Based on the information Ysobel had given him, he could make guesses at the rest who ranged themselves along each side of the table. Pity that they did not have placards displaying their names, so he would know which ones to be wary of.

  Strange to see so many were women—six of the fourteen, including Lady Solange, who was minister of trade. According to Ysobel, this was the most important ministry, more powerful than even the ministry of war. He wondered what Nerissa would have made of such a gathering.

  At the end closest to the door, there was a man whose eyes widened as he caught sight of them. Josan did not recognize him, but that meant nothing. As emperor, there were many who knew him by sight.

  There were two seats vacant at the end of the table, but Josan made no move to take one of them.

  Instead he released Burrell's arm. “Introductions,” he said, making sure his voice would carry to the king.

  It was a seemingly deliberate discourtesy, and he knew Ysobel well enough to know that she was angry, though a stranger might think her calm. Still, Ysobel did as he'd requested.

  “Bayard of the house of Merlion, King of the Federated Islands of Seddon,” Ysobel said, then proceeded to name the councilors in turn.

  Josan nodded, acknowledging each introduction. The man who'd stared so hard at him was Hardouin, who'd served as ambassador to Ikaria before being expelled for his part in the failed second uprising. It was possible that he recognized the emperor, but in a few seconds that would no longer matter.

  Josan gestured, and Eight came forward and opened the casket, his back to the council so that only Josan and his companions could see what was inside.

  “Credentials,” Burrell murmured. It sounded as if he were trying not to laugh.

  Josan flexed the fingers of his right hand, and for a mercy they obeyed him. It would have been humiliating to have another perform this task. Reaching inside the casket with both hands, he lifted the lizard crown out and set it upon his head.

  He could not see what had happened, but from the gasps he knew that the crown had glowed when it recognized its rightful owner.

  The usurpers had been unable to wear this crown—Aitor and his descendants had instead worn a heavy jewel-encrusted monstrosity. But Zuberi had deemed Lucius unworthy of such treasure, and at Lucius's coronation he'd been crowned with the lizard crown of his ancestors—something that Zuberi swiftly regretted as the lizard crown responded to the magic inside Lucius. Each time he put it on, the filigreed crown would flash with light. And some swore that as he wore it, the lizards would dart between the twined olive leaves.

  He'd never witnessed such for himself, but he knew it would make a lasting impression.

  “Lucius Constantin Aurelius, Emperor of Ikaria,” Lady Ysobel said.

  There was a brief hush, then King Bayard rose to his feet.

  “I bid you welcome,” the king said. “Please, be seated. We have much to discuss.”

  In some ways, it had been very much like a meeting of his own council, from the early days of his reign. Then, as now, he'd been in fear for his life, knowing that the wrong word could see him imprisoned, or worse.

  The risks here were actually less. While Zuberi had often threatened to send Lucius back to the torture chambers, it was unlikely that Bayard would order anything more drastic than imprisonment. Or a swift execution.

  Which might be preferable to the lingering death by paralysis that Lucius feared.

  It had taken all of Josan's strength to sit upright for the council meeting and appear in command as King Bayard's councilors argued with him and among themselves. Bayard, for his part, had said nothing, content merely to observe the debate. Until the end, when Telfor had whispered something that caused the king to announce that the council was over. Bayard had gravely thanked his honored guest and his councilors for sharing their wisdom, then taken his leave without reaching a decision.

  Burrell had had to help Josan stand, and it had taken the efforts of both Burrell and one of Bayard's servants to support Josan as he made his way back to the hired coach. Once they'd arrived at the Flordelis's mansion, he'd been carried upstairs to his rooms as if he were a child or an old man.

  At least this gave credence to the tale they'd spun for the council—that Emperor Lucius had been on a private voyage when he'd witnessed the rogue attackers, and Lady Ysobel had convinced him to set aside his own concerns in order to defuse the crisis.

