor. If I do this thing, it will be because of what I’ve seen in your mind, because I hate Elrad Leth, and because I fear you are right about me. Lucel-Lor is the only place I can find my answers. I need to be among the Triin.’
Biagio’s face brightened. ‘Then you will help me? You will take my plea to Richius Vantran?’
The question seemed absurd. Alazrian knew he was only a boy, that he might not return from this quest if he met a lion rider in a foul mood. But then the alternatives occurred to him. There would be war in Nar. The legionnaires, though they didn’t follow Biagio, would defend their city. The Eastern Highlands, which stood between Nar City and Talistan, would be dragged into battle. Tassis Gayle would use his influence over Innswick and Gorkney, and Biagio would call up old debts from around the Empire. And the Lissens, who would surely watch it all with glee, would swoop in with their ships and take their revenge on the mainland. It would be a bloodbath, and Alazrian’s grandfather would be the cause of it all. Alazrian felt dizzy. Tassis Gayle had always been good to him. He was a kind grandfather, even when he was ordering servants put to death for stealing. To defy him seemed the highest heresy.
No, not heresy, thought Alazrian. Treason. If I do this thing, I will be a traitor. Like the Jackal.
He racked his mind for an alternative, but couldn’t find one. He was alone in the world. His mother was dead. He had no friends. His ‘father’ was a black-hearted bastard. There was only this small chance that Biagio presented, like a gift with a bright ribbon around it. He just needed the courage to open it and hope that there wasn’t a snake inside.
‘If I go to Lucel-Lor, what shall I tell them?’ he asked. ‘What do I say to Vantran if I find him?’
‘I will give you a note,’ said Biagio. ‘It will explain everything to Vantran. All you need to do is tell him that I sent you. The note will explain the rest.’
‘And you? What will you be doing?’
Biagio looked contemplative. ‘I could tell you, but that might jeopardize things. I think the less you know, the better. If you get caught or can’t find Vantran, or if Elrad Leth finds out about our plans, then that part of my design will be ruined.’
‘What’s the other part?’
‘Do not press me, youngster,’ Biagio said sternly. Then he softened, adding, ‘I will tell you this. The Triin are only part of my plan. Defeating Talistan will not be easy because I no longer command the Naren legions. I will need allies to fight Leth and your grandfather. That’s what I will be doing.’
‘Getting allies?’
But Biagio would say no more. He leaned back in his chair and took one of the candies from the bowl. He smiled as he ate the confection.
‘What will happen to my father?’ asked Alazrian. ‘To Leth, I mean?’
‘He will be freed. You will return with him to Aramoor. I cannot risk executing him or holding him in prison. He knows that, and so does your grandfather. That’s why he agreed to testify. If I harmed him, it would only speed Gayle’s plans and give him an excuse to oppose me. Politics, young Leth. It’s an art.’ He picked out another of the candies.
‘I feel like I’m in a spider’s web,’ said Alazrian. ‘Trapped.’
‘I know that feeling,’ said Biagio. ‘But you are not trapped, Alazrian Leth, and neither am I. The time has come for you to learn a lesson about destiny. Destiny is for the weak; strong men build their own lives. So I put it to you – will you ride a raft and see where the current takes you? Or will you be strong and grow wings for yourself?’
Alazrian had already made his decision. He had made it over a month ago at his mother’s bedside, when he’d promised to search out the reason for his powers. Elrad Leth might think him a coward, but Emperor Renato Biagio had picked him for an extraordinary task. At least in Biagio’s eyes, he had value.
‘Write your letter, Lord Emperor,’ he said. ‘I will deliver it for you.’
