The final sacrifice, p.14
The Final Sacrifice, page 14
“You think he sailed in the monk's place, taking his passage to Xandropol,” Septimus said.
“I do.”
“Tylenda wrecked off the keys,” Septimus said. “No one matching the emperor's description was among the survivors.”
“They did not know whom they sought,” Chenzira argued. “He has his own powers. If any survived, he would have been among them.”
It was the optimism of youth.
“What would you have of me?” Septimus said.
“Send me to Xandropol,” Chenzira said. “The emperor will need men who are loyal to him, and a ship for his return home.”
If he was right, it was the least that Septimus could do for the emperor he had sworn to serve. But even if this were not an elaborate trap, he could name a half dozen captains that he would send for this errand rather than picking Chenzira.
“One of my captains will go—” Septimus began.
“I will go,” Chenzira said. “Who among your men has spent days in his company? Who else will be certain to know him at a glance?”
Septimus could feel his resolve wavering.
“And I have something he needs,” Chenzira added, kicking the pack that he'd placed at his feet.
His curiosity aroused, Septimus picked up the pack and unbuckled the flaps.
He saw a silk-wrapped object inside.
“Careful,” Chenzira warned.
Septimus had started to lift the object out, but instead he merely pulled at the layers of silk, until he caught a glimpse of the treasure within.
“In the name of the triune gods,” he breathed. “What have you done?”
Chenzira grinned. “He may need to look the part of an emperor.”
“And if your uncle finds out you have this, he won't wait to hang you for treason. He'll kill you himself.”
Inside Chenzira's pack was the lizard crown—the imperial crown of Lucius's ancestral line. He dared not ask how it had come into Chenzira's possession.
The crown convinced him that this was no trap. And it was proof that Chenzira was insane. He'd risked everything on his conjecture that the emperor was bound for Xandropol. If Chenzira was wrong, he would pay for his mistake with his life.
“Well?” Chenzira asked.
Septimus drew a deep breath. Chenzira had made his choice. It was time for him to choose, as well.
“Go to your ship,” he said. “Orders will arrive within the hour, bidding you to Xandropol. I'll send another ship with you, the fastest I can find. If you find the emperor—”
“When I find him.”
“If you find him, the second ship will bring word to me,” Septimus said, ignoring the interruption. “You will stay with the emperor. Obey him in all other matters, but do not leave him. Not for a single hour.”
Chenzira saluted. “It will be as you say.”
“And may the triune gods watch over us both,” Septimus said. Officially he was a follower of the twin gods, as Empress Nerissa had been. But it was the religion of his ancestors that called to him now. If there were any gods that looked after fools, it would be they.
“The emperor of Ikaria is too great a prize to be kept secret for long,” Zuberi argued. “If the federation had taken him, we would have heard something by now.”
“Or maybe they are holding him in secret, waiting until we declare him dead. Then they will reveal him, and we will be made to look fools,” Demetrios said.
It was an argument they'd had before, in the weeks since Emperor Lucius had walked off Green Dragon and vanished. With each day that passed, Zuberi's frustration grew, as did the temptation to act.
“What of it? We'll deny their claims, say the man is an impostor. They'll never be able to prove otherwise,” Zuberi said.
An assassin could be dispatched, under the guise of sending a delegation to confirm or deny the impostor's claims. Thus neatly solving the problem of succession and embarrassing the federation.
If Lucius was alive, and being held captive in the federation. But if he was not . . .
“There's no need to act in haste,” Demetrios said. “We must wait until we are certain.”
What he meant was that Zuberi should be patient, while Demetrios prepared to launch his own bid for power. Zuberi's spies had reported that Demetrios had been in communication with General Kiril, leader of the imperial army. So far, it seemed Kiril was ignorant of the emperor's disappearance, but he surely must be wondering why Demetrios was making overtures of friendship.
Zuberi had made his own overtures as well. Subtler than Demetrios, he'd thought to court not just Kiril, but also Kiril's brother-in-law Commander Anatoli, who commanded the legions of the south. Both men owed him favors for advancing their clients and had cause to think favorably of him.
If necessary, he would inform Kiril of the emperor's disappearance, then make an immediate bid for his support. The key was to secure the backing of Kiril and his legions before the general realized that he could gain a greater advantage by playing Demetrios off against Zuberi, making the would-be emperors bid against each other for his services.
“It is not my patience, but that of the court,” Zuberi said. “The emperor cannot stay hidden away in the country forever.”
Though there was precedent—Aitor the Great had been confined to his bed for the last five years of his life, spending more time in his country estates than he had in the capital. But at least there had been proof that Aitor was alive and still in command of his wits.
Zuberi and Demetrios could make excuses for only so long.
“Agreed. In a month's time, if there is still no word, then we will decide what to do next,” Demetrios said.
In a month's time, Demetrios might be humbly offering himself to stand in the emperor's stead. Or his body might adorn a funeral pyre in the sacred groves, the victim of his overreaching ambitions.
The same could be said for Zuberi.
“We will wait,” Zuberi said. “And I will take no action without consulting you.”