  It nearly passed belief that an emperor would leave his realm, but all understood that a dying man could be driven to desperate acts. And that he had turned aside from his own quest to help avoid this war would surely count in his favor.

  If Bayard and his councilors were reasonable men. Which was yet to be proven.

  Exhausted from his efforts though it was scarcely midday, Josan allowed Eight to chivy him into lying down for a rest.

  When he woke, it was late afternoon, judging from the shadows on his walls. Once again he heard voices, but this time they came from outside his head.

  “Come, you must rise,” Eight said. “You have a visitor.”

  Josan pushed himself to a seated position with his left arm, but needed help to stand. He resigned himself to being treated as a child, as others dressed him, then combed his hair.

  He'd seen little of Lord Delmar since his arrival, but when Josan entered Delmar's personal study, he found his host speaking with none other than King Bayard. Delmar waited until the servants had helped Josan to a chair before asking permission to leave, closing the door behind him.

  Josan's studies had concerned mathematics rather than history, so he could be forgiven for not knowing if this was the first time that the ruler of the federation had held a private meeting with his Ikarian counterpart. But if this was not the first such meeting, it was surely a rare event.

  He wondered what Bayard had to say to him that he could not say in front of his own councilors. It was fortunate that Josan spoke both the diplomatic tongue as well as the trade tongue—left to Lucius's efforts they would have needed an interpreter.

  “I am told that you are unwell,” Bayard began.

  Josan shrugged, pretending to an ease that he did not feel. “A weakness plagues me from time to time,” he said. “It will pass.”

  “I would gladly offer the services of one of my physicians—”

  “No,” Josan interrupted. “I do not need a physician, nor did you come here to inquire about my health. We are both too powerful to play games with one another. Speak plainly, or not at all.”

  Bayard leaned forward in his seat, leaning his elbows upon his knees. “My advisors tell me not to trust you. They are convinced that this is an elaborate ruse, meant to deceive us into lowering our guard,” he said.

  “It seems to me that I am the one who has taken all the risks,” Josan said, “while you have ventured nothing.”

  “And so you came here, driven by a noble spirit, for what? To urge us not to attack your ships? Not to take revenge for our losses?”

  Bayard's words were scornful, but Josan refused to let himself be drawn.

  “Your country is no friend of mine,” Josan said. “I have not forgotten that you sent spies to help overthrow Empress Nerissa. Twice.”

  “To place you on the throne—”

  “To see Ikaria consumed by civil war,” Josan pointed out. “If we wish to recount past sins, we will be here till dawn.”

  Bayard straightened upright, no longer confrontational. “Agreed,” he said.

  “I came because we have a common threat,” Josan said. “I will not spend my men and my ships blindly, battling the wrong enemy, only to weaken ourselves so that we are ripe for attack by another. If you cared about your country, you would feel the same.”

  “I know my duty to my people,” Bayard said.

  “Then you know better than to act rashly.”

  “What do you propose?”

  Josan took a deep breath. “Joint patrols, formed of equal numbers of ships from each of our navies,” he said. “They will seek out these rogues posing as Ikarians and show that we are not to be taken by such tricks.”

  It was the best that he'd been able to come up with, and neither Chenzira nor Ysobel could think of a better plan.

  “And once we find these pirates? If they are Ikarian?”

  “If they are Ikarian, I will see them punished, and personally repay the owners of every ship that was lost,” Josan said. “But if they are from Vidrun, as we have sworn to you, then you will be welcome to make cause with us as we strike back against them.”

  Bayard shook his head. “I do not want war with Vidrun.”

  “I do not want war with anyone,” Josan said. “If you choose to forgive their sins against you, that is your right. But I will do as I must.”

  Or his successor would. Proconsul Zuberi and the newcomers had their own reasons to hate those who had driven their ancestors out of their homeland of Anamur, forcing them into exile in Ikaria. The newcomers had prospered in exile, but they remembered what their ancestors had lost, and Ikaria had spent much of Aitor II's reign in constant skirmishes with Vidrun. It would take little to reignite that conflict.

