Chapter 17
After Zuberi left, Josan continued his studies, waving off the pleas of his servants that he stop to eat and rest. As their requests grew firmer, so, too, did his refusals. Finally, only Eleven, the oldest of the functionaries, was left, along with a young boy to tend the lamps. The boy, at least, had the good sense to fall asleep. When Eleven went to shake the boy awake, Josan demurred. “I will call him when I need him.”
Eleven merely grunted, settling back down on his cushion. The only sounds were the soft hiss of the burning lamps, punctuated by the boy’s snores and the sound of Josan’s pen scratching across parchment.
The journals were harder to read than he had expected. The handwriting was clear, but the words were not. They were filled with abbreviations and references to works that he no longer possessed. It was the language of scholars, one that he had not spoken for eight years.
He dimly remembered his journey to Xandropol, and his months of study that had culminated in the observations recorded in these journals. But he could not remember what it felt like to be that man—to unlock the secrets that the federation traders had so jealously guarded. The man who had written these journals seemed a stranger to him—distanced not just by the passage of years but by the sum of his experiences.
The monk who had gone to Xandropol had been a brilliant young scholar, already hailed as one of the finest minds of his generation. But for all his knowledge, the monk had been innocent—heedless of the wider world around him. He had maintained that innocence during the long sea voyage back to Ikaria, eager to share his knowledge with his brethren. But instead of the respect of his peers, he had returned to find Ikaria in the midst of rebellion and been betrayed by the very men he had trusted.
Josan shook his head to clear it of such bitter thoughts. It would not do to dwell on the past. Zuberi had given him only five days to relearn what it had taken him months to master. He could not afford to waste any time on self-pity.
Use Aeneades rev Great Map, div 12 sec, exc W o Tarsus, he read. Well that seemed clear enough. There were a number of versions of the map of the great basin which showed the sea and the countries that surrounded it. Aeneades’s version was not the most popular, but this must be the version that the Ikarians used, or the closest one that could be found to it. He sifted through the pile of parchments in front of him until he found the list of references and added Aeneades’s map to it. As soon as daylight arrived he would send the servants to scour the imperial libraries for the books he required.
The collegium would have what he needed, of course, but he could not go back there. It would take a full complement of Petrelis’s guards to force their way into the collegium, and even then there was no guarantee that the books that he sought would still be there. If Nikos realized what Josan was researching, he would have removed any references that could help the emperor. He might have even ordered them burned.
The wanton destruction of knowledge was considered the ultimate sin that one of the brethren could commit, next to the sin of knowingly spreading false knowledge, and both were punishable by expulsion from the order. But Nikos had shown himself a man without honor. He would not hesitate to destroy the collegium itself if it preserved his power.
Which made it all the more vital that Josan succeed. Only once Nikos was defeated would the collegium be safe.
“The weather, what is it like?” Josan asked.
Eleven jerked his head up. “Highness?”
“The weather,” Josan repeated. “Is it fair? Cloudy? Can the stars be seen?”
“Boy,” Eleven called. “Boy!” he shouted again.
The boy sat up, rubbing sleep from his eyes. He picked up the jug of lamp oil and advanced toward Josan’s desk.
“Run to the terrace and tell us what the weather is like,” Eleven ordered.
The boy, still carrying his jug, ran out of the emperor’s sitting room and down the hall. Only after he left did it occur to Josan that he could simply have arisen and crossed to the window to see the weather for himself.
In a few moments the boy returned.
“It’s raining,” he said, panting slightly. “And it’s a cold night.”
“Thank you,” Josan said absently. It did not matter; he could not make true observations until he had a sextant and glass.
The boy’s wide-eyed stare reminded him that an emperor did not acknowledge the presence of such a lowly one, and most certainly did not speak to him. In trying to remember the man he had been, he had forgotten the role he must play.
He could not afford to make that mistake again. If Zuberi or Demetrios had witnessed his lapse, they might well wonder about their emperor’s unusual behavior, and he could not afford to rouse their suspicions.
“Check the lamps, then send for hot tea and sweet rolls for the emperor,” Eleven ordered, having apparently decided that the emperor required sustenance to clear his wits.
Josan turned the page, reaching the end of the first journal. He had not understood the whole of it, but enough for a start. He stretched his arms out before him, then off to his sides, feeling the distant aches of a body held too long in the same position. Then he picked up the second journal and began to read.
