The final sacrifice, p.13
The Final Sacrifice, page 13
He tried again, straining to reach out, to connect with his limbs. Cursing the monks who had done this to him. To them both.
But there was nothing. He was too weak.
He could do nothing but wait. Wait, and hope that the monk recovered before this body failed them.
And hope that no one decided to see how many more gems their passenger had brought aboard.
It would be simple to kill him—a mere hand over his mouth, and he would die, helpless as any babe.
If only the monk had closed their eyes before he lost control. He had no desire to watch as death approached.
They were two days out of Rauma when his passenger made his first appearance on deck. Captain Zorion watched from the wheelhouse as Josan of Karystos made his way to the prow of the ship, noticing that he clutched the rail with his left hand, and his right leg dragged with each step.
He hadn't been lame when he came aboard.
Edmond, who was first in command after the captain, looked up from the charts to see what had caught Zorion's attention.
“He wasn't at morning meal,” Edmond said. “Nor at midday, or so I have been told.”
Passengers were a rarity on Hypatia. If Josan had been a member of the house of Arles or one of its allies, he would have been served meals in his cabin, or, more likely, invited to join Zorion in the captain's quarters. Those few others who took passage were expected to eat in the watch room with the junior officers, Edmond among them.
“Perhaps the sea has distressed him,” Zorion offered.
“A trader who becomes unwell at sea?” Edmond scoffed.
“He did not claim to be a trader.”
“He speaks the trade tongue as one born on Navar,” Edmond said. “And he wears the clothes of a merchant rather than those of a landsman.”
“Which means nothing.”
“It is not the landsman's sickness. It is some other illness that plagues him,” Edmond insisted.
He was probably right.
“You have our course?” Zorion asked. “Be careful not to let the current pull us too far south. We're headed for Xandropol, not Vidrun.”
“Our cargo is due in Vidrun by the new moon,” Edmond said. “My father will not like it if we break the contract.”
Zorion cuffed the back of Edmond's head for the impertinence. “And your father would like it even less if we turned aside the chance for profit,” Zorion said. “We can bring our passenger to Xandropol and still have the cargo in the warehouses at Vidrun before the new moon.”
“Of course, captain,” Edmond said, ducking his head.
Zorion bit back a sigh. Edmond was a good lad, but he was just that. A boy barely grown into manhood. Too young and lacking in self-confidence to serve as captain, which was why the house of Arles had hired Zorion, who'd been a captain on the Great Basin before Edmond was born.
It seemed to be Zorion's fate to train up the young. Lady Ysobel had been even younger than Edmond when she'd come into possession of her first ship and hired Zorion to take command. She'd sailed that season with him, first as apprentice, then as mate, ending it as first. The next season she'd sailed the first trading voyage as captain with him a watchful first at her side. Returning to the federation, she'd purchased a second ship, starting a fledgling trading house as she captained one ship, while he commanded the other.
He'd done a fine job training her up—he'd taught her everything she needed to know. Including how to release him from her service when he'd displeased her.
And now his duty was to another house. To train this boy into a man and make sure that nothing went wrong on a routine voyage. Which meant he needed to speak to his passenger.
“Likely it is nothing more than a bellyache, from too long spent ashore, indulging himself in port,” Zorion said. “But it does no harm to be certain.”
As he left the wheelhouse, he was approached by Merle, one of the seamen inspecting the spare topsail that was currently spread out on the foredeck.
“Captain, looks like rats got into it since we checked it last—perhaps in harbor,” Merle said, fingering two small tears. “I think we need to check all of the gear stored in that hold.”
A good catch by a conscientious sailor, but Zorion said nothing.
“Captain?” Merle repeated.
“Edmond has the watch—you should discuss it with him,” Zorion said.
“Of course,” Merle said. “Just thought you should know, since you were here and all.”
“Tell Edmond,” Zorion repeated.
He knew why Merle had stopped him. It was not merely because Zorion was walking by, but because Merle, like many of the sailors, had yet to put their trust in Edmond. When faced with an issue that could mean life or death, they would ignore the protocol that said they should speak with the watch officer first, and he would determine what and when to tell the captain.
If it had been Amelie on the watch, Merle would have gone to her without hesitation. But Edmond had still to earn his crew's trust
Time. It would take time, and demonstration of competence. In a way, this was a good test. Removing the gear from the hold, inspecting it, and stowing it back was a labor-intensive task that would require him to rouse sailors who were off watch to help. If Edmond came to Zorion before issuing those orders, it would be a clear sign that he still lacked confidence in his own judgment.
As he made his measured way to the prow, Zorion listened with one ear. Just as he neared their passenger, he heard the bell that summoned those off duty to the deck.
Zorion smiled.
And then felt the grin slip from his lips as Josan turned to face him.
Josan braced himself against the side of the ship, clutching the rail with both arms to steady himself.
“Captain?” His voice was steady, but his face was pale, his eyes sunken.
“My crew was concerned that you might be unwell,” Zorion said. “You have missed your meals today.”