Five
Shii was only twenty-one, but she was already accustomed to the hardships of life. These days being a Lissen meant sacrifice and service. It meant dedicating oneself to the defense of the homeland, and the idea that freedom must be fought for and defended. Shii didn’t care much for the life of a sailor. She was young, and longed for the things that young girls crave; the touch of a man, the security of a home, children who are healthy. But Shii was also old of spirit. When her country needed her, she had willingly swapped her youth for service. That had been over a year ago. And in that time, Liss had unshackled itself from the chains of the Empire, scoring numerous victories against their great adversary. They had even claimed Crote, Emperor Biagio’s homeland, and held it secure since their invasion. That had been the brightest spot of Shii’s career. She had trained with Richius Vantran, the Jackal of Nar, to invade and win the island. She had served well and with honor as a ground soldier, but now she had traded up. At last she was on the sea. Like a true Lissen.
From her place on the masthead, Shii looked up at the stars. It was a clear night and the breeze was sweet, and as the Firedrake sailed windward it struck her face, lashing back her golden hair. Ahead of her was murky darkness. On the decks below, the crew’s activity had taken on a sluggish pace. It was late, and the men and women she sailed with had mostly gone to sleep. A few lanterns lit the forecastle and whipstaff where Shii’s friend Gigis stood steering the ship, but Shii ignored the things below her. Mesmerized by the carpet of stars, the lookout for the Firedrake fell into a peaceful fugue. They were just beneath the Little Lion, the constellation that pointed them northward toward the dangerous waters around Nar City. The Naren capital was a known hot spot of fleet activity, and the Firedrake’s mission was to patrol those waters, staying out of harm’s way if they could, and to report back any massings to Crote. It was a dire mission because the little schooner was alone, without any escorts to bolster her. Still rebuilding from Nar’s decade-long blockade, Liss had too few ships to secure this much ocean, and schooners were needed everywhere. The homeland required them for protection. Queen Jelena on Crote needed them, too, to help maintain her tenuous grip on the island. The battles off the coast of Casarhoon required ships, dozens of them, and it all added up to an inescapable fact of life for Shii and her crewmates – the Firedrake was on its own.
Shii wrapped her blanket closer around her shoulders. It was very cold in these northern waters. She wondered how the Narens tolerated it. But the answer was obvious. Narens were cold-blooded beasts, and warmth, whether the natural kind that came from the sun or the human kind that came from the heart, was meaningless to them. Shii studied the far-flung constellation and sighed. Nights like these made her homesick for Liss. But her parents were dead now. And the child she had carried for nine months had been taken from her and drowned by Narens. The pain had hardened Shii’s heart. She was resolved to make Liss strong again. Like her crewmates, she had lost a good part of her life to the Empire’s devils and was determined to build a better tomorrow. Liss the Raped; that’s what they had called her homeland once. But now the Narens called it Liss the Terrible, and the sound of that title pleased Shii.
‘Lian,’ she whispered, looking at the stars. ‘We have avenged you.’
The thought of her murdered infant made Shii wistful. He might be up there somewhere, looking down on her. Was he pleased that his mother had become such a tiger? Shii g
azed out over the inky waters. They had been at sea for weeks now and had not encountered a single dreadnought since departing Crote. Shii couldn’t help wondering if her queen’s suspicions were correct. Jelena and her advisors believed that Nar would try to retake Crote. So far, the counterattack hadn’t come. So far things had been eerily quiet on Crote, and Shii supposed it was that silence that irked Jelena.
Shii relaxed. Tonight she would sit up in the masthead with her blanket, admiring heaven and chewing on hardtack, and calling down ‘all clears’ from time to time. Best of all, she would not be disturbed until her shift was done. Then she could sleep. Shii yawned, fighting the impulse to close her eyes. The sway of the vessel and the groans from the yards all conspired to lull her to sleep. But before she could yawn again something flashed on the horizon.
Shii’s pulse began to race.
‘What . . .?’
Her eyes fixed on the thing far ahead, couched in shadows so that it was almost invisible. But it moved with the waves and reappeared with each swell, and Shii soon knew it was the lantern light of a ship. Hurriedly she fumbled with her spyglass, putting it to her eye. Through the magnifier she saw the unmistakable outline of a dreadnought, barely rendered against the black horizon. Within a moment another silhouette appeared, then another still, and Shii knew with awful certainty that they were closing in fast.
