Chapter 18
Ysobel threw open the shutters and stepped out onto the small balcony overlooking the central harbor of Sendat. Every possible anchorage was filled with ships of all sizes and descriptions, their pennants waving in the dawn breeze. She could see smaller craft moving about the harbor and knew these were lighters bringing supplies, and gigs transporting crew between their ships and the shore. Even at this hour, the wharves would already be bustling, the harbormaster’s office crowded as captains petitioned for permission to sail or shift anchorage.
It was only the second week of spring, but the harbor was as busy as if it were full summer. Once she would have counted the ships and reckoned the wealth that they represented, but times had changed. At least half of the ships in the harbor were merchant vessels seconded to the service of the navy. Those trading ships that still ventured into Sendat harbor did so because they were too old or too slow to be impressed into service—or because their houses had already relinquished at least half of their ships.
As had she. While Ysobel herself had been ordered back to Sendat, given leave to resume the life of a master trader, the Swift Gull’s speed and large cargo holds were still being put to use carrying supplies from Melene to the ships that were maintaining the blockade off Kazagan.
She missed Zorion’s support, and the loss of Elpheme still grieved her. She even missed Lieutenant Burrell more than she had expected to, and hoped for his sake that his new commander would prove worthy of his services.
Though she had longed to be set free to live as a trader once again, the price of her freedom had been even greater than she had feared.
She was not the only master trader who had lost a ship, but to her knowledge she was the only one who had destroyed one of her own ships in pursuit of victory. So far, at least, the Dolphin’s sacrifice protected her remaining two ships, which were sailing the eastern routes, bringing precious silks and rare teas back from the Olizons, generating a tidy profit. Her ships were based out of Alcina, where she had leased space in the Flordelis warehouses. She knew better than to instruct her captains to venture into Sendat or, even worse, Melene. If the war continued to go badly, any likely ship would be seized, regardless of how much that house had already given to the war.
Unless, of course, the owner was a member of the council. Each of King Bayard’s councilors had made a show of designating one of their ships for naval service, but such a gesture meant little to houses that owned dozens of trading vessels. It was the smaller houses who were bearing the burden of Quesnel’s war—traders without friends at the Ministry of War, who had no recourse when their finest ships and crews were seized for the war.
In public, at least, Lord Quesnel still proclaimed this a campaign to eliminate pirates. Ysobel was not privy to their discussions, but she would wager that he spun a far different tale for the councilors when they spoke privately.
She had not seen Quesnel since her recall to Sendat, though she suspected that he was behind the orders that had released her from naval service. Some might see it as a reward for her achievements, but she suspected that her dual successes at Gallifrey and Izmar had irritated Quesnel. Rather than destroying her, his plots had only added luster to her reputation for boldness.
She hoped he was proving better at plotting against the Ikarians than he was against her.
Shivering in the chill air, she returned to her small bedroom, where she tied her sandals, then tossed a cloak over her shoulders. Leaving her apartment, she made her way through the narrow streets to the traders’ guildhall. The wooden status boards inside the main door told the true story of the war—paper scripts fitted into the slats listed the names of over a hundred ships in harbor this morning, but only a quarter of them were marked as accepting cargoes. One of the new arrivals was a neutral vessel bearing a cargo of olive oil from Ikaria—though she wagered the news that the ship had brought would be at least as valuable as its cargo.
On the opposite wall a board held the names of the trading houses, along with ivory tokens for each of their ships. Plain tokens indicated ships on the business of their house. Tokens marked with red wax were those ships in service to the navy, while black indicated a ship that had been lost so that claims for compensation could be made by any who had dealings with that ship.
More and more ships were marked in blue, which meant their status was unknown. They could be merely delayed, or they could be lost at sea or even captured. At the end of a year without news, a blue token would be changed to black.
The boards were constantly updated by apprentices as ships arrived in the harbor bearing news, most of it ill. Ysobel scanned the board, having long ago memorized the position of each house so she did not need to pause to read the labels. Flordelis still had two tokens marked in blue—one was the Palmatier, captained by her cousin Nicola. But there were no tokens marked in black, and she took comfort from this.
Her eyes lingered for a moment on the black token next to her name that represented the lost Dolphin. The token would remain on the board until she had settled with the navy on the amount of compensation owed to her house. Their initial offer had been insulting—the worth of a fishing boat, not a merchant vessel that had carried over a hundred crew with cargoes to match.
Her presence in Sendat meant she could badger the clerks in person, and slowly she was grinding them down. Their most recent offer was merely distasteful rather than insulting. Instinct told her that the next offer they made would be one that she could accept.