The lie slipped smoothly from his lips.
“And I the same,” Demetrios said, smiling back with equal falseness. He extended his right arm, and Zuberi took it in the grasp of friendship.
“Between us we will keep the empire safe,” Demetrios vowed.
Zuberi merely nodded, and left. A litter was waiting outside Demetrios's town house, and Zuberi directed his bearers to take him home.
No breeze stirred in the crowded streets, so he let the curtains of the litter fall shut.
Demetrios was not his only concern. There was Admiral Septimus to consider. His bloodlines made his loyalties suspect, though nothing had ever been proven against him. It was unfortunate that Septimus had to be informed of the emperor's disappearance, but the navy had been needed for the search. At present, self-interest would keep Septimus quiet. He had no friends at court, and if Lucius were to fall from power, so too would he. But he would bear watching.
Petrelis, head of the city watch, also knew that Lucius was missing, but there Zuberi had no worries. Petrelis was personally loyal to him and would do as he was told.
Demetrios. Septimus. Petrelis. Chenzira. The torturer Nizam. And, of course, himself. Zuberi ticked over the names in his mind. Six men who knew that the emperor was missing. If each of them had shared the news with only one other—
It would not be long before the whole of Karystos knew as well.
Zuberi must be ready, so that when the emperor's disappearance was inevitably revealed, all eyes would turn to him as Lucius's natural successor.
Lost in his thoughts, it took a moment for him to realize that the litter had paused. A servant parted the curtains, revealing a scene of chaos, as porters swarmed a mound of luggage outside his residence.
Standing in the center, an island of calm amidst the storm, was a petite woman, wearing the ankle-length day gown of a modest Ikarian matron.
His wife, Eugenia, who was supposed to be in the countryside for at least another month.
He took a breath, then another, until he could greet her without letting the frustrations of the day color his words.
She took no notice as he emerged from the litter.
“No, those crates are for the kitchens,” she said. “Fresh produce from our estate. The trunks are for my rooms.”
“Honored wife,” he said.
She turned and smiled. She looked well, immaculately attired with not a single hair out of place, despite having just endured a long journey.
“Honored husband,” she replied, stepping around the crates to take both of his hands in hers.
Their eyes met, then he kissed her on each cheek. A formal greeting; they would save more affectionate gestures for when they were alone.
Releasing her hands, he looked around. “Where is our son?”
“Still in the country,” she said. “Bakari wanted to see the grape harvest, so I agreed that he could stay with his friend Antonius.”
Antonius was the son of Antonius of Caspia, a retired senator who owned the estate that adjoined Zuberi's own. Though no longer active in politics, the family was still held in high regard. It was a suitable friendship for his son.
And likely safer for his son to be removed from the intrigues of the capital. Still, Zuberi could not supress a pang of disappointment.
“A poor wife I am, letting you stand here in the heat,” she said. “Go, and wash away the dust of the city. I will join you presently.”
He obeyed with a meekness that would have surprised any who knew him from the court, allowing himself to be shooed away as the chaos slowly ordered itself under his wife's commands.
Entering the house, he summoned a servant.
“Send my regrets to Matticus of Alondra, and tell him that I won't be joining him tonight,” he said.
Matticus was a former client who held the post of inspector of the imperial roads. He was important enough not to offend, but Zuberi could alleviate the slight by inviting Matticus to join him the next time he held a select dinner party.
With Eugenia returned to Karystos, he would once again be expected to host such gatherings.
Retiring to his private chambers, he bathed, then dressed in fresh clothing. He could hear voices from his wife's adjoining rooms—the cheerful sound of her maids as they unpacked their mistress's garb.
He still wished she had seen fit to remain in the country, but had to admit that the house would be more lively now that she had returned.
They shared an intimate dinner that night, dining on a single couch, their arms entwined as if they were lovers rather than husband and wife. She offered him the choicest morsels, while he complimented her beauty, which despite the years was undiminished. Each time he looked at her, he felt pride, knowing that he was the envy of his peers.
After her third cup of wine, Eugenia confessed that she'd been bored in the countryside. Senator Antonius was a widower, and there were no women of her rank living nearby.
“Of course, if the emperor had gone to Eluktiri, we could have had a summer court,” she said. “What fun that would be.”
“I met you at the summer court, when you were handmaiden to Nerissa,” he said, offering the expected response.
She laughed. “Nerissa was the only one who spoke in your favor. Everyone else thought I was mad.”
In the formal atmosphere of Karystos they would have never met, but in the relaxed atmosphere of the summer court, the strict separations between unmarried young women and the men of the court had been relaxed.
Eugenia's father had not been pleased by his daughter's friendship with a clerk—a man who seemed destined to rise no higher than a petty bureaucrat. But his daughter would not be denied, and eventually he'd consented to the match.
He'd lived long enough to see Zuberi named as proconsul, second in power to the empress herself. It had been a heady day for Zuberi when the man who had formerly despised him had come to beg his favor.
“A shame that the emperor's illness confines him to Sarna,” Eugenia said, continuing her earlier thought. If she noticed Zuberi's inattention, she was too kind to point it out.
