The Saints of the Sword

by John Marco

  “Nicabar,” he whispered, closing his eyes and calling up an image of his foe. The admiral had been his hero once. “God, but you’re a bastard.”

  Kasrin wouldn’t have his revenge tonight. Tonight all that he would have was the purchased love of a woman.

  Good enough, he thought, then left the dock and went inside.

  The “house” Meleda worked in was a two-story structure with a long bar on the first floor and little rooms on the second. It was old and smelled of rum and unclean men. Gamblers and fishermen huddled around card tables and diced at gaming booths while two bar-men slid glasses down the bar with practiced ease, spilling not a drop of the foaming beer. There was a good crowd for the late hour, and Kasrin recognized many of the unshaven faces. They had become his friends. At first they hadn’t trusted him, unable to fathom how a high-ranking naval man had ended up in their little armpit, but Kasrin could hold his rum and tell a good story, and he didn’t look down on the hard-working men and women of the town. In a melancholy way, they reminded him of his parents. Kasrin surveyed the room, smiling as he searched out Meleda. He found her dealing cards at a faro table. There was a glowing pipe next to her glass of rum and her hair was pulled back from her face and tied with red ribbon, exposing her laughing eyes and infectious smile. When she sighted Kasrin, she waved.

  “Here, honey,” she called, bidding him over. The men around the faro table tossed coins and studied their cards, greeting Kasrin with grunts.

  “Gentlemen,” Kasrin said. He handed the rose to Meleda. “For you.”

  Meleda smiled. “Oooh, thanks, lover,” she cooed, admiring the flower. “It’s a beauty.”

  The men around the table chuckled and poked at Kasrin, ribbing him for the gift. Kasrin laughed and ignored them, looking at Meleda. She was beautiful, and he longed for her—not just in a physical way. That lust would be over in an hour. But there was something else about the woman, a sense of permanence and warmth. It could have been any woman, Kasrin knew. The hunger was for acceptance. For a gold coin, Meleda would sell acceptance to any man.

  “You want to go upstairs?” she asked, giving him a wink.

  “Well, I’m not here to play cards.”

  Meleda grinned. “Just give me a minute. I’ll be right with you.”

  Knowing the procedure perfectly, Kasrin went upstairs and found the room Meleda always used to “entertain,” dropping down on the bed and pulling off his shoes. It was hot, so he opened a window, letting in the fresh salty breeze, taking a deep breath. Kasrin could see his ship bobbing in the distance. A little dingy was rowing toward it with three men aboard.

  Laney, thought Kasrin. Heading back. Good man.

  A very good man, really. Like all the men of the Dread Sovereign. A ship of fools, willingly sailing with the king imbecile. Kasrin turned away from the window, not wanting to see his lonely ship. He took off his shirt and tossed it into the corner, then laid back on the bed, staring pensively at the ceiling while he waited for Meleda. Finally, he heard footfalls in the hall outside.

  “Get in here, you beauty,” he called.

  There was a hesitation outside the door. Kasrin laughed.

  “Come on, kitten. Don’t play games with me.”

  The door opened slowly. Kasrin started unbuttoning his trousers. And then a little man peeked inside, grinning.

  “Disappointed, darling?” joked the man. Kasrin buttoned up his pants.

  “And angry,” he growled, staring down the intruder. “Who the hell are you?”

  “I’m a messenger, Captain Kasrin. And you’re an inconvenient man to find.” He went to the corner and picked up Kasrin’s shirt, then tossed it at the captain. “Here. Get dressed.”

  “The hell I will,” snapped Kasrin. He threw the shirt away and stalked toward the man, staring down at him threateningly. “I’m busy. Now, what’s your message?”

  The man didn’t seem at all frightened. “You’re my message, Kasrin,” he said. “I’m to take you to see my lord. There’s a carriage waiting for us downstairs. I’d suggest you hurry. My master doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

  “Oh, really? Am I supposed to care?”

  “You would if you knew my master. He has an infamous temper.”

  “Listen, you little troll,” said Kasrin, grabbing hold of the man’s lapel and lifting him to his toes. “You’d better tell me who the hell you are in two seconds, or I swear to heaven I’ll twist your head off!”

