Chapter 19

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Josan hated sailing. He hated ships. He hated the whole of the great basin, and every wave upon it.

If there had been room for any other emotion within him, it would have been hatred for Septimus as well. Josan had elevated Septimus to the rank of admiral, and in return Septimus was doing his very best to unman his emperor.

“Any change?” Septimus whispered.

“The emperor is still indisposed,” Seven replied. Younger than the other functionaries, he had volunteered to accompany the emperor on this journey, a decision he was no doubt regretting.

“The emperor wishes to die in peace,” Josan said. He opened his eyes to glare at Septimus, whose windblown hair and reddened cheeks spoke of time spent up on deck. Septimus, who had always looked vaguely ill at ease in court silks, appeared in his element on the sea.

Josan could not say the same.

“You will feel better if you come take the air,” Septimus said. He had repeated the same speech at least twice a day since they had left Karystos.

“Perhaps later. After the storm passes,” Josan said, closing his eyes as Seven laid a cool cloth across his forehead. He clutched the rail on the side of the bed as the ship rocked beneath him. No matter what he did, he could not ease into the rhythm of its movements.

He had considered himself an experienced traveler, who had traveled the length of the great basin from Ikaria to Xandropol, in accommodations far less luxurious that those available on an admiral’s flagship. But this was not his stomach in rebellion, it was Lucius’s, and the prince was proving a poor traveler indeed.

“Storm?” Septimus’s voice rose in puzzlement. “It is as fine a sailing day as we could wish for, with a steady wind from the west quarter. We’ve had nothing but fair weather since we left Karystos. My sailors say the emperor’s luck sails with us.”

“And will they say the same when they see me vomiting over the side?”

Septimus wisely said nothing.

Josan opened his eyes again. “How far away are we?”

“Five days, perhaps four if the weather continues to favor us,” Septimus said.

Josan pushed himself into a seated position, half-leaning against the wall of the cabin. He bit his tongue as a wave of nausea swept through him.

Lucius had not made his presence felt since the first signs of illness had shown itself. It was his custom to flee misery, and Josan could not blame him. Though perhaps something of Lucius’s presence still lingered—though it was difficult to believe that one man could command the weather.

It was far more likely that the fair weather was a natural phenomenon.

And if he felt this ill on a fair day…

Josan swung his legs over the side of the bed, and Seven tied on sandals with soles of roughened leather that would not slip on the deck. As Josan moved to stand, Seven held his left arm and Septimus his right.

He stood, slowly, feeling his legs tremble as if from long illness. Bile rose in his throat, and he hastily swallowed. After a long moment, it subsided.

“Walk with me,” Josan told Septimus. “I will take the air and you can tell me again of your plans for the Seddonian fleet.”

Septimus had been right; the steady breeze made Josan feel better, even as it chilled him through the heavy woolen cloak he wore. The sailors on deck scattered as he approached, uneasy at the presence of the emperor in their domain.

This was not the imperial sailing ship, whose crew was well used to ferrying the imperial family between Karystos and their summer retreat on Eluktiri. This was a warship, with all that entailed. An emperor was as out of place as a dancing bear.

Emperors ruled from the palace at Karystos. Occasionally one ventured into the field to lead their armies—safely from the rear, of course. The first Constantin had been such a war leader, as had Aitor I. But no emperor sailed to battle—the risks were considered too great.

Josan had expected Zuberi to forbid him to accompany Septimus on this expedition. And, indeed, Zuberi had at first refused to consider the idea but had gradually allowed himself to be won over.

Despite months of training, Josan was still the best navigator they had, able to perform the calculations in a fraction of the time that it took the naval officers. And only Josan understood the theory behind their new weapons, though naturally Septimus’s men had learned to operate them. Still, these reasons, compelling though they were, should not have been enough to sway Zuberi.

Unless, of course, Zuberi had his own reasons for wishing the emperor gone from the capital. The truce between them had held all winter, but they were merely temporary allies. There was no friendship, and little trust between them. Zuberi might have allowed Josan to go because he knew that the emperor’s presence might mean the difference between success or failure.

Or he might have given Septimus a second set of orders—meant to ensure that the emperor did not return. Whether a martyred hero, or lost in a tragic defeat, it would be easy for Septimus to dispose of him. Zuberi would lead the public mourning, and, with his newly restored health, assume the throne that many thought should have been his all along.

