Chapter 12
Xandropol was a city of wonders, from the great library that dominated the heart of the city to the marketplaces where you could find rare goods from every known land. Protected by both treaty and the armies of Volesk, the streets of Xandropol teemed with peoples of every race, speaking a dozen different languages. Impoverished scholars in tattered robes jostled wealthy merchants wearing embroidered silks, while traders from Tyrns looked on, their voluminous wraps making it impossible to tell if they were male or female, young or old. Any were welcome in Xandropol, as long as they kept the peace and paid their taxes.
This was Burrell's first visit to Xandropol. As a marine he'd had no reason to come here. But Lady Ysobel had been here often; Xandropol was a popular destination for merchants offering their wares in return for goods from the north that had been ferried down the Bronze River.
If it could not be found in the markets of Xandropol, then it likely didn't exist.
Though so far, at least, they had no luck in finding what they sought.
Their journey from Tarsus had been swift. Rather than waiting for an appropriate vessel, Lady Ysobel had drawn upon her own credit to hire a ship to take them directly to Xandropol. She'd bargained fiercely, but the agreed-upon sum had still been more than Burrell would earn in a year.
It had been on that journey that she'd finally invited him to share her bed.
It was something that would never have happened if they'd remained in Karystos. Whether commanding one of her ships, or serving in the embassy, Ysobel still thought of herself as a captain, foremost. And thus she would not lie with one under her command.
No matter how much Burrell had wanted her to.
He'd given up hope of ever being more than her friend, but during the fortnight it took to sail from Tarsus to Xandropol they'd become lovers. He'd always known that she was beautiful, and was not surprised that the passion with which she embraced everything else carried over to the bedchamber as well. She was as likely to pounce hungrily upon him, stripping him in her haste to join together, as she was to enjoy slow, tender embraces that lasted until dawn.
He did not fool himself into thinking that it was anything he had done that had changed her mind. It was rather that their circumstances had changed. Forced once again into a passive role, with nothing to do until they reached Xandropol, Ysobel was using him to forget. While they dallied, they were simply a man and a woman, the burden of their responsibilities temporarily laid aside.
When they'd arrived in Xandropol a week ago, he'd known without having to ask that the brief affair was over.
At first, they'd not been surprised to have outpaced Hypatia. But as day after day passed without any sign of their quarry, their doubts had grown.
With nothing to do but wait for Hypatia to arrive, Ysobel had grown increasingly short-tempered. Burrell shared her anxiety though he hoped he was better at concealing his frustrations. From the beginning, their course had been a gamble. If Lucius had never boarded Hypatia, or if he had sailed with her to some other destination, then they would have failed.
And the news he was bringing her would only serve to add to her unease. He hesitated outside her room, then squared his shoulders before entering.
“Any news?” she asked. “The ambassador asked me this morning how much longer we intended to stay.”
Dorinda of Navar served as the federation's representative in Xandropol. A cousin of Lady Solange, the minister of trade, Dorinda styled herself ambassador though her official title was that of liaison. Dorinda had not been pleased by their arrival, especially when Lady Ysobel invoked her status as envoy to demand lodging.
Dorinda likely viewed Lady Ysobel's presence as an attempt to assert her power—a reminder that Ysobel outranked her both in the court and in the halls of trade.
In truth they stayed here because their purses were flat—they could afford a room, but not servants to run errands for them. And, if news from Ikaria came to Xandropol, it would come here first.
They had taken their turns scouring the markets and docks for information, sending Dorinda's servants to fetch daily lists of newly arrived ships. This morning it had been Burrell's turn to visit the docks, while Ysobel chivied Dorinda's clerks.
“No news of Hypatia, but she's not the only ship that is late,” Burrell said.
“A storm at sea, or contrary winds?” Ysobel suggested.
It was possible—no two captains sailed precisely the same course. Their ship might have had the advantage of favorable currents, while a ship sailing even just a point north or south of that course might have found itself becalmed.
Or so he had suggested every time Ysobel fretted over Hypatia's failure to arrive. He'd almost believed it himself.
Until now.
“Lily is a week overdue, and was just posted as missing,” he said.
