Chapter 4
Burrell held a double-copper piece just out of the boy's reach. “Repeat the message,” he ordered.
The boy, a scrawny lad of nine or ten summers, made one last try for the coin, then grimaced. “I'm to go to the Federation embassy and tell them that the captain from the house of Flordelis had to sail unexpectedly and will send word from the next port,” he said.
Burrell dropped the coin in the boy's outstretched hand. “Off with you. When you've delivered your message, they'll give you another of these for your time.”
The boy scampered off, and Burrell hoped that he intended to earn his keep. Given even a quarter of an hour more, he could have found paper and parchment and contrived to send a coded message. But there was no time. Even as he was thinking this, he had already turned and begun racing the short distance to where Tylenda was anchored.
He cursed as he saw the last of the ropes that anchored her to the dock being cast off. The gangplank had already been withdrawn, but there was a stack of crates waiting to be loaded on the adjoining vessel. Burrell raced down the pier, jumped on top of the crates, then leapt across the widening gap.
He landed on Tylenda's deck, twisting as he fell to avoid landing on a wooden coop filled with ducks, who squawked indignantly at his arrival. Scrambling to his feet, he was swiftly surrounded by curious passengers, and one irate officer.
“Here now, there's no free passage, nor room for those fleeing the law,” the officer said, eyeing Burrell disapprovingly.
“It's not the law I'm afraid of, but a woman,” he said, glancing over his shoulder toward the wharves as if he'd been pursued. “As for passage, I have enough coins to pay for the next port.”
He made a show of pulling out a flat purse from inside his tunic, and rooting through it until he found a half-silver.
“That will get you space on deck,” the purser said. “But if the harbormaster sends a patrol boat after you, I'll take it out of your hide before I toss you to them.”
Burrell shrugged with the air of a man who had nothing to hide. “Fair enough. It's unlikely my wife wants me badly enough to row out after me, but if she does, I'll help you raise the sails.”
The men surrounding him chuckled, and as the crowd dispersed, Burrell made his way to Lady Ysobel's side. From the expression on her face, he knew she was furious.
“I told you to take word to the ambassador,” she said.
“And what could I tell him? That you had sailed? I sent a runner instead.”
The ship heeled on her side as it slipped away from the dock, and the sailors ran to the masts, shoving novice passengers out of their way. Well used to the chaos of shipboard life, Ysobel unerringly picked her way around them, moving to the vacant portside railing, where they could speak undisturbed. The sailors were busy with their duties, and the passengers on deck were on the starboard side, waving to friends left behind.
Burrell scanned the passengers but saw no sign of the monk, though he noted that Lady Ysobel's gaze kept returning to the hatch that led belowdecks, where presumably her quarry could be found. When she finally stopped, he was not surprised that she had chosen a spot directly opposite the hatch.
“I asked you to inform the ambassador that the emperor had left Karystos in secret, for an unknown destination,” Ysobel whispered.
“And you are certain that it is he?” he asked.
He trusted Lady Ysobel—he had fought at her side, and risked death based on nothing more than her word. But his loyalty warred with his intellect and his own instincts. He could think of no reason for the emperor to have come aboard such a modest craft. The one tantalizing glimpse they'd had was intriguing—but hardly proof.
“He disguised himself as a monk once before, in his time of exile,” she said. “Surely I must have told you that.”
If she had, he had forgotten it. But that was not the point. “Why now? Why flee his own capital? Where are his servants, his guards? If he must travel, why not take Chenzira's ship?”
Ysobel shook her head, frustrated—with Lucius, himself, or perhaps both. “I don't know,” she said through clenched teeth. “But I know I cannot leave this ship, not while he is on it.”
The triangular foresail caught the wind as Tylenda began picking up speed. In a few moments she would pass by the moles and out into the open sea.
“We don't even know where this ship is going,” Burrell objected.
“North along the coast, all the way to the Northern Keys, if he stays with her,” Ysobel said.
The time for a decision was passing. If Ysobel had made a mistake, they would have to disembark—without assistance from the crew. It would be a long, hard swim, but it would not be the first time he and Ysobel had swum for their lives.
Or they could stay aboard, at least until the next port. Which could be equally perilous.
