Chapter 9
“Ysobel! Ysobel!”
She turned at the shouts and saw Burrell waving at her from the upper tier of the docks. He waited until she waved back, then dodged to his left, pushing folks aside as he clambered down the stairs that led from the upper tier where the merchants were located to the wharves themselves.
“He's gone,” Burrell said, breathing hard and sweating from his haste.
“When?
“A few minutes after you left,” Burrell said. “He asked me to find a room for the night where we could rest—I thought he wanted to sleep. I was gone no more than ten minutes, I swear, but he had vanished.”
Ten minutes was nine minutes too long. If Lucius had been feigning his illness, he could have simply walked out.
“No one saw him leave, but the place was so busy it's doubtful they would have noticed. I've been looking for him ever since,” he said.
It had taken her over an hour to find the captain of the merchant ship and negotiate passage for three. Lucius could be anywhere in Rauma by now.
“Is there a monastery here?”
“No. The Learned Brethren are known here, but the closest monastery is two days' ride inland.”
He would not have gone inland.
“Then he is hiding from us. Or trying to find his own passage,” Ysobel said.
“Or both.”
“I'll check the pilgrim ship, and with the harbormaster again, in case he makes his own inquiries,” she said. “You check the taverns and the hostels, anywhere he might seek shelter. Ask for him by description and remember he may have resumed his monk's robe.”
“At once,” Burrell said. “I'll send word to the teahouse if I find him. If not, I'll meet you there—at sunset?”
“At sunset,” she agreed. If they had not found him by then, they would need a new strategy.
She searched the docks till her feet grew weary, but no one recalled seeing anyone matching Lucius's description. He'd probably donned his tattered robe as soon as he could and pulled the cowl over his face, though those she questioned did not recall seeing a monk.
The harbormaster was not pleased to be disturbed as high tide approached, when dozens of ships were demanding his permission to set sail. His clerk was even busier, but at last unbent enough to swear that she was the only one who had asked about ships bound for Xandropol.
She searched the pilgrim ship herself, claiming to be in pursuit of a runaway apprentice, but he was not there. Though he might be waiting, elsewhere, planning to board before they left tomorrow.
And what would she do when they found Lucius? Obviously reasoning with him had failed, and she could hardly kidnap him—not without a ship of her own to hold him on.
He was too old to be claimed as kin or apprentice, that ruse only worked if no one had seen him. If she claimed he was a clerk who had stolen from her, they would likely insist on imprisoning him here rather than releasing him to her custody.
They would have to follow him—buy passage on whatever ship he chose. He had coin enough to book passage on a ship bound for Xandropol, but not enough to hire a ship to suit his desire.
If he was still bound for Xandropol. As her search continued to be fruitless, she wondered if he had ever intended to go there or simply allowed them to believe that was his destination. Perhaps he didn't care where he went, so long as he left Ikaria, and the long reach of his enemies.
She knew that Burrell would blame himself, but the fault was hers as well. Burrell had felt sorry for Lucius, and in his pity had forgotten to be suspicious. It was only at times like this that she was reminded that he had not been born into a trader's house. From birth, a trader's child learned that no fruit was ever as fresh as the seller claimed, no gem as rare, no silk as soft. There was deception everywhere, as much in what was not said as what was.
She would not have left Lucius alone, not for any reason. Not even if he appeared to be unconscious.
Lucius had seen Burrell's weakness and exploited it.
But where had he gone? She thought about offering a reward, but already her persistent questions had drawn more attention than she was comfortable with. She did not want the harbormaster or guild representatives to begin asking questions about her presence here.
Returning to the teahouse, she saw that the patrons had changed. Serious business had been put aside in favor of dinner, as small plates with a variety of delicacies crammed tables that had earlier been covered with account books and bills of lading.
The host chased after Ysobel, demanding a silver for keeping the private room longer than the agreed-upon time. The room was empty, but surprisingly their possessions were still inside, so Ysobel paid the silver.