Ysobel's face tightened. “That's one of my father's ships,” she said.
He'd known as much by the name, even before he saw confirmation. The house of Flordelis traditionally named their ships after flowers.
“And Greenbow, a single-masted ship from the house of Laurent arrived this morning, badly battered. They claimed they were attacked by a ship of the Ikarian navy. There were rumors of other attacks, but this is the first time a ship has survived to bring the tale to shore.”
She winced as if he had struck her. During last year's war, both sides had used the pretext of pirate ships as excuses to launch their attacks. It was possible the Ikarians were trying the same ruse again.
“The captain is at the docks, even as we speak, but I'm certain he'll be making his way here before long, to tell the liaison what he knows,” he added.
“Do you believe him?”
Burrell hesitated. He'd seen Greenbow arrive, with her jury-rigged mast and tattered sails. She'd been in a fight, but it seemed impossible that such a small craft could have fought off a navy vessel, unaided.
“I don't know,” he said. “Even an incompetent captain should have been able to take that ship. The captain may be lying because he can't reveal the truth of who attacked him, or why.”
“Or he may be telling the truth,” Ysobel said. “While I was chasing Lucius across the Great Basin, the Ikarians have gone to war.”
“We don't know that—”
“We don't know anything,” Ysobel snapped.
Burrell took a step toward her, then hesitated. At this moment she did not want a lover, nor would she respect one who offered mindless comfort.
“We may be at war,” he said. “But you know as well as I that the house of Laurent has a spotty reputation. Talk to the captain yourself before you judge the truth of his tale.”
And before you condemn yourself any further, Burrell thought.
If war had come, it would be none of Lady Ysobel's doing, though he knew she would blame herself. Each choice she made had been in service of her mission, but that would not matter to her.
Nor would it matter to those who had sent her to Ikaria. She'd fought one war at their bidding, emerging triumphant from a mission meant to ensure her death.
He could only hope they would be so lucky again.
Ysobel had been present when the Greenbow's captain met with Dorinda—though the liaison had refused to allow Burrell to join them. He paced anxiously in his quarters, waiting for her to return.
His thoughts chased themselves in an endless circle—if the Ikarians were once more on the attack, it was imperative that he and Ysobel return to the federation. They had proven themselves in battle before, and given the opportunity would do so again.
Unless, of course, they were punished for incompetence, for not having foreseen the Ikarians' aggression. Some might even see Ysobel's decision to leave Karystos as a reckless abandonment of her sworn duty.
And what could they say? “Emperor Lucius disguised himself as a monk and took passage on a common trader so we decided to follow him”?
With no proof, the truth would condemn them as fools.
He threw himself into a chair, looking longingly at the sweat-beaded decanter of chilled wine that sat on the table, left over from their earlier lunch.
But he had not drunk a glass then, and he would not now.
At last, Ysobel returned.
“Well?” he asked, rising to his feet. “What did he say?” Ysobel showed fewer scruples than he, for she crossed to the sideboard and poured two cups of wine. She handed one to him, not bothering to add water.
Ysobel swallowed half the cup, then said, “I wouldn't buy so much as a rusty nail from him.”
He breathed a sigh of relief and took a sip of his own wine.
“But—” Lady Ysobel began, and he felt his heart sink. “He is not lying about this. He was attacked, and the description he gave sounds very much like an Ikarian ship.”
“The federation must be informed.”
“Dorinda is seeing to that,” Ysobel said, with a grimace. “And I will send word as well.”
“What of us?”
“We will wait,” she said. “The monthly courier ship is expected in two days' time. We can board her for her return to Sendat.”
A courier ship would be faster than any merchant that they could hire. But he was not looking forward to spending two more days kicking their heels ashore.
“And what of Hypatia?”
Ysobel laughed. “By now she's unloaded her cargo in Vidrun and picked up a new load. I doubt Lucius was ever on board.”
If Lucius had been on board, headed for Xandropol, then the Hypatia should join the list of overdue ships, so the guild could be notified. But privately he agreed with Ysobel; it was unlikely that Lucius had boarded Hypatia. He had simply disappeared in Tarsus, and they had chased an illusion.
And for that they would pay the price.