  “My name is Malthrak. I work for Emperor Biagio.” He put his hands over Kasrin’s and pried his fingers loose. “And if you don’t let go of me, you stinking son-of-a-sea-hag, I’ll have my associates suck out your eyeballs.”

  Astonished, Kasrin released the man, backing away and studying him. He had the look of a Roshann agent, cool and deadly.

  “What do you want with me?” Kasrin asked.

  “I told you,” said Malthrak. He looked Kasrin up and down, plainly disgusted, then inspected the room. “My God, look what’s happened to you.”

  “Biagio wants to see me?”

  “Clever man. What gave it away? My word-for-word explanation? Get dressed.”

  Kasrin didn’t move. “Why?” he pressed. “What for?”

  “The life of a servant is humble and cruel, Captain Kasrin. I don’t know why the emperor wants to see you and I don’t care. The fact is, he does, and that’s why I’m here. So let’s move a little more quickly, hmm?”

  The captain glanced at the door as he remembered Meleda. Malthrak seemed to read his mind, stepping in front of him.

  “Your pretty wench won’t be coming up, Kasrin. I told her I had business with you and a silver piece shut her mouth. Now come along.”

  “A silver?” rumbled Kasrin. “I was going to pay a gold.” He sighed. “Very well, Roshann. Take me to your master. I’ve got a few things I’d like to say to him myself.”

  Kasrin retrieved his shirt and started doing up the buttons. He had never met the emperor, but he knew his reputation. He supposed Nicabar had whispered in Biagio’s ear, and that this would be his last voyage. But he wouldn’t flinch and give Biagio the satisfaction of tasting fear. Whatever the emperor wanted, he would face it like a man.

  It was nearly dawn when Kasrin and Malthrak arrived at the Black Palace. Kasrin could tell from the horizon that morning was drawing close, and he was exhausted from lack of sleep. He knew that Laney and the others back aboard the Dread Sovereign would be worried about him, wondering where he’d gone, but Biagio’s Roshann agent had been adamant about making time. As the carriage pulled up into the courtyard, Kasrin couldn’t wait to get out. Despite his position in the navy, he had only seen the Black Palace as an observer, one of the thousands who ogled the structure daily from the streets. Kasrin was dizzied by it, craning his neck to see its peak, which seemed to vanish into the sky. He turned on Malthrak, who was jumping out of the carriage.

  “Where’s your master, dog? Bring him on.”

  Malthrak smirked. “You’re in a hurry now? That’s fine.” The agent walked over to one of the waiting slaves in the yard, telling him to inform the emperor of their arrival. The slave reported that “the master” was waiting for them, then scurried off. Malthrak flicked a finger at Kasrin. “Come along.”

  Together they passed through a massive gate and beneath a tier of stairs. Kasrin marvelled at the architecture. The Black Palace was a nightmare of limestone and statues, full of catwalks and gargoyles and polished, precious metals. It was like a thing from Naren mythology, a place where gods should dwell.

  Malthrak took Kasrin into a gigantic hall with a frescoed ceiling and walls lined with plaster friezes depicting Nar’s bellicose history. The hall was empty of people, and the earliness of the hour lent the chamber a ghostly, graveyard quality. Across the hall, a towering statue of a naked woman stared at Kasrin with an inscrutable smile. In her arms was a pitcher of imaginary water that poured over her legs and feet. Like everything in the palace, the statue was enormous and unnerving.
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  “Where’s Biagio?” he asked.

  “In his music room,” answered Malthrak. “Not much farther.”

  Not much farther felt like a mile as Malthrak led Kasrin up endless stairs and down snaking corridors, past kitchens and slave quarters and armories, and finally to a wing that was even more quiet than the others, where a pair of guardians with silver skull helms barred an archway. Beyond the arch Kasrin could see a change of decor. It was more subtle, this wing, more sedate and feminine.

  “Come,” said Malthrak, walking past the guardians without a care. Kasrin followed until finally they arrived at a wide chamber with plush carpeting and tall windows overlooking the city and the sunrise. Busts of unfamiliar men lined the walls, and elaborate tapestries hung from the ceiling. But most remarkable of all was the person at the center of the chamber. Sitting at a white piano, thundering away on the keys, was a man with long blond hair and flying fingers. He wore a flowing, dusty-rose jacket trimmed with white ruffles and his ascot was soaked with sweat from his playing, tendrils of hair drooping into his eyes. He seemed not to notice Kasrin staring, or at least he didn’t care, and the music grew to a stormy crescendo as his hands danced over the ivory, pounding out a furious melody.

