Chapter 19
Chancellor Telamon was dead—supposedly killed in the bath by his wife, who'd then taken poison. An improbable tale, but no one would publicly speculate on what must be obvious to all.
Zuberi's assassination at the temple of the triune gods had merely been the first in a wave of killings that were terrorizing the city. Some were clearly politically motivated, while others seemed to be using this opportunity to settle old scores. Petrelis, commander of the city watch, had doubled then trebled the patrols that protected the noble quarter, but it was of no use. A half dozen leading members of the court had been murdered in as many days, and there was no end in sight.
Even naming a new emperor might not be enough to stop the killings—it might merely give the assassins a single target to focus on.
In the days after Zuberi's death, Demetrios had subtly advanced his own cause, while others had put forward the name of Telamon as emperor-in-waiting. He'd made his own plans to deal with Telamon, but once again another had struck before he could.
Was General Kiril behind this? He'd professed neutrality in public, but all knew that he'd been Zuberi's man. Or was it another, one who was hiding in the shadows, waiting for the other contenders to destroy each other so he could then step forward and assume the throne unchallenged?
Who had killed Zuberi? Was it a rival for the throne? Or was the answer more obvious? Could it be that Lucius still had his supporters, fanatics dedicated to restoring the old blood, men who refused to countenance anyone taking his place? If so, these men would not give up until they had proof that Lucius was indeed dead, and perhaps not even then.
Whoever was behind the killings, and whatever his ultimate goal, he had succeeded in sowing fear and confusion. Demetrios knew he was not the only one taking a hard look at those who had promised their support to him, wondering which one of his supposed allies was preparing to betray him. Without their support he could not declare himself as emperor-in-waiting, but if he trusted the wrong man, he would not live to wear the crown.
As it was, each time he left his mansion, it felt as if he were risking his life. He was not a timid man, but it had taken his full measure of courage—and an escort of a dozen guards—for him to make the journey to his office in the senate. Just so he could be seen as a devoted servant of the empire, intent on fulfilling his duties despite the chaos around him.
He spent the morning answering correspondence, making arrangements for the returning senators. The senate was set to convene within the fortnight—assuming there was an emperor to call it into session. Though if no emperor was yet named, as leader of the senate it would be fitting for Demetrios to welcome his fellow senators to their debates—and to let a carefully chosen delegation persuade him to declare himself as the next emperor.
Lost in contemplation of which senators could be trusted with such a delicate task, his head jerked up sharply as he heard General Kiril's voice from the antechamber.
“I must speak with him,” he heard Kiril say.
Demetrios glanced around, ensuring that his two bodyguards were within arm's reach. “Stay alert,” he told them.
Then he rose to his feet, so he was standing as Kiril entered the office.
“General, I did not expect to see you today,” he said.
“My business is urgent,” Kiril replied. He was in uniform, but must have left his sword at the entrance to the senate, as was custom.
That did not mean he was not dangerous. He had the potential to be either Demetrios's greatest supporter or his greatest threat, and so far he'd given no hint which side he would choose.
“Pray tell me what is on your mind,” Demetrios said.
Kiril's eyes drifted to the two bodyguards. “We must speak alone,” he said.
Demetrios hesitated.
“Come now, if I wanted to kill you, I'd not do it here, when so many could swear that I was the last to see you,” Kiril said. He waited a heartbeat before adding, “I'd do it when you were alone and thought yourself safe.”
Demetrios shivered at the casual tone of Kiril's words, which were far more effective than any shouted threat.
“Leave us,” he told his men.
Kiril watched as the two men left, then closed the door behind them.
“Lucius is alive,” Kiril said.
“Alive?”
“And he's just won a great victory against Vidrun, destroying their fortresses on Anamur in retaliation for their attacks against our ships, or so it is claimed.”
Demetrios retreated two paces, groping behind him for his chair, then sinking into it. This was not possible.
“Who told you this?”
“There'd been rumors all along that he was in the federation, but this morning a navy ship returned bearing the news that Lucius had allied himself with the federation and led a combined fleet to victory.”
Admiral Septimus. It had to be. Demetrios had thought little of it when Septimus and the bulk of the fleet had left on routine patrols. If he'd thought about it at all, he'd simply assumed that Septimus had chosen discretion over valor, hoping that his absence would convince Zuberi that he was not a threat to the next emperor.
