Chapter 11
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Josan nodded cordially as he entered the cramped cabin that served as the dining hall for the junior officers. Amelie was present, as were Edmond and the sailing master, Bryan. Only Pascal was missing, and since this was the middle of the day, it was likely that Pascal was sleeping in preparation for the night watch, while Captain Zorion had the current watch.

A bowl was at his customary seat, sunk into the carved indentation that held it in place in rough seas.

“That's the last of the fresh vegetables,” Edmond said.

The bowl held long strips of brightly colored peppers interspersed with round slices of gourds, which had been fried in oil, then mixed with rice. He dipped in his spoon and tried a mouthful. It was subtly spiced with saffron and other herbs.

“It's good,” he said, taking another bite. Amelie filled his wine cup with one part wine and three parts water, as was the custom on this ship.

“Starting tonight, it will be dried meat and lentils. And maybe fish, if we're lucky,” Edmond groused.

“You complain, but I've yet to see you send a meal back,” Bryan observed.

Josan let their words flow over him as the crew bickered amiably, responding only when asked his opinion. Mindful of his presence they spoke only of inconsequential things—when Edmond mentioned a problem with a seaman, Amelie abruptly changed the subject.

Josan merely took another sip of his well-watered wine and pretended he hadn't heard. He was not offended. They knew only what the captain had told them—that their passenger was a traveler who suffered from bouts of the landsman's sickness. They had no reason to trust him.

“It is a calm day if you wish to take the air, Josan,” Amelie said.

“Thank you, that would be pleasant,” he agreed.

It had been a long time since he had been allowed to simply be Josan. To be called by his own name. For two years he had lived as Prince Lucius—first as a prisoner, then ruling as emperor. His life had depended upon others believing that he was Lucius, and so he had done his best to act the part of a prince, burying his own nature underneath the role he was forced to play.

But the crew of Hypatia had no such expectations of him. They called him Josan without the mockery that he had heard each time Lady Ysobel used his name. They did not expect princely airs, nor did they seek to punish him for crimes committed by the man whose body he now wore. Their acceptance of him was a gift—one he was careful not to abuse.

He finished his meal and rose, leaving them alone so they could discuss the business of the ship.

Venturing up on deck, he saw that Captain Zorion was indeed in the wheelhouse. After a week at sea, Josan had memorized the rhythms of this ship. Four watches a day, the five officers rotated the schedule among them, so that the burden of the night watches was shared by all. As soon as lunch was finished, Zorion would be relieved by Edmond, and he in turn would be relieved by Bryan, then Pascal, and finally Amelie.

Amelie held the post of cargo master, apparently equal in rank to the sailing master. It was strange to see a woman commanding men, stranger still to see young women scrambling up the rigging alongside boys. He'd never before sailed upon a federation vessel, where women served in nearly equal numbers to the men.

Some tasks seemed reserved for men alone, but he had yet to determine how these had been decided. Was it by the captain's decree? Or a matter of long-held custom? Would they be done differently on another federation vessel?

He could ask, but such questions would raise suspicions. A trader would be expected to know these things, particularly one who could speak the trade tongue with the cadence of the islands.

Intellectually he'd known that Lady Ysobel was more than a politician—she was reputed to be head of her own merchant house and an experienced sea captain. He wondered if she had ever captained a ship such as this. Was this the life she'd led as a girl—going to sea in one of her family's ships, learning to raise and lower the sails, splice ropes, and spend endless hours scouring the brasswork?

The life of a sailor was full of tedium, but it also offered endless opportunities for learning and adventure. He wondered why anyone would leave it behind for a life of scheming and political intrigues.

He took a turn around the foredeck, where he would be in no one's way. Their course had taken them deep into the Great Basin, so there was no land to be seen, but the blur he saw on the horizon soon resolved itself into the shape of sails.

“It's two ships, maybe three,” he heard the lookout call down to the deck.

The message was dutifully passed on to Captain Zorion in the wheelhouse, where he had been joined by Edmond.

They'd sighted other ships during the week they'd been at sea, but never more than one at a time. A convoy, perhaps. All federation traders, of course, for few others dared sail this deep into the heart of the Great Basin.

Zorion left the wheelhouse and paused to nod to Josan before continuing below to his cabin. He must have been pleased that his passenger had shown no signs of an illness that might threaten his ship.

Josan had had one more attack in the week that he'd been aboard ship, but it had been at night, with none to witness it save himself. Fortunately, he'd recovered by morning.

He lacked the instruments for proper calculations, but by both his informal reckoning and Edmond's statements they were halfway to Xandropol. They would arrive in another week, then the final race would begin. Could he find the information he needed before this body failed him? Or would he have risked all, simply to die in a foreign city?