‘Awake! Awake!’ she cried, shattering the silent night. ‘Contact ahead!’
Admiral Danar Nicabar lay on his cot, breathing heavily. He had just finished a treatment and it had left him drained. Beside his bed rested a metallic, multi-armed apparatus of tubes and armatures. An overturned vial hung from one of its hooks, empty but for the blue residue of the life-sustaining drug. Nicabar shuddered as the narcotic took hold of him. Flexing his arm he forced the last of the liquid through his veins. All his extremities burned with the odd metamorphosis. But Danar Nicabar was accustomed to the pain, and he welcomed it. In a very real sense, it made him immortal.
It was late and Nicabar was alone in his cabin, as he always was when taking his treatments. Nobody, not even his trusted Captain Blasco, ever witnessed his weekly resurrection. He had retired early tonight, leaving the deck of the Fearless to come below and study his maps, which were strewn across his spartan desk. Naren cartographers were excellent, but the maps were not. They were crude renderings of the Hundred Isles of Liss, full of guesses and half-truths. To Nicabar, they were almost worthless. Though he had spent twelve years fighting the Lissens, he still knew almost nothing of their waterways. As Nicabar lay unmoving in his cot, he wondered if the throbbing in his head had been caused by the drug or the incessant frustrations of warring with Liss.
The admiral opened his eyes. He was himself again, or very nearly. He popped the silver needle from his arm. Blood trickled from the tiny incision. Nicabar looked at it curiously, wondering how Bovadin’s creation actually worked. Even after all these years the drug remained a mystery to him. Still light-headed, he sat up slowly, letting his feet dangle over the bedside. There was a porthole in his cabin through which he could see the lanterns of his escort frigate, Infamous. Nicabar frowned. Captain L’Rago was sailing very close.
‘Fool,’ growled Nicabar, stepping toward the porthole. He pressed his nose to the misted glass and peered into the night. Just past the Infamous was the outline of Black City. Nicabar guessed at the distance and thought it safe. As a commander, Gark was far superior to L’Rago. Nicabar dismissed the scene outside his window and sat down at his desk. The maps seemed to mock him. Exhausted, he took up his quill and started drawing little rectangles on them; his fleet surrounding poor defenseless Liss. The fantasy brought a smile to his face. But things were never that easy because the Hundred Isles remained an enigma. Nicabar dropped his quill and sent a blotch of ink spraying across the map.
‘Damn,’ he muttered.
It would be weeks until he reached Casarhoon, and still more weeks until he could plan an effective attack on Liss. The Casarhoon campaign was taking all his energy and ships. Surprisingly, the Lissens had been quite effective there. But Nicabar was confident he could break them once he brought the Fearless to bear. Then, after Casarhoon . . . He stabbed the map with a fingertip.
‘Liss.’
Somehow, he would find their weakness. And when he did, he would exploit it. Queen Jelena, who had been preparing defenses for an assault on Crote, would be too far away to stop him. With the Fearless and a handful of ships, he was sure he could take one of the Lissen islands. And once he did, the main island would be within striking distance.
‘Admiral Nicabar?’ came a voice outside his door. An insistent knock followed. ‘Admiral, are you awake?’
‘Come in, Blasco.’ At this hour, an interruption meant something important. Captain Blasco opened the door. He looked strangely excited.
‘Admiral, there’s a sighting ahead. One ship.’
Nicabar’s headache vanished instantly. ‘Lissen?’
‘I think so, sir. We’re not close enough yet to know for certain, but it’s turning to evade. We’re very close.’
‘Heading?’
‘She was heading north, sir, straight for us.’ Captain Blasco grinned. ‘She knows we’ll be after her.’
