by John Marco
The peculiar sentiment flustered Richius. "Don't worry, Prakna," he said. "I plan on coming back."
"A good plan." Then Prakna turned to Simon, saying, "Naren, good luck to you as well."
It was an unaffectionate good-bye, but Simon grinned anyway. "Luck to you, Prakna. I hope no dreadnoughts show up."
"These waters are safe," said the commander. "Just worry about yourself."
"I always do," quipped Simon. He stared at Prakna. "Isn't that right?"
Prakna shrugged, not wanting to argue. "As you say, Simon Darquis. As you say."
"Let's get aboard," said Richius, taking Simon's shoulder and steering him toward the rowboat. Four sailors waited by the rail with ropes, ready to lower the launch into the water. Shii waited onboard, standing amongst her sitting troops. She looked resolute in the murky light, the perfect symbol of Lissen honor. Richius felt profoundly proud of her. He took the first step into the boat, squeezing past the other troops who looked up at him with earnest faces. He recognized Johr in the crowd and his sister Teeli, and the youngest one of the group, Griff, a boy of barely sixteen. Griff looked afraid, just as he had the night before, when Richius had told him he didn't have to go ashore. But Griff had been adamant about invading Crote. He gave Richius a nervous nod. Richius winked back at him, taking a seat beside Shii. Simon entered next, without a smile or greeting of any kind. He was still an outcast among the group and as such took a seat at the prow of the boat, away from them all. Four of Prakna's sailors would row them ashore, so not to tire out the troops before their march.
"Let us down," Richius ordered. On his command the pulleys began to squeal as the rope-men lowered the launch. Across the water, he saw other boats begin dropping from the sides of the escort vessels. Richius glanced up as the rowboat sank and saw Prakna staring at them. The fleet commander offered a little wave. Richius looked at him, perplexed. He had expected Prakna to be elated. The rowboat slipped down the Prince's side and splashed into the water. The oarsmen quickly took to rowing, shoving them off from the side of the flagship and pointing them toward the dark coast of Crote. Simon guided them in. Other boats took their point, following them through the gloom. Richius drew a breath of salty air and tried to still his racing pulse. Beside him, Shii had gone white. He nudged her a little with his elbow.
"You all right?"
Shii only nodded.
"You sure?" he asked. "You don't look it."
"I'm fine," replied Shii distractedly. She licked her lips, betraying her fear.
Richius raised a hand to get his group's attention. "Listen to me, everyone," he whispered. "We're about to do this thing, and I know you're all afraid. But that's all right. I'm afraid, too."
"You're afraid?" asked Griff. Richius smiled at him, remembering other young men like him from Aramoor.
"It's normal to be afraid," he said. "But you've all trained hard and you know what to do. And if we're lucky, Biagio will simply surrender."
They all glanced away, looking sheepish.
"I know you don't believe me, but Biagio isn't impractical," Richius went on. "When he sees how many of us there are, he just might surrender."
"We're all right, Lord Jackal," said Shii imploringly. "Please . . ."
Richius said nothing more. He could tell that Shii was nervous, so he let her collect herself on the trip to shore. Simon sat in the prow, guiding the boat with hand signals. He had promised Richius that he knew a place on Biagio's vast property where the count's sentries couldn't see them land. Richius still feared it might be a trap. As much as he wanted to trust Simon, there remained a nagging suspicion. Perhaps even this was part of Biagio's elaborate scheme. Perhaps the count knew they were coming and that Simon was leading them.
"There," whispered Simon to the oarsmen. "Put in there."
A lagoonlike inlet appeared out of the darkness. The Lissens piloted the rowboat into it. It was wide enough to accommodate a dozen boats and was bordered on all sides by secretive, sandy hills. Richius smiled when he saw it. Simon had kept his word.
One by one the other boats followed them into the inlet. Delf's boat was first. He waved to Richius when he saw him. Richius looked over Delf's shoulder to the other incoming launches. The Prince and her sisters were barely visible on the horizon, but he could just make out the image of more departing rowboats. The boats would have to make multiple runs to get the nine hundred fighters ashore.
Quickly, Richius got out of the boat and splashed through the water. His troops followed. Soon the inlet was filled with bodies. Richius watched them carefully, sizing up their precision. They moved just as he had taught them--silent and swift, and without any wasted moves.