Lucius was bored. Ever since their visit to the collegium, it had been Josan in control of their body. Lucius had been present for the confrontation with Zuberi. Then, having no interest in scholarship, he had let himself slumber as Josan began his studies.
When Lucius had surfaced the next morning, Josan was still in the same position as he had left him. The only difference was the size of the piles of books and parchment before him, and the bright sunlight that had replaced the lamplight of the earlier evening.
Lucius could feel his body protesting the lack of sleep and the aches from hours spent seated in a chair without moving. It was an itch under his skin, one that he could not scratch. He could not take control of their shared body, could not take the risk of displacing Josan’s consciousness. The monk was the only one who could master the knowledge that would save them both.
Lucius understood the necessity, but chafed at its restrictions. He tried to return to unconsciousness, but he could not lose himself in the false sleep of unknowingness. Perhaps because he had not truly taken control of his body, neither could he truly release it.
Instead he was forced to wait, a silent observer, as Josan spent the day at his desk, alternating between frantic studying and barking orders at his servants. Here, at least, Josan behaved as an emperor should, brusquely ordering Ferenc to ignore his other duties in favor of making clean copies of mathematical tables, and sending the functionaries scouring through the palace and ministries for the books he needed. The imperial jeweler was summoned, his dignity affronted when Josan ordered him to engrave a series of markings on a curved device fetched from the storerooms of the Imperial Navy.
Lucius understood what it was that Josan was trying to do—determine how to calculate precisely the position of a ship at sea, so ships could reliably find the fastest currents and safest passages. All captains knew how to calculate a ship’s position relative to the equator that divided the great basin between north and south, but accurately determining position east or west of a certain point required visible landmarks or the use of sorcery.
Not sorcery, math. And the knowledge of the precise position of the stars. Which formulas I would be able to determine, if you would stop distracting me.
It might as well be sorcery for all the sense Lucius could make of the monk’s scribbled notes, but Lucius kept this thought to himself.
Josan’s thoughts grew impenetrable, a maze of symbols that he could not follow, and Lucius lost himself in a wordless reverie. He drifted, only partially aware until he felt his body jerk to attention.
“Emperor Lucius, or should I call you Lucius the Scholar?”
Zuberi’s voice came from behind him. Lucius could feel Josan’s shock mingling with his own.
It had only been a day since he had returned from the collegium. Josan had not expected to see Zuberi this soon.
“They tell me that you have been at your studies all night and day,” Zuberi said, walking around the desk until he was visible before them.
Careful, do not provoke him, Lucius warned, though he knew that Josan was already aware of the danger.
Ferenc rose, and after directing a stiff bow precisely calculated to include both of his masters, he gathered up his writing case and left. The servants also disappeared, as they did whenever Zuberi came to see Lucius. Though they were not truly alone. At least one functionary would be within earshot, and it was safe to say that there were other spies he could not see. Perhaps even the same spies who had reported his actions to Zuberi.
“Brother Nikos had an interesting tale to tell,” Zuberi said.
Nikos must have realized the importance of the boxes Josan had taken. He had expected to have a few days’ grace, reasoning that Nikos would enlist allies before acting against him. But it seemed he had misjudged Nikos’s anger, or perhaps how much he feared losing control of his puppet emperor.
“Nikos would say anything to serve his purposes,” Josan said. He lifted his eyes to meet the proconsul’s gaze, then deliberately dropped his gaze back down to his desk.
“Nikos tells me that you have a madness within you, and the evidence before me seems to confirm his fears. What other reason could there be for Lucius, the idle wastrel, to have turned devoted scholar?”
Josan shrugged, seeming ready to provoke Zuberi, even as Lucius wordlessly implored him to caution. “I was in exile for seven years, as you may recall. A man has to find some way to occupy his time.”
“So you became a monk?”
Josan flinched.
Zuberi gave a cold laugh. “A monk,” he repeated. “Is that what you claim?”
Demetrios already knows, Lucius reminded Josan. We have nothing to lose.
“Let us say that the secrets contained in these journals are not the only ones that Nikos kept from Empress Nerissa,” Josan said. “For seven years he knew where to find me but said nothing.”