  Kasrin leaned toward Malthrak. “Is that Biagio?”

  “Shhh!” chided Malthrak. “Wait.”

  Kasrin waited long minutes for the pianist to finish, building his piece to its clamorous end with a flourish of his silk-cuffed hands. And when he was done, the pianist tossed back his head in exhaustion, gasping for air. Malthrak clapped wildly.

  “Beautiful, Master. Wonderful!”

  Biagio pulled a crimson handkerchief from his vest and blotted his forehead. He was saturated with sweat but seemed immensely pleased with himself, and when he sighted Kasrin his face brightened further.

  “Greetings, Captain Kasrin,” he said. There was an androgynous lilt to his voice, and to the rest of him. Biagio was like a woman and a man bred into one body, with amber skin and golden hair and delicate features that belied his ferocity. Gingerly, he replaced the handkerchief into his vest pocket, shaking his mane of hair. A rainstorm of sweat flew from his brow.

  “What did you think?” he asked. Kasrin didn’t know how to answer.

  “It was loud,” said the captain.

  “It was beautiful,” said the emperor. “And you know it. That was a piece from Ta’grogo, a Crotan composer who lived during the last century. He was a genius.”

  “If you say so.”

  Malthrak was incensed. “He does say so, you—”

  “Malthrak, be a good man and leave us alone, will you?” asked Biagio. He smiled at Kasrin. “I have things to discuss with the captain.”

  The Roshann agent was quick to comply. He bowed to his emperor, then backed out of the music room. Kasrin felt awkward, unsure what to do with his hands, so he folded them defiantly over his chest and waited for Biagio to speak. It was an uncomfortably long wait, as the emperor surveyed him. Finally, Biagio sat back on his piano bench.

  “You’re not what I expected,” he said. “You’re younger.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you.”

  Biagio arched an eyebrow. “Oh, you haven’t disappointed me, Kasrin. You may, given time, but not yet.” The emperor went to a crystal cabinet against the nearest wall, its shelves burdened by goblets and bottles of liquor. Biagio chose a blood-toned wine and held it out for Kasrin. “Drink?”

  “No thank you,” said Kasrin. He knew he was in a spider’s web and wanted to hold fast to his wits.

  Biagio poured himself a glass. “Do you like my music room, Captain? When I’m troubled I come here to relax and play my piano. This is my church.”

  “Your church? Oh, well, that’s convenient. Since you blew the other one to bits, I mean.”

  Biagio glared at Kasrin. “You should be quiet about such things,” he advised. “Don’t forget who you’re talking to.”

  There were two ornate chairs in the corner of the room, pale wood carved with elaborate designs. Biagio strode over to them, sat down in one, and crossed his legs. He waved Kasrin closer. “Come sit with me, Captain. We have business to discuss.”

  “What business?”

  “Sit and I’ll tell you.”

  “I prefer to stand.”

  Biagio rolled his eyes. “I knew you’d be stubborn. Very well, be uncomfortable. I’m sure you’re used to it, living in that rat’s nest of a village.”

  “You should know,” spat Kasrin. “You put me there. You and your good friend, Nicabar.”

  “You’re bitter,” said Biagio. “I understand. You have a right to be. But I’m begging you to open your ears for a moment. I need you to listen to me. I think you’ll be intrigued.”

  “I’m not interested in a damn thing you have to say. If I’m here to be executed, then fine. I’ve been expecting it. But spare me your lectures.”

  “You misunderstand me,” said the emperor. “Please, sit down.”

  This time, Kasrin accepted the invitation. There was something tantalizing about Biagio, something Kasrin hadn’t expected. “What’s this about?” he asked. “Why am I here?”

  “It’s about Liss,” answered Biagio. “What else?”

  “Liss,” scoffed Kasrin. “What else, indeed. I’ve already made my statement to Nicabar. I don’t see why I should repeat it to you. Being an outcast hasn’t changed my mind.”