“Look,” he said, pointing to where Green Dragon was anchored. He could see the bright sails of the imperial navy being raised. “If the emperor is still aboard her . . .”
He let his voice trail off.
“Then I have made a grave mistake,” Ysobel said. “But I am not wrong. Trust me.”
Burrell shivered, wishing he could claim it was merely the freshening sea breeze. He trusted Ysobel with his own life—but if she were wrong, it was not just he who would pay the price. All of the federation would be imperiled if Lucius sailed on Green Dragon, ready to lead an attack, while he and Ysobel were elsewhere, unable to give warning.
He hesitated, and as he did so, the ship slipped into the open sea. He turned and watched as the sun began to set over Karystos.
“He's belowdecks, right?”
The tightness eased from Ysobel's features as she nodded. “There are two cabins on the second deck—one for men, the other for women and children,” she said. “The monk paid for sheltered passage.”
Burrell nodded “Then I'd best find someone who wishes to trade his space for a few coins,” he said.
They had nothing. No provisions, not even a change of clothes. He had a long knife tucked in his belt, in keeping with his disguise as a laborer, but Ysobel did not even have that much.
They were in for an uncomfortable few days, at the very least. The secret purse that he kept for emergencies would only stretch so far.
“I have coins enough for supplies,” Ysobel said, proving that their minds ran along similar channels. “And we can draw upon my credit at the first port we pass.”
He straightened. What was done was done, and it was up to him to make the best of it. First to secure a spot belowdecks, then a chance to observe this monk for himself. If Lady Ysobel was correct in her suspicions, then it was essential that Burrell not let the emperor out of his sight.
And if she was wrong . . . Well the sooner he proved that she was mistaken, the better it would be. Ysobel would forgive him for doubting her, but if her actions endangered the federation, then it was unlikely that she would ever forgive herself.
Tylenda cleared the harbor and turned north. Some of the passengers watched Karystos shrink in the distance behind them, while their more practical brethren began claiming spots on deck.
Burrell observed those who were not claiming spaces, knowing that they would be the ones sleeping below. He circulated among them, until he heard a man comforting his obviously pregnant wife. The man's voice had a sharper accent than that commonly heard on the streets of Karystos, and it did not take long to realize that they were returning to the country to join his family. Likely he'd come to the capital hoping to make his fortune, but instead had found a different kind of treasure to bring back.
The man had paid good silver to buy his family space below, but was willing to give up his own berth for twice what he'd paid—money that would ease the rest of his journey. Haggling with one of the sailors eventually yielded a small seabag, including a set of nearly clean clothes left behind by a passenger who hadn't survived a previous journey, along with a blanket for sleeping.
When Burrell finally made his way below to the second deck he found the door to the men's cabin propped open, though he had to bend down to enter. Once inside, he realized that the low ceiling meant it was impossible for him to stand erect.
Two smoking lanterns swung on hooks, providing dim illumination. There was space for about twenty pallets laid on the floor for landsmen, rather than the hammocks that sailors would have used. Most of the pallets were claimed, except for a pair on the right-hand wall, which were the least desirable as they were farthest from both the portholes and the door.
A group of men were cheerfully gossiping in the left corner, while one of them tossed a set of dice in his hands. The rest seemed to be traveling alone—some already lying down, trying to sleep, while others sat with their backs against the walls, lost in their own thoughts.
The monk was sitting opposite the door, underneath one of the portholes. The pallets adjacent to him were already occupied, but that could be remedied. The man to the monk's left was an older man, dressed in clean clothes but his hands were stained. A weaver, he surmised, come to Karystos to purchase dyes he could not find at home. The man to the monk's right wore the garb of a laborer, and had the crooked nose and battered ears of one who had seen his share of brawls.
Burrell nudged the weaver with his foot. “You're in my place,” he said.
The weaver shook his head. “I was here first,” he said.
“And I am here now,” Burrell said. He disliked having to intimidate the other man, but he needed to be near the supposed monk. He scratched his jaw, then let his hand fall as if by accident onto the hilt of his knife. “I always sleep under the porthole while I'm on a ship. Otherwise I get . . . tetchy.” He waited, but the man did not move. Burrell bared his teeth in a grimace. “I'd hate to have anything disturb your sleep,” he advised. “The pallets over there will be more peaceful for a man of your age.” With a jerk of his head he indicated the far wall.
