Chapter 3
The emperor was unwell; Lady Ysobel could see that at a glance. His guards kept anyone from approaching close enough to determine whether the color in his face was natural or the result of carefully applied paints and powders, but their very efforts revealed their concern. She watched as Lucius sat erect upon his throne, smiling or frowning sternly depending on the verdict pronounced for each petitioner. His voice was firm as he pronounced his judgments, but he was unnaturally still.
Those in attendance spoke softly among themselves, their eyes flickering toward the emperor, then back again, lest they be perceived as staring.
She wondered why he had not canceled this audience. He could easily have pled ill health, and after last night's incident at the theater, no one would have been surprised. Of course, the cancellation would have sparked its own rumors, but mere rumors could not be as damaging as the evident truth.
Ysobel circulated among the courtiers present, pausing to exchange greetings with those she knew. The lesser members of the court were warily polite—as a special envoy from the federation she nominally outranked them, but despite the long years of being ruled by an empress, the Ikarian court did not know how to deal with a woman who held power in her own right. The women of the Ikarian court were meant to be decorative, and while they might advise their husbands in private, they were not welcome at official functions such as this one.
Ysobel was despised not only for her sex but also for her involvement in the rebellion against Lucius's predecessor. Never mind that her efforts had been upon Lucius's behalf. He was apparently forgiven for his role in conspiring against Nerissa, but she was not.
Still, while Lucius's advisors were forced to deal with her, they took every opportunity to make their displeasure known. Thus she was not surprised that Proconsul Zuberi turned his back when he saw her approach. Admiral Septimus, who'd once profited greatly from mutual business ventures, unbent only enough to give a frosty nod, while Senator Demetrios offered even less.
She stifled a sigh as Aeaneas sidled up beside her. Descended from the old nobility, his family had maintained their traditional holdings in part because they were so completely undistinguished that they had never been invited to join any of the factions, and thus avoided offending anyone. A lesson that seemed lost upon Aeaneas, who assumed that everyone would welcome his presence.
Especially her.
Aeaneas's gaze swept her from head to toe, as if she wore a revealing dancer's costume rather than the sober garb of the court.
“Lady Ysobel, your beauty brightens this solemn affair. Indeed the tedium of government would be wholly relieved were more beautiful women allowed to take part.”
Ysobel smiled. “Then perhaps you should recommend that your wife take a seat in the senate, when her father retires.”
Aeaneas rocked back on his heels, then laughed. “Wit and beauty. Would that you would see fit to grace one of my private dinners, so that my friends could have the pleasure of your company.”
He patted her arm until her glare forced him to hastily remove his hand.
In her earlier visit to Ikaria she'd deliberately cultivated a reputation for licentiousness, hoping that the Ikarians would underestimate her. It had worked all too well, for men like Aeaneas still presumed that her favors would be freely given.
Ordinarily the presence of Captain Burrell was enough to discourage unwanted intimacies, but armed bodyguards were not welcome at an imperial audience.
“I am flattered by your interest,” she said. Even a slug like Aeaneas had his uses, and she would not cut off any source of information. “But my time is not my own, and there are many demands for my attention. Perhaps someday in the future . . .”
She let her voice trail off suggestively.
The last of the petitioners was repeatedly bowing to the emperor, while proclaiming his thanks so that all could hear.
“Do you recognize him?” she asked Aeaneas.
He turned his head toward the throne, where one of the guards was encouraging the petitioner to retreat.
“Tobias the Younger,” he said scornfully. “His father was convicted of bribery but committed suicide before his sentence could be carried out. From the sound of it, the emperor must have spared the son from having to take his father's place.”
“The emperor shows great mercy.” Though any who had observed Lucius should not have been surprised by the pardon. Empress Nerissa had executed hundreds during her reign, but so far Lucius had shown no inclination to follow in her footsteps. Most death sentences were commuted to exile or outright pardon.
