The Saints of the Sword

by John Marco

  Arkus of Nar looked down from a fake Iron Throne, almost alive as he contemplated his visitor. His hair was long and white and his eyes were a dazzling blue, fit with two real sapphires to approximate their preternatural light. A golden robe fell around his lean body, and his fingers were circled with gemmed rings. It was an odd depiction of Arkus, without the desiccated skin and sickly pallor of his later years, but it was striking nonetheless. It was Arkus as he once had been—as he should have remained—and the sight of him hurt. Alazrian Leth had been right. Arkus’ death had been the most terrible thing Biagio had ever endured. It had taught him the meaning of pain.

  “I’m emperor now, Arkus,” whispered Biagio. He glanced up at the strong wax face. “I’m doing my best, but it’s so hard. I wish you were here to help me. I wish you were still emperor, and everything was the same.”

  But everything wasn’t the same, and this Arkus was a fraud. Biagio sunk his chin into his chest.

  “You don’t know what it’s like these days,” he remarked. “You could never know.”

  Arkus had been stronger than Biagio, and Biagio knew it. His patron had been the most ruthless, brilliant man he’d ever met, and he never let sentiment get in the way of things. But he was also insane and hopelessly addicted to Bovadin’s drug, and in the end that madness had ruined him, turning him into a weeping shell desperately afraid of dying. Biagio straightened. He wasn’t afraid of dying. The only thing he’d ever feared was obscurity.

  A sound at the other end of the corridor startled him. Biagio turned and saw Dakel in the shadows. Biagio flushed. His guardians were used to him talking to himself, but he didn’t think Dakel should know him that well.

  “Come,” he called, his voice echoing down the corridor. Dakel seemed confused. He wore a ruby evening coat that billowed out behind him as he walked.

  “Lord Emperor,” he said, greeting Biagio. “Good evening.” He shifted his walking stick from hand to hand, unsure what to say next. “I received your summons, my lord. I’m here as you asked.”

  Biagio regarded him with a smile. “Thank you for coming,” he said. He had always liked Dakel. The Inquisitor was something of a protégé these days. He had a keen mind and a sharp sense of duty that Biagio admired. In other times, he might even have trusted Dakel. “You look concerned,” Biagio observed.

  Dakel looked around. “Forgive me, my lord, but this is an unusual place for a meeting. May I ask why all the secrecy?”

  “It’s necessary,” replied Biagio, unsure how much to divulge. If Dakel was to rule in his absence, he had to be safe. And sometimes safety came from ignorance. He put a hand on the younger man’s shoulder and tried to sound reassuring. “I am sorry for the furtiveness. But I needed to be sure no one would overhear us tonight, and the walls of the palace have grown ears lately. Come, walk with me.”

  Biagio put his arm around Dakel and steered him out of the Imperial Wing, away from the curious eyes of the dead emperors. His Shadow Angels made to follow, but Biagio kept them away with a flick of his delicate fingers. They would wait for him until he returned no matter how long it took. As they walked, Dakel glanced around uneasily. They were now in the mythology exhibit, a vast chamber with a high domed ceiling housing bizarre creatures and false deities. Ahead of them was a statue of the goddess Vree, a beautiful woman except for the snakes she used as arms.

  “Why here, my lord?” Dakel asked. “I’ve never enjoyed this place.”

  “No?” said Biagio. “Well, the place isn’t important. It’s the privacy that matters. I come here often at night, to think and consider things. I knew no one would be here to overhear us.”

  “Ah, so we are going to have an important conversation. Should I be worried?”

  “Perhaps.”

  Dakel’s expression became grave. “Tell me.”

  There was a bench against one of the walls. Biagio guided Dakel toward it, bidding him to sit.

  Dakel relaxed, crossing his legs and staring up at Biagio. For Biagio, it was like looking in a mirror. Despite Dakel’s jet hair and alabaster skin, he had the manners of a Crotan nobleman. His blue eyes bore into Biagio imploringly, and for a moment Biagio wondered if Dakel thought of him the way he had always thought of Arkus. The idea softened the emperor’s voice.

  “You’ve done a very fine job with the Protectorate, Dakel,” said Biagio. “I want you to know how pleased I am with you. When I chose you I had no doubts about your ability, of course, and you’ve proven me correct.”

