Chapter 10
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Septimus looked over the harbor wall at the ships anchored inside the moles. He categorized them at a glance—from the tiny lighters that ferried goods and people between the ships and shore up to the massive freighters that could sail the length of the Great Basin without needing to stop for provisions. A handful of warships were anchored just beyond the western mole, his own flagship among them. Officially anchored there because space inside the harbor was too valuable to waste on the navy, the warships could rapidly move into position to close off the harbor at need.

Vessels from all of the civilized countries could be seen, though there were fewer federation ships than there had been in times past, when he'd served as harbormaster. Last year, during the undeclared war, there had been none at all. The sight of federation-flagged vessels meant that the truce was holding.

Though if Lady Ysobel had anything to do with the emperor's disappearance, the truce would soon be over.

He hoped it would not come to that. He did not want to go to war. Even with the weapons the emperor had provided, there would be no easy victory. The imperial navy was outnumbered by their federation counterparts, and, in a pinch, any federation merchant ship could be pressed into service. If it came to war, it would be a long, bloody affair.

And if Zuberi became emperor, he would not care how many in the navy perished. While the newcomers had long flocked to the army, which offered prestige and rapid advancement, service in the navy had been the last honorable refuge for the sons of the old blood, who lacked patrons and connections at court.

The old nobility had borne the cost of Prince Lucius's aborted rebellion. Ironically it was those who had remained loyal to Empress Nerissa who still held their commissions in the navy, and thus would be the first to die if war came. Men like himself.

Septimus had accepted the post of admiral not out of loyalty toward Lucius but rather because it was the only way in which he could serve the empire. But gradually he'd grown to respect the new emperor. Lucius had demonstrated his courage by sailing with the fleet, and seen firsthand the cost of war. If Lucius were here, he would not carelessly throw away the lives of Septimus and his men.

But Lucius was missing—and there was no telling what Proconsul Zuberi would do in his absence.

Septimus turned away from the seawall, and began walking back toward the navy's headquarters, which was sensibly located in the lower crescent rather than within the maze of imperial bureaucracies that swarmed the palace compound. He was still surrounded by spies, of course, but even the illusion that he was out from under the constant watch of Proconsul Zuberi was welcome.

Someone jostled his elbow.

“Excuse me,” a voice said.

Then, a moment later, the same voice said, “A thousand pardons, admiral, I didn't realize it was you.”

He turned and saw Captain Chenzira at his side. The bruises had faded from Chenzira's face, but his left arm was still splinted. He had a large pack slung over his right shoulder, which swung as he walked.

“A fortunate encounter. If I might have a moment of your time?” Chenzira said.

“Of course,” Septimus replied. “I was just making my way to the harbormaster's office, if you'd care to join me.”

The harbormaster had two offices—one in the palace, which was seldom used, and the second located precisely in the middle of the docks, an oft-rebuilt wooden building two stories tall that allowed the harbormaster to look down upon his domain.

Chenzira cheerfully babbled of trifles as Septimus led the way to the office, then climbed the stairs to the second floor.

His successor, Donato, was busy talking to one of his clerks. As he glanced up, Septimus said, “With your leave, we will borrow your balcony.”

He did not wait for an answer but rather continued across the landing, out the door that led to the balcony encircling the second story.

“See those ships there and there?” Septimus said, as he walked outside, deliberately pitching his voice to carry as he pointed at two federation trading ships. “Donato is careful to keep them separate, to prevent mischief, but in case of trouble we need only move the navy ships like so, and we can cut them off.”

He continued to speak and gesture as they walked around the balcony until they reached the spot that was farthest from the door. He moved to the rail, where the constant breeze from the harbor tugged at their clothes . . . and blew their words out to sea.

They could be seen, but no one would hear what they said.

“What do you want?” Septimus asked. He knew better than to suppose that Chenzira had stumbled across him by chance.