Ysobel strode impatiently back and forth across the pier, as a harbor pilot guided Hypatia into an open berth. To her eyes the ship appeared undamaged, but there must be a reason why the captain had signaled for a berth rather than simply dropping anchor in the harbor.
She could see the courier ship, loading supplies in preparation for the return voyage back to the islands. She and Burrell had planned to board later today. But instead of a summons to their ship, a servant had brought the news that Hypatia was in harbor, preparing to dock. It was only sheer luck that she'd found out—she'd intended to tell Dorinda's clerks that they no longer need watch for Hypatia, but in her anger over being deceived by Lucius she'd forgotten.
Burrell leaned against a support pillar, pretending to watch Hypatia's approach, but she knew his gaze rested on her when he thought her attention elsewhere. His mood was in direct counterpoint to her own. As her frustration grew, Burrell became visibly calmer, which served to irritate her even more.
At last Hypatia was tied to the pier, and a gangway put in place. The customs clerk and his assistant were the first to board, with Ysobel nearly treading on their heels.
Ysobel had her second shock of the day, when she saw Zorion standing next to a middle-aged woman. She'd known he was sailing for the house of Arles, but hadn't realized that Hypatia was his ship.
“I need to see your bills of lading and your registration certificates,” the clerk was saying. “You're liable for the daily docking fee plus a tax on all goods that are bought, sold, or delivered.”
“I have no cargo, merely a passenger to disembark,” Zorion replied.
So Lucius was on board. Her hands clenched into fists.
Ysobel stepped around the clerk and Zorion's eyes widened as he saw her.
“This is Amelie, my cargo master,” Zorion said. “She will provide you with whatever you require.”
Amelie drew the customs officials to one side.
“Where is he?” Ysobel demanded.
Zorion's lips twisted in a rueful smile. “Not even a greeting? I thought we'd parted on better terms than that,” he said.
“Our apologies, Captain Zorion, but the matter is too urgent for pleasantries,” Burrell said, pitching his voice low so none could overhear them.
“Where is Lucius?” Ysobel asked.
“Lucius?”
“Josan, or Brother Mensah, or whatever he calls himself these days. The passenger you took on board in Rauma.”
“Below,” Zorion said.
Ysobel started to move past him, but he placed his bulk in front of her. “I'll not have you disturbing him,” he said. “Not until you tell me what business you have with him.”
“Do you know who you have on board?”
“He's a passenger who has paid his passage twice over, once in coin and again in service to this ship,” Zorion said. “So I ask you again, what business do you have with him?”
She wondered if this would have been easier if the captain was a stranger to her. Zorion knew her too well. With a few words, he could make her feel like the awkward young woman she had once been.
“The emperor of Ikaria is in your guest cabin,” she said, and had the satisfaction of watching Zorion's face pale. “And as we are likely at war with his empire, I need to have a word with him.”
“They weren't Ikarians,” Zorion said.
His words made no sense.
“Who weren't Ikarians?”
“The ships that attacked Rhosyn,” Zorion replied. “They had Ikarian sails, but the ships were built in Vidrun and crewed by mercenaries.”
“Greenbow?” Burrell asked.
Zorion shook his head. “Not Greenbow, it was Rhosyn. Which is why we're late. Rhosyn was damaged, so we escorted her to Tyrns.”
Rhosyn had not been on the list of overdue ships, but the list only encompassed those ships that were expected in Xandropol. But if she had been attacked by someone posing as Ikarians . . .
“And you are certain they were not Ikarians?” she asked.
“I would swear it on my life,” he said. “On your life.”
Which was his way of reminding her of the history that lay between them. She had let Zorion go from her service for precisely that reason—because he valued her life over his duty to his ship. He would not have uttered such an oath lightly.
“We need to talk,” she said, just as Zorion uttered the same words.
“Come below,” Zorion said. He nodded to Amelie, who was still conferring with the customs officials, then led them below to his cabin. There was a neatly made bunk in one corner, and a large table which could serve for mapping routes, or hosting a half dozen at dinner. Zorion took a seat at the head of the table, and she and Burrell sat on either side of him.
She had seen no sign of Lucius, but he must be nearby.