Though the mystery was not the son's pardon, but his father's conviction. Bribery was common at all levels of Ikarian government. His father must have been unusually clumsy to have been caught—or made powerful enemies.
The chief functionary took his place at the foot of the dais, and at this signal those assembled turned toward the emperor, ready to perform one last obeisance before the emperor left.
Lucius rose to his feet, showing no sign of fatigue, then nodded to his chief functionary, who proclaimed the audience at an end.
Ysobel and the others in attendance bowed deeply as the emperor was surrounded by his servants, then escorted from the audience hall.
As she straightened up, a functionary appeared at her side.
“Lady Ysobel, the emperor is pleased to grant you a few minutes of his time,” he said. His heavily tattooed features made it impossible for her to tell if she had encountered him before. She could recognize Greeter, but the rest were a mystery to her. It bothered her that she could not identify them as individuals. Mere men might be open to bribes, but a faceless mass was impervious to most forms of persuasion.
The functionary led her to the emperor's private receiving room, which was adjacent to the audience chamber. Lucius had removed the lizard crown, but this was not an informal occasion, so she bowed deeply and waited to be acknowledged.
“Lady Ysobel,” Lucius said.
“Emperor Lucius, I thank you for seeing me.”
Earlier she had declared him ill, but at this distance she was forced to revise her opinion. He looked not so much ill as tired, with carefully applied paint masking the dark circles under his eyes. There were several chairs in the reception room, including a smaller version of the imperial throne, but Lucius stood, so perforce she stood as well.
A servant brought him a goblet of pale yellow liquid—wine perhaps, or fruit juice. He tossed back the contents with a grimace, then handed it back to his attendant.
He did not offer her any refreshment, so she came quickly to the supposed point of this meeting.
“Have you reached a decision regarding our petition for a free port at Seneka?” she asked.
“The request is absurd, as you know,” Lucius said, turning slightly away from her as he began to pace. “My ministers have not brought it to me for consideration, but when they do, we will reject it.”
“The people of Seneka have long sought independence—”
“Strange that their desires meant nothing to you when you seized the port for your own gain,” Lucius interrupted. “You had ample opportunity to grant them the status of a free port, but instead declared them a federation colony and installed your own governor.”
Lucius spoke the simple truth, but it was not her role to agree with him. Diplomats did not deal in truths but rather used high-minded words to disguise low intents.
“The federation presence at Seneka was never intended as a permanent occupying force, but rather as a temporary measure until they could provide their own defense and governance.”
Seneka was a small port located between Kazagan and Thrasi, owing allegiance to neither country. During Empress Nerissa's reign it had been seized by the Ikarians in preparation for their invasion of Kazagan. But there had been no invasion—the rulers of Kazagan had yielded to the inevitable, preferring to rule as clients of the Ikarian Empire rather than risk a ruinous defeat. For the past decade the Ikarians had maintained a token presence at Seneka, but the port was too small and poor to be given much attention.
The federation had seized Seneka during last year's strife, not out of any sense of economic or strategic value but merely because they could. And now the Ikarians wanted Seneka back. For her part, Ysobel would gladly hand the silt-choked harbor and rotting docks over to them, but her strategy was to yield nothing without challenge—she might not win this argument, but her persistence was gradually wearing down the Ikarian negotiators.
“You know better than to waste our time in this fashion,” Lucius said. “If that was all you wished to speak to us about—”
Strange that he kept using the imperial we to refer to himself. She had noticed that on some days he referred to himself as I, but on others as we. There was no pattern that she could see, and he was as likely to use the formal address on an informal occasion as he was to do the opposite.
“I came to consult with you about Seneka, yes, but mostly to assure myself that the rumors of your ill health were unfounded,” she said.
Her plain speaking startled him, for he raised both eyebrows.
“You are the first of our court to question our health,” he said.
“In your presence, perhaps. But I am not the only one concerned. The summer fevers are taking a heavy toll in the waterfront districts.”