“There is no need for you to move,” the monk said. “The sailors said we were free to choose our own berths . . .”
But the weaver was already getting to his feet, recognizing a threat when he heard one. The crew of Tylenda would not interfere in the affairs of the passengers—not until they endangered the safety of the ship or blood was spilled.
“Thank you,” Burrell said, as the weaver brushed by him.
He dropped unceremoniously to the deck.
In the dim light the monk's features had been obscured, but at this distance he could see the fear in his eyes. The monk was afraid—but was it fear of being recognized? Or merely the fear felt by an unarmed man when faced with a potentially violent companion?
“I'm Burrell,” he said.
The resemblance that he'd seen from a distance was even more pronounced in person. But in this dim light, a resemblance was all he was willing to swear to.
“I am Brother Josan,” the monk said. “And the man that you chased off was Tomasso of Umber, a cloth maker by trade.”
A cloth maker, not a weaver. He'd been close.
He stared at the man who called himself Brother Josan, but the man returned his gaze calmly, apparently recovered from his earlier fright. If he were indeed Emperor Lucius, then wouldn't he be worried over the possibility that he'd been followed by whatever enemies had caused him to flee his city in the first place? But if this man was worried, he hid it well.
The monk's robe was clean but obviously not new, and the sandals on his feet showed similar signs of wear. His hair was close-cropped, shorter than would be worn by an emperor or noble, but hair could easily be altered. It was hardly telling evidence.
Burrell sighed at his own foolishness. Had he expected the man to be wearing the imperial crown? Or to introduce himself by his given name? The emperor would not be likely to give himself away so easily.
“Flattered as I am by your interest, my vows prevent me from lying with one who is not of my order,” the monk said.
Burrell could feel his cheeks heat as he realized that the intensity of his scrutiny had been misinterpreted. Hastily he shook his head. “It's not that . . .” he said, then his voice trailed off.
The monk raised one eyebrow, as if daring him to continue.
And why not? He had nothing to lose. “You remind me of someone,” Burrell said.
He watched carefully, but the monk did not twitch. Either he was superb at dissembling, or this was indeed not the emperor.
“Has anyone ever mentioned that you resemble the emperor? Like enough to be his brother.”
“All monks are born fatherless. It is unseemly to speculate upon their connections,” the monk said primly, as if Burrell had uttered a vile obscenity.
The monk made a point of moving the bag that held his possessions from the left side of his pallet to the right, where it would be out of Burrell's reach. Then he lay down, using his bundled cloak for a pillow.
Burrell had been dismissed. He settled himself in for the night, though he doubted that he would be able to sleep. He knew Lady Ysobel would want answers, but he had none to give. Hopefully by the time morning came, he would have come up with a plan.
Tylenda dropped anchor shortly after dark. The frugal captain had not wanted to pay another day's harbor fees, but he appeared equally reluctant to brave the strait of Eluktiri in full dark. Whatever navigation secrets the Ikarian navy had mastered, they had not shared this information with their merchants. Despite his unease, the rocking of the ship at anchor eased Burrell into a restless sleep. He woke only when he felt the ship begin to move, as the sails were once again unfurled at the first signs of light.
With a start he rolled over, wondering if his quarry had slipped from his grasp, but the monk was still there. He slept peacefully, unarmed in a room full of strangers, as if he had not an enemy in the world.
It made no more sense than it had the day before. Burrell sat up, rubbing sleep from his eyes as he considered his next move. If he could catch the monk alone, he might be able to threaten him to get at the truth. But there were few places on such a small ship that would offer any degree of privacy—and even if he could find such a spot, he could hardly expect that the monk would tamely follow him there.
As Burrell pondered, others began to stir. The cloth maker Tomasso rose to his feet and left the cabin, presumably to relieve himself.
Burrell heard voices in the corridor, and then a moment later a sailor appeared in the doorway. “You want food go up on deck now, or wait till sunset,” he said, evidently not caring that his voice was too soft to wake the sleepers.