“Tell me of this man you think is Lucius,” he said.
“I do not think he is Emperor Lucius, I know it,” she said. “And he is behind what has happened.”
It was too much of a coincidence that he had disappeared at the same time that his navy had begun attacking federation ships.
Zorion shook his head. “You may be right about his name, but you're wrong about the other. I told you I owe him a debt—without him we never would have reached the Rhosyn in time to help. Somehow he managed to call a storm from a clear day and called lightning to strike his attackers.”
She and Burrell shared a long look. “It is him,” she said. “Emperor Lucius has the magic of his ancestors, and we have seen him call the winds to do his bidding.”
Zorion still did not appear convinced. “But what is he doing here? Aboard my ship?”
“I intend to ask him that very question,” she said.
She knew her smile wasn't a pleasant one. But she had grown tired of Lucius's prevarications and had not forgiven him for breaking faith with her when he had fled in Rauma.
“You'll go easy,” Zorion said. “I'll have your word on that.”
“He is our enemy.”
“I owe him,” Zorion said.
She knew better than to expect that he would lightly set that debt aside. It did not matter whether or not Lucius was deserving of such consideration. If Zorion believed that he owed Lucius, then he would insist on repaying that debt.
“I will not harm him,” she said. It was the best she could offer.
“Very well, I'll have him fetched,” Zorion said. “There's not room for all of us in his cabin.”
Zorion stepped outside and spoke to a sailor.
A few moments later, two sailors entered, supporting Lucius between them.
His appearance was a shock—he was thinner than she recalled, and his legs dragged uselessly on the ground as the sailors maneuvered him into a seat.
He had feigned weakness once, but she doubted very much that this was a show put on for her benefit. He had the look of a man who was gravely ill, and she could see why Zorion had been hesitant to disturb him.
But whatever pity she might feel was overbalanced by the harm he had done to her, and to her people.
“Lady Ysobel,” he said. “Captain Burrell.”
She waited until the sailors had left, shutting the door behind them. “Emperor Lucius,” she said.
Lucius nodded in acknowledgment, then turned to Zorion. “How long have you known?” he asked.
“She's spent the last quarter hour trying to convince me that I had an emperor aboard. But I did not believe it till this very minute,” Zorion said.
“Is an emperor any more unlikely than a magician?” Lucius asked.
Zorion chuckled. “I'll grant you that.”
The ease between them grated on her nerves. They were conversing as old friends, leaving it up to her to remind them that this was not a social occasion.
“Tell me, emperor, how long have you known that our countries were at war?”
Lucius abruptly sobered. “The attackers were not Ikarians, they were mercenaries from Vidrun,” he said. “Captain Zorion will tell you as much.”
“So he has said. But he has no proof except his own word. And other ships have told a different tale,” she pointed out.
“Not just my word,” Zorion began, but Lucius interrupted him.
“I cannot be responsible for what other men say,” Lucius replied, speaking over Zorion's protests. “I know the truth, and that is enough.”
Could he really be so naïve?
“It will not be enough for the federation,” she said. “Already messages have been sent telling them that the Ikarian navy is once more on the attack. They will not wait; they will take action.”
Lucius still did not appear to comprehend the danger, but Burrell's face grew grim.
“What will your people do when the federation navy attacks one of your own?” Burrell asked Lucius. “They will not wait to ask why. They will simply respond in kind.”
“And then it will be war, whether just or not,” Ysobel said. “Once it starts, it will be beyond any of us to stop it.”
Lucius swore under his breath. She did not recognize the language but could guess the meaning.
“What would you have me do?” he asked.
She hesitated, not having expected him to capitulate so easily.
“Put an end to this before it is too late,” Burrell said.
“How?” Lucius demanded. “I have no ships, no armies, no one to do my bidding. I cannot even command my limbs to obey me.”
Her face showed the neutral mask she wore when trading, but his scorn cut her to the quick. Lucius, for all his faults, was right. In her obsession to find him, she hadn't thought what she would do with him—or what he could do for her. A poor strategist indeed, to pursue a prize with no idea of its worth.
But just because she could not immediately think of a use for him did not mean that he was without value.
“If you sent orders to your navy—” Burrell began.