"All right then," he said to Shii. "Let's go." He turned to Simon, who would lead the first dozen to the mansion. "Ready?"
"Ready," said Simon, then turned and stalked off up the northern hillside. Richius followed him, ordering Shii and the rest of the platoon after him.
Very near dawn, Archbishop Herrith left his luxurious rooms in the mansion's west wing and went in search of Count Biagio. Like all who had been addicted to Bovadin's drug, Herrith was an early riser, sometimes going the entire night without sleep. Because he knew Biagio suffered from the same insomnia, Herrith was sure the count would also be awake. It was the day after Herrith's arrival, and the bishop was eager to begin his talks with the devil of Crote. His stay had so far been restful, and Herrith felt refreshed despite his gnawing cravings. A month's supply of the drug had been waiting for him in his rooms when he'd arrived. It was a well-appointed room, and Herrith had taken pleasure in dropping the blue liquid onto the carpet. Kivis Gago and the other Naren lords had been given similar apartments in the mansion's west wing. Herrith had been awed by Biagio's wealth. He had always known the count to be a man of expensive tastes, but there were Daragos in his home and works from other renowned artists, and everything seemed to be made of gold or silver, or upholstered in the finest leather, or sculpted from the best imported marble. All the hallways were gilded, and all the sheets were silk. And Herrith had hardly been able to concentrate from the parade of slaves offering him foods and services. He had spent the day before talking with the other Naren lords. All of them loved the lavish lifestyle, and all agreed that the talks with Biagio should take place on schedule. But none of them knew what that schedule was, because Biagio hadn't come to them, and neither had any of his aides. So Herrith had elected himself spokesperson for the group, and had decided not to wait for the sun to rise. He wanted to see Biagio. Now.
But now was very early, and as he moved through the empty corridors, the dearth of servants did not perplex him. Even slaves needed their rest, and the eleven lords and their numerous bodyguards had kept the count's staff ridiculously busy with petty requests. Herrith moved quietly through the halls, not wanting to disturb anyone who might be sleeping.
Herrith paused in the hallway for a moment, staring through a bank of body-length windows. The island was very dark and he could barely see the ocean for the lack of light. It was a peaceful moment, the kind he liked to think God created to make men thoughtful. Today, Herrith was very thoughtful. Lorla would have loved this view, and this magnificent place. But she wasn't alive anymore to share such things--if she ever really had been alive. She was a creation of the war labs--Biagio had practically admitted it. That made her something less than human. And, in a way, something more than human, too. Herrith still ached over her death, and he didn't care if she had been spawned for the sole purpose of seducing him. In the end, she had tried to trade her life for his, and that was all that mattered.
I'll make you pay, Biagio, thought Herrith relentlessly. He caught a glimpse of something moving in the distance outside, but in his rage ignored it. We're not done, you and I. Not yet.
He wanted to squeeze every bit of blood out of Biagio's body and feed it to rats. He wanted to peel off Biagio's golden skin and upholster a chair with it. Herrith realized how clouded his mind had become, but he could do nothing to st
op it. His daughter, his beloved cathedral, even Darago's laborious masterwork; all gone in a blaze of madness. When Herrith shut his eyes, he saw his life in flames. He had so many regrets on his shoulders these days, he could barely stand. And not all of them were Biagio's fault.
When I get back to Nar I will do things differently, he swore. There would be no more Formula B. He would keep peace some other way, without murdering children. He had thought the Black Renaissance the greatest threat in the world, worthy of the most drastic means imaginable, but he had been wrong. All the while he had thought God was speaking to him, but now Herrith knew the voices were only in his mind.
Herrith opened his eyes and saw something peculiar outside the window, something quick and shadowy. He squinted to see better, but was quickly distracted by the call of his name from down the corridor.
"Archbishop Herrith," said the voice. "Good morning, Holiness."
It was Leraio, Biagio's manservant. Herrith had met him two days before, but it took a moment to recall the face. Leraio was coming toward him with a smile. Herrith recoiled, unsure why. Perhaps because Biagio had a penchant for having underlings deliver bad news--like Vorto's head.
"It's very early," Herrith observed. "What are you doing up and around?"
