The Saints of the Sword (42 page)

Could she hear him? Did Lissens go to the same heaven as Naren sailors? Kasrin didn’t think so. The place he was going—the place he deserved—was the same hell as Nicabar’s, because if God was just he could never overlook such crimes, not even if the sinner was repentant. And Kasrin had repented. He had prayed for forgiveness, begging God to remove the girl’s indelible image. Yet even now she remained his dark companion, silently torturing him night after night.

Slowly he brought his feet over the mattress and sat brooding on the edge of his bunk. Through his tiny porthole he saw only darkness, so he knew that it was nighttime. The realization put him at ease. In the morning they would be approaching Casarhoon. They would see the first hint of it with the dawn, and that meant seeing Nicabar again. Kasrin sighed. It had been a long time, and Nicabar could still intimidate him. That was why his nightmares had become so regular again, so vivid. It was like he could smell Nicabar across the ocean, the stench like poison, but also intoxicating. Much as he hated his old teacher, Kasrin still admired him. Every ribbon on his chest had been earned through valor and bravery. And, admittedly, butchery.

“Some men are butchers and others aren’t,” Kasrin told himself, paraphrasing something Nicabar had told him after his exile.

Some men are brave and others aren’t; that was Nicabar’s version. Kasrin wondered if the admiral still thought him a coward, or if time had mellowed him. According to Biagio, Nicabar still took his life-sustaining drug. If anything, Nicabar was probably worse, and that was a hard thing to imagine.

Then Kasrin thought about Jelena, and his pulse steadied. The Lissen queen had a fair face. Summoning a picture of it always made him smile. He tried it now, banishing the face of the little girl and replacing it with
Jelena’s. Something about Jelena put him at ease. She was young and beautiful, of course, but that wasn’t it, not precisely. She was also a Lissen. And her willingness to help in his crusade relieved Kasrin’s guilt. How old was she? he wondered. How old would the little village girl be now? There was an age discrepancy surely, yet the girl was very much like the child queen. Seeing Jelena was like seeing the village girl alive again.

“Oh, now you’re really dreaming,” he scolded himself. He laughed, shaking his head. He had been smitten by Jelena, and everyone on board knew it—especially Laney, who teased his captain about it at every opportunity. Kasrin looked down at his bare feet and wriggled his toes. He wouldn’t be getting anymore sleep tonight, so he decided to go above and check their progress. Laney would be up there, and Kasrin craved the company. So he rose from the bed and dressed, toweling off his sweaty face with his shirt tails and running a metal comb through his hair to look presentable. When he was satisfied, he pulled on his boots and went above. Nighttime was all around him. As he stepped up off the ladder he caught a glimpse of Laney leisurely coiling a length of rope. Moonlight on the water had caught his attention and he stared at it as he worked, lost in a fugue. Kasrin strode up to his friend, standing behind him for a long moment before speaking.

“Hello.”

Laney jumped, dropping the rope. “God, you startled me!” He stooped to retrieve the coil and started wrapping it again in a circle. “You could have pitched me overboard,” he snapped. “What are you doing up, anyway? I told you I’d take the watch.”

Kasrin shrugged. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“You’re afraid?”

“Yes, and if you had any brains you’d be afraid with me.”

“Who said I’m not?”

Kasrin looked around the deck, spying the tall masts and the sails full of wind. All was quiet but for the relentless crash of surf against their keel. Darkness enveloped the vessel, broken only by moonlight.

“We’re close to Casarhoon,” said Kasrin absently. “Close to Nicabar.”

“Yes.” The first officer finished coiling his rope and hooked it on a peg in the railing. “Close enough to smell him, you might say.”

“Funny, I was just thinking the same thing. Do you think he’ll believe me?”

Laney sighed. “I really don’t know, Blair. You’ve got that map from Jelena, and we’re all backing you up. But whether or not Nicabar sees through you …” His voice trailed off.

“I know what you mean.” The captain of the
Sovereign
looked over the waves. “God, I’m afraid of him,” he said. “I always have been. It’s like wanting the approval of a father who beats you. No matter how many times he takes that strap out, all you want is his love.”

“Don’t let him frighten you,” urged Laney. “Remember what he is.”

My hero
, thought Kasrin blackly. But no, that was a long time ago. “He’s a butcher and a madman,” he declared. “And I won’t let him ruin me again.”