“He was fatigued when he left,” Zuberi said. “It is hoped that his time away will restore his spirits, when he returns for the convocation of the senate.”
The convocation was traditionally held after the harvest season, before winter made the seas too perilous for travel. On that day an emperor must stand in front of the senate and bless the opening of debate.
This year it might be Zuberi's turn to wear the purple robes and say the ritual words.
An emperor for a husband, and her son an emperor-to-be. His wife had chosen more wisely than any might have dreamed, that long-ago summer.
“And what of my nephew?” she asked. “May I invite him to dine with us this week?”
“Captain Chenzira is away at present, on the business of the navy,” Zuberi said. “But when he returns, of course.”
Chenzira had been given orders for an extended survey trip, charting the currents that ran through the heart of the Great Basin. As their most experienced navigator he was a logical choice for such a task, though Zuberi suspected Septimus had sent Chenzira away to make sure he didn't have the opportunity to talk to anyone.
Or, possibly, to shield him from Zuberi's wrath.
He was still angry with Chenzira, though relieved by the discovery that his nephew was merely incompetent rather than treasonous.
Chenzira was the only son of Eugenia's late brother, who had died before he could breed a legitimate heir. He occupied a special place in her affections, and for that reason Zuberi had done what he could to advance his nephew's career.
A politician's wife, Eugenia would have understood if he'd had to have Chenzira killed, but understanding was not the same as forgiveness. If Chenzira had been executed, it would be a long time before Zuberi felt welcome in his own home.
“So tell me, what gossip is there?” Eugenia asked.
“There is little to tell. With so many gone from the capital, I have lived a dull life.”
The lie slipped smoothly from his tongue. He trusted his wife—trusted that she would remain faithful to him, and that she would die to protect their son. But she was a woman, after all, and could not be trusted with matters of state.
“Well, now that I am here, your life will be more exciting,” she said.
“Of that I have no doubt.”
Chapter 11
Josan nodded cordially as he entered the cramped cabin that served as the dining hall for the junior officers. Amelie was present, as were Edmond and the sailing master, Bryan. Only Pascal was missing, and since this was the middle of the day, it was likely that Pascal was sleeping in preparation for the night watch, while Captain Zorion had the current watch.
A bowl was at his customary seat, sunk into the carved indentation that held it in place in rough seas.
“That's the last of the fresh vegetables,” Edmond said.
The bowl held long strips of brightly colored peppers interspersed with round slices of gourds, which had been fried in oil, then mixed with rice. He dipped in his spoon and tried a mouthful. It was subtly spiced with saffron and other herbs.
“It's good,” he said, taking another bite. Amelie filled his wine cup with one part wine and three parts water, as was the custom on this ship.
“Starting tonight, it will be dried meat and lentils. And maybe fish, if we're lucky,” Edmond groused.
“You complain, but I've yet to see you send a meal back,” Bryan observed.
Josan let their words flow over him as the crew bickered amiably, responding only when asked his opinion. Mindful of his presence they spoke only of inconsequential things—when Edmond mentioned a problem with a seaman, Amelie abruptly changed the subject.
Josan merely took another sip of his well-watered wine and pretended he hadn't heard. He was not offended. They knew only what the captain had told them—that their passenger was a traveler who suffered from bouts of the landsman's sickness. They had no reason to trust him.
“It is a calm day if you wish to take the air, Josan,” Amelie said.
“Thank you, that would be pleasant,” he agreed.
It had been a long time since he had been allowed to simply be Josan. To be called by his own name. For two years he had lived as Prince Lucius—first as a prisoner, then ruling as emperor. His life had depended upon others believing that he was Lucius, and so he had done his best to act the part of a prince, burying his own nature underneath the role he was forced to play.
But the crew of Hypatia had no such expectations of him. They called him Josan without the mockery that he had heard each time Lady Ysobel used his name. They did not expect princely airs, nor did they seek to punish him for crimes committed by the man whose body he now wore. Their acceptance of him was a gift—one he was careful not to abuse.
He finished his meal and rose, leaving them alone so they could discuss the business of the ship.
Venturing up on deck, he saw that Captain Zorion was indeed in the wheelhouse. After a week at sea, Josan had memorized the rhythms of this ship. Four watches a day, the five officers rotated the schedule among them, so that the burden of the night watches was shared by all. As soon as lunch was finished, Zorion would be relieved by Edmond, and he in turn would be relieved by Bryan, then Pascal, and finally Amelie.
Amelie held the post of cargo master, apparently equal in rank to the sailing master. It was strange to see a woman commanding men, stranger still to see young women scrambling up the rigging alongside boys. He'd never before sailed upon a federation vessel, where women served in nearly equal numbers to the men.
Some tasks seemed reserved for men alone, but he had yet to determine how these had been decided. Was it by the captain's decree? Or a matter of long-held custom? Would they be done differently on another federation vessel?
He could ask, but such questions would raise suspicions. A trader would be expected to know these things, particularly one who could speak the trade tongue with the cadence of the islands.