Josan shrugged. “I wasn't hungry.”
“So this is a sudden illness? Or did you know you were ill before we left Rauma?”
If this man had brought a plague aboard his ship—
“I am no risk to you, nor your crew,” Josan said. “My troubles are mine alone. I thank you for your concern, but I assure you it is not needed.”
He released the rail and took a step away, considering the conversation at an end. But Zorion caught his arm, unwilling to let him go so easily.
“It is my concern if you die aboard this ship,” Zorion said. Death at sea was part of a sailor's life, but it was considered bad luck to have a passenger die. Their spirits were said to linger, rejected by the Sea Witch as landsmen, unable to find rest.
Zorion did not believe in spirits, but he knew there were those of his crew who did.
“I will not die.”
“Can you be certain?”
Josan opened his mouth, and then, with a sigh, closed it.
At least his passenger was an honest man.
Zorion took his measure, as if this was the first time they had met. Could Josan have really changed so much in the span of two short days? Or had Zorion overlooked the signs of illness, blinded by the gems that Josan had offered?
He had thought he was taking advantage of a desperate man. He had not realized he was taking advantage of a dying one.
Josan must have sold everything he had to pay for his passage.
“I can put you ashore in Thuridon,” Zorion said.
“No,” Josan said. “I paid for passage to Xandropol, and I expect you to honor your contract.”
“And if you die en route?”
“I will die if you set me ashore.”
Zorion shivered, despite the warmth of the day.
So death was stalking his guest.
“Bring me to Xandropol, as agreed,” Josan said. “If what I have given you is not enough—”
“No,” Zorion said. He did not want to hear this man beg for his life.
It was a terrible burden to be captain, balancing the fate of one passenger against the well-being of his crew and his duty to the house that he served.
Edmond would have turned for shore and set Josan off at the first port they came across.
Edmond would have been right.
But Zorion was far closer to death than young Edmond. He had seen too many fall prey to its clutches, struck down before their time.
He would not condemn another. If there was even the chance that the physicians in Xandropol could cure him . . .
“Your passage is paid,” Zorion said. “Hypatia honors her obligations.”
“Thank you,” Josan said. He looked down at his feet, then his gaze rose back to meet Zorion's.
“If . . . if anything happens,” Josan added. “There is a letter in my pack, addressed to . . . my people. It will tell them what they need to know.”
He'd been about to say something other than “my people.” Family? Or the name of a trading house, as Edmond suspected?
Zorion hoped that he would never have cause to find out.
Chapter 10
Septimus looked over the harbor wall at the ships anchored inside the moles. He categorized them at a glance—from the tiny lighters that ferried goods and people between the ships and shore up to the massive freighters that could sail the length of the Great Basin without needing to stop for provisions. A handful of warships were anchored just beyond the western mole, his own flagship among them. Officially anchored there because space inside the harbor was too valuable to waste on the navy, the warships could rapidly move into position to close off the harbor at need.
Vessels from all of the civilized countries could be seen, though there were fewer federation ships than there had been in times past, when he'd served as harbormaster. Last year, during the undeclared war, there had been none at all. The sight of federation-flagged vessels meant that the truce was holding.
Though if Lady Ysobel had anything to do with the emperor's disappearance, the truce would soon be over.
He hoped it would not come to that. He did not want to go to war. Even with the weapons the emperor had provided, there would be no easy victory. The imperial navy was outnumbered by their federation counterparts, and, in a pinch, any federation merchant ship could be pressed into service. If it came to war, it would be a long, bloody affair.
And if Zuberi became emperor, he would not care how many in the navy perished. While the newcomers had long flocked to the army, which offered prestige and rapid advancement, service in the navy had been the last honorable refuge for the sons of the old blood, who lacked patrons and connections at court.
The old nobility had borne the cost of Prince Lucius's aborted rebellion. Ironically it was those who had remained loyal to Empress Nerissa who still held their commissions in the navy, and thus would be the first to die if war came. Men like himself.
Septimus had accepted the post of admiral not out of loyalty toward Lucius but rather because it was the only way in which he could serve the empire. But gradually he'd grown to respect the new emperor. Lucius had demonstrated his courage by sailing with the fleet, and seen firsthand the cost of war. If Lucius were here, he would not carelessly throw away the lives of Septimus and his men.
But Lucius was missing—and there was no telling what Proconsul Zuberi would do in his absence.
Septimus turned away from the seawall, and began walking back toward the navy's headquarters, which was sensibly located in the lower crescent rather than within the maze of imperial bureaucracies that swarmed the palace compound. He was still surrounded by spies, of course, but even the illusion that he was out from under the constant watch of Proconsul Zuberi was welcome.
Someone jostled his elbow.
“Excuse me,” a voice said.
Then, a moment later, the same voice said, “A thousand pardons, admiral, I didn't realize it was you.”
He turned and saw Captain Chenzira at his side. The bruises had faded from Chenzira's face, but his left arm was still splinted. He had a large pack slung over his right shoulder, which swung as he walked.