Lucius slammed his hand on the table. “Those were not my ships. Whatever ills you think were done, they were not done by my men.”
“The attackers were mercenaries from Vidrun,” Zorion said, drawing all eyes to him. “We'd the luck to capture one of their officers. He confirmed what his sailors had told us, that they'd been hired to pose as Ikarians to attack our ships.”
“Where is this officer?” Ysobel said. “Where is your proof?”
“With Rhosyn,” Zorion said. “She was the injured party, and she had the claim against them. They were put ashore with her in Tyrns.”
It was her turn to swear. Lucius's words were suspect, but she trusted Zorion. If he said that the attackers had been mercenaries posing as Ikarians, she believed him. But others would not share her belief, and any proof was hundreds of miles away in Tyrns. If the mercenaries were even still alive. Rhosyn's captain might have asked the authorities to execute them as pirates. He would not have known that other ships had been attacked, nor how important it was to prove who was behind these attacks.
Meanwhile, Captain Pepin from the house of Laurent had sworn that he'd been attacked by Ikarians, and Dorinda would send the account of his attack back to the federation as a warning.
It was likely that Pepin had been tricked by the same vessels that attacked Rhosyn, but without proof, the ministry would be left to judge the tales of two captains. Zorion's reputation for honesty might have carried the day—
If the recent war with the Ikarians was not still fresh in everyone's memories.
Faced with a tale from Zorion that could not be proven, and a growing list of missing ships, it was likely that the council of ministers would err on the side of caution.
They would launch an attack, hoping they could inflict sufficient damage before the Ikarians' new weapons turned the tide of battle against them.
“You could come with us,” Burrell said. “We sail for Sendat this afternoon.”
Zorion shook his head. “I cannot abandon Hypatia, nor my duty to the house of Arles. I have already stretched that duty as far as I can. And I doubt they'd find my tale any more convincing in the flesh.”
“Not you,” Burrell said. “Him.”
And he pointed to Emperor Lucius.
They did not know what they asked of him.
Josan had been stunned by Burrell's absurd request, then shocked when Ysobel took him seriously. She'd asked—no, demanded—that he go with her to the federation.
Where presumably his presence would be enough to convince the federation that the Ikarian Empire was not behind the recent attacks.
Or that they could use him to bargain for peace.
It was absurd. Anything he said would likely be contradicted by Proconsul Zuberi and his allies. They might be preparing to crown a new emperor even as he sat here, hiding in his cabin, pretending that he was safe on board the ship of his enemies.
He knew that was not strictly fair. Not all in the federation could be judged by Lady Ysobel's standards. Captain Zorion had dealt with him honestly. It had been Zorion who put an end to Ysobel's badgering, insisting that Josan, as he still called him, be allowed to think over her request in private. He'd personally helped Josan back to his cabin and sworn that Josan would not be disturbed.
But neither was Josan free to leave. He could stand on his own, for a few minutes. But he could not leave this ship without help. Nor without Zorion's permission.
Even if Zorion was willing to let him go, Lady Ysobel was not. He'd be set upon the moment his foot touched the dock.
He was trapped, and he knew that all had sensed his fear.
They thought him a coward—willing to chance a senseless war rather than risking his own life by journeying to the land of his enemies.
Ysobel had sworn over and over again that he would be safe, under diplomatic protection. She might even believe it to be true, but he knew better. Politicians had no honor, and the emperor of Ikaria was a prize that would be too tempting to resist.
But he did not fear the Seddonians. Nothing they could do to him would be worse than his current fate, trapped in a body that was slowly failing.
If a cure was to be found, it would be here. In Xandropol, somewhere within the complex of buildings that formed the great library, and the tens of thousands of volumes stored within.
He had little time left. And if he turned aside now—
There would be no cure. Just death—perhaps swift, perhaps slow. He had only his own conjectures on how long it would take this body to fail completely. He might be trapped within a paralyzed shell for days, months, or even years, at the mercy of those around him.
When the time came, he hoped they'd have the kindness to kill him.
He suspected they would want him to suffer first.
It was not cowardice, was it, to want to live? He'd never asked for any of this—never asked for the spell that had taken his soul from his own dying body and transplanted it into the body of a prince.