As for Captain Elpheme’s family, Ysobel had not waited for the navy, instead paying compensation from her own purse. Custom called for a captain to be paid the value of their last contract—Ysobel had trebled that payment. It was enough that Elpheme’s parents could buy shares in a trading vessel if they so chose. If they managed those shares with skill, they could earn enough to ensure a prosperous future for their remaining children. Though whether they would send those children to sea…
“Greetings of the day to you,” Gabirel Erromon said, breaking into her melancholy thoughts. A corpulent man whose girth almost exceeded his height, he spent his nights at lavish parties and his days in the guildhall, gathering intelligence that he could trade for favors. Those favors were needed now more than ever, as his house had relied heavily upon trade with Ikaria.
“Greetings, master trader,” she replied. She did not like him, but he could be useful.
He fell into step beside her, wheezing slightly as he maneuvered his bulk around the crowded tables that filled the central hall, where representatives from each of the trading houses held sway as they recorded contracts, negotiated agreements, or simply paused to exchange the latest gossip. The low hum of dozens of conversations filled the hall.
A few paused in their conversations to call out greetings. A year ago these very same traders had shunned her, but these days her opinions were much sought after. Banned from trading with Ikaria because of her involvement in the doomed uprising, Ysobel had been forced to shift her ships to other routes, developing new trading partners. When the blockade cut off access to Ikarian ports, many traders had been left with broken contracts and warehouses filled with rotting goods, while Ysobel was unaffected.
To an outsider, her shift in trading alliances spoke of intimate knowledge of the council’s plans, or uncanny ability to predict the future. Either made her an asset worth cultivating.
“Have you heard the news of Demetra?” Gabirel asked. “One of their ships arrived last evening—the first of the season from Vidrun.”
“They must have left before the spring moon,” Ysobel observed.
“They sailed with its rising, or so they claim, bringing a cargo of glass from Anamur,” he said.
“An interesting choice.” Generations ago, Ikaria had welcomed refugees fleeing Anamur, the so-called newcomers who had swiftly risen to power, displacing the old blood. Their craftsmen created ornamental glassware that was much in demand, but with the Ikarian markets closed, the house of Demetra had apparently chosen to return to Anamur, where the glassmakers’ craft had originated. Though it would be difficult to turn a profit on such a long voyage.
Gabirel murmured something that might have been agreement, but she refused to be drawn out further.
“I count Demetra of Demetra as a friend and know he would welcome the opportunity to hear your views on the new trading season,” Gabirel said, finally arriving at the point of this encounter.
Nothing he did was without purpose. In return for arranging this meeting, Gabirel would expect a favor from Demetra in turn. She wondered idly how he calculated her worth.
A refusal sprang to her lips, but as she opened her mouth she reconsidered. The compensation from the navy would be enough to lease a ship, and she had yet to find a likely candidate. It would do no harm to sound out Demetra to see if he would be willing to engage in such a venture.
“Demetra is known to me as well,” she said. “Though I thank you for your reminder that I have been remiss in paying the respects due to an old acquaintance. I will let the trader know that I would be happy to meet with him, at his convenience.”
“I am pleased to have been of service,” Gabirel said. With a shallow bow he took his leave, no doubt to rush to a member of the house of Demetra so he could claim credit for bringing Demetra to Ysobel’s attention.
She found her clerk Balere at a small table in the rear of the hall. From the looks of it, Balere was studying a record of yesterday’s trades—useful information to know even if she could not act upon it until her mistress leased a ship and began accepting cargo.
Ysobel pulled up the empty chair opposite Balere.
“Any news?” she asked.
“No news of our ships, as expected,” Balere replied. “The factor for Charlot is buying flax at ruinous prices, hoping to avoid paying forfeit. The house of Roquin holds the contracts, though, so most are reluctant to sell regardless of the price.”
If Charlot could not deliver the promised flax, he would be forced to pay double its worth—a heavy burden on a house that had been strained even before the blockade. If Demetra had no likely ships to lease, she would approach Charlot. If they were sufficiently desperate, they might be willing to take a lower lease payment in return for receiving the entire amount at the start of the lease rather than spread into quarters as was customary.
“I want a list of the ships that Charlot has within the islands and their likely values,” Ysobel said.
“I’ll have it for you this afternoon,” Balere said. “I’ve already started drawing it up but need to confirm the value of their current trading contracts and list of sailing routes.”
“Prepare a similar list for Demetra, Searcy, and another house of your choice,” Ysobel said. It would not do to show too much interest in any one house—letting them see that there were competitors for her favors would strengthen her bargaining position.
“Was there anything else?”
Balere rummaged through the parchment on her desks, then handed Ysobel a scroll marked with the seal of the Ministry of Trade. “Only this,” she said.
Ysobel broke the seal with her thumbnail, unrolling the scroll to reveal a dinner invitation from Lady Solange, the minister of trade. The invitation was for this very evening, which showed Solange was confident that Ysobel was in no position to refuse.
“Do you know anything of the neutral ship Ahwaga that arrived last night, or the news she brought?” Ysobel asked.