It would not be easy. The study of magic was not forbidden in Xandropol the way it was in Ikaria, and thus the great library would hold numerous tomes on the subject, of varying quality. It would be a daunting task to search through them all, trying to winnow out the truth from lies and legends.

If he could confide in another, it would speed his search. But he dared not. It did not matter that Josan and Lucius were both victims; what had been done to them would be seen as an abomination. At best he could expect to be imprisoned, left to wither as his fate was debated by scholars and politicians.

At worst he would be handed over to the priests for cleansing—which would mean his death.

His fear was a constant thing, itching under his skin. Always present, but never overwhelming. It might even be Lucius's emotions he was sensing rather than his own. But a man could not live in a constant state of terror. Intellectually he knew he was dying, but at the moment his body felt fine. And the day was too fair for melancholy, with the sun shining and a brisk breeze speeding the ship along.

At last he found a quiet spot against the rail and sat on the deck, in no hurry to return to his cramped and airless cabin. He meditated, bringing to mind what he could remember of the great library from his previous visit. As he planned his research, his surroundings faded into the background.

A shout from the lookout roused him from thought. He blinked, surprised to see Edmond leave the wheelhouse. He watched as Edmond swiftly climbed the center mast and joined the lookout at his post. The two conferred for a long moment, looking through a long glass. Edmond gestured, then began his descent. He began calling out orders before he'd reached the deck.

His commands meant nothing to Josan, but the urgency of his tone was unmistakable.

Josan stood. The tiny sails he'd seen earlier had come into view—it appeared they were three ships, in close formation.

Was the lookout concerned that they might be pirates? But such usually plied the coastlines, darting out of sheltered harbors to take their prey, then disappearing again before they could be detected.

Captain Zorion appeared on deck, accompanied by the sailing master, Bryan, and they joined Edmond in the wheelhouse. Zorion pulled out his own long glass and looked at the ships, then nodded decisively.

Josan drifted closer, watching as they conferred among themselves. He could tell the moment Zorion reached his decision, for Edmond saluted, then left the wheelhouse.

Edmond summoned a sailor. “Find Amelie and tell her to issue swords to those who are on defense,” Josan overheard him say.

This order needed no interpretation. The sailor scurried off.

“What's happening?” Josan asked.

“I've no time,” Edmond said brusquely. “Go below, where you won't be in the way.” Edmond looked above, cursed, and began bellowing orders.

Josan had thought that Hypatia had already been carrying all the canvas she could, but under Edmond's profane encouragement, the sailors raised a sail along the boom that projected from the bow.

Spray flew as the ship sliced through the waves. She seemed to be sailing much faster than before, but surely the sensation was from his nerves rather than the effect of a single added sail.

Josan waited, but their course did not change. It seemed Captain Zorion had chosen to sail toward whatever was happening up ahead rather than fleeing from danger.

A girl carrying a bucket of sand with both hands shoved him aside. “Get below if you can't get from underfoot,” she said.

Josan merely retreated, watching as the girl and several other youths placed buckets of sand at key points around the rail. He wondered at the purpose of the sand—would they sprinkle it for traction on a slippery deck?

Or was it in case of fire? But that made no sense. Fire ships and flaming missiles were risks associated with close-packed harbors and shore-based catapults.

He grew cold as he remembered that fire was also the weapon of the Ikarian navy. A gift that he himself had given them.

Josan pushed his way through a knot of sailors, who were tucking swords into their belts.

“Josan—” Amelie began when she caught sight of him.

He ignored her. He did not bother to knock, but simply entered the wheelhouse.

“What did you see?” he asked.

Captain Zorion turned and his face was cold. “Go to your cabin; I've no time for you.”

“What did you see?” Josan repeated.

“I'll have you dragged below, and you'll spend the rest of the trip in chains,” Zorion said. His tone was mild, but his eyes were those of a man who was fully prepared to match deeds to words.

But Josan had faced far more frightening men in his time. He would not be intimidated.

“Answer my question, then I will leave.”

“Two ships of the Ikarian navy, attacking a federation trader,” Bryan said.

Josan shook his head. “No. They are not Ikarians.”

“How can you be certain?” Zorion asked.

“I know,” Josan replied, trying to convey the force of his convictions with his voice. They would hardly believe the truth.

“See for yourself,” Zorion said, handing him the long glass.

Josan took the glass, turning it in his hands to extend it, then sighted through the piece. It took him a moment to find the ships, and another to focus the optics.

Zorion was correct. There were two vessels with the red-bordered sails of the imperial navy, flanking a ship with the plain white sails of a trader. He could not tell the merchant ships of one country from another, but Zorion's haste meant that it was likely a federation trader, as Bryan had claimed.

Josan closed the glass, and handed it back to Zorion.

“What do you plan to do?” he asked.