The host, who could probably have been bargained down to half a silver if she'd had the patience, shook his head when asked if he'd received any messages for her. But he did come back with fresh tea and three ceramic cups, insisting that they were included in the price of the room.
Burrell joined her a quarter of an hour later.
“No sign of him,” he said. “I checked every tavern house and lodging on the upper tier, and in the lanes nearby. There are other places in Rauma where he might go—”
“But we can hardly search an entire city,” Ysobel said.
Burrell's face was grim, as he ran one hand through his hair in an unusual sign of nervousness. “I'm sorry to have failed you,” he said.
“I should have warned you he might try something—”
“And I should have known that he was not as ill as he claimed,” Burrell interrupted.
A thought occurred to her. “Do you think he was feigning his illness all this time?”
Burrell considered her suggestion for a long moment. “No. We both saw how weak he was after the shipwreck. And the emperor's attacks were well-known in Karystos.”
“Assuming he is well for the moment, where will he go?”
“To the monks?” Burrell offered.
If Lucius had been a monk, he could expect the Learned Brethren to offer him shelter and arrange passage to the next monastery along his route. It would be a slow way to travel, but one that did not require riches, merely the ability to convincingly pass himself off as a monk.
He could hide himself anywhere that the Learned Brethren held sway. And as long as he stayed a monk, within the cloistered walls of scholarship, it would be difficult if not impossible for an outsider to find him.
It was likely that this was how he had passed the years of his exile. But she did not think he intended to do so again.
If she assumed Xandropol was his destination, the question was why? Merely to visit the great library and to live with the scholars there?
“What if he is going to Xandropol to meet someone?” Ysobel mused. “Brother Nikos was exiled to Xandropol, at the emperor's command.”
“Brother Nikos never arrived there,” Burrell said. “Or so our intelligence has reported. And why would an emperor travel the length of the Great Basin simply to meet with one of his old enemies?”
Why indeed?
“When the old king was ill, Prince Bayard sent for a physician trained at the college in Xandropol. What if Lucius is bound not for the library, but to consult with the physicians there?” Burrell suggested.
“Why wouldn't he send for a physician, as Bayard did?”
Burrell shrugged. “Perhaps there was not time? Or perhaps his enemies prefer him weak. A dying emperor could well be exactly what Proconsul Zuberi wants.”
It made a strange kind of sense. Nothing less than the prospect of his own death could have made Lucius leave his empire behind. Her mistake had been in thinking that he was fleeing from the threat, rather than fleeing toward his salvation.
It was a cruel choice. Keep his throne and die as emperor, or give up everything in hope of finding a cure in Xandropol.
Strange that a man who ruled over countless subjects should have to flee with no one by his side, not even a single trusted servant to help him in his time of need. She felt the first inklings of pity but swiftly brushed them aside.
She would not let her feelings blind her.
“The tide is slack and no ship will be allowed to leave before dawn,” Ysobel said. “So in the morning we check the docks again and find out which ship he plans to take.”
“At least we still have our packs,” Burrell said.
Though replacing the contents of the packs would have been merely inconvenient—anything that they could not live without they carried on their persons. The packs merely held changes of clothing, soap for washing, and a cup and bowl for shared meals.
Lucius had taken his pack with him, with its added burden of books and writing materials, while hers was still in the corner, with Burrell's showing underneath.
She drained her tea. “We need a place for the night,” she said.
“The host gave me suggestions earlier,” Burrell said. “I've already visited them, looking for Lucius.”
“Then we check them again,” Ysobel said. “In case he has ventured out of hiding.”
Burrell picked up her pack and handed it to her, then picked up his own.
As he lifted it, the flap fell open.
He set it on the table, and swiftly sorted through the contents. “One of the shirts is missing. And a pair of pants.”
Laughter welled up inside her.
“The viper. He's wearing my pants,” Burrell said, his face darkening with anger.
