Chapter 7

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Lady Ysobel watched from the foredeck as the hoist swung the last load of crates into the Swift Gull’s main hold. From where she stood, she could not see what was happening below, but mere moments later the empty cargo net was raised again, indicating that her sailors had unloaded and stowed the cargo with the practiced speed of a well-trained crew.

“That was the last of them,” Captain Zorion said.

“I know.”

“There’s a favorable tide tonight, and good weather…” His voice trailed off as she turned to face him.

“I know that, too.”

Zorion was not merely one of the captains in her employ, he was a friend—in fact, her oldest friend. He had entered her service more than ten years ago, when her aunt Tilda had seen fit to chart one course to serve two ends—gifting her favorite niece with a captured pirate vessel and sending along her favorite captain to serve her niece, so that Tilda would be free to take him as a lover.

A fever had taken Tilda from them, but the bonds she had forged had outlasted her death. Zorion’s wisdom helped guide Ysobel from novice ship owner to master trader, with all the privileges and responsibilities that entailed.

Zorion knew Ysobel better than anyone. Better than the young men who sometimes graced her bed, better even than her own father. In the past he had never hesitated to offer his advice, nor to point out when she was behaving foolishly. She knew the only reason he held his tongue now was that he did not need to speak. There was nothing that he could say that she had not already told herself a dozen times over.

It was just over a month since she had testified before the council. As each day dawned, she was confident that this would be the day that she was finally released by the council, free to leave Sendat and resume the life she was meant to lead. The arrival of the Swift Gull in harbor had seemed an omen that her fortunes were about to change, and she had spent long hours in conference with Captain Zorion, plotting her next voyage and negotiating their cargo.

Time spent in harbor was coin wasted, and the federation rightly boasted that no harbor in the world made quicker work of supplying ships, or of loading and unloading cargo. The repairs to the Swift Gull’s rigging had been completed yesterday, and with the last of the cargo on board, she was ready to sail tonight, a mere four days after she had arrived.

Her ship was ready, but Ysobel was not.

A freshening breeze brought the clean scents of the open sea, banishing the familiar stench of the dockside. Ysobel closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

“Take the Gull out into the harbor and anchor there tonight,” she said. Space at the wharves was at a premium, and each hour they spent tied to the wharves drained more coins from her dwindling reserves.

“A trader listens to her head, not her heart,” Zorion said, his lips tight with disapproval.

She placed her hand on his forearm, in silent entreaty. “It has been a long time since I lived as a trader. Nearly two years since I last stood on the deck of one of my ships as she sailed from harbor. Give me one more night. If the council does not release me on the morn, you may sail without me, on the noon tide.”

“One more night,” he said. “You know nothing would make me happier than having you on board but—”

“But your duty is to my house. As is mine.”

“I’ll pray to the Sea Witch that the land-bound officials see wisdom,” he said, with familiar scorn for those who chose to make their living on dry land. “And I’ll ask your aunt Tilda to put in a good word with her as well, seeing as she was so devoted to her.”

Ysobel laughed, as he had meant her to do. The contrary Sea Witch brought fortune both good and ill to sailors, who swore by her fickle charms. There were many stories about her, most of which contradicted each other. One thing all agreed upon was that the Sea Witch had a wicked temper and a tongue to match. Much the same could have been said about Tilda when she was alive.

Zorion surprised her with a quick embrace. Ordinarily such gestures were reserved for when they were in private. In public he was careful to treat her with the deference due his employer. From the strength of his arms around her, she knew that he expected that this was good-bye, and that tomorrow he would set sail alone.

“I hope to see you in the morning,” she said. “And if I do not, I wish you fair winds, calm seas, and a profitable voyage.”

 

After leaving the Swift Gull, Ysobel made her way to the western end of the fish market, where street vendors set up stalls to feed dock laborers and those who had no kitchens of their own. By now, most of the vendors knew her—or knew of her at least, since it was seldom that a master trader chose to eat such humble fare. But with every coin she could lay claim to earmarked to support her ships, there was little left over for self-indulgence.