“Proconsul Zuberi read a message from the emperor today,” Chenzira said. “The emperor continues in good health and is enjoying the tranquillity of his time in the countryside.”

Would that it were true. Strangely there was not even a hint of gossip saying otherwise. The court speculated on the cause of the emperor's illness, but so far, it seemed, only a handful knew that the emperor was missing—perhaps taken, perhaps dead.

He wondered how long Zuberi would continue to issue misleading statements. Surely, in time, some would grow suspicious and demand to see the emperor for themselves.

“I could have heard this from any,” Septimus said.

Chenzira bit his lip and nodded. He shifted the pack off his shoulder, into his left hand, winced, then placed it on the ground.

Rumor had it that Chenzira had spent several days as a guest of the torturer Nizam—presumably at his uncle's command. But Chenzira had said nothing of his ordeal when he'd finally made his report to Septimus, merely apologizing for being detained.

Left to his own devices, Septimus would have stripped Chenzira of his command. But such would have required the consent of Zuberi, which was not forthcoming. And any lesser discipline paled beside what Chenzira had already endured. Instead Septimus had merely questioned Chenzira at length, forcing him to recount every moment he'd spent in the emperor's presence, then dismissed him.

He'd not expected Chenzira to seek him out.

“I've been making my own inquiries,” Chenzira said.

Septimus made a noncommittal noise. He could not forget that Chenzira was his uncle's man, and it was likely that his presence here was a test. Proof that Septimus was disloyal might well restore Chenzira to his uncle's favor.

“The monk was not chosen at random,” Chenzira said.

“I know that. You told me that the emperor summoned him aboard your ship.” Septimus did not bother to disguise his impatience; it was too late for Chenzira to be making excuses.

“Did you know that the monk was about to leave on his own journey? One that the emperor had specifically requested?”

Septimus's own inquiries had revealed as much. “He wanted books. Books from the library at Xandropol.”

Emperor Lucius had shown a mastery of obscure knowledge—he had personally taught Chenzira the secret navigation techniques that Chenzira had then shared with the rest of the navy. And it was Lucius's research that had resurrected the Burning Terror, a weapon once thought lost to the ages.

It was not surprising that he would seek out even rarer volumes.

“I am convinced that he journeyed in Brother Mensah's place,” Chenzira said.

“To do what? He could have a dozen monks fetch him all the books he required.”

“He sought a different kind of knowledge,” Chenzira said. “A cure for his illness.”

“He admitted to being fatigued—” Septimus began.

“It is more than that. I have spoken with his servants, his clerk, even Eight, who watches over him at night.”

“Eight?”

“The emperor gave all the functionaries numbers, since they refused to accept names. Eight is the oldest of them and was given the task of watching the emperor at night since it is the least demanding time.”

Septimus blinked. How was it that a mere captain was privy to this information? Was it his family connections? Or something else?

“They all told me he was ill—far more seriously than he'd let anyone know. A wasting sickness that sapped his strength, and neither his own magic nor the healer's art could aid him.”

From the first, Septimus had suspected that the emperor had been tricked or taken by force. It made no sense that he would abandon his empire. But if he were truly ill and desperate for a cure . . .

“We've stopped and searched all vessels that left that day, and he wasn't on any of them,” Septimus pointed out.

“Would your captains recognize him?”

“They had a full description—”

“He would not look like an emperor, or even a noble. We spent long hours together when he was teaching me, and when he is tired, he forgets himself. He fetches his own water, and will send his servants to bed and do their work himself. If he were dressed as a servant, no one would look at him twice.”

Chenzira's words made a terrible kind of sense.

If only he'd been allowed to send men who personally knew the emperor to aid in the search for him. But Zuberi had refused—for sending the men would involve telling them that the emperor was missing.

“You think he sailed in the monk's place, taking his passage to Xandropol,” Septimus said.

“I do.”

Tylenda wrecked off the keys,” Septimus said. “No one matching the emperor's description was among the survivors.”