  Dakel inclined his head. “I am glad to please you, my lord. But I am Roshann. I could never do anything but my best for you.”

  True enough, Biagio knew. All his Roshann agents were zealots. They were the only constant thing in his life. In all the years of the Roshann’s existence, only one member had dared to betray Biagio, and that had broken his heart.

  “You are my truest servant, Dakel,” Biagio continued. “And perhaps my only friend. You’ve done remarkably well for me. The Protectorate has been a success, mostly.”

  “Mostly, my lord?”

  Biagio smiled. “Nothing is perfect, despite your efforts. The Protectorate has been effective—”

  “Sir, it’s been more than effective. We’ve tried almost two dozen war criminals. We’ve sent half that number to the gallows. People everywhere now realize you’re a strong leader—”

  “Stop,” ordered Biagio, holding up a hand. “I’ve not summoned you to criticize you, Dakel. You’re right. The Protectorate has had many successes. And we’ve done well with smoking out Tassis Gayle.”

  “Yes,” agreed Dakel. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”

  Biagio sighed. The question was impossible, because he wanted so much. And so much of what he wanted could never be explained, not even to a genius like Dakel. Dakel was young and idealistic. He believed in the Black Renaissance and the reign of his emperor. But he hadn’t lived long enough to know loss, and he still thought absolution came from a vial.

  “Dakel, I’m going away,” said Biagio. “While I’m gone you will be in control of things.”

  Dakel’s face was blank. “Away? What do you mean, my lord?”

  “I have important business,” said Biagio. “Things that only I can take care of. While I’m gone you will act as emperor by my decree. No one must know of my absence, either. That is why I have not attended any public functions and have stayed to the shadows in the Protectorate. I don’t want the citizenry thinking something is wrong. For them, life must go on as usual. Do you understand?”

  Clearly, Dakel didn’t. His mouth hung open in shock. Biagio sighed.

  “Say something, Dakel.”

  “My lord,” stammered Dakel, “This is madness! You are emperor. You can’t simply leave the city.”

  “I can and I must, for the good of the Empire.” Biagio slid down next to Dakel on the bench. “The Protectorate is not enough, you see. There’s a lot going on that you don’t know about, my friend. And I can’t tell you everything because it might jeopardize my plans. The less you know, the safer you will be.”

  “No,” insisted Dakel. “I cannot accept that. You must tell me where you’re going, my lord. Is it Talistan?”

  He seemed genuinely hurt by Biagio’s evasiveness and the pain in his eyes surprised Biagio. Biagio looked away, slightly embarrassed, knowing that Dakel would fight him once he knew the truth.

  “I’m going to Crote,” he confessed suddenly. His eyes flicked back to Dakel and registered the Inquisitor’s shock. “Before you say anything, let me tell you my mind is made up. I’m going to meet with Queen Jelena. I’m going to try and convince her to end her war against Nar.”

  “But my lord, that is impossible! Jelena and her dogs will rip you to pieces the moment you step foot on Crote. You won’t stand a chance!”

  “Don’t,” snarled Biagio. “I have been through this before. It’s the only way. We must have peace with Liss. We must, Dakel.”

  “But my lord—”

  Biagio rose from the
bench and began pacing the chamber, circling like a panther as he tried to explain it. He told Dakel of his plans with Kasrin and how he intended to destroy Nicabar for the sake of peace. Dakel listened in shocked silence. Biagio’s temples pounded as he spoke. He didn’t want to be here explaining his every move to a protégé. What he wanted was an empire secure of war and genocide, the empire Arkus had envisioned. But every day, that dream seemed to grow more and more distant. Finally, he collapsed against a wall and stared up at the domed ceiling.

  Dakel was very quiet.

  “How long will you be?” asked the Inquisitor finally. “It’s not very far to Crote. When can I expect you to return?”

  Biagio hesitated. He still hadn’t told Dakel everything.

  “After Crote I am going elsewhere,” he said. “I must do my best to aid young Alazrian. If he brings Vantran and the Triin to Talistan, there must be others there to greet them.”

  “What others?” asked Dakel. His blazing eyes narrowed on Biagio. “What else haven’t you told me?”