A death at sea would be far more merciful than a slow extinction at the hands of the chief torturer. Josan grinned as he realized that, in his current misery, he would offer no resistance if Septimus were simply to push him over the rail. Though surely Septimus was enough of a tactician that he would not waste any advantage until after they had confronted the Seddonians.

“You find humor in the federation’s standard line of battle?” Septimus asked.

Josan shook his head. “A passing thought, no more,” he said. “Continue, I am listening.”

 

Betrayal was easier the second time, Josan mused. Of all the lessons he had learned since agreeing to become emperor, it was this that most surprised him.

He had agonized for days over his decision to reveal the secrets of the Learned Brethren—torn between his duty to the empire and the oaths that he had sworn. Even the knowledge that these were his very own discoveries, secrets he himself had brought to the brethren, was not enough to assuage the guilt that had haunted him.

The second betrayal had been easier.

Josan stood at Septimus’s side, watching as the nervous sailors poured heated pitch into the cauldron.

“Careful,” he warned, as some of the pitch slopped over the sides. There was no room for mistakes—the final concoction would pose as grave a danger to their own ship as it did to their enemies.

He tasted the dampness of the air on his tongue as the sailors carefully measured the volatile powder. “Another quarter measure,” he said.

The sailor looked at Septimus, who repeated the order.

For centuries, the secret of the Burning Terror had been lost—to all save the Learned Brethren. It had taken time for him to realize that the navigational secrets he had shared would not be enough to ensure their triumph over the federation’s fleets. But once he realized the problem, he had barely hesitated before plundering the collegium’s treasures for a second time.

He wondered if this was how Brother Nikos had begun his descent into treachery—choosing expediency over virtue once, then again, until he became so accustomed to it that he could see no other way.

It would be an interesting question to pose to Nikos, but Nikos had left Ikaria over the winter, taking the overland route to Kazagan from where he could catch a ship to Xandropol in the spring. Ostensibly Nikos journeyed on the business of his order, but all knew that Zuberi had given his erstwhile ally a choice between voluntary exile or imprisonment.

Brother Thanatos was the new head of the collegium, chosen by his peers and confirmed by the emperor. It was unclear how much the brethren knew about Nikos’s dabbling in treason, but the selection of Thanatos as their head signified a wish to return to the old days, when scholarship, not politics, had been the focus of the order.

Josan had respected their decision, then had promptly dragged the order back into the realm of the political when he had scoured the libraries looking for weapons they could use against the federation. The brethren had claimed no such knowledge, but an afternoon’s diligent searching had yielded the tome he sought.

He knew the brethren wondered about his intimate knowledge of their treasures—for while Brother Nikos had been Prince Lucius’s tutor, it was also well-known that Lucius had been an indifferent scholar at best. The detailed knowledge the emperor possessed could only have come from one of the monks. They would be casting suspicious eyes upon one another, wondering which of their number had betrayed them.

Their suspicions would be correct, but they would never find the traitor. No one would think to cast suspicion on a man whom they believed dead for the past eight years.

A sailor, wearing leather gloves to protect his hands, picked up a wooden paddle and slowly began to stir the mixture. Josan leaned forward, inspecting its color and texture. It appeared a trifle thicker than in his experiments and he fretted, wondering how much the damp sea air had changed the elements.

He leaned too close and coughed as he breathed in noxious fumes. He took a hasty step back, Septimus’s hand grasping his shoulder to steady him. Lucius’s body had ceased its endless vomiting, but he still staggered around the deck with less grace than a newborn goat. If it were not for Septimus, he would have fallen a half dozen times already.

“It is ready for your blessing,” the sailor said.

Josan sighed. Try as he might, he could not convince the sailors that the deadly concoction had nothing to do with magic. Even Septimus—who had readily accepted his teachings in the art of navigation—viewed these preparations askance, whispering a prayer to the old gods when he thought himself unobserved.

Or perhaps it was not the taint of sorcery that Septimus feared, but rather the power that Josan was about to unleash.

“See? The enemy has formed into two rows, as I predicted,” Septimus said, pointing toward the waiting federation ships.

“Are our ships ready?” Josan asked.