“They did not know whom they sought,” Chenzira argued. “He has his own powers. If any survived, he would have been among them.”

It was the optimism of youth.

“What would you have of me?” Septimus said.

“Send me to Xandropol,” Chenzira said. “The emperor will need men who are loyal to him, and a ship for his return home.”

If he was right, it was the least that Septimus could do for the emperor he had sworn to serve. But even if this were not an elaborate trap, he could name a half dozen captains that he would send for this errand rather than picking Chenzira.

“One of my captains will go—” Septimus began.

“I will go,” Chenzira said. “Who among your men has spent days in his company? Who else will be certain to know him at a glance?”

Septimus could feel his resolve wavering.

“And I have something he needs,” Chenzira added, kicking the pack that he'd placed at his feet.

His curiosity aroused, Septimus picked up the pack and unbuckled the flaps.

He saw a silk-wrapped object inside.

“Careful,” Chenzira warned.

Septimus had started to lift the object out, but instead he merely pulled at the layers of silk, until he caught a glimpse of the treasure within.

“In the name of the triune gods,” he breathed. “What have you done?”

Chenzira grinned. “He may need to look the part of an emperor.”

“And if your uncle finds out you have this, he won't wait to hang you for treason. He'll kill you himself.”

Inside Chenzira's pack was the lizard crown—the imperial crown of Lucius's ancestral line. He dared not ask how it had come into Chenzira's possession.

The crown convinced him that this was no trap. And it was proof that Chenzira was insane. He'd risked everything on his conjecture that the emperor was bound for Xandropol. If Chenzira was wrong, he would pay for his mistake with his life.

“Well?” Chenzira asked.

Septimus drew a deep breath. Chenzira had made his choice. It was time for him to choose, as well.

“Go to your ship,” he said. “Orders will arrive within the hour, bidding you to Xandropol. I'll send another ship with you, the fastest I can find. If you find the emperor—”

“When I find him.”

If you find him, the second ship will bring word to me,” Septimus said, ignoring the interruption. “You will stay with the emperor. Obey him in all other matters, but do not leave him. Not for a single hour.”

Chenzira saluted. “It will be as you say.”

“And may the triune gods watch over us both,” Septimus said. Officially he was a follower of the twin gods, as Empress Nerissa had been. But it was the religion of his ancestors that called to him now. If there were any gods that looked after fools, it would be they.


“The emperor of Ikaria is too great a prize to be kept secret for long,” Zuberi argued. “If the federation had taken him, we would have heard something by now.”

“Or maybe they are holding him in secret, waiting until we declare him dead. Then they will reveal him, and we will be made to look fools,” Demetrios said.

It was an argument they'd had before, in the weeks since Emperor Lucius had walked off Green Dragon and vanished. With each day that passed, Zuberi's frustration grew, as did the temptation to act.

“What of it? We'll deny their claims, say the man is an impostor. They'll never be able to prove otherwise,” Zuberi said.

An assassin could be dispatched, under the guise of sending a delegation to confirm or deny the impostor's claims. Thus neatly solving the problem of succession and embarrassing the federation.

If Lucius was alive, and being held captive in the federation. But if he was not . . .

“There's no need to act in haste,” Demetrios said. “We must wait until we are certain.”

What he meant was that Zuberi should be patient, while Demetrios prepared to launch his own bid for power. Zuberi's spies had reported that Demetrios had been in communication with General Kiril, leader of the imperial army. So far, it seemed Kiril was ignorant of the emperor's disappearance, but he surely must be wondering why Demetrios was making overtures of friendship.

Zuberi had made his own overtures as well. Subtler than Demetrios, he'd thought to court not just Kiril, but also Kiril's brother-in-law Commander Anatoli, who commanded the legions of the south. Both men owed him favors for advancing their clients and had cause to think favorably of him.

If necessary, he would inform Kiril of the emperor's disappearance, then make an immediate bid for his support. The key was to secure the backing of Kiril and his legions before the general realized that he could gain a greater advantage by playing Demetrios off against Zuberi, making the would-be emperors bid against each other for his services.