"Looking for you, Holiness," the slave answered. "Count Biagio wanted me to deliver a message to you. He told me you might be up very early, and that I should speak with you as soon as possible, as a matter of respect to you."
"Biagio? I was on my way to see him," said Herrith, baffled. "What's your message?"
Leraio reached into his silky vest and pulled out a letter, another of Biagio's dreaded envelopes. Herrith groaned when he saw it.
"What is this?" he asked. "I want to see Biagio."
Leraio shook his head, smiling implacably. "I'm sorry, Holiness. Count Biagio isn't on Crote any longer. He left last night, while you were sleeping."
The words were so strange Herrith hardly heard them. "Left? What do you mean?"
"I'm sorry to say, Count Biagio is gone," Leraio explained. "With Admiral Nicabar. As I said, they left last night. I'm sorry, Holiness. I really don't know any more than that. That is my message. Perhaps the letter will explain it better."
"What are you talking about?" Herrith barked. "Biagio's gone?"
Leraio blanched. "Yes, Holiness," he replied meekly. "I'm very sorry."
"Gone?" Herrith roared. "Gone where?"
"To the Black City, Holiness. He wanted me to tell you when he was gone, and to give you that letter, with his respects."
Herrith was stunned. "Is he coming back?"
"I don't think so," said Leraio. "I'm very sorry, Holiness."
"Sorry doesn't help me, you fool!" Herrith spat. He fumbled with the envelope, trying to get it open. Leraio offered to help but Herrith angrily turned him away, tearing open the paper housing and unfolding the note. Again he saw Biagio's distinctive, mocking handwriting.
My dear Herrith,
Thank you again for bringing so many of my enemies with you. It was good to see them again, though I fear it will be for the last time. I have gone to the Black City with Nicabar, and we have taken all the ships with us. There is no way off the island.
I hope you enjoy the rest of the day. Please help yourself to whatever you like. If I'm correct, you have very little time.
your friend,
Count Renato Biagio.
"My God," Herrith gasped. "What is the meaning of this?" He shook the letter in Leraio's face. "He's left us! Why?"
Leraio didn't bother to answer.
"He's abandoned us!" Herrith roared, tossing the letter to the floor. "What wicked plan is this?"
Outside the window, something flickered again past Herrith's vision. "What is that?" he growled, pressing his nose up to the glass. Dawn was slowly creeping awake, barely lighting the world. Herrith caught a glimpse of four ships on the horizon. For a moment he was heartened.
"Is this a joke? Look, the dreadnoughts are still--" But they weren't dreadnoughts. They weren't of Naren design at all. Herrith backed away from the window.
"Oh, merciful Heaven," he moaned. "Liss . . ."
Simon worked with the speed of a leopard, darting through Biagio's yard and locating the two roving sentries. The first one was by a flower bed, urinating, when Simon slipped his dagger into his spine. The man went to the ground silently, paralyzed, and didn't know what had happened until he saw Simon staring down at him. A slice to the throat finished him. The second sentry had been harder to find, but Simon had kept to the shadows, waiting for him to come in search of his comrade. He remembered that the two used a circular pattern to walk the grounds, one coming clockwise, the other counterclockwise, around the perimeter. It took them about ten minutes to complete one circuit. Eight minutes after he'd killed the first one, Simon homed in on the second. It was still very dark but the man was by a window in the west wing, looking up stupidly at the stars. He saw Simon leap out of the trees--barely. The Roshann agent was on him in a second. Simon plunged his dagger into the sentry's windpipe and covered his screaming mouth in one perfect movement. The sentry dropped dead to the ground. Simon hurriedly dragged the body away from the window, hiding him in a small batch of fruit trees. The rush was on him now and he looked around wildly, his eyes wide, his muscles tingling with energy. Two down, he thought quickly. Four more.
Richius had led his troops to the mansion in the cover of darkness, but dawn was breaking fast on the horizon.