“A fortunate encounter. If I might have a moment of your time?” Chenzira said.
“Of course,” Septimus replied. “I was just making my way to the harbormaster's office, if you'd care to join me.”
The harbormaster had two offices—one in the palace, which was seldom used, and the second located precisely in the middle of the docks, an oft-rebuilt wooden building two stories tall that allowed the harbormaster to look down upon his domain.
Chenzira cheerfully babbled of trifles as Septimus led the way to the office, then climbed the stairs to the second floor.
His successor, Donato, was busy talking to one of his clerks. As he glanced up, Septimus said, “With your leave, we will borrow your balcony.”
He did not wait for an answer but rather continued across the landing, out the door that led to the balcony encircling the second story.
“See those ships there and there?” Septimus said, as he walked outside, deliberately pitching his voice to carry as he pointed at two federation trading ships. “Donato is careful to keep them separate, to prevent mischief, but in case of trouble we need only move the navy ships like so, and we can cut them off.”
He continued to speak and gesture as they walked around the balcony until they reached the spot that was farthest from the door. He moved to the rail, where the constant breeze from the harbor tugged at their clothes . . . and blew their words out to sea.
They could be seen, but no one would hear what they said.
“What do you want?” Septimus asked. He knew better than to suppose that Chenzira had stumbled across him by chance.
“Proconsul Zuberi read a message from the emperor today,” Chenzira said. “The emperor continues in good health and is enjoying the tranquillity of his time in the countryside.”
Would that it were true. Strangely there was not even a hint of gossip saying otherwise. The court speculated on the cause of the emperor's illness, but so far, it seemed, only a handful knew that the emperor was missing—perhaps taken, perhaps dead.
He wondered how long Zuberi would continue to issue misleading statements. Surely, in time, some would grow suspicious and demand to see the emperor for themselves.
“I could have heard this from any,” Septimus said.
Chenzira bit his lip and nodded. He shifted the pack off his shoulder, into his left hand, winced, then placed it on the ground.
Rumor had it that Chenzira had spent several days as a guest of the torturer Nizam—presumably at his uncle's command. But Chenzira had said nothing of his ordeal when he'd finally made his report to Septimus, merely apologizing for being detained.
Left to his own devices, Septimus would have stripped Chenzira of his command. But such would have required the consent of Zuberi, which was not forthcoming. And any lesser discipline paled beside what Chenzira had already endured. Instead Septimus had merely questioned Chenzira at length, forcing him to recount every moment he'd spent in the emperor's presence, then dismissed him.
He'd not expected Chenzira to seek him out.
“I've been making my own inquiries,” Chenzira said.
Septimus made a noncommittal noise. He could not forget that Chenzira was his uncle's man, and it was likely that his presence here was a test. Proof that Septimus was disloyal might well restore Chenzira to his uncle's favor.
“The monk was not chosen at random,” Chenzira said.
“I know that. You told me that the emperor summoned him aboard your ship.” Septimus did not bother to disguise his impatience; it was too late for Chenzira to be making excuses.
“Did you know that the monk was about to leave on his own journey? One that the emperor had specifically requested?”
Septimus's own inquiries had revealed as much. “He wanted books. Books from the library at Xandropol.”
Emperor Lucius had shown a mastery of obscure knowledge—he had personally taught Chenzira the secret navigation techniques that Chenzira had then shared with the rest of the navy. And it was Lucius's research that had resurrected the Burning Terror, a weapon once thought lost to the ages.
It was not surprising that he would seek out even rarer volumes.
“I am convinced that he journeyed in Brother Mensah's place,” Chenzira said.
“To do what? He could have a dozen monks fetch him all the books he required.”
“He sought a different kind of knowledge,” Chenzira said. “A cure for his illness.”
“He admitted to being fatigued—” Septimus began.
“It is more than that. I have spoken with his servants, his clerk, even Eight, who watches over him at night.”
“Eight?”
“The emperor gave all the functionaries numbers, since they refused to accept names. Eight is the oldest of them and was given the task of watching the emperor at night since it is the least demanding time.”
Septimus blinked. How was it that a mere captain was privy to this information? Was it his family connections? Or something else?
“They all told me he was ill—far more seriously than he'd let anyone know. A wasting sickness that sapped his strength, and neither his own magic nor the healer's art could aid him.”
From the first, Septimus had suspected that the emperor had been tricked or taken by force. It made no sense that he would abandon his empire. But if he were truly ill and desperate for a cure . . .
“We've stopped and searched all vessels that left that day, and he wasn't on any of them,” Septimus pointed out.
“Would your captains recognize him?”
“They had a full description—”
“He would not look like an emperor, or even a noble. We spent long hours together when he was teaching me, and when he is tired, he forgets himself. He fetches his own water, and will send his servants to bed and do their work himself. If he were dressed as a servant, no one would look at him twice.”
Chenzira's words made a terrible kind of sense.
If only he'd been allowed to send men who personally knew the emperor to aid in the search for him. But Zuberi had refused—for sending the men would involve telling them that the emperor was missing.