Never asked to be emperor.
He'd never wanted power, nor fame, nor riches. Just to be allowed to live the life of a scholar in the peaceful pursuit of knowledge.
It was not fair, he thought, with a child's overwhelming sense of injustice. I do not deserve this.
But what he deserved was a double-edged sword. Many would say that he did not deserve to be alive, living in this borrowed body. And what of Lucius? If there was any hope of restoring his soul, it would be found here. If Josan gave in to Ysobel's demands, he would be condemning both of them to death.
In Xandropol there was hope that at least one of them might be saved. If they went to the federation . . .
They might even die before they reached the islands. In which case, his sacrifice would be for naught.
His thoughts chased themselves in endless circles, but as his temper cooled, reason came once more to the forefront.
He'd told the others that he could not be held responsible for the attacks. If mercenaries chose to pose as ships from his navy, then the impostors were the ones who should be caught and punished for their deeds.
But it was troubling that the mercenaries were from Vidrun—a powerful kingdom with a long history of enmity toward Ikaria.
Among Empress Nerissa's accomplishments had been bringing an end to the interminable wars with Vidrun—though she had not achieved victory, merely a stalemate that was declared to be peace.
The question to ask was who would benefit if Ikaria and the federation went to war?
The federation would not attack their own ships. They did not want war, not because they were opposed to it, but because they saw no profit in it. The risks posed by the newly armed Ikarian navy were too great.
As for himself, Josan had been sickened by killing. The fire weapons he had taught his navy to make had indeed lived up to their name—the Burning Terror. But the ingredients for the Burning Terror required a rare earth element, so their supply was limited. And conventional sea warfare still favored the federation, with their larger fleet. If the two nations went to war, it would be a long, deadly struggle that would weaken them both.
Which might well be what was intended. Vidrun's expansion to the north had ended at the Bronze River, stopped by the armies of Volesk. Her expansion to the south had halted, in part, because the imperial legions had offered their assistance to Kazagan, which their king had reluctantly accepted, becoming a vassal state of the Ikarian Empire.
But if the empire was weakened by war, then Vidrun could attack unopposed. And best of all, they need risk nothing beyond hiring a few ships of mercenaries to incite the conflict.
It was a clever plan. And he had an ugly suspicion that he knew who was behind it.
Brother Nikos. Once head of the Learned Brethren in Ikaria, and one of Empress Nerissa's principal advisors.
And the man who had orchestrated the foul spell that had joined Josan's soul to Lucius's body, in an attempt to create a puppet that would be under his command.
Nikos had deserved death for his crimes, but he could not be executed without revealing what he had done, which would have meant Josan's own death. Instead Nikos had been exiled from Ikaria, sent to join his brethren in Xandropol. But he'd never arrived. Spies had reported his presence in Vidrun, where, it seemed, he was up to his old tricks.
Josan sighed. Even if Nikos was not behind this, he could not let it go unchallenged. If there was anything he could do to prevent a conflict from erupting, he must do it.
Lucius, he called, listening intently for any trace of the prince's mind voice. Lucius, he called again, but there was no answer.
He would have to decide for both of them.
Strange—he had known of Lucius's existence for over two years, ever since he'd discovered that this body was not his own. They'd argued, fought, and struggled for supremacy, before finally learning to cooperate. When Lucius was present, he could hear what Lucius was thinking, sense his feelings, and at times he'd been able to draw upon Lucius's memories and skills.
But he still did not know Lucius. He did not know what Lucius would choose if the decision was his to make.
Lucius had agreed to this journey, seeing it as his last chance to restore himself to health and to sole command of his own flesh.
It was tempting to take the path of cowardice and claim that this was what Lucius would have wanted.
But Lucius also saw himself as an emperor in the tradition of his illustrious ancestors. Given the opportunity, he might choose the path of noble sacrifice, rather than self-interest.
Josan knew what he must do, but he continued to weigh the options over in his mind, pretending that his fate was not already sealed.
He'd been in his cabin for at least two hours when at last a knock sounded on his door. Lady Ysobel's patience had held out longer than he'd expected.