At the southernmost tip of the Naren Empire, on a peninsula fed by trade winds and blue water, stood Gorgotor Fortress, guardian of the principality of Casarhoon. Built decades ago overlooking the sea, the fortress protected the important spice and slave routes and stood watch over the timeless tropical territory. From its stone buttresses the chain of islands and chop of whitecaps could easily be seen for miles, stretching out endlessly and dotted with trading vessels busy with imperial commerce. And it had been like this for years, because Casarhoon was immutable. There was an element of eternity mortared into the brown bricks and the swaying palms. Casarhoon had been a rock-steady part of the Empire since the ascension of Arkus of Nar. Its spices and fruits had fed the continent and its fortress had stood guard over her southern flank, a great, bronze giant waiting to crush invaders.

But invaders had never come to Casarhoon, and that
didn’t surprise Danar Nicabar. The principality was a tempting target, but Gorgotor Fortress was a powerful deterrent. With her thick walls and watchtowers filled with fighting men, the fortress was nearly impregnable, lined with cannons on her battlements—the old-fashioned ball-and-powder kind favored by the Lissens. To say that Gorgotor Fortress was ugly was to be kind. She was monstrous to behold, and her perch on the sea cliff made her seem perpetually on the verge of toppling. The fortress would never topple, though. Even the flame cannons of his own ship, now at anchor on the sea, couldn’t penetrate her walls. She would stand forever, safeguarding the southern Empire.

All these things Admiral Nicabar considered as he walked across the battlement on his way to his meeting. Casarhoon’s warm sun played across his face and a gentle breeze caressed him, as warm as the fingers of a woman. For Nicabar, who was continuously cold from the drugs, Casarhoon was a dream. The temperature never dipped below balmy comfort, nor did the winds ever blow too fiercely. As he walked Nicabar wondered if he might retire here someday and bask in its warmth forever. He paused for a moment on the wall, staring out over the sea. Not far ahead, the
Fearless
bobbed at anchor, surrounded by a dozen smaller warships.
Black City
had come to the rendezvous, as had the cruiser
Angel of Death
. Both flanked the giant dreadnought, dwarfed by her. Their combined firepower was half that of the
Fearless
alone, yet they were no less beautiful to Nicabar. A long time ago,
this
was why he had become a sailor. Casarhoon was exotic and fierce and made his blood rush, and the sight of so many warships put a powerful spring into his step. He was Admiral of the Black Fleet—this fleet.

It was smaller than he’d hoped, though. The
Shark
hadn’t come, nor had
Intruder
or
Notorious
. Nicabar supposed they simply hadn’t been able to get away. The orders he had given for this rendezvous had been flexible, for he knew that Liss was still on the move and he couldn’t leave all of Nar unprotected. He had done that once, and the results had been disastrous. Liss had gained ground
during his exile on Crote, and it had taken all of the past year to win back waters that were supposed to be their own. Nicabar had hoped for at least two dozen ships to reach Casarhoon. Sadly, he had barely half that many—not enough to take on Liss. Plus there were rumblings. Nicabar had reached Casarhoon over a week ago, and as his fellow captains arrived they did so with suspicion. They had guessed at his goals, and none of them seemed to be supporting him. They were saying he was too ambitious, whispering that the drug had warped him. None of them shared his zeal for conquering Liss, and that disappointed Nicabar. Today, he hoped to change their minds.

They must listen
, he told himself, gazing out over the little armada. He was very high up on the wall and the air was heady. A nervous flutter moved through him and he crushed it instantly. Now was no time to be anxious. His captains were waiting. They had gathered in the council chamber at his order, and Nicabar knew convincing them would be difficult, especially since he had no real plan.

Someone was coming toward him. Nicabar glimpsed the figure from the corner of his eye, expecting it to be one of Prince Galto’s soldiers. The prince had graciously granted use of the fortress for Nicabar’s secret summit, and his dark-skinned troops were everywhere. But it wasn’t a Casarhian that greeted the admiral. It was Blasco, Nicabar’s captain. The officer stopped a few paces from his superior, squinting in the sunlight.

“Admiral? The others are ready. They’re waiting for you, as ordered.”