He needed to work quickly. Griff and the others had gone off to the north gate to deal with the two sentries there. Richius led Shii and the twins, Akal and Wyle. They were quickly creeping up to the south entrance, where Simon had promised they would find two more sentries. Richius and his team were on their bellies when they sighted their quarry. They had slithered through a group of topiaries trimmed to look like birds and were almost near the entrance. As Simon had warned, there was no cover for the next fifteen yards. Without speaking, Richius signaled his team to hold up, then pointed toward the gate. Shii nodded. Akal handed each of them a crossbow, already loaded with a bolt. Richius and Shii would take the first shots. If they missed, the second missiles from Akal and Wyle would have to silence the sentries. Richius waited until he was ready. The two sentries in their brilliant blue outfits were talking casually, oblivious to the assassins hunting them. Richius wished he could hear what they were saying. I'm sorry, he thought. You're innocent, I know. He rested his elbows into the dirt, putting the crossbow to his chin. Then again, no one on Crote was innocent. Not if they served Biagio.
I was trained as a horseman, he told himself. Not a killer. Not like Simon.
Richius closed one eye and focused on his target, the sentry on the left. Shii had already fixed her aim.
I have him, she signaled.
Richius signaled back, cuing the attack.
They both pulled the triggers and sent their silent missiles racing forward. Shii's caught its quarry through the eye, dropping him instantly. But Richius didn't match the amazing shot. His bolt hammered into the wall, inches away from the sentry's head. Richius grit his teeth, biting back a curse. Akal and Wyle fired. Akal missed. Wyle didn't. The sentry cried out as the bolt entered his skull. He let out a wailing scream.
"Damn it!" Richius hissed, leaping from his position and drawing his dagger. Amazingly, the sentry saw him coming and put up a defense. Richius barreled into him, driving his knee into the man's face and shattering his teeth. The dagger flashed and ripped through flesh, severing the man's throat. A hot stream of blood gushed out, catching Richius on the cheek. The man slumped against the wall. Shii raced forward and helped Richius drag the dying man aside. Richius felt the dizzying rush of fear. He looked around, trying to spot his troops on the hill in the distance, but couldn't see anything. They were still perfectly invisible. And more were coming. Soon Tomr and Delf would have their troops in position. Richius wondered if Simon had found the other sentries. Then, as if magically summoned, Sim
on appeared like a wraith out of the darkness.
"Fall back," he whispered. "I got them."
Richius signaled Shii and the others. "Fall back," he ordered. "That's it."
Now he had to get everyone into position. The noose was forming.
The eleven Naren lords had come quickly to Herrith's call, gathering in the west wing with their bodyguards. The mood was generally a panicked bedlam. Baron Ricter was still in his sleeping clothes. The master of the Tower of Truth held a gigantic mace in his meaty hands and was screaming incessantly at his red-caped servants, ordering them to protect him. The baron's booming voice rocked the hallway. The noblemen had gathered into a tight little circle, unsure what to do and gawking at Herrith for guidance. Kivis Gago was at Herrith's side, frantically trying to piece together what had happened. All that they knew for certain was that Biagio had abandoned them and that Lissen soldiers were swarming around the mansion. There was no way out, except through a bloody fight. Herrith quickly counted heads. Eleven lords, most capable of combat. Each had about a dozen bodyguards with them. That meant they had over a hundred men. Not a bad number, Herrith supposed. But he wasn't a military man. That's why he leaned so heavily on Gago.
"I don't know," said Gago desperately, shaking his head. "I don't know how many Lissens there are!"
"We will fight them," spat Oridian. The Naren Minister of the Treasury was as accomplished with a sword as he was with an abacus, and he held his serrated blade out before him, grinning like a madman. "Lissen pigs! We'll slaughter them all!"
"We don't know how many there are, you idiot," Claudi Vos reminded him harshly. Unlike Oridian, Vos was only an architect, and didn't seem to own a weapon. He stood wringing his womanly hands in the outskirts of the circle, sticking close to his bodyguards. "We should talk to them."
"They're not here to talk, fool," snapped Oridian.
"Biagio brought them here," Tepas Talshiir chimed in. "That devil has trapped us."
That much was obvious. Herrith rubbed his forehead nervously. They were trapped, maybe without escape. And he knew Biagio wouldn't have brought them here if he'd thought they'd make it out alive. The bishop forced the clutter from his mind, blocking out the arguing voices. Somehow, he needed to get control. He needed to find out what the Lissens wanted, if anything. Maybe they were looking for Biagio. If they found out the count wasn't here . . .