“They've pinned her between them, and are likely boarding as we speak,” Zorion said. “Our arrival will change the odds.”

Even so it would be an unequal fight. Merchant ships carried cargo, while naval vessels used that space to house marines and weapons. Hypatia's crew would be heavily outnumbered.

“Now go,” Zorion said, giving Josan a push. “Or do you still insist that they are not imperials?”

“They are not,” Josan said. “But you will see that for yourself soon enough.”

Bryan snorted with disbelief, and Josan left the wheelhouse though he did not go below. He knew that those ships were impostors. Admiral Septimus would never have broken the truce without direct orders from the emperor.

Josan knew that he had not given such orders. Nor would Proconsul Zuberi have done so without at least informing the emperor of what he intended.

He had only been absent a few weeks. Surely everything he had accomplished could not have been undone in that time.

Around him the frantic pace of activity had slowed, as preparations were completed. Each sailor apparently had a place to be and a task to perform. Several shouted at Josan for his presence—to each he nodded, then simply moved until he was out of their sight.

Hypatia raced through the water, but to his eyes the battle was growing no closer. Strange to think that ahead of them men were fighting, even dying, and they could do nothing.

By the time they arrived, it might well be over.

“I told you to go below.” Zorion's voice came from behind him. “This is no place for the curious.”

“I need to be here,” Josan said. “I can help.”

Zorion shook his head. “I will not give you a sword,” he said. “And my sailors need no help from a man who does not know one end of a line from another.”

“How long will it take us to reach them?”

Zorion looked at the horizon, then up at the sails, which had begun to flap, first billowing out, then collapsing.

“Wind's shifting,” he said. “Will take us at least two hours, longer if the wind dies. But unless you're a friend of the Sea Witch . . .”

Josan grimaced. Perhaps it would be best if the wind died—he had no wish to experience another battle firsthand. The people on that distant merchant ship were not his subjects; he had no responsibility toward them.

But the attackers wore the colors of his fleet. If they were Ikarians, then he needed to know. And if not—then he needed to know that as well, and to have Captain Zorion bear witness.

“Would a storm help?” Josan asked.

Captain Zorion laughed. “Do you have one in your cabin, tucked away with your books?”

Josan felt light-headed, and took a deep breath, then another, but it was not enough. His senses swam. Was it only days ago that he had chastised Lucius for this very sin? But Lucius had been reckless. This was not recklessness, this was his duty.

He wondered if the storm winds would come to him, without Lucius to call them.

He wondered how he would explain himself if this worked.

Josan closed his eyes and reached deep inside himself. He could not feel Lucius, but he felt the first stirrings of power within.

“Tell your crew to prepare for a storm,” he said.

Josan turned so that he faced the direction they must go, then braced himself.

“Come,” he said.

Zorion watched him for a long moment, then laughed. “You almost had me convinced,” he said.

Josan did not respond. He focused every bit of his will on nurturing the power within him, calling it into being.

He did not know how Lucius made the magic obey his bidding. Whatever he summoned might be too little, or it might escape his control and wreck this ship.

Ruthlessly he pushed his doubts aside.

Wind, he thought, calling to mind the feel of a storm against his skin, the way strong winds would tug at his clothes, buffeting his body.

The grin slid off Zorion's face as the sails above them filled with a resounding crack.

Josan brushed the short fringe of hair from his eyes, feeling the first drops of rain splattering against his skin.

“Your storm, captain,” he said.

Zorion reached out as if to touch him, then pulled back his hand.

It was Josan's turn to laugh. He had done as Zorion had asked, but now he was cursed, unclean in Zorion's eyes.

A part of him knew he was being unfair, but the rational part of him was overwhelmed by the sensations from without and within. Outside the storm was growing, and he clutched the rigging to keep his balance. While inside, the power rose within him, whispering that this was only the beginning. He could do anything. Anything.

He'd been wrong all this time. Lucius was right. If they had power, why shouldn't they use it? The power wanted to be used—his very flesh tingled as if it was being stroked by a lover.

He never wanted it to end.

Zorion gave him one last look, then began giving new orders to the crew.

Josan let him go. The rain fell harder as the sky grew dark above them. He could not see the ships ahead of him, but he did not need to.

His mind called out—and the lightning answered.


Josan woke to a pounding head, and a body that ached all over. His bed moved beneath him, as if he were still drunk.

He could not remember the night before—had he truly drunk himself insensible? Or was this some new poison?

He opened his eyes, but could make no sense of what he saw. He was not in his bedchamber, but rather in a narrow wooden room, illuminated by a single lantern which hung from the ceiling above him, swaying crazily in time with the pulse that pounded in his head.

A white-haired woman sat in a chair next to his bed. As his gaze met hers, she smiled.

“You're awake,” she said.