Ysobel laughed aloud at the absurdity of it all. The emperor of Ikaria, fleeing in stolen pants. It was better than any farce—and she had to laugh, or scream with frustration.
Burrell glared, his outrage undimmed, until at last she sobered, wiping her eyes.
“We asked the wrong questions,” she explained.
“We asked after a clerk, or a monk.”
“If they saw him, they saw a merchant,” Burrell said. “They wouldn't know him for an Ikarian, not wearing those.”
Lucius was cleverer than she had imagined. Or more desperate.
And suddenly she realized. “He's not here. He's already left, on Hypatia,” she said.
How could she have been so blind?
“He swore he wouldn't sail on a federation vessel,” Burrell said.
“With us. He wouldn't sail with us.”
It wasn't the whole of the federation that he mistrusted—merely her. The captain of Hypatia would have no reason to suspect that his passenger was anything other than he claimed to be.
“Lucius had coins for Vidrun, but not enough to persuade the captain to add Xandropol to his ports of call,” Burrell said.
“Maybe he had more coins than we knew, or he found another way to persuade the captain to do his bidding,” Ysobel said. It did not matter.
“So what now?”
“We find our own ship. We've come too far to stop now. We may not catch Hypatia, but we'll be hard on her heels.”
And since Lucius had broken his agreement, she was no longer bound to silence. She could tell her countrymen where to search for the missing emperor—and ensure that whatever he planned, they were not caught unprepared.
Septimus arrived at Proconsul Zuberi's office just as the fifth hour was struck. The clerk, scribbling away at his accounts, did not even look up as Septimus approached.
“The proconsul is expecting me,” he said.
“Of course, admiral,” the clerk said, his eyes still fixed on his work. “If you would sit . . .”
Septimus moved to one side but did not sit. He did enough sitting in his own offices. Last year, when Emperor Lucius had offered him command of the imperial navy, Septimus had anticipated a life spent largely at sea. But while he had led a squadron to a remarkable victory over the federation ships that had encroached upon their waters, since then he had spent more time land-bound than he had aboard a ship. He might as well be one of Zuberi's clerks.
Certainly Zuberi treated him as such. Zuberi had set the time for this meeting, but it was his custom to make Septimus wait. A petty trick, meant to remind Septimus of their relative importance. The proconsul spoke with the voice of the emperor, while Septimus was tolerated because Zuberi could find no other to take his place.
Though Septimus knew he could not complain overmuch. His own father, Septimus the Elder, had been executed for treason in the central square not far from here—one of the dozens put to death by Empress Nerissa for conspiring to overthrow her and restore the rule of the old blood.
Though innocent of treason, Septimus had fled Nerissa's wrath. It had taken guarantees of his safety from both Lucius and his council to persuade Septimus to return to Ikaria and accept their offer of command over the imperial navy. Since then, Zuberi did everything he could to remind Septimus that he owed his very life to the indulgence of the council.
If Zuberi's illegitimate nephew Chenzira had had the experience to match his connections, he would have been named admiral instead. But Chenzira was too young and too inexperienced. He had only recently been given command of his own ship, and it would be years before the fleet would willingly follow him.
Though Chenzira was likely out of his uncle's favor as well, since it was on his ship that the emperor had disappeared.
Such musings occupied Septimus as the bells signaled the quarter hour, then the half. As the last chime of the half sounded, the clerk rose and opened the door to Zuberi's private office.
“You may go in,” the clerk said.
As Septimus had expected, Zuberi was alone when he entered the inner office. There'd been no reason for the delay, but Septimus would not give Zuberi the satisfaction of responding to the insult. He simply stored it away in his memory. When the tide turned in his favor, he would repay Zuberi threefold.
“No news of the emperor?” Zuberi asked.
Septimus took a seat opposite the proconsul, arranging the folds of his robe around him. Custom dictated that the admiral wear the robes of the court while in Karystos; his uniform was only worn aboard ship, or in times of war. In practice this meant that he was indistinguishable from any other member of the emperor's court, merely another face among the crowd.