She knew that tonight Zorion would dine better than she, but that was as it should be. Zorion and the sailors aboard the Swift Gull were an asset, their labors bringing valuable coin to her house. They deserved every consideration, while she was merely a drain on her resources. Until the council released her, she could do little. And despite her brave words, she had little hope that the next day would bring a change in her circumstances.

Such grim thoughts did nothing to whet her appetite, and so rather than examining today’s offerings, she simply wandered through the stalls till she found one that was less crowded than the others. She recognized the proprietor, Brice—a white-haired former sailor who had lost both legs below the knees some years ago. His forced retirement seemed to sit easily, as he could often be found chatting cheerfully with his customers, and when no customers were to be found he gossiped with those who minded the adjacent stalls. She’d heard the tale of how he lost his legs at least a dozen times, and each time it was different.

Today it was a pair of apprentices that held his attention, listening with wide-eyed fascination as he spun a tale of his encounter with a beautiful mermaid. Ysobel caught his eye and pointed to the grill. Brice nodded, not missing a single beat in his story as he grabbed a chipped bowl from the stack at his elbow, then filled it with fried fish balls and two stuffed cabbage leaves.

The bowl and metal fork were worth more than the price of her meal, so like the rest of the customers she ate standing up, careful to keep within his sight lest she be accused of theft. The spicy batter disguised the plainness of the fish, while the red cabbage leaves were stuffed with a mixture of goat cheese, beans, and herbs. Cheap fare, but filling. She ate swiftly, finishing her bowl just as Brice reached the climax of this story—this time the mermaid’s jealous lover transformed himself into a shark. She’d heard this variation before, so she handed her bowl back to Brice and left.

Making her way to the seawall that formed one end of the fish market, she climbed the stairs and looked out into the harbor, where she saw that the Gull was already anchored among the others waiting for their sailing orders. With all of her heart she longed to be there, and for a moment she contemplated simply hiring a lighter to take her to her ship, and leaving in the morning with the Gull, whether the council approved or no.

But she knew better than to indulge in such folly. The council jealously guarded its privileges, and they would take swift retaliation against one who flouted their will. And, indeed, from their perspective they were not punishing her. Most traders spent their lives ashore, managing their trading houses and fleets of ships. Her own father set foot on ship only when he needed to travel between the islands.

Sea captains had the freedom to explore. Master traders led lives that were more circumscribed, maneuvering for power.

She had known when she entered diplomatic service that she was giving up the sea, but it had seemed a fair trade at the time. She had imagined spending a year or two in service, then returning to the federation, where her experiences would elevate her to the first rank of traders. But as time passed, she had come to regret her ambitions. Though she wondered whether it was truly her love for the sea that drove her, or merely her contrary nature that made her long for the one thing that was denied her.

Her mood now grim, she descended the stairs and left the market, but not before purchasing a skin of cheap wine. Returning to her apartment just after sunset, she was not surprised to find that there were no messages for her. Throwing back the shutters of her window to catch the night breeze, she placed the oil lamp on a nearby table, then dragged her chair over. She could not see the harbor from here, but she knew where it was. Lifting the skin in the direction where the Swift Gull lay anchored, she offered a silent toast to her crew. Then she opened the skin and drank.

The wine was bitter, tasting of vinegar with an undertone of mud. The second swallow was worse than the first, but she persisted, and after consuming half the skin, the wine seemed merely bad rather than wretched.

Her thoughts turned back to Brice, wondering how he endured his fate. He had once been a sailor, but now he was land-bound, spending his days serving others who lived the life he had once possessed. Such a fate would drive her mad. Indeed, it was driving her mad. But Brice seemed happy enough.

Or maybe his happiness was a deception—an illusion meant to charm his customers, as false as the stories he told. Perhaps Brice pretended to be happy because he could not bear the sympathy of others.