  Biagio nodded. “I know the story. Admiral Nicabar has told me everything. He thinks you’re a coward, Kasrin.”

  “Because I wouldn’t kill innocent people for you and him.”

  “No,” corrected Biagio. “Not me. Just him.”

  “It’s your war too, Biagio. Don’t sit there and deny it. And it’s been a bloodbath. I didn’t want any part of it anymore.”

  “True,” said the emperor. He frowned, looking down into his wine and contemplating his reflection. “I did help Arkus plan the first attack on Liss. Back then I agreed with it. But things have changed. I’ve changed.”

  “Oh, I’m sure,” laughed Kasrin.

  “I have,” snarled Biagio. “And I intend to prove it to you and the whole Empire.”

  “Men like you don’t change, Biagio. You’ve been a butcher all your life. So has Nicabar.” He leaned back, eyeing the emperor contemptuously. “You Naren lords are all alike. All you can see is more wealth, more lands to conquer, more people to enslave.” He rubbed his fingers together under Biagio’s nose. “This is all that matters to you, Biagio. Gold. That’s all you’re about. You’re just about the goddamn money.”

  Biagio shook his head. “Look at me, Kasrin.”

  “I’m looking.”

  “I mean really look. What color are my eyes?”

  Kasrin shrugged. “I don’t know. Green, I guess.”

  “That’s right, green,” said Biagio sharply. He sat back in annoyance. “Once my eyes flared like two blue gems. Crystal blue, like the sky. Like Nicabar’s.”

  There was a trace of understanding on Kasrin’s face. Biagio seized it.

  “Yes, you get my meaning. I’m a different man now. What we did in Liss was wrong, but I was crazed then. I was on the same narcotic as Nicabar, and it drove us both insane.”

  “And now?”

  “I use the drug no longer.”

  “Why?”

  “For peace,” Biagio replied. “It is wrong for the war against Liss to continue. You know that. It’s why you refused to fight them. And why Nicabar calls you a coward. You see, I know a great deal about you, Blair Kasrin.”

  “No,” spat Kasrin. “You know nothing about me.”

  “You were born in the fishing village of Es’Trakla, just south of here. Your father’s name was also Blair. He owned a scow that brought in fish from the cape. Your oldest memories are of working with him on the sea where you used to dream of becoming a sailor like your hero, Nicabar. At the age of fifteen you were bitten by a moray eel. Took a good slice out of your arm—”

  “Enough
,” spat Kasrin. “You can spout off a history lesson, Biagio, but you know nothing about the man. And you have no idea why I refused to fight against Liss, because the screams of women and children mean nothing to you. You’re a monster, like Nicabar, and I worshipped him when I was young because I was a fool.”

  “But you hate him now, don’t you Kasrin?” probed Biagio. “He’s taken your life away. No, worse! You’d prefer if he’d kill you. You wouldn’t have to hear people calling you a coward then, and you wouldn’t be stuck in that stinking village, forbidden to set sail. Now your reputation is ruined, isn’t it? Nicabar has made a fool of you and your crew. And the Dread Sovereign is collecting barnacles while you get drunk and pass the time with whores. Nicabar’s waiting for you to repent. But you never will, because you think you’re right.”

  Every word of Biagio’s speech was true, and Kasrin managed a bitter smile. “Very impressive.”

  Biagio’s answering grin was terrible. “I’m not a perfect man, Captain. But I’m better than I was. And there are things I need to keep my Empire together. One of them is peace with Liss. I have bigger troubles to deal with, and these Lissens are weakening me. I must have peace.”

  “So? Go ahead; declare peace.”

  “I cannot. Our mutual problem is in the way.”

  “Mutual?” Then Kasrin understood. “You mean Nicabar.”

  “He’s obsessed with Liss. He’s been trying to conquer them for a dozen years, and it’s made him insane. And he has me cornered. The Black Fleet follows him, not me. They will continue to fight with Liss as long as he says so.”

  “He’ll never give up,” Kasrin agreed. He knew Nicabar too well to hope for that. Biagio was right. Nicabar was haunted by the Lissens. It was the only thing driving him these days. “But what can be done? As you say, the fleet follows him.”