Generals wore their uniform on all occasions of state, but the empire had long favored the army over the navy, though at least Lucius did not seem to share his predecessors' blindness.
But Lucius was not here, which was why Zuberi had summoned him.
“No news of the emperor,” Septimus agreed. If there had been news, he would have rushed here at once, not bothering to wait for an appointment. “The last of the ships in question has been found—or rather, we know what happened to it. Tylenda was spotted off the keys, but when approached, she tried to run for shore. She wrecked on the shoals, and many aboard drowned before the rowboats from our ship were able to approach and bear off survivors.”
Zuberi's eyes sharpened. “Why did they attempt to flee?”
“Smugglers,” Septimus said. “They'd a cargo of untaxed oil on board. The captain was hanged, and his officers imprisoned.”
“And you are certain the emperor was not aboard?”
“As certain as I can be. The survivors were all questioned, and there were several passengers who were lost in the wreck, but none fit the description of the emperor,” Septimus said. “Nor of Lady Ysobel.”
At the mention of Lady Ysobel, Zuberi frowned.
“Tylenda was a mere coastal trader, her passengers from the lower classes who could afford no better,” Septimus said. “It is unlikely either the emperor or Lady Ysobel would have been aboard.”
“So we do not know where the emperor is,” Zuberi said.
“It would be better if we had some idea of his destination,” Septimus said. “Or if you would allow me to inform my captains that they are seeking the emperor? A mere description isn't quite the same, especially if he has altered his appearance.”
“No,” Zuberi replied. He had refused this request before. All Septimus had been able to do was give his captains a list of vessels that had sailed from Karystos on the days in question along with their destinations, and request that each of those vessels be boarded and searched.
A half dozen men had already been escorted to Karystos, simply because they happened to be tall, with blond hair, blue eyes, and a noble visage. Septimus had apologized to each man and let him go.
If the emperor had left Karystos by sea, he must have disembarked before his ship was found and searched.
Or, as Septimus suspected, he could have left the city by horseback, or simply walked out through her gates.
If he had left at all. The ugly possibility of assassination weighed on his mind, though Zuberi seemed convinced that the emperor was alive. Perhaps he had proof that he would not share.
At first, Zuberi had implied that the emperor might have been kidnapped by Lady Ysobel, but his later remarks had led Septimus to suspect that the emperor might have left of his own volition. But why he would simply disappear was a mystery. Chenzira would have sailed the emperor anywhere he wished to go, and surely the functionaries would have been equally as willing to arrange a journey for him overland.
Unless, of course, the emperor did not trust them.
“You will inform me the moment you have news,” Zuberi said.
“Of course,” Septimus replied. “I will not rest until I know the emperor is safe.”
Lucius was terrified. Never before had he felt so helpless, at the mercy of malicious fate. He gathered all his will together and called out to Josan, but the monk did not respond.
His body was lying in his bunk, as Hypatia sailed toward Xandropol. It was midday, but the monk had yet to stir. The tiny cabin was hot and airless, but he did not move to open the porthole. He had not even left the bed to empty his bladder.
This was not the seasickness that had plagued him during his earlier voyages. This was something else, something that paralyzed them both.
Lucius could feel nothing, it was as if his mind swam in a void. He could see, and hear, but he could not so much as turn his own head.
Nor could he feel the monk's mind presence. It was as if he had vanished.
He wondered if the monk was experiencing the same sensations—cut off from their shared body, his mind drifting helplessly.
What would happen if neither could take control of his body? Would he starve because he was unable to feed himself?
Would he die because he forgot to breathe?
Lucius strained, but he could not banish himself. The unknowingness that had once been his refuge had also forsaken him. He could not act, but neither could he rest.
It was torture, one far more insidious than any performed in the bowels of the imperial palace. There was neither the respite of unconsciousness nor the chance to bargain for relief. He had simply to endure, hour after hour, knowing himself to be completely at the mercy of whoever might come into his cabin.