She did not mention the rumors of poison, nor that he was afflicted by the gods' touch. He would have heard those as well.
Lucius shrugged. “Today was the final audience for the summer,” he said. “Tomorrow I will announce that I am retiring inland to my villa in Sarna, and urge my courtiers to follow my example.”
Sarna. Interesting. The villa in the hills at Sarna was reputed to be quite large, with adjoining estates for members of the imperial family, but it was a private retreat. If he'd gone to the summer palace on the island of Eluktiri, his ministers and chief courtiers would have followed, while at Sarna the emperor would be expected to do nothing but rest and amuse himself with the diversions offered by the countryside.
Perhaps the strain of the past year was beginning to tell on him. Or perhaps it was only now that Lucius felt safe enough to leave the day-to-day governance of his realm in the hands of his ministers.
“I wish you a safe journey and hope that you find delight in the pleasures of the countryside,” Ysobel said.
After a few more pleasantries she took her leave. As she made her way back to the embassy, she pondered what she'd discovered.
The emperor would not leave for his country retreat if he thought his empire in danger. If he'd been planning on breaking the truce between their countries, he would want to stay in Karystos, so he could oversee the preparations for war.
On the other hand, the news was not entirely in her favor. Once Lucius and his ministers left the city, she would be left to negotiate with midlevel bureaucrats, with any agreement she reached subject to change once the court returned in the autumn. Still, she had learned what she needed to. From all signs Lucius was suffering from nothing more than fatigue—and still firmly in control of his empire. At least for the present.
* * *
“And a copy of Tarik's Map of the Celestial Bodies. The full version, with separate drawings for each of the principal seasons,” Josan said.
Brother Mensah nodded swiftly. “Tarik's map,” he repeated. Overwhelmed at being in the presence of his emperor, he kept his eyes on the deck, not daring to look Josan in the face.
Nor did he dare point out that the hour for sailing was fast approaching. If Mensah did not leave soon, he would miss his own ship.
“You should be able to find a copy for sale in the bookstalls around the great library. If not, use the purse that Brother Thanatos has provided to have scribes make a copy,” Josan added.
Josan put one hand out to steady himself as the ship rolled with the waves. He had chosen Captain Chenzira's personal vessel for this voyage, as it was less conspicuous than the imperial yacht. It was also considerably smaller, and even tied up to the dock, the ship was in constant motion, bobbing with the swells that came with the freshening tide.
At least Josan's stomach was cooperating. For the present. He had not forgotten the misery of his last sea voyage—nor, would he wager, had his attendants. In his own body he'd been a seasoned traveler, undisturbed by even the strongest storms. But Lucius was a poor sailor, and this body became violently ill at sea—regardless of whether it was Josan or Lucius in control.
Brother Mensah fiddled with the straps of the journey bag slung over his shoulders. He must be wondering why the emperor had specifically requested him for this errand, then insisted on meeting him before he sailed.
His fellow monks would be wondering as well. Emperor Lucius had demonstrated an uncanny knowledge of the secret teachings of the Learned Brethren, much to the monks' distress. While the monks mouthed their loyalty to the emperor, Josan knew that they had spent months trying to find the traitor within their midst. Their efforts would be futile, of course, since as far as they knew, Brother Josan had died nearly ten years before.
Still, it was within the emperor's purview to request a favor from the monks—in this case sending one of their order to fetch rare manuscripts from Xandropol. But specifically requesting Mensah, implied a personal acquaintance between a junior monk and the emperor.
Once it would not have occurred to Josan to use an innocent in this way, but expediency had forced him to reconsider his principles. The taint of suspicion that Mensah would bear was a small burden when compared to the fate that awaited Josan.
It was Mensah's misfortune that he was nearly the same height and build as the emperor.
Mensah shuffled his feet against the floor, then dared to look up at the emperor. “And what should I do if I meet Brother Nikos?”