Balere shook her head. “I have heard nothing, but I can make inquiries.”
“Do so. I will return this afternoon to see what you have learned,” Ysobel said.
In the meantime she would make her own investigations. Lady Solange had not summoned her lightly—and it was best to be prepared.
Servants circulated between the dining couches, some offering platters of delicacies while one did nothing but constantly fill up their wine cups. Ysobel sipped hers sparingly and noticed that Lady Solange did the same.
It was an intimate dinner party—Lady Solange shared a couch with her husband Millard, who spoke only to comment on each dish as it was presented. Ysobel’s own dining partner was Telfor, who held no official post but was widely known as King Bayard’s most trusted advisor. On any other occasion he would not have paused to greet her, but on this evening they shared plates as if they were equals or old friends.
She suspected that this was meant to be flattering—to lure her into confidences by presenting the illusion that she belonged in such rarefied company. But Ysobel knew that this was not a sign of true regard—if Lady Solange had wished to demonstrate her esteem, she would have held a large gathering where all might witness the favors that she bestowed upon Ysobel. This gathering was not a sign of any affection for Ysobel but rather a sign that Lady Solange wished no witnesses to what it was they were to discuss.
Ysobel’s belly clenched with nervousness though she knew her features reflected none of her unease. She nibbled delicately at each dish, consuming just enough for politeness’ sake. Finally, they were left with sweet wine and dishes of nuts roasted in honey. Ysobel repressed a smile as the reserved Telfor scooped an entire handful of nuts and began dropping them into his mouth one by one, much as a boy presented with a favorite treat.
“Lady Solange, what news have you from Ikaria?” Ysobel asked, after the last of the servants had withdrawn.
“You waste no time,” Telfor said, punctuating his remark by cracking a nut between his teeth.
“There are others you could have invited for pleasant discourse, and I doubt that Lady Solange needs my opinion on the skills of her chef. That leaves Ikaria as the only reason for my presence—and the ship that arrived last night.”
“Indeed,” Lady Solange said. “The news from Ikaria was…unexpected.”
Balere had been unsuccessful in her inquiries, and Ysobel’s investigations had been similarly fruitless. Rumors from Ikaria should have been swirling, but surprisingly there were none. She’d spent a frustrating afternoon at the docks, lightening her purse, until she realized that it was the very absence of rumors that told the tale.
“The captain had nothing to tell you,” Ysobel said. “No news worth mentioning because there is no civil war. Emperor Lucius remains on his throne, and by all accounts holds the loyalty of his people.”
“It is perplexing,” Lady Solange said.
“You may recall that I warned the council against underestimating him,” Ysobel said. “We misjudged him once and must take care not to do so again.”
It still rankled that she had been taken in by his pretense—judged him a coward, completely under the thumb of those who sought to use him. He had manipulated her, just as he continued to manipulate those around him.
“The Ikarian navy will not allow the blockade to pass unchallenged,” Ysobel added. “Commodore Grenville cannot hold them off forever.”
“An interesting position,” Lady Solange said. “Considering that you are one of the few houses that has not had to pay a forfeit for lost contracts.”
“I have already lost one ship. I do not wish to lose another,” Ysobel said. “And if it comes to war, it will profit no one.”
It was as blunt as she dared be, for all knew that Lady Solange’s house was profiting from the blockade by virtue of her contracts to supply the navy. Her former rival Lord Quesnel also had much to gain, as he used his position as minister of war to buy captured ships at prices far below their true worth.
But true war was a different matter. The last full-scale conflict between Ikaria and Seddon had cost the federation dearly, as she had lost control of most of her foreign colonies. Entire trading houses had been obliterated, their surviving members forced to beg for refuge in other houses, forsaking both name and family.
If war came, there would be those who profited. Even the greatest of calamities could be turned to someone’s advantage. But the survivors would need someone to blame—and it was unlikely that those present could remain in power, after bringing destruction down on their countrymen.
“Quesnel assures the council that it is only a matter of time before the emperor is toppled. Lucius is too busy securing his own power to move against us,” Telfor said. His face was unreadable, giving no hint of his true thoughts.
“Quesnel is a fool,” Ysobel said. “We have given Lucius what he needs—a common enemy that will unite his people. They will set aside their own concerns to move against us.”
There were no murmurs of disagreement.
“They may have already done so,” Solange said. “The captain held one bit of news confidential—the Imperial Navy left its winter harbor two weeks before the first day of spring. They were weighed down with men and provisions.”
“Where did they go?”
“They steered a course for open sea,” Solange said.
This, too, was unexpected. The Ikarian navigators always kept land within sight. If they headed for open sea, it could only mean one thing—they meant to make sure that any watchers did not know their ultimate destination.
“Where are they going?” Ysobel mused aloud.
“I was hoping you could tell me,” Solange replied.