Septimus conferred with his lieutenant, who was observing the signalers on the deck of each ship. “They are ready.”

The Ikarian fleet consisted of two dozen ships—selected from the largest in their navy. Half of them held engineers whom Josan had taught to make the Burning Terror. These would form the front line of battle. The remaining ships were crammed with armed sailors who would form boarding parties as needed.

Naval tactics were simple in theory. When two enemy ships met, the weaker of the two would attempt to flee. If it could not flee, the two ships would maneuver for advantage. A heavy ship might attempt to ram its opponent and sink it. Or, if a prize was sought, once the ships were in close range, grappling lines could be used to bring the two ships together, and boarding parties would stream across. Such battles were usually won by the ship with the larger crew.

The theory was simple, but execution was not. A captain had to take into consideration the wind, weather, seas, and hazards such as shoals. The difficulties were multiplied when more than two ships were involved. In large-scale actions, your own ships could prove as much a hindrance as the enemy’s.

A ship could give itself an advantage by installing ballistae, which were used to hurl lead balls, or linked chains to foul an opponent’s rigging. Such tactics were useful only at close range, in preparation for boarding.

But Josan had found a new use for them.

As they approached the federation ships at the mouth of the Naryn River, Josan knew that the Seddonians must be feeling confident. They held the advantage in numbers, and their ships were more maneuverable, able to tack in the slightest breeze. The sudden appearance of the Ikarian fleet would have surprised them, but they had aligned themselves in good order, showing no signs of panic.

When Septimus had outlined his plans, he had expected to find only a small detachment here—perhaps a half dozen ships at most. Instead they had encountered a large force. Too big for guarding the river, it was either the vanguard for an invasion of Kazagan, or perhaps they were en route to challenge Ikarians in their home waters. What would have been a disaster under other circumstances was a stroke of luck. The more ships they faced, the more witnesses there would be to carry the tale.

The formula for the Burning Terror included a rare earth that was far more precious than gold. Every speck they’d been able to seize was being carried aboard this fleet. They had only enough for two engagements—perhaps three if they were frugal. They needed decisive victories that would cow the Seddonians into surrender before anyone realized that their supplies were limited.

Josan’s hands clenched on the railing and he drew a deep breath as their ship sailed ever closer to the enemy. What had been a vague mass of ships separated into individual vessels. He could see their sails and the signs of purposeful activity on their decks.

The wind favored the Ikarians, blowing from the north, while the Seddonians were arrayed to the south of them, with the Naryn River and the coastline of Kazagan in the distance behind them.

“If the wind changes,” Septimus murmured, so low that only Josan could hear.

“It will not change,” he said, then wondered why he felt so confident. Perhaps there was magic at work. Or more likely it was simply it his own desire speaking—if the wind changed, they would surely fail.

Josan’s heart pounded as they drew ever closer to the enemy ships. Finally, Septimus was satisfied.

“By your leave,” he said.

Josan nodded, his mouth so dry that he could not speak.

Septimus turned to address his crew. “In the name of Emperor Lucius, who honors us with his presence, we will destroy the treacherous rogues who foul the shores of our trusted Kazagan allies,” he bellowed, in a voice that could be heard from one end of the ship to the other. “Today we will achieve a victory that will be celebrated for generations to come.”

The sailors cheered, by rote rather than with any real enthusiasm. Only the engineers and the sailors chosen to assist them had ever seen the new weapons demonstrated. The rest were trusting in the skill of their officers and the courage of an emperor who was so confident in victory that he had come in person to bear witness.

He knew their eyes were upon him. Josan did not know how to wear the semblance of courage, so he assumed a mask of boredom instead, as if any outcome other than victory was unthinkable.

At Septimus’s signal, the lead ships reefed all but a single sail, slowing their movement.

The ballistae were cocked, and a sailor dipped the first of the rag bundles into the concoction, then carefully loaded it in the bowl of the ballista.

“Aim for the center ship, with the commodore’s pennant,” Septimus said.

Josan held his breath as the weapon was fired. It tumbled through the air, an unremarkable ball of white. He strained his eyes, but could not see where it landed.