“What were Brother Thanatos's instructions?”
“That Nikos was no longer part of our order. If I see him, I should not acknowledge him, but rather send word back at once, so the brethren will know that he has been found.” Mensah's words came out in a rush.
Nikos had been head of the Learned Brethren in Karystos for most of Mensah's life. No matter that Nikos had been disgraced, it would be difficult for the young monk to ignore someone who had played such a major role in his life. Mensah was naïve enough to believe that Brother Nikos had kept his word and accepted his exile to Xandropol, but Josan knew better. After months of searching, yesterday his spies had reported that Nikos had been seen in Vidrun. It worried him that Nikos had sought safety in a land long known for its enmity toward Ikaria, but whatever mischief Nikos might one day wreak paled beside Josan's more immediate concerns.
“Brother Thanatos has given you wise counsel,” Josan said. “And now, a toast to a successful journey.”
He went to the sideboard, where a chilled jug held tipia, and poured equal measures into two carefully prepared goblets. Josan handed Mensah the goblet from the right side of the tray, while he kept the other for himself.
“To a safe journey and swift return,” Josan said, lifting the goblet to his lips. He took a swallow of the sweet mixture of wine and fruit juices, hoping his stomach would not object.
Mensah was overwhelmed at such condescension on the part of his emperor, and the goblet shook in his hands. Under Josan's watchful gaze, he gulped the contents in hasty swallows.
It took mere seconds for the drug to act. Mensah swayed, and Josan leaned forward to catch the goblet before it fell to the floor.
“Why?” Mensah asked, as Josan grasped him by the shoulders. “What have I done?”
“Nothing,” Josan said. He could not explain. Would not explain. Even now, Mensah was so cowed that he did not think to call for help. Why would he? Who would dare gainsay anything that Emperor Lucius might do?
Swiftly, Josan unfastened the journey bag and placed it on the table, then positioned Mensah so the monk was propped up against the wall. Hastily, he tugged the monk's robe up, pulling it over Mensah's head. Mensah's arms briefly became entangled in the sleeves, and by the time Josan had tugged them free, Mensah's head lolled on his slack neck muscles, his eyes closed in drugged sleep.
It was hard work to drag him over to the bed—harder still because Josan must be silent. He must give the guard standing outside his cabin no reason to investigate. If he'd been aboard the royal yacht, this plan would never have worked. The yacht's large cabins meant that the emperor was always attended by servants. But Chenzira's ship was a military vessel, and even the captain's private quarters, which Josan occupied, were so small that it was impractical to expect the servants to pass the journey in such close proximity to their emperor.
Finally, Mensah was in the bed, and Josan hastily stripped off his purple tunic and donned the monk's robe. He picked up the journey bag, ready to leave, then looked down at his feet, cursing as he realized that he still wore dyed-leather sandals fit for an emperor. Returning to the bed, he took precious moments to untie Mensah's sandals and relace them on his own feet.
He checked himself one last time, patting his side to confirm that his purse was fastened to his undertunic. He'd left two sealed notes carefully weighted down on his dressing table—one addressed to Captain Chenzira, and the other to Proconsul Zuberi. As for Mensah's journey bag, he'd have to assume that the monk had known how to pack for a long journey at sea. There was no time to waste, the evening tide was about to turn.
Josan pulled the cowl of his hood up over his head, then exited the cabin, shutting the door behind him.
“The emperor has requested that he not be disturbed for any reason,” Josan told the guard, pitching his voice low. “His stomach is troubled, and he desires to sleep.”
The guard nodded. Josan had given similar orders to his attendants earlier when he had boarded Green Dragon, but it was only prudent to reconfirm them.
The ship would sail for Eluktiri on the evening tide and arrive with the dawn. And by the time his ruse was discovered, Josan should be far away.
Leaving the guard behind, he made his way to the deck, hesitating as he approached the gangway that led down to the docks. His body froze for a moment, paralyzed by indecision. Once we do this, we may never be able to return, he heard Prince Lucius say.