Zuberi slammed his fist down on the desk, and scrolls tumbled off like leaves scattering in the wind. “You lie,” Zuberi said. “One lie after another.”
“We speak the truth. It is Nikos who has lied to you and lies to you still,” Josan said.
“We? You style yourself in the manner of an emperor, but you are a mere pawn, of less use to me than the least of my slaves.”
“You promised me five days,” Josan reminded him. “Is that too high a price to pay for the truth? For knowing whom you can trust?”
Zuberi stared at him, trying to intimidate him by sheer force of will. Lucius tasted their shared fear, but Josan refused to be cowed. He did not even blink as he returned Zuberi’s gaze, measure for measure, until Zuberi finally looked away.
“You have four days left,” Zuberi said. “And then we will see.”
“I will need one of the navy’s captains to assist me, and Admiral Septimus must be recalled once I have proven my tale,” Josan said.
Zuberi shook his head. “Save your breath. Your bold lies will not convince me. In four days we shall see your true measure. And then I will give you cause to regret this insolence.” He strode away, pausing as he reached the threshold. “Nizam has missed his favorite subject,” he called over his shoulder.
Josan’s eyes unfocused, lost in memories that were his own. Lucius felt the nausea welling up and the acrid taste of bile. Josan was paralyzed by remembered fear, so it was Lucius who commanded their body to stand, as he walked away from the desk, over to the table where his long-ignored lunch had been laid out. With trembling hands he poured himself a goblet of stale water and drank it down in swift gulps.
We have nothing to fear, he reminded Josan. Once your calculations are proven, even Zuberi will have to see the truth.
Will he? Or will he use this opportunity to destroy us and Nikos both, eliminating two rivals with a single blow?
To this Lucius had no answer.
The imperial gardens were a peaceful place, the sculpted paths lined with colorful flowers that were changed each season so that there were always fresh blossoms to delight the senses. But tonight there were no colors to be seen, nor perfume in the air, as the blossoms were closed tight against the chilly autumn night.
The watching servants shivered in their cloaks, grumbling under their breath about the madness of an emperor who would not allow a single brazier to be lit, lest it interfere with his view of the heavens. Josan ignored their grumblings, just as he ignored the demands of his own body. He, too, was cold and tired, having slept only a few hours over the past four days. But the sky was clear, and that was all that mattered.
Josan reached over to steady the quadrant as Lieutenant Chenzira sighted along it. “There, you see how the guide star is aligned with the axis?” he asked.
Chenzira nodded, disturbing the carefully positioned quadrant.
“Don’t move your head. Just say yes or no.”
“Yes,” Chenzira replied. “Let me find it again.”
Josan waited as Chenzira once again found the guide star.
“Now, keeping the quadrant steady, move the first marker arm until it is aligned with the Eye of the Gazelle,” Josan said.
He watched as Chenzira complied. He had done this himself last night, but it was not enough that Josan be able to do this. The emperor was known as a magic wielder. To prove that this was mathematics, not sorcery, he had to show that an ordinary man could do the same.
At least Chenzira was willing to try. The first two captains he had been sent had been close-minded, unable to follow even the simplest of explanations. Given time, he might have been able to teach them, but time was a commodity that he lacked.
Ferenc had found Lieutenant Chenzira for him. Like the others, Chenzira was adequate at math, able to calculate distances and his ship’s accounts. But unlike the others he was willing to listen to his emperor’s explanations and follow his instructions, even as it was clear that he did not understand what it was that he was doing.
They had spent the afternoon practicing theoretical calculations, looking up star sightings and performing the calculations required to determine their position. Chenzira had been tongue-tied when summoned to the presence of his emperor, but by the time darkness fell he’d lost his reserve, not even blanching when Josan ordered an evening meal to be shared between them. It might have helped that Josan did not look the part of an emperor. Unshaven and bleary-eyed with lack of sleep, his hands covered with ink stains, he might have been mistaken for Ferenc’s assistant.
Josan talked Chenzira through the process of sighting the next two stars and recording their angles of distance from the guide star. According to his theory, only a single star was needed, but the slightest error in measuring the angle would result in a calculation that could be off by dozens of miles. Given the difficulty of taking readings while on the pitching deck of a ship, two stars were better and three were optimal.
Chenzira finished recording the final sight. “Do you want to check for yourself?” he asked.