  “They say that men see most clearly as they approach death,” Bayard said. “Pettiness disappears when one is thinking of a legacy rather than one's own ambitions. Or so Telfor insists each time he advises me.”

  “I hope to be as wise when I reach his age,” Josan said, refusing to admit that he was dying.

  He held his breath, waiting for Bayard's answer. What he offered was the limit of what he could—he was confident that Admiral Septimus would agree to the joint patrols. Such was within his power even if another sat on the imperial throne.

  At least until Septimus was replaced. Or condemned as traitor, for helping Lucius.

  He pushed aside such worries and returned his attention to the man who would decide the fate of two countries.

  “Agreed,” King Bayard said. “I'll not ask my people to fight a war based on mere rumors. Once I have the truth, I'll know who my true enemy is.”

  Josan repressed a sigh of relief. He wanted to express his gratitude but knew that such would be a mistake, serving only to reinforce the fact that Bayard held power over him. Instead he merely said, “Your wisdom serves your people well.”

  “You will, of course, remain as my guest until this matter is resolved.”

  Bayard was too polite to call him hostage, but both knew that was what he had meant. It was only to be expected. He had known from the start that the Seddonians would be loath to relinquish the advantage that his presence gave them.

  “Of course,” Josan said. “I know I will be treated as well here as I would be in my own palace.”

  He knew Bayard would take this for a polite lie, but Josan spoke the literal truth. He had as many enemies at home as he did here—and both were equally likely to take advantage of his helplessness.

  Chapter 16

  The temple of the triune gods stank of burning herbs that could not quite disguise the stench of their unwashed worshippers. Demetrios wrinkled his nose, wishing that he'd thought to bring a perfumed sachet. None of the other temples he'd visited had been so foul, but then neither the triune gods nor their followers were in fashion.

  The official religion of the empire was the worship of the twin gods: Zakar, the giver of life, and his brother Ata, the giver of knowledge. The triune gods were a legacy of the former rulers, their only followers the ignorant poor or those too stubborn to accept that their gods were as powerless as they were.

  He stood with Zuberi's supporters in a loose semicircle behind the altar. The head priest stood in front of the altar, flanked on either side by two junior priests, while Zuberi faced them, prepared to receive their blessing. The body of the temple was filled with worshippers come to witness Zuberi receive the blessing of their priests.

  It was not the first such ritual that had been held in the weeks since Zuberi had, with feigned reluctance, allowed himself to be named emperor-in-waiting. The proconsul had received the blessing of each of Ikaria's major religions in turn, as they mourned their lost emperor and prayed for the health of their emperor-to-be.

  Demetrios had attended each ceremony, and said his prayers, but they were not for Zuberi's health.

  He was still furious at how easily Zuberi had outmaneuvered him, forcing him to pledge his allegiance or risk being the sole voice of dissent. But he was not defeated, merely biding his time.

  Even as he'd informed Zuberi that he was willing to accept the role of proconsul and first minister in the new regime, he was already making his own preparations to assume higher rank. He'd cautiously begun assembling support from among those Zuberi had overlooked. While Zuberi had gathered the most powerful to his side, Demetrios had been forced to seek out their clients instead. Powerful men in their own right, they knew all the secrets of their patrons, while their loyalty could be bought far more cheaply. If his plan succeeded, when the time came Zuberi would not be the only minister losing his post.

  The eldest priest began by offering a brief paean to Lucius, their lost emperor, the priest's voice quavering with sorrow as if he genuinely mourned for Lucius. The other priests had known better than to express their regrets in any but the most perfunctory of terms.

  This ceremony was not about Lucius, nor the circumstances under which he'd given up his throne. Officially Lucius had disappeared, kidnapped by an unknown enemy. Most assumed that he was dead. As did Demetrios, who'd originally believed Zuberi's account that the emperor was missing, but then began to wonder if it was all an elaborate ruse, so that Zuberi could ascend the throne without seeming to have bloodied his hands.