Knowing, too, that he was dying.
They were dying. For if this body perished, both their spirits would be set free.
He had once hoped for such death—better that this body died than having the monk take sole possession, banishing Lucius to the unknowingness in which he had passed the years of his exile.
But he had pictured a quick death, not the uncertain agony of wondering if each breath would be his last.
He tried again, straining to reach out, to connect with his limbs. Cursing the monks who had done this to him. To them both.
But there was nothing. He was too weak.
He could do nothing but wait. Wait, and hope that the monk recovered before this body failed them.
And hope that no one decided to see how many more gems their passenger had brought aboard.
It would be simple to kill him—a mere hand over his mouth, and he would die, helpless as any babe.
If only the monk had closed their eyes before he lost control. He had no desire to watch as death approached.
They were two days out of Rauma when his passenger made his first appearance on deck. Captain Zorion watched from the wheelhouse as Josan of Karystos made his way to the prow of the ship, noticing that he clutched the rail with his left hand, and his right leg dragged with each step.
He hadn't been lame when he came aboard.
Edmond, who was first in command after the captain, looked up from the charts to see what had caught Zorion's attention.
“He wasn't at morning meal,” Edmond said. “Nor at midday, or so I have been told.”
Passengers were a rarity on Hypatia. If Josan had been a member of the house of Arles or one of its allies, he would have been served meals in his cabin, or, more likely, invited to join Zorion in the captain's quarters. Those few others who took passage were expected to eat in the watch room with the junior officers, Edmond among them.
“Perhaps the sea has distressed him,” Zorion offered.
“A trader who becomes unwell at sea?” Edmond scoffed.
“He did not claim to be a trader.”
“He speaks the trade tongue as one born on Navar,” Edmond said. “And he wears the clothes of a merchant rather than those of a landsman.”
“Which means nothing.”
“It is not the landsman's sickness. It is some other illness that plagues him,” Edmond insisted.
He was probably right.
“You have our course?” Zorion asked. “Be careful not to let the current pull us too far south. We're headed for Xandropol, not Vidrun.”
“Our cargo is due in Vidrun by the new moon,” Edmond said. “My father will not like it if we break the contract.”
Zorion cuffed the back of Edmond's head for the impertinence. “And your father would like it even less if we turned aside the chance for profit,” Zorion said. “We can bring our passenger to Xandropol and still have the cargo in the warehouses at Vidrun before the new moon.”
“Of course, captain,” Edmond said, ducking his head.
Zorion bit back a sigh. Edmond was a good lad, but he was just that. A boy barely grown into manhood. Too young and lacking in self-confidence to serve as captain, which was why the house of Arles had hired Zorion, who'd been a captain on the Great Basin before Edmond was born.
It seemed to be Zorion's fate to train up the young. Lady Ysobel had been even younger than Edmond when she'd come into possession of her first ship and hired Zorion to take command. She'd sailed that season with him, first as apprentice, then as mate, ending it as first. The next season she'd sailed the first trading voyage as captain with him a watchful first at her side. Returning to the federation, she'd purchased a second ship, starting a fledgling trading house as she captained one ship, while he commanded the other.
He'd done a fine job training her up—he'd taught her everything she needed to know. Including how to release him from her service when he'd displeased her.
And now his duty was to another house. To train this boy into a man and make sure that nothing went wrong on a routine voyage. Which meant he needed to speak to his passenger.
“Likely it is nothing more than a bellyache, from too long spent ashore, indulging himself in port,” Zorion said. “But it does no harm to be certain.”
As he left the wheelhouse, he was approached by Merle, one of the seamen inspecting the spare topsail that was currently spread out on the foredeck.
“Captain, looks like rats got into it since we checked it last—perhaps in harbor,” Merle said, fingering two small tears. “I think we need to check all of the gear stored in that hold.”