Nicabar didn’t answer right away. The meager turnout had put his plans in peril. He couldn’t attack Liss now, that’s what they would say. They would try to take away his only chance at victory. L’Rago of the
Infamous
would probably agree with him, and that gave him some ease, but Gark from
Black City
and Amado of the
Angel
would oppose him. He needed a consensus, and he didn’t know how to get it.

“Admiral?” pressed Blasco. “Shall I tell them you’re on your way?”

Nicabar squared his shoulders. “Yes. I’ll be there in a moment.”

“Very good, sir.” Blasco turned and strode off toward the council chamber. Nicabar licked dry lips. A moment was all he needed, so he took a breath, held it for a moment, then followed Blasco, fixing his face with confidence. Brashness was what his captains expected of him. He wanted to fill the room with it.

The grand turret of the council chamber overlooked the ocean. At its entrance stood two Casarhian soldiers, their dark skin glistening as if oiled. They stepped aside dutifully as Nicabar approached. For the duration of his visit, Nicabar would be their lord and master. Gorgotor Fortress had a commander, but he was a relatively low-ranking man compared to the Admiral of the Black Fleet, and he wasn’t from the Naren capital. Prince Galto himself was in his palace at Fa, far removed from the fortress and the secret meeting. So Nicabar essentially had the fortress to himself, and he liked the gravity that gave him. When he walked past the soldiers, he entered a round chamber filled with men in uniforms. The room smelled of tobacco and wine, and he squinted as his eyes adjusted to the dimness. Voices hushed as he stepped inside, and Nicabar saw a host of familiar faces staring at him over a gigantic table of carved ash. Most sat back comfortably with crystal goblets in their hands, sampling the fine wines Prince Galto had provided for the summit, and others sucked on pipes, appreciating Casarhoon’s legendary tobacco. They were captains, mostly, and their lieutenants sat with them or stood nearby, and all of them paused when Nicabar entered. The admiral stopped a few paces into the room, frowning at them. Realizing they had offended him, they all hurried to stand.

“Admiral Nicabar,” announced Captain Blasco. A chorus of polite applause followed. Captain L’Rago of the
Infamous
led the acclaim, clapping louder than anyone. He was a young man for such a high rank and reminded the admiral a bit of Blair Kasrin, except that L’Rago wasn’t squeamish. His men called him the Executioner, an apt title
for the captain who had butchered more Lissens than Nicabar himself.

Nicabar didn’t smile at their applause, but merely lifted up a hand to silence them. “Be seated,” he commanded. One by one the Naren captains took their seats. A handful of slaves drifted through the room pouring wine and lighting pipes. They were all women, a touch Nicabar himself had ordered. He had hoped the dark-skinned beauties would put his officers in a compliant mood. And Nicabar himself had an eye for the breed. He whose skin was pale loved their caramel flesh and hair. As he strode across the room toward the head of the table, he smiled at a particularly comely girl, noting her for later.

Captain Blasco showed Nicabar to his chair, the largest and most splendid in the room. There was a goblet of wine already poured for him, and an unlit pipe. There was also a map behind his seat, pinned to the wall like a tapestry. It showed Casarhoon and its proximity to Liss, with little painted pins to show the various ship movements. The pin for the
Fearless
was big and black. Nicabar noted the map with satisfaction, then sat down. He steepled his hands on the table and offered his captains a small smile.

“It is a pleasure to see you all again,” he told them. “I’ve missed you. Thank you for coming.”

Captain Gark of the dreadnought
Black City
, who had been the last to arrive, tapped his hand approvingly on the table. “You honor us by your summons, Admiral,” he said. “Do not thank us for doing our duty.”

You’re a sly one, Gark
, thought Nicabar. The first to speak favor was always the first to speak ill. Nicabar cast Gark a warm grin.

“You had the longest trip, my friend,” he said. “Tell me—how was the journey?”

“Well enough,” replied Gark. “I welcome the warm seas. Casarhoon is a good place for a rendezvous, no matter the reason.”

The other captains laughed. Captain Kelara of the
Unstoppable
even raised his glass in tribute. A few of his fellows drank to the toast, but Nicabar never touched his wine.

“And Karva?” he asked Gark. “How goes your mission there? What word of Liss in those waters?”

Gark shifted uncomfortably. “Spotty sightings, mostly. The Lissens haven’t been sailing that far north lately. I think they’re concentrating around Crote.”