“No.”
He had to trust that he had taught his pupil well.
They returned indoors, much to the relief of their escort. The servants brought warmed wine, which Josan waved off. “Later,” he said.
The sat side by side at the large table that had been moved into his sitting room, a copy of Aeneades’s map spread before them.
Chenzira looked at the paper where he had recorded his measurements, then at the blank parchment before him. His hesitation was obvious.
“Start by looking up the Eye of the Gazelle in the chart,” Josan prompted. “Write down the reading in the book next to the reading you have taken, and then do the same for each of the other two stars.”
Chenzira had done this exercise at least a half dozen times already today, but Josan talked him through each step as if it were the first time, reminding himself to be patient. It was not that Chenzira was ignorant, but rather that he was unused to performing these types of calculations. No matter that Josan could have done the whole in his head in the time it took Chenzira to look up and write down his figures. What was important was that each time Chenzira did the exercise, he was faster than he had been before.
At last Chenzira was finished. The results of the final two measurements matched, while the first measurement differed in the final digit.
“What would you do now?” Josan prompted.
“If I were at sea? I’d ignore the first, assuming it was the result of a shaking hand,” Chenzira said.
“And if all three measurements disagreed?”
“I would take their average. Unless, of course, they were wildly different, in which case I would start again with new readings.”
Fair enough.
“So what have you concluded?”
Josan could read Chenzira’s notes, but he wanted the lieutenant to state his conclusions aloud.
“The imperial garden is one degree north, and twenty-seven and a half degrees west of the center point of Sendat.”
The star tables that the Seddonians had devised used the center of the island of Sendat as their base reference, which meant one more conversion was needed.
“Now trace that out on the map.”
The map of Aeneades was divided into sections using the center of the great basin as the central point, rather than Sendat. But the distances were standard, so following the guidelines Ferenc had copied onto the map days before, Chenzira used his protractor to count off the necessary intervals. When he was done, the point of the protractor rested directly on Karystos.
Josan beamed with satisfaction, clapping Chenzira on the back. “There, you have done it.”
“Done what?”
“Proven where Karystos is,” Josan said, wondering at Chenzira’s lack of enthusiasm. Didn’t he realize what he had accomplished? Chenzira was only the second Ikarian to have performed these calculations. Ever. It was worthy of celebration. “Fetch wine for us both,” he called over his shoulder.
“We already know where Karystos is. This proves nothing.”
Josan stared at him in disbelief. “But—the star sightings. The formulas. You did the calculations yourself.”
Chenzira gave him a pitying look. “This will not be enough to convince your doubters. A single measurement is not proof. You could have rigged these calculations to say anything you wished them to say.”
“But that would be lying.”
Chenzira laughed. “I can see why you have driven my uncle mad,” he said. “What man would not lie in order to save his life?”
“Your uncle?”
Chenzira waited as a servingwoman placed two crystal goblets before them, and poured out a measure of dark wine into each. The wine jug was placed on the table, along with a pitcher of clear water.
Disdaining the water, Chenzira picked up the goblet. “To scholarship,” he said.
Josan picked up his own goblet and sipped cautiously. He could not afford to be drunk.
“I am a bastard, but my father is the brother of Lady Eugenia, wife of the proconsul. He has privately acknowledged me as his nephew,” Chenzira explained.
With his connections, if Chenzira had been legitimate, he would have already been a captain in the navy, or more likely appointed to a post in one of the ministries, where he could serve his uncle’s interests while lining his own pockets. Even as a mere bastard, his uncle had done well by him. And he would be expected to be loyal to Zuberi in turn.
Did Chenzira understood what was at stake, or had he merely been sent to distract Josan, to ensure that there was time to train no other in his place?
“So what will you tell your uncle? That the emperor has succumbed to mad fancies?”
He wondered whom Zuberi had chosen to replace him as emperor. Did Demetrios’s elder brother yet live? Was that the reason that he had not heard from his erstwhile ally in the past week? Or had another candidate emerged, the result of secret negotiations while Josan was huddled over his calculations?
He thought frantically but could see no way out of the pit he had dug for himself. He had run out of time.
“Your uncle’s hatred of me blinds him to the truth,” Josan warned. “We need this knowledge to fight back against the federation.”
