Free The Saints of the Sword by John Marco

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