But apparently the admiral had been following Lucius's orders all along. Which made Demetrios wonder just how many other men were quietly biding their time on Lucius's orders.
“Who knows of this?”
“Everyone,” Kiril said. “If not now, then by nightfall. The captain of the ship gave all of his sailors leave, and they are telling this tale in every tavern and whorehouse in the city. By tomorrow we will hear that the gods rained fire down upon our enemies at Lucius's command.”
Demetrios grimaced. The credulous among his supporters might hesitate to rebel against one who held the favor of the gods, while the more practical among them would see Lucius as a hero, a mighty war leader who had accomplished what his predecessors could not.
Demetrios knew his own flaws—he was respected for his political skills, but he did not inspire passion in his supporters. He had presented himself as the candidate of reason, the one who could best preserve the empire with minimal disruption to their privileged lives. His followers would have no stomach for bloody revolution.
He could have stood against the ghost of Lucius. Ignored the murmurs of those who swore that had Zuberi lived, he would have been a better choice for emperor. But Demetrios could not hope to stand against a popular emperor, one who had seemingly risked all to bring victory to his people.
“What will you do?” Demetrios asked.
“Prepare for the emperor's return,” Kiril said. “I suggest you do the same.”
* * *
Lucius had asked to be allowed to leave without fanfare or ceremony, so it was a small group that gathered at the dockside, their breaths steaming in the chill dawn air. Lady Ysobel, wrapped in a plain woolen cloak, was flanked by her aide, Captain Burrell, who wore a military cape that lacked any insignia.
Slightly apart from them stood Admiral Septimus, wearing a sea uniform whose brassware was tinged green from exposure to salt air.
Lucius's servants were already on board Green Dragon, as was Captain Chenzira, who was making ready to set sail.
Around them was the bustle of the port coming to life, but no one paid any special heed as two of the Flordelis servants helped the monk from the coach. Lucius knew he could take control, but instead he waited with growing impatience as the monk took several halting steps until he drew even with Lady Ysobel.
“Lucius,” she said, inclining her head in a show of respect. “King Bayard has charged me to remind you of his friendship, and to offer you the hospitality of his kingdom, for as long as you wish to stay.”
It was an offer that had been made before, but their answer was unchanged.
“Pray tell Bayard that I value his friendship, and his generosity, but it is time that I return to my own people,” Josan said.
“Of course.”
In truth, Bayard would be relieved to see his imperial guest gone—a living emperor was a valuable hostage, even one who had been deposed. But a dead emperor was an embarrassment at best and a liability at worst.
“I hope your return voyage is pleasant, and your people welcome you as you deserve,” Lady Ysobel said.
Lucius felt his face twist into a grimace. Her words were kindly meant, but he no longer knew what he deserved. “My thanks to you, and to your honored father for your hospitality,” the monk said. “And I know you will not be offended when I say that I hope never to see you again.”
Lady Ysobel gave a wry smile of her own.
She'd used him for her own gain—first as the figurehead of an uprising, then later attempting to hold him prisoner in order to control his empire. She'd proven a formidable foe—but once they began working toward a common goal she'd proven to be an equally formidable ally. He still did not like her, but he knew he could not have done what he did without her help.
And, though she might not know it, she had given him the key to unraveling the spell that bound him. At first he'd thought her help deliberate and waited for her to demand payment for her help. But she'd said nothing, even when the monk had prompted, which seemed out of character for a woman determined to wring the maximum advantage out of any situation.
He did not understand her. But he admired her strength of purpose.
“Captain Burrell,” the monk said, and his voice was a shade warmer. “I will always remember your kindness.”
The monk's feelings toward Burrell were less complicated than his toward Ysobel. Burrell was a simpler man—one driven by honor and duty rather than constantly scheming for advancement. The monk liked Burrell—and would have chosen him as a friend had circumstances permitted.
“Emperor,” Burrell said, making a half bow in place of a salute. “I wish you a safe voyage.”
The traditional farewell was to wish the traveler a safe voyage and long life, but in the face of Lucius's disability, wishes for a long life would seem pointlessly cruel.
“Admiral, if you would,” the monk said.
Septimus extended his left arm, and the monk grasped it tightly. Slowly they made their way along the pier, to the wide gangplank that linked Green Dragon with the dock.