Chenzira nodded. “I know. I believe you.”
Josan sagged with relief.
“Come dawn, I will convince my uncle to give this method a true trial,” he said. “His affection for me is a slender reed, so we must think of something that can be accomplished in a day, no more.”
Josan had always planned to demonstrate his method at sea, but had assumed that he would be the one to make the voyage. Still, he had no other choice. If Chenzira was to trust him by taking his part, then, in turn, Josan would have to place his trust in what he had taught his student.
“Have yourself taken aboard ship and blindfolded,” Josan said. “Let the captain spend the day sailing, dropping anchor off a familiar shore at sunset. When it is night and no landmarks are visible, you will take your sightings and tell him where the ship is. If you are right, then we will both win.”
“And if I am wrong?”
“Then you were duped by me and will return to tell your uncle as much.”
And Josan would be sent to the dungeons below the palace, where Nizam could once again indulge his twisted desires.
That is, if Josan allowed himself to be taken alive. His summer strolls in the garden had not been entirely idle—he had slowly gathered a collection of foxglove seeds, which had been secreted in his chambers. It had been months since he had carried those seeds on his person, but he would find them tonight and tuck them in the lining of his belt. Given a large enough dose, not even Lucius’s magic could save them.
Or so he hoped. Because the alternative was too grim to bear.
Josan spent the hours till dawn copying the tables that Chenzira would need. Fortunately, he already knew the date, and there was a limited distance that the ship could travel in a single day, so he only needed to copy two of the pages from the almanac. He put the tables in a document pouch along with a scale copy of Aeneades’s map, and, after a moment’s thought, tucked in the calculations that Chenzira had performed that evening as a guide.
Early the next morning, Chenzira came by with the news that his uncle had agreed to a sea trial. He did not say how he had managed this feat, but he must have awoken his uncle at sunrise. A brave man, or perhaps merely anxious to see this to the end.
Josan handed him the document case and quadrant and wished him good luck.
When his clerk Ferenc arrived at the usual hour, Josan bade him make a clean copy of the notes he had assembled detailing each step of the calculations. If Chenzira succeeded, he would need to teach others.
And if Chenzira failed, then Josan’s last act would be to send his notes to Admiral Septimus for safekeeping. Given proper incentive, Septimus might be able to reason out what Josan had uncovered.
Then, with nothing else to occupy his time, Josan retired to his quarters and slept.
He awoke in the afternoon, feeling vaguely sick as he always did whenever he fell asleep during the day. The few hours of sleep that he had managed had done little to make up for the days without. Rather than refreshing him, his mind felt slow and stale, as if his wits were befuddled by wine.
For the first time in days he groomed himself properly, bathing in his chamber and scraping off the scraggly beard. He dressed with care, rejecting one tunic after another, until his attendant suggested a long overrobe of cotton tied with a wide silk sash. After the attendant had left, Josan went to his desk, opening a drawer to reveal a box of ground pigments ready to be mixed into ink. A twist of cotton held what looked like a coarse brown pigment, but were actually foxglove seeds, which he then tucked into the folds of his sash. It was unlikely that anything would happen today, but he would be prepared, just in case.
He visited his study and inspected the copy of his notes that Ferenc had prepared. “Have these sent to Admiral Septimus for his consideration,” Josan said.
“Yes, your highness,” Ferenc said. Though whether he would do so without first checking with Proconsul Zuberi was another matter.
The studies that had consumed his past days held no further appeal, and Josan gave in to Lucius’s urging that they spend the afternoon strolling the grounds of the palace rather than seated at a chair. The exercise warmed his body, and slowly he felt his wits returning.
Lucius stirred within him, or perhaps it was merely an echo of his own worries that he felt. It was tempting to relinquish control of the body to Lucius, but he could not take that risk. If Zuberi were to ask for an explanation of his theory, or, more likely, if Nikos were to challenge his discovery…Lucius would be unable to answer and condemned as a fraud.
At sunset he ate a light dinner in his quarters, then retired to bed, after first tucking the foxglove seeds under his pillow.
He was brusquely shaken awake the next morning.
“Zuberi will see you now,” One said. “Quickly!”
One threw open the shutters revealing a gray, cloud-covered sky, and the sight woke him more swiftly than One’s frantic summons.