We leave now, or we die, Josan reminded him. You were the one that urged us to act.
Lucius did not respond, but he no longer fought for control, and Josan was able to resume making his way off the imperial dock, then through the bustling crowds and over to the eastern edge of the anchorage, where neutral trading vessels were anchored. He inquired of Tylenda from several dockworkers. A few cursed him for wasting their time, but at last one took pity on the lost monk and pointed it out.
Tylenda was a two-masted coastal trader, similar to others Josan had sailed in his youth. Poorer passengers wandered on the deck, making space for themselves among stacked crates of cargo that would not fit in the hold, while sailors cursed them for being underfoot. Eventually these passengers would learn which sections of the deck were safe for sleeping, and how to scurry out of the way when the sails needed tending.
One of the crew stood at the top of the gangplank, greeting each passenger as they came aboard, and checking their names off a list scratched on a slate.
“Brother Mensah,” Josan said, when it came his turn to be acknowledged.
The sailor did not even look up. “You're on the second deck, in the port cabin,” he said. “Cargo deck and crew quarters are off-limits at all times, understood? Any passenger who fails to follow the rules or endangers the ship will be put off at once, regardless of how far we are from land.”
“Understood,” Josan said. The deck was crowded with those who wished one last glimpse of Karystos, but he took himself belowdecks, and found the cabin that he would share with the other male travelers who could afford a berth out of the weather. Stooping as he entered, he saw that it was unoccupied, and so he claimed a prime spot on a pallet near one of the portholes. A faint breeze stirred the air, bringing with it the dockyard smells of salt air and rotting fish, which did little to alleviate the stench of humanity that clung to the very walls of the cabin.
With a shrug he settled himself down on the pallet, leaning his back against the curved side of the ship as he prepared to wait. He would not count himself safe until the ship had sailed, and there was no sign of pursuit.
It took a moment for Lady Ysobel to recognize that the scruffy sailor leaning carelessly against the dock railing was indeed Captain Burrell. He had a leather flask in one hand and a canvas sack at his feet. Laborers cursed at him as they shouldered by, bearing sacks of supplies for the navy ship anchored at the end of the pier. There was nothing unusual about the sight of a ship being supplied for a voyage, though the frenzied pace of the dockworkers and loud shouts of the deck officers seemed evidence of a hasty departure.
She was glad that she'd paused to change into leggings and an unbleached canvas smock before hastening down to the dock in response to Burrell's message. Lady Ysobel would stand out, but dressed as she was, Ysobel could pass for a federation sailor idling away her hours in a foreign port.
It was a disguise that worked equally well for Burrell, who had built a network of informants who believed him to be gathering intelligence for rival traders, while in truth he watched for signs that the Ikarian navy was preparing to break the truce.
Burrell grunted as she came up beside him, and handed her his flask. She took a sip, not surprised to discover it was merely water.
“Recognize the ship? That's Green Dragon, commanded by the emperor's favorite.”
“Captain Chenzira.” The man who had taught the rest of the imperial captains how to calculate the position of a ship at sea, when no landmarks could be seen. Some said that he had invented the technique himself, while others claimed that the knowledge had been a gift from the gods to the Emperor Lucius.
As for what she believed, well, several federation captains had gone missing during the Ikarians' campaigns against those they deemed pirates. One of them might have betrayed the secret teachings under torture—or bargained with them to save his life.
“The emperor boarded her two hours ago,” Burrell said. “He came aboard with a small entourage, and a short time ago, a monk from the Learned Brethren came on board as well.”
“Are you certain?” There was no reason for the emperor to be here, not when he was supposed to be preparing to journey to Sarna, located in the foothills west of the city.
“I would not have sent for you otherwise,” he said. He leaned over the railing and spit into the water below.
An ensign left the ship, and Ysobel held her tongue as he brushed by. She watched as he turned and started climbing the stairs that led to the harbormaster's office.