Septimus glanced around, and when he'd satisfied himself that they were out of earshot, he spoke.
“What course would you have me set?” Septimus asked.
“To Karystos, of course,” the monk repeated.
He'd given the order yesterday, but perhaps Septimus had expected that it was merely a ruse, meant to fool his hosts.
Septimus pressed his lips together. “Are you certain that's wise? It's likely that Zuberi is already on the throne.”
“It is home,” the monk said.
Which was a lie. The monk could make himself a home anywhere there was knowledge to be found. Left to his own inclinations he would likely wander back to Xandropol, where he could find employment as a scribe and spend the rest of his days trying to master a fraction of the knowledge contained within the musty scrolls of the great library.
But the monk had resolved himself upon death. He would not see either Ikaria or Xandropol. The command to return home was not his, but rather Lucius's own selfish desire.
“The navy stands with you,” Septimus promised. “No matter what comes.”
“I know,” the monk responded. “But it will not come to that. I will not ask you to attack our own people.”
It was not nobility, merely pragmatism. In the islands of the federation, the backing of the navy would have secured his throne. In Ikaria, the navy was a trifle. Only the legions of the army could make—or break—an emperor.
“You're a better emperor than he'll ever be,” Septimus declared.
The monk was silent.
Lucius was silent as well. He knew that the words were not meant for him. Septimus had given his loyalty to the man who had led the navy to victory against the federation. The man who had turned aside from a quest meant to save his life in order to spare his empire a pointless war.
Chenzira, Eight, and all those others who had risked their lives to find him, and to carry out his wishes, all swore allegiance to Emperor Lucius, but the man they venerated was not he. It was Josan, whose skills had given the imperial navy the edge they needed to succeed. Josan who had agreed to leave Xandropol, knowing that it meant their deaths.
Josan, who even now carried the ingredients of his death within the folds of his robe and was resolved to make use of them.
Lucius had finally realized the bitter truth. The bloodline was his—but the true nobility came from the monk.
It was a shame that one of them had to die.
Septimus helped him up the gangplank. Captain Chenzira was waiting at the top, accompanied by Eight.
“Your orders?” Chenzira asked.
“Home,” the monk said. “Take me to Karystos.”
As Eight moved forward, the monk released Septimus's arm.
“Captain, you will keep station with me, while the other ships provide escort,” Septimus said. “We want a swift passage, but a smooth one.”
They'd already discussed this, as well. Septimus had wanted Lucius to join him on his ship, but Lucius had insisted that he preferred to travel with Chenzira, aboard the familiar Green Dragon. Septimus and the remaining members of the task force would ensure his safe arrival.
Two ships had already sailed ahead, bearing news of the victory at Anamur back to the empire. It remained to be seen how Zuberi would react to that news. Would he step aside? Or would he challenge Lucius?
He knew that his men were worried that the emperor would die at sea, but they did not know what Lucius knew.
It's time, Lucius thought. Tell Chenzira to come to us after we're safely at sea.
Chenzira?
Eight is not strong enough, and I trust no other, Lucius thought. The stone must be destroyed.
Of course.
After Septimus took his leave, Chenzira personally escorted the emperor to his cabin. Once they were settled, the monk said, “Captain, if you would be so kind, I would like to speak with you after we have set sail.”
“As you wish.”
After the captain left, the monk sent Eight to fetch hot water for tea. He knew the galley would curse such a request, since the coals would be banked as the ship was making ready to set sail, but Eight would rouse them.
Finally, the monk grumbled. You nearly left it too late.
If I could, I would wait till the great city was in view, Lucius thought. But I dare not.
He'd been waiting until he learned if Septimus's mission had been a success. But when the flotilla returned, it was to find the emperor lying insensible in his bed, apparently dying. It had been two days before they'd been able to rouse him.
The next time could prove fatal to them both.
The floor tilted beneath his feet as the sails caught the wind. Around him timbers creaked, and through the open porthole he could hear echoes of shouted orders over the sound of the waves.
Eight returned with the hot water, and the monk dismissed him, telling Eight that he would make his own tea. Here the monk's odd habit of performing menial tasks stood in their favor, for Eight did not question his emperor's whim.
Reaching inside his robe, the monk withdrew a pouch that held a perfectly round amber stone and a handful of dried berries that were neither green nor red.