Josan had forgotten about the weather. What if it had been stormy at sea last night? If the skies were cloudy, no sightings could be made—but it was doubtful that Zuberi would accept any excuse for failure.
He dressed, blinking sleep from his eyes, remembering only at the last moment to retrieve the poisonous seeds. There was no place for them in the tunic that One handed him, but rather than waste time arguing Josan simply tucked them in his sandal, under the arch of his foot. They prickled a bit as he walked, but he was not limping.
The two guards on duty outside his chambers joined One in escorting him to the council room, then took up their posts outside.
As he entered the council room he saw Proconsul Zuberi, with Brother Nikos seated to his right. Demetrios sat on the other side, opposite Zuberi and Nikos.
There was no sign of Lieutenant Chenzira, nor the captain who had been assigned to supervise Chenzira’s demonstration. Instead, Admiral Septimus sat next to Demetrios. He must have returned to Karystos sometime yesterday.
It was just past dawn, but the four men looked as if they had been awake for hours.
“I take full responsibility for the disaster at Izmar,” Septimus was saying. “But even if I had been there myself, I doubt there was anything I could have done to change the outcome.”
Disaster? What disaster?
Septimus broke off as he caught sight of his emperor.
“We will speak of this later,” Zuberi said.
Meaning that he did not want to expose their disagreements in front of Lucius—or that Zuberi had decided that Lucius was irrelevant.
This did not bode well for Lieutenant Chenzira’s errand.
“Proconsul, have you news from Lieutenant Chenzira?” Josan asked, as he took his seat at the foot of the council table. Perhaps Chenzira was merely delayed.
Zuberi scowled. “The lieutenant has returned and made his report.”
“And?”
It was Septimus who answered. “Captain Matticus sailed a circuitous route and anchored off the southern tip of Eluktiri. According to his report, after an hour of fiddling with his instruments and reckoning his sums, the lieutenant correctly identified his location.”
Josan sighed with relief, and he felt his muscles un-clench. In his mind he heard Lucius’s shout of victory, and he longed to echo it.
“It was a trick, of course,” Zuberi said.
Brother Nikos nodded in agreement. “A good scheme, but you erred when you discarded the first two candidates as unsuitable. You must have been disappointed that the old blood ran so thin in their veins. Tell me, what would you have done if Chenzira had not carried the sorcerer’s taint in his veins?”
Nikos was a poor scholar, but he had his own form of cleverness. With a few words he had neatly planted the seeds of doubt.
“It was no trick. It was mathematics. I could teach any of you to do the same,” Josan insisted. He turned to Admiral Septimus. “Admiral, give me any man in the navy who is willing to learn, and I will teach him to do as Chenzira has done. Think of what that would mean for your navy.”
“It would be a skill worth having,” Septimus said, each word coming as slowly as if it were being torn out of him. Then, with a glance at Zuberi’s red-faced visage, he added, “Though since I have not seen it for myself, I cannot rightly judge whether or not it is mere trickery.”
“It is sorcery,” Nikos insisted. “A scheme devised to discredit me, so as to divide this worthy council.”
Anger welled up inside him—whether his own or Lucius’s, it did not matter. He welcomed its heat.
“You are the one who lies,” Josan said. “You would do anything to keep your place.”
“Enough of this slander,” Zuberi said. “I know one way to prove the truth of your words.”
“How?” He had already done everything he could think of. If Zuberi did not believe his own nephew…
Zuberi smiled. “Let Nizam question you. He will get to the truth of the matter.”
“You cannot mean that.” Josan looked around the table, but neither Septimus nor Demetrios would meet his eyes, while Nikos openly smirked in triumph.
“You have nothing to fear,” Zuberi said. “Unlike the rest of us, your sorcery will keep you alive when a better man would perish.”
“Unless, of course, you are guilty of conspiracy, in which case you will be executed,” Nikos added.
Josan began to shake. He could not do this. He could not endure another round of torture, and Nikos knew this. Nikos knew that Josan would not last long enough for Nizam to prove the truth of Josan’s words. Whether by his own hand or another, Josan would die in those dungeons.
Hatred glittered in Zuberi’s eyes, and Josan finally realized that this was not about the truth of his discovery. It was not even about whether Nikos had betrayed the council and Empress Nerissa before them. Zuberi hated Lucius not for what he had done, but for who he was.