“So it is not Sarna after all,” she murmured.
“Eluktiri, I would wager,” Burrell said. “There are no signs of his ministers, yet . . .”
“But they can follow without being remarked upon,” she finished for him.
She noticed one of the deck officers staring at them, so she laughed, then poked Burrell in his side, as if inviting him to share the joke. There was nothing that an idling sailor enjoyed more than seeing his unfortunate fellows hard at their labors.
Burrell grinned, but only she was close enough to see the serious expression in his eyes.
Ysobel thought furiously. It was possible that the emperor was traveling in secret because of fears for his safety, choosing the anonymity of a naval ship over the comfort of the imperial yacht. But after a public announcement that he was retiring to Sarna, it seemed odd that he would secretly sail to his summer palace on Eluktiri. Were his ministers aware of his true destination? There would be much grumbling if only his favorites had been informed, so that they could constitute the summer court.
Or was this trip more sinister in nature? Was Ikaria intending to break the truce and attack the federation? What if Lucius sailed not for his summer palace but once again personally to take charge of his navy, as he had done the year before?
“Did you hear their destination?” The federation could not afford to be the first to break the truce, but neither could they risk being caught unprepared. If Lucius sailed to war, her people must be warned.
“The sailors were grumbling about having to load a month's worth of supplies for an overnight voyage,” Burrell said. “Eluktiri seems a reasonable bet.”
“But orders can change at sea,” she pointed out. The extra supplies could be prudence on the part of a captain carrying an emperor, or a sign that the ship had another destination in mind.
“Do we have a ship that can follow him?”
“None of ours are in harbor. Sprite sailed this morning.”
The tide would turn in less than an hour, and when it did Green Dragon would sail. She could have commandeered a federation vessel in that time, but it was not time enough to hire any other craft for her purposes.
Ysobel cursed under her breath. With one hand the Sea Witch gave and with the other she took away. Discovering the emperor secretly leaving Karystos was an advantage, but it was an advantage that she would waste if she could not confirm his destination.
She stared at the ship, willing it to reveal its secrets. As she watched, a monk scrambled awkwardly down the gangplank. He wore the cowl of his robe over his head, despite the summer heat.
She watched as the monk reached the end of the pier. If he turned west, toward the city, his path would take him by where she stood. But instead he turned toward the east.
Abruptly she straightened. “That's him,” she said, and began to follow.
Burrell grabbed his sack and hastened after her.
“Who?” he asked.
Ysobel nodded toward the monk. “Our friend who is not going to Sarna,” she said, conscious of the crowds that surrounded them.
Burrell raised one eyebrow but did not protest. She could not say how she had recognized the emperor—there was something about his gait and how he held himself. That and the fact that he kept tugging the cowl so that it shielded his face, despite the melting heat.
Curious, that there was not a single guard following him. She began to doubt her instincts as the monk stopped one laborer, then another, apparently asking for directions. Surely an emperor would not expose himself to danger in this way? Perhaps she was mistaken?
Her steps slowed as the apparent monk reached his destination—a small, aged cargo ship. The figurehead was unrecognizable, but fading letters proclaimed it as Tylenda. The monk stood with the others, waiting his turn to be acknowledged by the purser.
She shook her head, realizing that she must have been mistaken. She opened her mouth to say as much, but then the monk turned for one last look at the harbor. A gust of wind slid the cowl from his face, and there was no mistaking those features.
Lucius, emperor of Ikaria. Standing on the deck of a common freighter, wearing the robes of a monk instead of imperial silks.
It was impossible. And yet there it was before her eyes. She wondered that no one else could see what she did, but there were no cries of amazement, no protestations of loyalty. Instead the so-called monk simply disappeared into the mass of humanity that crowded the deck.
“It looks like him,” Burrell said. “But what's he up to?”
“I don't know,” she said. “But I'm going to find out.”