A good catch by a conscientious sailor, but Zorion said nothing.
“Captain?” Merle repeated.
“Edmond has the watch—you should discuss it with him,” Zorion said.
“Of course,” Merle said. “Just thought you should know, since you were here and all.”
“Tell Edmond,” Zorion repeated.
He knew why Merle had stopped him. It was not merely because Zorion was walking by, but because Merle, like many of the sailors, had yet to put their trust in Edmond. When faced with an issue that could mean life or death, they would ignore the protocol that said they should speak with the watch officer first, and he would determine what and when to tell the captain.
If it had been Amelie on the watch, Merle would have gone to her without hesitation. But Edmond had still to earn his crew's trust
Time. It would take time, and demonstration of competence. In a way, this was a good test. Removing the gear from the hold, inspecting it, and stowing it back was a labor-intensive task that would require him to rouse sailors who were off watch to help. If Edmond came to Zorion before issuing those orders, it would be a clear sign that he still lacked confidence in his own judgment.
As he made his measured way to the prow, Zorion listened with one ear. Just as he neared their passenger, he heard the bell that summoned those off duty to the deck.
Zorion smiled.
And then felt the grin slip from his lips as Josan turned to face him.
Josan braced himself against the side of the ship, clutching the rail with both arms to steady himself.
“Captain?” His voice was steady, but his face was pale, his eyes sunken.
“My crew was concerned that you might be unwell,” Zorion said. “You have missed your meals today.”
Josan shrugged. “I wasn't hungry.”
“So this is a sudden illness? Or did you know you were ill before we left Rauma?”
If this man had brought a plague aboard his ship—
“I am no risk to you, nor your crew,” Josan said. “My troubles are mine alone. I thank you for your concern, but I assure you it is not needed.”
He released the rail and took a step away, considering the conversation at an end. But Zorion caught his arm, unwilling to let him go so easily.
“It is my concern if you die aboard this ship,” Zorion said. Death at sea was part of a sailor's life, but it was considered bad luck to have a passenger die. Their spirits were said to linger, rejected by the Sea Witch as landsmen, unable to find rest.
Zorion did not believe in spirits, but he knew there were those of his crew who did.
“I will not die.”
“Can you be certain?”
Josan opened his mouth, and then, with a sigh, closed it.
At least his passenger was an honest man.
Zorion took his measure, as if this was the first time they had met. Could Josan have really changed so much in the span of two short days? Or had Zorion overlooked the signs of illness, blinded by the gems that Josan had offered?
He had thought he was taking advantage of a desperate man. He had not realized he was taking advantage of a dying one.
Josan must have sold everything he had to pay for his passage.
“I can put you ashore in Thuridon,” Zorion said.
“No,” Josan said. “I paid for passage to Xandropol, and I expect you to honor your contract.”
“And if you die en route?”
“I will die if you set me ashore.”
Zorion shivered, despite the warmth of the day.
So death was stalking his guest.
“Bring me to Xandropol, as agreed,” Josan said. “If what I have given you is not enough—”
“No,” Zorion said. He did not want to hear this man beg for his life.
It was a terrible burden to be captain, balancing the fate of one passenger against the well-being of his crew and his duty to the house that he served.
Edmond would have turned for shore and set Josan off at the first port they came across.
Edmond would have been right.
But Zorion was far closer to death than young Edmond. He had seen too many fall prey to its clutches, struck down before their time.
He would not condemn another. If there was even the chance that the physicians in Xandropol could cure him . . .
“Your passage is paid,” Zorion said. “Hypatia honors her obligations.”
“Thank you,” Josan said. He looked down at his feet, then his gaze rose back to meet Zorion's.
“If . . . if anything happens,” Josan added. “There is a letter in my pack, addressed to . . . my people. It will tell them what they need to know.”
He'd been about to say something other than “my people.” Family? Or the name of a trading house, as Edmond suspected?
Zorion hoped that he would never have cause to find out.