  It was likely that the emperor had been killed, his body disposed of quietly, perhaps buried in the catacombs under the palace compound, or simply dumped into the harbor after being mutilated so that he was unrecognizable.

  In recent days, trading ships had brought rumors that Lucius had been sighted in the federation, but these were simply rumors. Likely Zuberi was also their source, as he sought to shift blame for the emperor's disappearance to the federation, and specifically upon Lady Ysobel, whose own absence was taken as a sign of her guilt.

  It was possible that she shared the emperor's fate—an unmarked grave where she'd be mourned by no one.

  After his brief remembrance of Lucius, the priest began listing Zuberi's many virtues and offering prayers for his health and longevity. Each of the triune gods was addressed separately, and those around Demetrios began to shift restlessly, though they kept silent out of respect for the emperor-in-waiting.

  As the priests led Zuberi in a circle around their altar, Demetrios noted that he appeared as healthy as ever. If the stench of the temple bothered Zuberi, he gave no sign.

  He wondered if all these prayers for Zuberi's health had power after all. By now Zuberi should have been on his deathbed, or, at the very least, shown signs that he was gravely ill. Demetrios had paid the poisoner for swift results, but so far his man had failed.

  Pity. The man had done his job well before, ensuring that Prokopios never recovered from the stabbing that had nearly cost him his life. His brother's death had been a gradual decline that aroused the suspicions of no one. But this time he could not afford to wait for results; the official period of mourning was almost over. Zuberi was to be crowned within the week, and the senate would convene on the very next day to recognize their new emperor.

  He could not let Zuberi be crowned. Even if Zuberi was emperor only for a day, his son Bakari would inherit, and Demetrios had no stomach for the murder of a child. No, Zuberi needed to die before the crown touched his brow.

  Then, in all humility, Demetrios would offer to serve.

  As the prayers drew to an end, Demetrios made up his mind. It was too risky to contact his agent within Zuberi's household, but neither could he wait on the chance that the man would be able to carry out his orders. He'd tried to be discreet—after last year's illness no one would be surprised if Zuberi succumbed to a malady of the stomach. But he'd run out of time—better to have the deed accomplished, even if it meant he fell under suspicion, rather than be too timid and risk Zuberi assuming the throne after all.

  He knew a man skilled in knife work, who'd been begging for a chance to prove himself. Demetrios would give him that chance—and double his fee if Zuberi was dead before the next sunset.

  So resolved, he was able to smile with genuine good humor as the priests pronounced the final blessing. As Zuberi made his way down the central aisle, the worshippers muttered his name with varying degrees of enthusiasm. Some stretched out their arms, reaching for the mere brush of his robes, and Zuberi took their acclaim in stride, as if he were already emperor.

  Then an old woman brushed past the priests, and fell to her knees in front of Zuberi. “Emperor, give your blessing to this poor old woman,” she cried.

  She was the poorest of the poor, dressed in a shapeless robe whose hem dragged on the ground, with an equally filthy hood wrapped around her head, from which shockingly white hair protruded.

  Demetrios felt his eyebrows raise.

  “How dare she,” murmured one of the men standing behind him.

  Zuberi—who all knew detested the lower classes—merely smiled fondly and held out his hand. “All of my subjects will receive my blessing,” he said.

  The woman reached for his hand and kissed it. Demetrios felt his fingers curling into his own palms in disgust. As the old woman rose to her feet, she appeared to stumble, and Zuberi stretched out both arms, as if to ward her off.

  She fell against him, and Zuberi toppled backwards. As the priests rushed to help him, the woman scrambled away on her hands and knees, wailing in dismay until she disappeared into the worshippers who pressed forward to see what had happened.

  If she was smart, she'd flee, before Zuberi's escort could find her and give her the whipping she'd so richly earned.

  Demetrios glanced at the milling crowd, wondering why Zuberi had not yet reappeared.

  “Stand back,” one of the priests shouted. “Stand back!”

 

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