Not simply because he was emperor.
He hates us, Lucius commented.
He envies us.
“It is not me you despise, but my magic,” Josan said, rising to his feet. The recklessness that filled him was Lucius’s, but the reason behind his actions was all his own. Holding his right hand out, palm upwards, he called fire to his hand.
Brother Nikos startled, then said, “Your petty tricks do not impress us.”
Josan moved toward Zuberi. Anger gave rare color to Zuberi’s face, but the rest of his skin was gray, his flesh sunken except where his belly bulged outward as if he were a pregnant woman. “You accuse me of treason, but it is you who are letting your envy blind you to the truth. I am trying to save the empire, while you can think no further than your own misery.”
Brother Nikos reached for him, but as he touched Josan he drew his hand back as swiftly as if it had been burned.
“Guard,” Nikos called out. “Guards!”
But it was too late. Josan had reached Zuberi. From the corner of his eye he saw Septimus leaping to his feet, but even he could not get there in time.
Josan could not stop. If he paused even to think about what he was doing, he would be lost. He let instinct be his guide, instinct and the rage within him that fueled his magic.
Zuberi scrambled backwards in his chair. “Touch me and die,” he said.
“You will kill me anyway,” Josan replied. Pushing aside Zuberi’s robe, he reached with both hands. The silk tunic underneath tore as it if was mere paper.
Zuberi’s distended belly was rigid, skin stretched tight over the tumor that was killing him. Josan put both hands on it, even as Zuberi squirmed under his touch.
“I can do nothing about the foulness in your mind,” Josan said. “But as for your belly…”
He reached. There was no other word for it. He closed his eyes and reached. It was as if he put his hands in warm porridge, or the guts of a freshly slaughtered goat. The tumor was easy to recognize, an oily malignancy that slipped out of his grasp.
He reached again, catching it between both hands and pulled. It broke free with a sucking sound.
Josan opened his eyes. The tumor was the size of a summer melon—a putrid, stinking, lump of flesh that oozed pus from between his fingers.
He felt cold steel against his neck and carefully did not move.
Zuberi’s chest heaved. His hand traced his belly, which was blistered as if from the sun, but showed no signs of wound nor blood.
“Proconsul?” he heard Balasi ask.
“Seize him,” Nikos ordered.
“No,” Zuberi whispered. He touched his belly with his right hand, drew one deep breath, then another. “What have you done?”
Josan straightened upright, though the sword followed his movements. “What needed to be done,” he said. With a flick of his wrist, he tossed the tumor onto the table, then carefully wiped his hands off on his tunic. “Now you are like other men. You may live another forty years or be killed within the hour.”
Demetrios leaned over his shoulder for a closer look at Zuberi’s stomach.
Zuberi abruptly drew his robe closed.
“Guards, leave us,” he said.
“See? He uses magic to gain his ends,” Brother Nikos insisted. “It was as I have said all along.”
But all eyes were on the emperor, not Nikos.
Zuberi caught Josan’s gaze with his own. “I will not thank you,” he said.
“I do not expect thanks, nor favors. I expect you to rule with your head and not be blinded by your fears,” Josan said.
“You swear that you can teach Septimus’s captains how to navigate the seas?” Zuberi asked.
“Any man who can reckon his sums can be taught,” Josan said. “This I swear by the crown of my ancestors.”
Nikos protested. “I will not stay here and endorse this folly,” he said. “Lucius is a madman, who has dazzled you with his paltry tricks. If you listen to him, he will lead you to your dooms.”
“The emperor’s words have been sound,” Demetrios said. “He convinced Commander Kiril to take on the traitor Markos, and it was Lucius who suggested Septimus could bring order to the navy when it was in disarray. I think all here will agree that both choices have served us well.”
Septimus returned to his side of the table, then he and Demetrios both waited until Josan had taken his seat before resuming their own, a show of courtesy that they had seldom before offered to their emperor.
Nikos rose to his feet. “Zuberi, when you come to your senses you can send for me,” he said.
Josan waited until the door closed behind Nikos. “He will make trouble,” he warned.
“Leave him to me,” Zuberi said. “Now tell me, what other secrets is he hiding? And how can we make best use of this knowledge to eliminate the Seddonian threat?”