Those who were awake got to their feet, while the gambler from the previous night woke his comrades. Burrell leaned over and shook the monk's shoulder.
The monk jerked back from his touch.
“Breakfast,” Burrell said.
The monk nodded, but did not offer his thanks.
Burrell got to his feet and left the cabin, pretending indifference to whether or not the monk followed him. They were at sea, so it was not as if there was any danger of losing his quarry. Like the others, Burrell carried his possessions with him—the newly acquired seabag was too valuable to risk losing.
Near the deckhouse two sailors were dispensing soup and torn pieces of flat bread. There were no orderly lines. Instead the three dozen or so passengers on deck simply milled around, shoving until they reached the table, then holding out their bowls to be filled.
Burrell was fortunate that the dead passenger's possessions had included a bowl—his public purse was nearly flat, and he had no wish to flash gold in this company.
Elbowing his way to the front, he accepted his ration, then wandered over to join Lady Ysobel.
She wore a cloak that she'd not possessed when they boarded, and held a wooden bowl between both hands, blowing softly on the contents to cool it. She must have acquired her own supplies last night, after they'd parted.
“Burrell,” he said, conscious that they were being watched. Yesterday all eyes had been focused on the rapidly diminishing shoreline, but now the passengers had nothing better to do than observe their fellows. “Lately of Ikaria, but I've been on traders all along the southern rim. You have the look of someone I once knew—three years ago, sailing to Kazagan with Captain Rupert?”
“Four years ago,” she said. “And from your arrival yesterday, I see you have not changed.”
Burrell shrugged, in keeping with the role he had adopted. He took a sip of his soup, which was, perhaps, an improvement upon whatever sloshed in Tylenda's bilges. Or perhaps not.
But food was not to be wasted. They both finished their rations, then went over to the water butt, where they were allowed to drink their fill. At least there was no shortage of drinking water, though he was not looking forward to his next meal.
“Strange to see you as passenger instead of crew,” he said.
“I missed my ship,” she said. “With luck I can catch her in Skalla. The captain is a cousin of mine, and may be in the mood to let me rejoin.”
“If you can put in a word for me . . .”
Ysobel made a show of eyeing him up and down. “You have until Skalla to convince me that you are worth it,” she said.
Ysobel nudged him as the monk made his way to the serving table. He'd declined to push his way through the crowds, and thus was one of the last to be served, receiving whatever dregs were left.
“Is it him?” she asked.
Burrell shook his head. “I don't know.”
Ysobel drained her cup in one long draught. “Then it is time we found out.”
Half a fish head stared up at him from amidst a watery broth. Josan poked it with his finger, to see if there was anything else in the bowl worth eating before giving up in disgust. He tossed the remnants of his soup over the railing, wiping his bowl with a rag, then returned it to his leather pack. After gnawing on the stale bread for a while, he made his way over to the water butt for a drink to relieve his dry mouth.
His stomach was uneasy—so far it had not minded being at sea, but breakfast had been a rude shock to a body grown used to the delicacies served up by the imperial chefs.
I am not an emperor, he reminded himself. I am Josan, a humble scholar. Logic said that a single year as emperor should not outweigh the half dozen years he had spent living as a peasant, when he was in exile on Txomin's island. Not to mention the two decades before, though that had been when he wore his own body.
But logic had little to do with how this body felt. He would have to rediscover how to live as a monk. Quickly. Before anyone became suspicious.
That traveler, Burrell, he knows you are not who you say you are, Lucius said. He recognized us.
If he intended us ill, he would not have announced his suspicions, Josan argued, though privately he shared Lucius's fears. There was something familiar about Burrell, something that warned him of danger, but he had pushed that feeling from his conscious mind, not wanting Lucius to panic. It was difficult enough to master his own emotions—when Lucius's were added to the mix, it was easy for him to be overwhelmed and lose all sense of reason.
If Burrell had been hoping to provoke him by mentioning his resemblance to the emperor, he must have been gravely disappointed. Josan had remained utterly still, seemingly indifferent to the accusation. Though it was not courage, but rather simple paralysis as his two selves warred for control of his body. With neither Lucius nor Josan in ascendance, there was no guilty start, no inadvertent twitch. The battle had lasted only the space of a few heartbeats, but it had been enough. Hopefully he had deflected the man's curiosity. He could not count on being so fortunate again.