“It is not my patience, but that of the court,” Zuberi said. “The emperor cannot stay hidden away in the country forever.”

Though there was precedent—Aitor the Great had been confined to his bed for the last five years of his life, spending more time in his country estates than he had in the capital. But at least there had been proof that Aitor was alive and still in command of his wits.

Zuberi and Demetrios could make excuses for only so long.

“Agreed. In a month's time, if there is still no word, then we will decide what to do next,” Demetrios said.

In a month's time, Demetrios might be humbly offering himself to stand in the emperor's stead. Or his body might adorn a funeral pyre in the sacred groves, the victim of his overreaching ambitions.

The same could be said for Zuberi.

“We will wait,” Zuberi said. “And I will take no action without consulting you.”

The lie slipped smoothly from his lips.

“And I the same,” Demetrios said, smiling back with equal falseness. He extended his right arm, and Zuberi took it in the grasp of friendship.

“Between us we will keep the empire safe,” Demetrios vowed.

Zuberi merely nodded, and left. A litter was waiting outside Demetrios's town house, and Zuberi directed his bearers to take him home.

No breeze stirred in the crowded streets, so he let the curtains of the litter fall shut.

Demetrios was not his only concern. There was Admiral Septimus to consider. His bloodlines made his loyalties suspect, though nothing had ever been proven against him. It was unfortunate that Septimus had to be informed of the emperor's disappearance, but the navy had been needed for the search. At present, self-interest would keep Septimus quiet. He had no friends at court, and if Lucius were to fall from power, so too would he. But he would bear watching.

Petrelis, head of the city watch, also knew that Lucius was missing, but there Zuberi had no worries. Petrelis was personally loyal to him and would do as he was told.

Demetrios. Septimus. Petrelis. Chenzira. The torturer Nizam. And, of course, himself. Zuberi ticked over the names in his mind. Six men who knew that the emperor was missing. If each of them had shared the news with only one other—

It would not be long before the whole of Karystos knew as well.

Zuberi must be ready, so that when the emperor's disappearance was inevitably revealed, all eyes would turn to him as Lucius's natural successor.

Lost in his thoughts, it took a moment for him to realize that the litter had paused. A servant parted the curtains, revealing a scene of chaos, as porters swarmed a mound of luggage outside his residence.

Standing in the center, an island of calm amidst the storm, was a petite woman, wearing the ankle-length day gown of a modest Ikarian matron.

His wife, Eugenia, who was supposed to be in the countryside for at least another month.

He took a breath, then another, until he could greet her without letting the frustrations of the day color his words.

She took no notice as he emerged from the litter.

“No, those crates are for the kitchens,” she said. “Fresh produce from our estate. The trunks are for my rooms.”

“Honored wife,” he said.

She turned and smiled. She looked well, immaculately attired with not a single hair out of place, despite having just endured a long journey.

“Honored husband,” she replied, stepping around the crates to take both of his hands in hers.

Their eyes met, then he kissed her on each cheek. A formal greeting; they would save more affectionate gestures for when they were alone.

Releasing her hands, he looked around. “Where is our son?”

“Still in the country,” she said. “Bakari wanted to see the grape harvest, so I agreed that he could stay with his friend Antonius.”

Antonius was the son of Antonius of Caspia, a retired senator who owned the estate that adjoined Zuberi's own. Though no longer active in politics, the family was still held in high regard. It was a suitable friendship for his son.

And likely safer for his son to be removed from the intrigues of the capital. Still, Zuberi could not supress a pang of disappointment.

“A poor wife I am, letting you stand here in the heat,” she said. “Go, and wash away the dust of the city. I will join you presently.”

He obeyed with a meekness that would have surprised any who knew him from the court, allowing himself to be shooed away as the chaos slowly ordered itself under his wife's commands.

Entering the house, he summoned a servant.