‘Indeed we will, Captain,’ said Nicabar, getting to his feet. He realized suddenly that he was shirtless. ‘Get above and continue pursuit. I’ll be up directly. Signal the Infamous and Black City. I don’t want to lose her.’
Captain Blasco was out of the room in an instant. Nicabar heard his booted footfalls rushing up the gangway. Quickly he retrieved his shirt from the bedside, snagging its sleeve on the metal apparatus overhanging his cot. The thing tipped over, shattering the empty vial. Nicabar ignored the mess, buttoning up his shirt. As he raced for the door he grabbed his coat from its peg, pulling it on as he went above decks. A starry night sprawled out above him. Wind from the north ripped at their sails, propelling them quickly over the waves. The massive keel of the Fearless flattened the opposing ocean, slicing out a giant white wake. Nicabar quickly made for the forecastle. Already waiting there, pointing past the prow, was Captain Blasco.
‘There,’ called the captain. His finger singled out a fleeing shadow very nearby.
‘Glasses,’ Nicabar ordered. A quick-thinking lieutenant produced a spyglass immediately, slapping it into Nicabar’s palm. The admiral pulled open the telescope and looked out over the chop. There was a ship turning hastily to take up the wind. With the lens Nicabar could easily make out her white wood and sloping rails, and her gleaming, toothy ram. She was Lissen.
‘Schooner,’ he declared. She was alone, turning to run because she knew she was outgunned. Nicabar glanced up at the sails. Blasco had already ordered full speed. The northern gust tore at the yards, hurtling the flagship and her escorts toward the fleeing schooner. Lissen schooners were remarkably fast; it was their only real advantage over Naren dreadnoughts. But the long arc of the Lissens’ turn would slow them, gaining Nicabar’s ships much needed ground. The admiral glanced over the starboard bow and saw the Infamous and Black City keeping pace with the Fearless, sailing abreast as they hunted down their fleeing prey. Signal men on both decks conveyed their intentions with lanterns. They would pursue in formation until counterorders came from the Fearless. Nicabar clasped his hands together. How best to capture these devils? he wondered. He wanted some alive. He wanted answers.
‘Speed,’ he murmured.
The only thing he could do was wait until the Lissens finished their turn and see how close that brought him.
‘Captain Blasco,’ he said simply. ‘Prepare the starboard batteries for fire. Signal the Infamous to pursue and overtake. Let’s see if we can make them fight.’
‘Aye, sir,’ said Blasco, and shouted the orders down to his lieutenants who echoed them to midshipmen. Within moments a reply came from the Infamous, and the swift frigate pulled ahead of the dreadnoughts driving for the fleeing Lissens. Nicabar doubted the Infamous could really overta
ke the schooner, but he knew if the frigate could come within firing distance they might be able to slow their quarry. When the time came he would order the Fearless to turn to port, exposing her starboard batteries.
With his hands still clasped before him, Danar Nicabar waited for the battle to unfold.
On board the Firedrake, Shii held fast to the rail of the crow’s nest, shouting down to her mates as the schooner executed the arcing turn. Gigis worked the whipstaff while others hurriedly pulled the ropes and sails. Commander Auriel shouted orders. Through her spyglass Shii could see the Naren frigate breaking away from the dreadnoughts, driving desperately to pin them down before they finished their turn. The frigate’s two portside flame cannons flared to life. Shii knew they would open fire as soon as they were in range, trying to slow the schooner for the dreadnoughts. Below her, the Firedrake’s own gunners readied their starboard cannons. They were the old-fashioned shot-firing cannons, but they were still effective. The sounds of men loading shot and powder sent a rush through Shii. The frigate was remarkably quick, but the Firedrake had just about completed her turn. Now they were sailing south with the three Narens on their tail. Shii saw the dark trio growing past the schooner’s stern. The frigate was trying to come alongside. Unless the Firedrake outpaced her, she would be in range within minutes. Shii closed her eyes, cursing herself. If only she had seen them sooner. If she hadn’t been daydreaming . . .