Josan began to wander the deck, picking his way between the cargo and his fellow passengers. He cast his mind back to the first time he had left Karystos, when he had been sent to study at the great library in Xandropol. The young monk that he had been had been endlessly fascinated by every detail of sea life, and by his fellow travelers.
If Brother Mensah were here, no doubt he would be taking full advantage of this opportunity to learn. But Josan was wary—and with good cause he realized, as he came around the deckhouse and found himself face-to-face with Lady Ysobel.
His heart froze. He knew her at once, for all that she was dressed as a common sailor. There was no disguising her features, nor the flash of recognition in her eyes. Of all the dangers he had feared, all of the people who might be sent after him, it had never occurred to him that she would be the one to find him.
“Lucius,” Lady Ysobel said.
Josan fought down his instinctive terror. How had she found him? Who else knew of his presence?
Was she certain that it was he? Or could he hope to convince her that he was merely a monk?
Hard at her heels was Burrell, the man who had confronted him last night. As Ysobel halted, Burrell moved to her side, his hand resting on the knife he wore at his belt. It was the practiced move of one who had guarded her before, and it was by this act that Josan finally recognized him as Lady Ysobel's ever-watchful aide.
Last night he hadn't even guessed that his interrogator was from the federation. Mongrels, all of them, the only distinctive feature of their race was that they had no distinction. Josan could perhaps be forgiven for not having recognized Burrell, who'd never once spoken in the emperor's presence. But as surely as he recognized them, they must have recognized him in turn. He doubted they would believe the noble bastard story that he had spun for Burrell, but he had no choice but to continue the pretense.
He let his eyes widen in confusion. “I have met your companion, but I do not believe that I know you. I am Brother Josan, of the collegium in Karystos.”
“What game do you play?” Lady Ysobel asked.
“Game?” he repeated.
Lady Ysobel reached for him, but he took a hasty step backwards, blushing furiously. One of the brethren was not meant to be touched by a woman, not even casually.
Josan turned toward Burrell. “Pray tell your companion that there is no cause for rudeness. Nor do I welcome her favors.”
From the corner of his eye he could see that Lady Ysobel was taken aback by his remark, and the tightness in his chest began to ease. If they'd intended murder, he could have easily been killed last night in his sleep. Either they intended something else, or they were not sure of his identity. It might still be possible to convince them that he was indeed a mere monk.
He tried to imagine how Brother Mensah would have reacted had he been accosted by a strange woman. From there it was a simple matter to nod civilly to Burrell, then brush by them, gathering his robe close around him as if he feared Ysobel's mere touch would contaminate him.
He reached the dubious safety of the men's cabin, entering only when he saw that there were a handful of others already inside. Surely Burrell would not harm him in front of witnesses. And what else could he do? Proclaim to the others that Emperor Lucius was in their presence? Burrell would be mocked as a madman.
And he had other worries. Lucius's presence had disappeared the moment that he had seen Lady Ysobel. Josan searched, but could find no trace of Lucius, though there was a lingering numbness in his limbs that he had begun to associate with those times when Lucius's consciousness was severed from his.
He tasted despair. Lady Ysobel's presence complicated a journey that was already perilous. He might have sown the seed of doubt in her mind, but all doubts would be eliminated if he were to fall into a fit where she or her accomplice could witness it. A monk who resembled the emperor could be a coincidence, but if the same monk shared the emperor's malady? Even a lackwit would realize that they were one and the same.
But fretting accomplished nothing. He opened Mensah's journey bag and withdrew a slender volume contained within. A book of poetry, written in Taresian, the language of Tarsus. Perhaps Mensah thought himself a poet, or perhaps he merely wished to improve his grasp of the language. In any case, it would serve as a diversion for his wayward thoughts.
Josan opened the book. It had been some years since he had read or spoken Taresian, but this, at least, was a challenge that he understood. In moments he was wholly absorbed in puzzling out the nuances of the first poem.
* * *
It was him. Lucius. She knew it. He had even introduced himself to Burrell as Brother Josan, the name under which she had first met him, when Lucius was in his exile.