“Send my regrets to Matticus of Alondra, and tell him that I won't be joining him tonight,” he said.

Matticus was a former client who held the post of inspector of the imperial roads. He was important enough not to offend, but Zuberi could alleviate the slight by inviting Matticus to join him the next time he held a select dinner party.

With Eugenia returned to Karystos, he would once again be expected to host such gatherings.

Retiring to his private chambers, he bathed, then dressed in fresh clothing. He could hear voices from his wife's adjoining rooms—the cheerful sound of her maids as they unpacked their mistress's garb.

He still wished she had seen fit to remain in the country, but had to admit that the house would be more lively now that she had returned.

They shared an intimate dinner that night, dining on a single couch, their arms entwined as if they were lovers rather than husband and wife. She offered him the choicest morsels, while he complimented her beauty, which despite the years was undiminished. Each time he looked at her, he felt pride, knowing that he was the envy of his peers.

After her third cup of wine, Eugenia confessed that she'd been bored in the countryside. Senator Antonius was a widower, and there were no women of her rank living nearby.

“Of course, if the emperor had gone to Eluktiri, we could have had a summer court,” she said. “What fun that would be.”

“I met you at the summer court, when you were handmaiden to Nerissa,” he said, offering the expected response.

She laughed. “Nerissa was the only one who spoke in your favor. Everyone else thought I was mad.”

In the formal atmosphere of Karystos they would have never met, but in the relaxed atmosphere of the summer court, the strict separations between unmarried young women and the men of the court had been relaxed.

Eugenia's father had not been pleased by his daughter's friendship with a clerk—a man who seemed destined to rise no higher than a petty bureaucrat. But his daughter would not be denied, and eventually he'd consented to the match.

He'd lived long enough to see Zuberi named as proconsul, second in power to the empress herself. It had been a heady day for Zuberi when the man who had formerly despised him had come to beg his favor.

“A shame that the emperor's illness confines him to Sarna,” Eugenia said, continuing her earlier thought. If she noticed Zuberi's inattention, she was too kind to point it out.

“He was fatigued when he left,” Zuberi said. “It is hoped that his time away will restore his spirits, when he returns for the convocation of the senate.”

The convocation was traditionally held after the harvest season, before winter made the seas too perilous for travel. On that day an emperor must stand in front of the senate and bless the opening of debate.

This year it might be Zuberi's turn to wear the purple robes and say the ritual words.

An emperor for a husband, and her son an emperor-to-be. His wife had chosen more wisely than any might have dreamed, that long-ago summer.

“And what of my nephew?” she asked. “May I invite him to dine with us this week?”

“Captain Chenzira is away at present, on the business of the navy,” Zuberi said. “But when he returns, of course.”

Chenzira had been given orders for an extended survey trip, charting the currents that ran through the heart of the Great Basin. As their most experienced navigator he was a logical choice for such a task, though Zuberi suspected Septimus had sent Chenzira away to make sure he didn't have the opportunity to talk to anyone.

Or, possibly, to shield him from Zuberi's wrath.

He was still angry with Chenzira, though relieved by the discovery that his nephew was merely incompetent rather than treasonous.

Chenzira was the only son of Eugenia's late brother, who had died before he could breed a legitimate heir. He occupied a special place in her affections, and for that reason Zuberi had done what he could to advance his nephew's career.

A politician's wife, Eugenia would have understood if he'd had to have Chenzira killed, but understanding was not the same as forgiveness. If Chenzira had been executed, it would be a long time before Zuberi felt welcome in his own home.

“So tell me, what gossip is there?” Eugenia asked.

“There is little to tell. With so many gone from the capital, I have lived a dull life.”

The lie slipped smoothly from his tongue. He trusted his wife—trusted that she would remain faithful to him, and that she would die to protect their son. But she was a woman, after all, and could not be trusted with matters of state.

“Well, now that I am here, your life will be more exciting,” she said.

“Of that I have no doubt.”