He could sense the monk fretting, wondering if dried berries would be sufficient, but they'd had no means of acquiring fresh ones. With a mental shrug, the monk tossed the berries into the pot, then stirred them thrice. He let them steep for a quarter of an hour, then poured the brew into a plain clay cup.
The aroma was surprisingly pleasant, though endikot berries were known to be poisonous, harvested for use in dyes and inks rather than for food.
He could feel the monk gathering his courage.
Lucius, the monk began, and then his thoughts fell silent.
It seemed even a scholar could find no words for this.
The monk reached for the cup—
And at that moment Lucius struck. Using all of his carefully hoarded strength, he rose up and took control of his body.
He felt the monk's shock, but ignored him.
With hands that shook only slightly, Lucius lifted the cup and began to drink. The acid brew burned his lips, his tongue, and the length of his gullet. Still, he forced himself to keep swallowing until the last drop was gone. When finished, he wiped his lips with the sleeve of his robe, as if he were a peasant.
Then he picked up the amber luck stone, rubbing it between thumb and forefinger. He'd carried this stone since Karystos, part of the imperial gems that he'd taken to pay for his voyage. It was smooth to the touch—the same dark gold as the rarest honey, roughly the same size as an imperial gold piece.
Such a small thing to hold a man's soul. But if it were any larger, it would hardly fit in his mouth.
His fingers began to tingle, and then his toes, with a strange prickling sensation as if his limbs were being woken from sleep.
Perhaps the berry's reputation as a poison was well earned. It would be ironic if it killed them before he could complete the spell.
He could feel his strength ebbing, but he held on with every ounce of his will. Minutes passed, or perhaps hours, but finally there was a knock at the door.
“Enter,” he called.
Chenzira came in, shutting the door behind him. “How may I serve you?”
“I've been poisoned,” Lucius said.
Chenzira's eyes widened in shock. “Just now?”
“No. It was some time ago. Long before I left Ikaria,” he said.
Chenzira's bewildered expression disappeared, as he realized that Lucius was talking about his illness. “What can I do?” he asked.
“Do you trust me?” Lucius asked.
“With my life,” Chenzira vowed.
Such loyalty warmed his heart, even as it firmed his resolve, for he knew that he was not the one who had earned it.
“There is a spell,” Lucius said, holding up the amber stone so that Chenzira could see it. “I will place this in my mouth, and it will absorb the poison. When I stop breathing, you must remove the stone and destroy it.”
Chenzira nodded. He looked around the cabin, until his gaze settled on the iron rod that was used to bar the porthole in bad weather. Swiftly he removed it from its fittings.
“When I stop breathing, not before,” Lucius reminded him.
Chenzira swallowed hard, then nodded. “It will be as you command.”
He was putting all his trust in Chenzira. Not to make the spell work, he could do that himself without any witnesses. But Lucius could not bear the idea of his soul being trapped forever in a stone, unable to join his ancestors. Hopefully smashing the stone would be enough to free him.
If not, he would have to hope that the gods would grant him mercy for his courage.
With one last deep breath, Lucius lay down on the bed. His hands were numb, and he nearly dropped the stone twice before it slid into his mouth.
He closed his eyes, and thought about his soul leaving. He could sense the monk's presence, but the monk was not strong enough to resume control.
You will be a better emperor than I, he thought.
And then he breathed his last.
Lady Ysobel watched the emperor's halting progress along the dock, until he climbed aboard Green Dragon.
Was it Lucius who had said farewell to her? Was it the monk? Or perhaps some blend of the two?
She'd wondered if Brice's tale would provide the answers he needed to find a cure, but from his continuing decline, it appeared she'd been wrong.
Or perhaps it was simply that neither man was willing to sacrifice himself so that the other might live.
She shivered, and it had nothing to do with the chill air.
“What do you think will happen to him?” Burrell asked.
“If he's lucky, he'll die before he reaches Ikaria.”
If Zuberi had claimed the throne, he would not lightly give up his prize. Especially not to an ailing emperor who had few political allies. Lucius would be imprisoned for his own safety, and then, if his malady did not kill him outright, the imperial physicians would.
“It seems a cruel fate,” Burrell said.
“All politics are cruel.”
She turned her back on Green Dragon. There was nothing more she could do. She'd offered the emperor sanctuary, but she understood why he had left. The federation was alien to him, while the Green Dragon was his ship, crewed by his people. It would be a good place to die.