She frowned at the wineskin, feeling restless, as if waiting for something—though she knew not what. She sat by the window in silent contemplation until midnight came, and she knew the tide had begun to ebb.

Only then did she move to her bed. The wine had been a poor choice, for it seemed she had barely fallen asleep when she suddenly awoke, heart pounding as she recalled being pursued by a merman who had transformed himself into a shark. Her limbs shook as if she had indeed been frantically swimming for her life.

She took a deep breath to calm herself, then she heard the sound of someone banging on the door to her apartment.

“Ysobel, awake,” she heard Zorion call out.

“G’way,” a man’s voice yelled, while another called out “I’ll wake the lazy bitch.”

“Enough,” she called, as she scrambled out of her bed. Both Zorion and her disgruntled neighbors quieted.

The oil lamp was still burning, so she raised the wick, the soft light dispelling the shadows. The terrors of her dream were banished by the very real fear of the present. She wondered what tragedy had brought Zorion at this hour.

“The Gull, she is safe? And you?” she asked as she threw open the door.

“We’re safe,” he said, brushing by her and shutting the door behind him before he added, “There’s news from Ikaria.”

“And it could not wait until morning?” Her frantic heartbeats slowed as she realized that there was no immediate danger, but whatever news had brought him here must be grave indeed.

“I wanted you to hear it from me, before the council summons you.”

Ysobel perched on the edge of her cot as Zorion dragged the chair away from the window.

“They’ve crowned him. Emperor Lucius, of the house of Constantin.”

“That’s impossible. Absurd.” Briefly she wondered if this was another wine-fueled dream. Or an elaborate hoax.

But Zorion seemed convinced, and far too solid to be a mere dream. “I heard it myself, from Amitee, the captain of the Liealia, who slipped into harbor after sunset. She’s just back from Kazagan, so I rowed over to ask about conditions there and learned more than I had bargained for.”

“The captain must be mistaken. This is mere rumor put out by Lucius’s supporters, meant to create confusion. Proconsul Zuberi would never stand for it.”

“Captain Amitee swears it is true. She heard it from the harbormaster herself, and saw the official decree, signed by the proconsul and the head of their senate. Lucius has made himself emperor with the help of Nerissa’s ministers.”

“Emperor Lucius,” she said, tasting the strangeness of the words on her tongue.

She had dismissed the prince as a weakling, unable to command his followers, too troubled by his newly discovered conscience to do what must be done. Even Empress Nerissa seemed to agree with this judgment, for she had permitted the rebellious prince to live as a symbol of her mercy.

But it seemed Ysobel had misjudged him. And so had Empress Nerissa. He must have been secretly scheming for months, if not years, all the while playing the role of a naïve and helpless pawn.

“Ikaria must be in chaos,” she said. Even if he had done the impossible and secured the support of Proconsul Zuberi, surely others would be displeased to see one of the old blood elevated to the rank of emperor. They guarded their privileges jealously.

It would be chaos. This was precisely what the federation council had schemed to bring about, when it sent her to destabilize the Ikarian Empire. Belated, but a triumph nonetheless.

“It’s what the council hoped for,” Zorion said, echoing her thoughts. “But it’s a gift of the Sea Witch for certain. No telling if this is good fortune for you, or ill.”

She did not need his words to know that it was too soon to rejoice. Chaos brought danger as well as opportunity. She must steer a careful course in the coming days.

“I thank you for this news,” she said. “And now you should return. You will set sail in less than six hours.”

She sighed as she realized that he would sail on his own. As one of the few who had met Prince Lucius, the councilors would surely wish to hear her impressions of the man. But then, hopefully, they would reward her service by releasing her.

“I’ll return as soon as I can,” Zorion said. “Look for our sails within the month.”

“Safe passage,” she said.

“Safe passage to you as well,” he replied.

 

Morning brought not one but two summonses—one from Lord Quesnel and one from the council itself. With wits that cleared as the sun rose, she realized that she should have sent her own messenger to Lord Quesnel last night, on the off chance that his own spies at the docks had failed to give him early warning. He did not like surprises. He would want to know everything she did, so he could appear all-knowing before the council.