“A miss,” the lieutenant advised Septimus. The gears under the ballista were hastily adjusted, and then it was loaded again. The second shot seemed to miss as well, and Josan felt the first stirrings of panic. The most powerful weapon in the world would be useless if it could not reach its target…

Then he saw it. A small orange glow on the deck of the enemy ship. A fire so small that it could seemingly be smothered with a blanket. In a moment the ball doubled in size and then doubled again, racing hungrily across the deck as a second missile struck.

Septimus stood by his lieutenant, who bellowed orders that Josan heard but did not comprehend. He had eyes only for the sight in front of him, as one after another, the federation ships began to burn.

The Burning Terror clung to whatever it touched. It could not be quenched by water or extinguished by beating it with rags. It would consume everything it touched until there was nothing left to feed upon. What happened when it fell upon a man’s flesh was something he did not want to imagine.

He heard Septimus’s sailors cheering, chants of “Septimus” and “Hail Emperor Lucius” nearly drowning out the distant cries of terror from the federation ships. The Seddonians’ disciplined ranks dissolved into chaos as those ships that had been spared in the initial volleys fled, abandoning their hapless comrades. Sailors leapt from the burning decks of their ships, but no comrades would pause to rescue them.

Septimus approached, forgetting himself in the excitement of the moment as he clapped his emperor upon the back. Josan rocked forward with the impact, catching himself against the rail.

“By the grace of the triune gods, it’s working,” Septimus said.

Josan forced himself to smile, though he could not share in the excitement.

“By your leave, I will order our ships to seize those enemy vessels that are still in range,” Septimus said. “Some may escape, but I doubt the rest will offer any resistance once we close with them.”

“What of the men in the water?”

Septimus shrugged.

“We cannot leave them there,” Josan insisted.

“If it is a choice between drowning or being hanged as pirates…”

The empire was not yet ready to declare war, so they had borrowed the federation strategy of declaring the enemy to be pirates, and pirates had no protection. Indeed, the law commanded that they be executed as a warning to others. Josan had known this from the start. But faced with the sight of men struggling in the water, he reconsidered his decision.

“Save the sailors,” Josan said. “Set them ashore, so they may carry word of what we have done here today. You may hang their officers as you will.”

“As you command, my emperor.” With a hasty bow, Septimus began calling out orders, and his lieutenant started signaling the other ships.

Josan wanted to return to his cabin, but he forced himself to stand where he was, to bear witness to what was being done in his name. Hours later, as the sun set, the last of the surviving federation sailors was taken aboard an imperial ship. Septimus had refused to allow any prisoners on his flagship, out of concern for the emperor’s safety, but had assured him that the ordinary sailors would be spared, told that their lives were a gift of mercy from Emperor Lucius himself.

Later that night, Septimus brought him the tally. Seventeen federation ships burned to their waterlines and sunk—more than half of their force. Nine ships captured, and two more pursued until they wrecked upon the shoals. Only five ships escaped—mainly smaller vessels that had been allowed to flee in favor of richer prizes.

By contrast, only a handful of Ikarian sailors had been killed when they boarded the enemy ships—most of the federation ships had simply surrendered. They had come close to losing one of their ships when a missile ignited while still in the ballista, but a quick-thinking sailor had chopped the arm of the ballista free and thrown it overboard before the fire could spread.

It was more than a victory. It was a rout—the complete and utter destruction of their enemy.

Josan dismissed Septimus and retired to his cabin, though he knew he would not sleep. It was exactly what he had hoped for, yet success had a bitter taste. What he had done could not be undone.

The emperor had brought victory to his people, while the monk had dishonored himself. Josan had once called himself a peaceful scholar and prided himself on his pursuit of knowledge. The man he had been would never have betrayed his order by teaching their secrets to another.

He thought back to the day when he had killed the assassin sent to murder the man who wore the body of Prince Lucius. That day marked the last when he could honestly claim to be a scholar. Every choice since then had taken him further and further away from the values he had once held dear.

Josan no longer recognized the man he had become. What difference was there between himself and Brother Nikos? Both had perverted the knowledge of the brethren to their own ends. Both had sought power—and could he honestly say that his goals were any nobler that Nikos’s?

At the time, each choice had seemed inevitable, but it was only now that he realized how far he had strayed.

He wondered what he would do, the next time he faced a challenge. Could he trust his own judgment? Or would the day come when he could no longer recognize the difference between good and evil?