Yet she could not wholly cast Burrell's doubts from her mind. Why would Lucius abandon his empire and everything that he had fought so hard for? What possible threat could have driven him from Karystos and his supporters?
Had Proconsul Zuberi finally moved against the emperor? But surely Lucius would have fled to his supporters rather than taking passage on a common ship.
And if this was Lucius, he should have been terrified at being discovered. Ysobel the envoy had reason to deal carefully with Emperor Lucius, but if he were indeed fleeing, powerless, then Ysobel of Alcina might choose this moment to settle old scores. Or simply take him hostage and sell him to whichever of his enemies offered the fattest purse.
But by all appearances he was not afraid. He avoided her efforts at conversation, but he avoided all women on the ship equally, careful never to address them nor to get within arm's reach.
Ysobel was puzzled, and it was small comfort that Burrell found himself equally confused.
They sailed for four days, passing through the straits of Eluktiri, then following the coast to the Bay of Samos. Ysobel hated every hour of the journey. Idleness did not suit her, and she made a poor passenger on someone else's ship. She could not help noticing that Tylenda listed slightly to port, nor that her sailors idled whenever they could, working diligently only when under the supervision of an officer. She made a list of things that she would have fixed if this were one of her own craft—from the fraying patches on the mainsail to the rotted planks in the common lavatory.
It was not that Tylenda was a bad ship—she was no better or worse than most that plied their trade in these coastal waters. But Ysobel's standards were high, for herself and those who sailed for her. If one of Ysobel's captains had let his ship fall into such a condition, he would have found himself set ashore on the first land she came across with nothing more than the clothes on his back.
The captain had promised that they'd reach Samos Harbor today, but the winds had proven fickle, forcing the ship to tack from one side to the other, and back again. It was dusk when they dropped anchor, the lights of Samos Harbor flickering in the distance.
Ysobel stood at the prow, her gaze focused on the distant lights. Come morning, she would have to make a decision.
“It's the usual,” Burrell said.
She started, not having heard him approach. She turned as he held out a bowl of savory beans, topped with an ungenerous slice of cured pork.
“Thank you,” she said as she accepted the bowl and the husk of bread that came with it. Dropping down to sit cross-legged on the deck, Burrell joined her a moment later. They ate the pork first, then used the bread to scoop the beans into their mouths.
“What shall we do?” Burrell asked, when he had finished.
“I don't know,” she replied. Burrell's doubts had proven infectious. When she had followed him aboard she had sworn that the monk was actually the emperor in disguise, and yet . . .
In a way it would have been better if she had not come aboard and let Burrell be the one to follow him. Lucius might have let his guard down around a stranger, but once he knew she was aboard, he would know that his life depended upon convincing them that he was indeed a monk.
“What if we're both right?” Burrell asked.
“What do you mean?”
“How often have you told me that the emperor's moods change from day to day? One day he was jovial, the next aloof? A wastrel at times, then at other times a politician who spent his days closeted with his advisors?”
She nodded.
“What if there were two men playing the part of emperor?” Burrell asked.
“A double?”
“Precisely. The true emperor is unwell—poisoned perhaps, or suffering from a wasting disease. On his good days he is seen in public, but when he cannot be seen—”
“The monk plays his part,” she finished.
It fit. And it was far more logical than the idea that the emperor of Ikaria had taken passage aboard a common trading vessel. It even explained the monk's hasty flight from Ikaria. Once his usefulness had come to an end, he would be banished or killed to preserve his secret.
Burrell, whose frame had been stiff with tension, relaxed. “You recognize him because you have seen this man act the part of emperor. But this is not Lucius.”
Perhaps it was sheer stubbornness that kept her from agreeing. Or perhaps it was the instincts honed from all of the time she had spent bargaining with those who sought to cheat her. Whatever the reason, even as her mind told her that Burrell's answer was the logical one, she still hesitated.
“I will think on what you have said,” she finally responded.
“That's all I ask,” Burrell said. If he was disappointed by her answer, he gave no sign.
“Watch over our monk,” she said. “And meet me here at dawn tomorrow, and I will tell you what I have decided.”