“What happened?” he asked. It seemed a safer question than where am I, or who are you? Better not to reveal the extent of his ignorance until he was among friends.

He tried to push himself up to a seated position, but his arms refused to cooperate.

“I'll get the captain,” she said. “He wanted to know the moment you awoke.”

She left before he could protest. Captain?

Mere moments later the door opened, and a man stepped inside.

Zorion. Josan's memories returned in a rush. He was not in his palace—this was Hypatia, and the man before him was her captain.

From the weakness in his limbs, he realized that he must have had another one of his attacks. But he could not remember.

“What happened?” he repeated.

Zorion sat in the chair that Amelie had earlier occupied. “Do you mean the battle? Or before that, when you fell to the deck?”

Hypatia is safe?” he asked.

He remembered that they had sighted distant sails, then realized that a merchant ship was being attacked. After that, nothing.

But they must have survived the battle—elsewise Zorion would not have time to talk to his troublesome passenger.

Rhosyn was lucky,” Zorion said. “Before we reached her, one of her attackers was destroyed by lightning. The other sailed off, abandoning their fellows. By the time we came alongside, the boarders had been overcome, and we picked survivors of the first ship out of the water.”

Josan swallowed hard as his memories returned. He remembered the taste of frustration, of knowing that they would arrive too late to discover the truth. He remembered thinking that he could use Lucius's magic to call a wind that would carry Hypatia before it.

He remembered promising Zorion that a wind would come.

How could he have been so foolish? It was tempting to blame this folly on Lucius, but there had been no voice in his head urging him on. This folly was his, and his alone.

Josan swallowed hard, wondering what price he must pay for his moment of madness.

“Fortunate indeed,” Josan said.

Zorion frowned as if he'd expected something more, then rubbed his chin consideringly. “Do you remember earlier, when you insisted that the ships were not from the imperial navy?”

“Yes. I was right, wasn't I?”

Josan held his breath.

“I'll answer your question, if you answer mine. An even trade,” Zorion proposed.

“If I can, I will,” Josan said.

“Did you call this storm? Summon the waves the way another might call his dog?”

If Josan denied his powers, he would never know the truth of the encounter. Never know if his own navy was committing acts of piracy. Zorion's crew would follow his lead. If the captain willed it, no one else would tell Josan what had happened.

But if he acknowledged that he had called the storm—what would Zorion do with such knowledge? A man who could command the weather was more valuable than his weight in gold—it would be an irresistible temptation to one who made his living at sea.

Josan was wholly at Zorion's mercy. He could not so much as twitch his arm to defend himself.

The risks were grave, but despite everything, he had to know.

“If one bears the curse of power, he can call a storm, if he wills it,” Josan said. “But not without cost.”

He could tell from the astonishment on Zorion's face that the captain had expected him to lie.

“They were mercenaries from Vidrun,” Zorion said. “The attack was staged for our benefit. They meant to sink Rhosyn and enslave her crew. We would have seen it all, but arrived too late to save them.”

“Why?”

“What would happen if we brought news to port that the Ikarians are once more attacking federation ships?”

“War,” Josan breathed. One report would be dismissed as rumor, but if enough such encounters happened, the truce would be shattered.

“Some might say I owe you,” Zorion said. “Thanks to the storm, Hypatia is unharmed—neither ship nor crew suffered so much as a scratch.”

Here Zorion showed his race. He did not say that there was a debt between them, merely that some might consider that there was. There was no promise of payment, merely the hint that he might consider himself in Josan's debt.

He wondered whether honor or greed would win out. How much did Zorion covet the advantages that a pet magician could provide? When Lady Ysobel had proposed taking him prisoner, Josan had threatened her with retaliation. But he was far weaker than he had been, and if Zorion sensed this . . .

“I paid for passage to Xandropol,” Josan said. “I expect you to honor that agreement.”

“Not for a bit,” Zorion said.

Josan's heart sank at these words.

Rhosyn was damaged. She won't make it that far, and alone she's easy prey. I've promised to escort her to Tyrns.”

“And then?”

“And then I hope that the house of Arles understands why I broke their contract by choosing to deliver a passenger first, rather than sailing directly to Vidrun to deliver their cargo,” Zorion said.

So he was not a prisoner, after all. At least for the moment.

“Rest,” Zorion said. “There's a boy outside, who will fetch you whatever you want.”

Josan nodded and closed his eyes. Let Zorion think that he was merely resting, rather than that he was incapacitated by his recent exertions.

The weakness had always passed before. It would again.

He hoped that both his selves had learned their lesson—he could not risk using magic again, not in any form. Not unless it was to save his life. Zorion had promised to set Josan free, but once he thought it over, he might change his mind. When the ship reached Xandropol Josan would need all his wits about him—and a body that would obey his bidding.

Anything less would doom him.