When it came her time, she could ask no more.
She was too restless to return home, so waved off the carriage and made her way to the boardwalk that encircled the port. Burrell fell into step beside her, a familiar presence.
They did not need words between them. Each knew that the other had been unnerved by the contemplation of the emperor's probable fate. It was not often that one saw a man so clearly touched by the shadow of death.
Lucius, or whoever he was, had finally earned the throne he had long coveted—but he would not live to reign over his people.
And what had she earned? She'd thought to use her political connections to secure the future of her trading house, but instead paid a heavy price for her ambition. Still she'd persevered, and none would deny that she'd been instrumental in averting a costly war with the empire. Bayard himself had expressed his gratitude toward her, in terms that made it clear she was in his favor, and his advisor Telfor had invited her for a private meeting, where he'd hinted that she could name her own reward.
She could have a seat on the king's council, or even the post of Deputy Minister of Trade—second-in-command to Lady Solange, and in line to succeed her should Ysobel prove herself worthy. She'd be more powerful than any born into House Flordelis in the past century—and she was barely thirty.
It was even conceivable that she might be elected queen, one day in the far-distant future. All it would take was sacrificing what remained of her soul.
Her thoughts turned over and over, but the familiar sights and smells of the port failed to soothe her restlessness. She skirted precariously stacked crates, stepped neatly around coiled lines, and nearly lost her balance crossing a swath of discarded fish scales.
Finally, they reached the southernmost point of the harbor. From here they could walk no farther, so instead she climbed the stairs until they stood atop the wall.
The harbor lay spread out before her, each ship within reminding her that there was far more to life than could be found in council chambers or grand palaces.
“What now?” Burrell asked. “Where will you go?”
“Somewhere I've never been,” she said.
He blinked at her, and she realized he'd been asking if she wanted to return to the mansion.
“Will you go home first?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said. But not in the way that he meant. House Flordelis was no longer her home—it was merely a place where she could take refuge when she needed.
“I'm off to Alcina tomorrow,” she said. “I've changes in mind for the new ship, and I want to oversee them personally.”
Disappointment flashed across his face, but then his features smoothed. “A good choice. Your house needs you, and I've always thought you were happiest at sea.”
If Ysobel returned to life as a trader, then she would have no need for an aide who happened to be a marine captain. Once they parted, it was doubtful their paths would cross again.
She let him help her down from the wall, and by unspoken accord they turned their steps in the direction of the mansion.
“Western Star will be refitted for an extended voyage,” she said. “I plan to take her out of the basin, up north along the coast of Tarsus, and from there, I'll see what is to be found.”
Few ships sailed out past the western edge of the Great Basin, and fewer ships had ever ventured north of Tarsus, where there were no maps, only mere rumors to guide a captain. It would be the adventure of a lifetime—and the opportunity to be the first to discover new trade goods and new markets.
“Come with me,” she said, turning to face him.
“I could wish for nothing more, but—”
“You will be my price,” she said. “King Bayard has promised me whatever I want if I'll stay—and I'm sure Lord Quesnel will be equally willing to give me what I want to make sure that I leave.”
Quesnel was minister of war, and no friend to Ysobel. Her success had angered him, and he'd be happy to see her gone.
And if not, Bayard owed her a favor or two.
Burrell paused, his mouth open.
She was seized with a sudden doubt. What if he didn't want this? Had she presumed too much? He'd been in the marines since he was a young man.
“It is your choice,” she said, a trifle stiffly.
“I've never been a trader,” he said. “Nor a sailor.”
Her lips curved in a smile as happiness rose up inside her. “You know the sea,” she said. “The rest can be learned.”
Burrell grinned back, appearing five years younger.
She could never have asked him to share her old life. But this new life would be one worth sharing.
“There's just one condition,” he said.
She began to ask what it was, just as he cupped her face with both hands. Bending down, he brushed his lips with hers.
She gasped, and what had started as a chaste kiss quickly grew fierce, as Burrell finally showed her just how much he wanted her.
When they broke apart, they were both flushed and panting. But there were stars in his eyes, and she was sure that she looked equally infatuated.
A passing apprentice clapped to show his appreciation, until he wilted under their combined stares.
“Well, then,” she said. “That's settled.”