  “Watch yourself,” Biagio warned. “I have indulged you this much because you’ve been so loyal. But do not forget whom you’re addressing.”

  The Inquisitor colored. “Forgive me,” he said. “I meant no offense, my lord. It’s just that I’m concerned. Please, I beg you. Tell me where you will you go after Crote.”

  “You are Roshann, Dakel,” said Biagio. “So you will understand this. I cannot risk telling you everything. I will not say where I am going after Crote.” He looked at the younger man carefully. “You see, a child is never so frightened as when his parents are afraid. It is like that for rulers, too. The city must never know that I am gone, and they must never know where I am. So I will not tell you, Dakel, because I cannot risk any loose tongues.”

  “If that is your decision.”

  “It is.” Biagio put a hand to Dakel’s face. “Do as I ask. I have made some arrangements with my staff. They know you will be ruling in my stead. I give you full authority, my friend. Keep the Protectorate alive. Summon anyone you wish before your tribunal, except the House of Gayle. Use all the powers of your office. Execute whomever you must, and make certain the Empire believes we are in control.”

  Dakel took Biagio’s hand from his cheek and kissed it. “I will make you proud, my lord,” he said. “I will do as you ask.”

  “And whatever happens, keep a hold on the throne. When I return—if I return—I will truly be emperor.”

  “As you command.”

  Renato Biagio reached out and clasped Dakel’s frozen hand tightly. He said, “Now you are acting emperor, my friend. And may all the angels of heaven defend you.”

  “Push, damn it!” ranted Kasrin.

  “I am pushing!” Laney retorted angrily. The first officer of the Dread Sovereign had his shoulder against an enormous crate, beads of sweat popping on his forehead as he strained to shove it forward. Beside him were three other crewmen, all in the same position.

  “Get on the winch!” Kasrin bellowed. At the other end of the loading plank another team of men worked the ship’s winch fighting desperately to get their heavy cargo aboard. The rope and plank groaned with effort threatening to snap, and Kasrin shook his head angrily cursing Biagio and the men from the war labs. As promised, the labs had delivered the cannon fuel. But the huge iron carriage that had brought the cargo had left it unceremoniously on the dock, and the harbor had no loading arm for lifting such a large item aboard a ship. Usually, dreadnoughts were put in to the main harbor back in the city, where there were workmen and tools for such specialized jobs. Not so in this tiny fishing village. Now the gigantic crate hung suspended over the water halfway between the dock and the Dread Sovereign. The loading plank bowed beneath its weight, and all the men the ship could spare were lending their muscle to the job. Kasrin watched the giant box teeter sideways.

  “Goddamn it, you’re losing it!” he thundered.

  “Well get over here, then!” grumbled Laney.

  Kasrin hurried up the plank, crowding in next to Laney and the others as they tried to right the tipping crate. It was like pushing against a mountain. The crate held four huge cannisters full of cannon fuel, a highly unstable substance that demanded careful treatment. One false move could blow them all to bits.

  “Son of a bitch,” he said, fighting against the immovable weight. The exertion made his muscles scream. Next to him, Laney was shaking with effort, sweating and swearing as he tried to heave the crate up the plank. At last it gave an inch, then another, until it slowly straightened out. Kasrin let himself take a breath. For the moment, the threat of losing their cargo had passed.

  “Damn it to hell,” snapped Kasrin. “Leave it to Biagio to hand us this mess.”

  He had expected some help with the delivery, but the men from the war labs had merely dropped their parcel and departed, not wanting to be seen. Kasrin knew it was part of Biagio’s secrecy and that furtiveness was necessary, but the facts didn’t ease his temper. His crew was still hard at work getting the Dread Sovereign sea-ready, and Biagio himself was very late. The emperor was supposed to be on board hours ago. If they were to set sail at dawn as planned …

  As had become his habit recently, Kasrin gazed down the dock looking for his passenger. He wondered if Biagio were coming at all. Maybe he’d been discovered, or maybe this was all some terrible ruse, some vengeance he had cooked up with Nicabar.

  No, Kasrin told himself. He’ll be here.

  “We need more ropes,” said Laney, breaking Kasrin’s thoughts. “It’s too heavy for just the winch.”