But the summons of the council took precedence over Quesnel’s desire for a private meeting, and thus she followed their messenger to the residence of Lady Felicia. The location of the meeting indicated that this was an informal gathering rather than an official meeting of the council. There would be no scribes to record the debates nor duly mandated observers from the plebeian class.

What was said today would be said in secret, but the decisions made would have the full force of law to back them up.

Ysobel was shown to a small receiving room where two men were already waiting. She did not recognize them, and they did not offer their names. Following their lead, she did not offer her own name, merely sipping the offered tea and watched the play of light over the small garden that she could see just outside the window.

She wondered at the circumstances that had led to Prince Lucius’s rise to power. What had led Zuberi to support the prince’s claim rather than taking the throne himself? How long had the two been scheming together? Was Zuberi’s disaffection with Nerissa a recent occurrence? Or had this plot been simmering before the federation offered its assistance to the rebellious prince? Would Lucius be grateful to the federation for past favors? Or would he see them as betrayers who had abandoned him to Empress Nerissa’s clutches, forcing him to find new allies?

The answer to these questions would shape the federation’s own response. She suspected that the councilors would want her opinion, but she had no guidance to offer them. Since she had not been able to anticipate Lucius’s elevation, she could hardly claim to be able to predict his next move. Only time would reveal his intentions, but she knew this answer would not please the council.

Though, in this situation, ignorance might serve her best. If she were intimately acquainted with Prince Lucius, the council might well find a use for her. But as it was, she had nothing to offer them, so there was no reason for them to insist on her continued presence.

She sat for hours, her well-trained nerves showing no signs of impatience as the sun climbed in the sky. The two men, dressed in the smocks and leggings worn by travelers and master sailors, sat side by side without speaking. In time, a servant arrived to summon the younger of the two men, who left without a word to the man she had assumed was his companion. A short time later the second man was summoned.

Finally, it was her turn. Inwardly she composed herself, stilling her emotions, as if she were about to enter negotiations with an unknown adversary. There must be no sign of weakness or doubt. She had done them a service, one they had only recently acknowledged, but the councilors were not her friends. Not even Lord Quesnel, who was an ally at best, and thus she must be on her guard.

Ostensibly this was a private gathering, but the room she was led to was even grander than the official council chamber. Lady Felicia sat at the head of a long table of polished mahogany, while Lord Quesnel sat at the opposite end. Arrayed between them on the far side were a half dozen councilors, while on the side of the table closest to the door there was a single empty chair.

At Lady Felicia’s gesture, Ysobel took her seat. She nodded respectfully to the other councilors, trying to judge their mood. Lord Quesnel’s face was blank, but his stiff posture hinted at inner tension. Lady Solange, who had taken Quesnel’s place as minister of trade, appeared troubled, as well she might be. Quesnel had been campaigning to resume his former post, and anything that strengthened his hand would weaken hers. Ysobel did not know the others well enough to be certain, but to her eye they also appeared anxious, as might be expected, given the gravity of the news.

Of course most of the councilors were master traders themselves. They might well be choosing to show the appearance of anxiety to hide their true feelings and intentions.

“You do not seem surprised by your summons to this meeting,” Lady Felicia began. “May we assume that you have heard the recent news from Ikaria?”

Ysobel turned her head toward Lady Felicia, as was polite. But this meant that she could no longer see Lord Quesnel’s expression, and she realized that the council seats had been deliberately chosen so he could not offer her any guidance.

She wondered who it was that they were testing. Was it her or Lord Quesnel they sought to keep in check?

“One of my captains brought the news to me late last night. I intended to report to you this morning, but your summons arrived before I could send word.” Her words were addressed to Lady Felicia, but they were meant to appease Lord Quesnel.

Telfor, who had held nearly all the ministerial offices at one time or another in his long life, eyed her with disapproval. He was no longer a minister, but still served as both councilor and private advisor to King Bayard.