“Enter,” he called.
Zorion entered, carrying a tray. “You missed lunch,” he said.
It was a kindness to have fetched it. Zorion set the tray on the bed next to Josan. He'd no appetite, but picked up the cup, which was filled with plain water, and drank it down.
“You can trust Lady Ysobel,” Zorion said. “I served her for a decade, and she never broke her word to me. If she says she'll protect you, she will.”
Josan shrugged. “I'm sure you have found her to be fair,” he said.
He did not doubt that she'd dealt honestly with Zorion, and had likely done the same with others that she encountered in her role as Ysobel of Flordelis of Alcina—captain, ship owner, and head of her own trading house.
But that was not the woman he had had dealings with. Ysobel the spy, Ysobel the conspirator, Ysobel the politician, was quite a different creature. That woman's loyalty was to her own advancement first and her country second. She was more than capable of promising one thing to Emperor Lucius while intending something else entirely.
But he would not argue the matter with Zorion and risk antagonizing the only one who'd showed compassion for him.
“Even if she is true to her word, do you imagine she speaks for all of your countrymen?” Josan asked.
Zorion rubbed his chin with one hand. “Her word should be enough,” he said.
“But it won't be,” Josan finished for him. “If I survive the trip, it's likely my presence there will accomplish nothing except providing a target for their wrath.”
Zorion's gaze had sharpened as Josan mentioned the possibility that he would not survive the trip. It was a fear he'd not shared with the others, but then, they had not been witness to his steady decline in the way that Zorion had.
“I could fetch a physician,” Zorion offered.
Josan's mouth twisted in a bitter grimace. “I don't need a physician. I need a miracle.”
“So you've made your decision, then?” Zorion asked.
Josan nodded. “Tell Ysobel she's won. I'll go with her, for all the good it may do us both.”
To his surprise, his capitulation did not appear to make Zorion happy. Instead Zorion frowned, and stared at the floor of the cabin, as if seeking guidance from the scarred planks.
“There's something you should know before you make your decision,” Zorion said. “Two ships entered the harbor a few moments ago. They bear the colors of the Ikarian navy.”
“The mercenaries are here?” Josan pushed himself up, swaying as he tried to stand.
“Easy,” Zorion said, grasping his forearms and lowering him back down when it became clear that Josan's legs would not support him.
Josan flushed, humiliated anew by his weakness.
“They don't have the look of pirates,” Zorion said. “They could be exactly what they seem to be, though what brings them this far east is a mystery.”
It was possible, if unlikely, that they had come looking for him. Even if not, if they were true navy vessels, then perhaps he was no longer at Ysobel's mercy.
Though he must first find a way to speak to their captains. Hopefully there would be at least one of those he had helped train—otherwise, it might be difficult to convince them that the frail man dressed as a common merchant was indeed their emperor.
“Bring their captains to me,” Josan said. “I will know if they are my men or impostors.”
He held his breath, knowing that Zorion held his fate in his hands. He could not help but wonder at the impulse that had prompted Zorion to tell him of the Ikarian ships. If he'd kept silent, Josan would have sailed with Lady Ysobel, never knowing that there might have been another choice.
“How shall I fetch them? They'll hardly believe me if I say I have Emperor Lucius aboard,” Zorion said.
“Tell them the truth,” Josan said. “Tell them that there've been reports of pirates masquerading as Ikarian ships, and you want their help. If they are mercenaries, they'll come because they need to find out what you know. And if they're not, then they'll come because that is their duty.”
“And what will you say to them?”
“Whatever I must,” Josan said, growing impatient. “I will not argue with you. You were the one to bring me this news. Summon them or not, it is up to you. But I'll wager even Lady Ysobel will want to know what these captains know, and I am the only one who can get that information for you.”
“I can recognize a mercenary,” Zorion said, but his tone was mild.
“And if the mercenaries and my navy are working together, how will you discover that?”
“There's that,” he admitted. “Very well, I'll send them a message. If they come, they come. If not, at sunset I'll give Lady Ysobel your answer.”
“Thank you,” Josan said.
He felt like a condemned man given an unexpected reprieve. Hope returned, but it was almost too painful to bear.