  Kasrin nodded sullenly. The dreadnought’s loading winch was meant for cargo far less weighty than the gargantuan crate. He grumbled another string of curses as he studied the huge wooden box. All his men were busy with other duties, readying instruments and riggings and the Sovereign’s numerous sails. But they wouldn’t be going anywhere unless they got the fuel aboard. The flame cannons were their only chance against the Fearless.

  “Get some more lines around it,” he agreed. “Taylar, take whomever you need. Just get it on board.”

  “Aye, sir,” said the young midshipman, then gingerly climbed over the crate and scrambled up the cargo plank. Kasrin heard him call for more ropes and men, then decided to take a much-needed break. He walked down the plank and onto the docks, taking a deep breath of salty air. As expected, Laney followed him off the plank.

  “We’ll get it,” said Laney. “It’s just a crate, after all.”

  “It’s like moving a city,” retorted Kasrin. “I should have thought about this. I should have realized we couldn’t get the damn fuel aboard out of the shipyards.”

  “We’ll get it,” said Laney again, more forcefully this time. “Don’t worry about that. Worry about keeping us alive when we get to Crote.”

  “Right,” Kasrin chuckled. “That’s going to be the real trick, eh? The second Jelena’s schooners spot us we’re going to be surrounded. I just hope Biagio knows what he’s doing.”

  “I just hope he shows,” said Laney darkly. The officer peered down the murky lane leading to the Sovereign, but there was still no sign of the emperor. “He’d better get here quick if he doesn’t want anyone seeing him.”

  “He’ll be here,” said Kasrin. “I saw his face, Laney. He wasn’t lying.”

  The officer shrugged. “If you say so. But it all seems crazy to me. He’s the emperor. What does he need us for?”

  Kasrin rolled his eyes. He had tried to explain it to his friend, but obviously he hadn’t been convincing. Still, he didn’t blame Laney for his skepticism. The whole idea sounded insane, even to Kasrin. But in the end, he knew one thing from his meeting with Biagio.

  “We’re all he’s got,” whispered Kasrin.

  It was a crazy situation. His crew had a million questions and Kasrin had no answers. He only knew that Biagio wanted peace with Liss, and that had been enough to convince Kasrin to roll the dice. Luckily, his crew had agreed. As anxious as their captain to re
deem their ruined reputations, they all ached for the chance to sink Nicabar.

  Laney started back up the plank, but Kasrin grabbed his sleeve.

  “Wait,” said the captain. “Look.”

  A figure materialized from the mist, his long grey coat concealing most of his body. But Kasrin knew from the mane of golden hair that it had to be Biagio.

  He waved at the figure but received no reply. Biagio seemed to float closer, like he had summoned the mists himself. As he drew nearer, Kasrin could see the lines of fatigue cutting his face. When he was only a few paces from them, he offered a small nod.

  Laney asked, “Should I bow or something?”

  “Don’t do anything,” Kasrin cautioned. “We don’t want the whole world knowing about our passenger.”

  Emperor Biagio stepped up to the seamen and flashed one of his characteristic smiles. He seemed wholly undisturbed by his surroundings, though he did look out of place. His coat was plain but his shirt was expensive, and he still wore a collection of rings that twinkled magically. He had pulled his luxurious hair into a long ponytail that bobbed as he walked, and when Kasrin looked down he saw the same perfectly polished shoes the emperor had worn the day before, reflecting the moonlight. Biagio’s gaze flicked to the Dread Sovereign.

  “That is your ship, yes?” he asked.

  “The Dread Sovereign,” replied Kasrin. He gestured at Laney. “This is my first officer, Lieutenant Commander Laney.”

  “An honor to meet you, Lord Emperor,” Laney said nervously.

  Biagio examined Laney as if he were a lab specimen. “Do you follow Captain Kasrin without question, Commander?” he asked.

  Laney blanched. “Of course, Lord Emperor.”

  “Good,” declared Biagio. “Because there is much ahead of you, ahead of all of us. I need to know that the captain’s crew is as committed to my venture as he is. So …” Biagio looked at the crate blocking the loading plank. “Let’s get on board, shall we? I want to make certain we leave before dawn.” He strode toward the plank and the working men, who had fixed another two ropes around the crate and were straining to pull it aboard. “The fuel, I assume?” he asked.