“A month ago, you stood before this council and assured us that Prince Lucius would be executed and Proconsul Zuberi would assume the throne. What have you to say for yourself?” Telfor demanded.

“I believe I merely said that Proconsul Zuberi was the most likely of the candidates, based on my knowledge of Ikarian politics. But that knowledge was several months stale, as I informed you at the time.”

“Not good enough,” Telfor said.

“Lady Felicia, may I ask if you are certain of this news? There is no possibility of deceit or confusion?” Ysobel asked.

Lady Felicia nodded. “Two different sources have brought us word of Emperor Lucius’s ascendance, strange as the turn of events may seem to at least some of us.”

“I beg your pardon?” Ysobel did not have to feign confusion.

“You were sent to Ikaria to foster rebellion. You used federation gold and contacts to help Prince Lucius and his followers in their rebellion. Since your return, you have argued that your diligence in carrying out your duties was worthy of reward.”

Ysobel was shocked by Lady Felicia’s frankness. In the past the councilors had been careful to couch Ysobel’s acts in the most general of terms, using the language of diplomacy to mask treacherous deeds.

“While I was in Ikaria, I did my best to carry out the wishes of the council,” Ysobel replied, choosing each word with deliberate care. “And I have never asked for a reward, merely acknowledgment that my service was complete and that I was free to return to my duties to my trading house and my ships.”

She wondered if this was the reason for her summons—they wanted to make it clear that she should expect no reward from them.

“So you knew nothing of Prince Lucius’s schemes, correct?” Lady Solange asked.

Ysobel knew this was the moment of danger. She risked a quick glance toward Lord Quesnel, but his face was impassive, giving no hint of how he had responded when this question had been put to him. She cursed herself and the wine that had fuddled her wits the night before. As soon as Zorion had given her the news, Ysobel should have sought out Quesnel, regardless of the impropriety of the hour.

But it was too late. It was too risky to try to guess what he might have said. She could only answer honestly and hope that he had done the same.

“I reported everything I knew to the council when I returned last year,” Ysobel said. Such knowledge had been deemed too dangerous for written reports, so they had only their own memories to guide them. “As I said at the time, I believed Prince Lucius to be completely without friends or supporters, with the possible exception of his former tutor, Brother Nikos. I was as surprised as any when Empress Nerissa chose to let him live, and I am even more startled by this latest turn of events.”

Some might have been tempted to claim credit for Lucius’s unlikely success, but Ysobel was wise enough to avoid this trap. Claiming knowledge of his schemes now would leave her open to charges that her previous reports to the council had been deliberately misleading, perhaps even treasonous.

“Prince Lucius played you for a fool. And us as well,” Telfor said.

Ysobel kept silent. She could not defend herself from the truth.

Lady Solange smiled. It was not a pretty smile, but rather the grimace of a predator—one whose appetites were about to be satisfied. Lord Quesnel’s face, by contrast, was flushed with anger or humiliation.

In that instant, Ysobel knew she had chosen wrongly. Lord Quesnel must have responded quite differently when asked that same question. He might even have tried to claim credit for Lucius’s ascendance and the civil war that would almost certainly erupt. He must have counted on her being greedy enough to back him.

He had misjudged her. She was ambitious, yes, but not deceitful. She had shaded her answers to the council as carefully as she could, but she would not lie. Not for him, and not even for herself.

“Your comments have been most enlightening,” Lady Felicia said. “I thank you for your time, and must ask that you remain on Sendat lest we need the benefit of your views in the future.”

“I am, as always, at your service,” Ysobel said, rising to her feet and giving a short bow.

She left, knowing that she was leaving behind at least one enemy. Lord Quesnel had been displeased with her before, but they had achieved a fragile truce, one that she had just unwittingly broken.

Lord Quesnel had no reason to love her, and while the other councilors might enjoy his discomfiture, this did not mean that they would willingly take up Ysobel’s cause as their own. She had left behind no allies in that room, only enemies.

She would have to watch her back.