The final sacrifice, p.23
The Final Sacrifice, page 23
No doubt the press of the crowd was preventing Zuberi from getting back to his feet.
“This is better than a play,” Telamon remarked, and Demetrios nodded in agreement.
There was a shriek, and then another, as the priests tried to restore order.
Something was wrong. Demetrios hurried forward, using sharp elbows to clear a path in a crowd that had not the wits to respect his rank. At last he reached the priests and looked over their shoulders—
To where Zuberi lay on the floor, both hands clutching his stomach as blood welled up between his fingers.
It appeared he wouldn't need that assassin after all.
Burrell shifted the bundle of books from one arm to another as he climbed the steep lane that led to the mansion. Who would have thought that a half dozen books would be so heavy, or have so many sharp edges? They poked him in the side as he walked but were too awkward to balance on his shoulder.
Some would have said that it was beneath the dignity of a marine captain to fetch books from the markets as if he were a mere servant, but there was little else for him to do. Lady Ysobel no longer needed a personal guard, but he was still technically her aide though his duties were greatly curtailed. Between her own trading house, and her father's servants, Ysobel had a host of people eager to do her bidding. She no longer needed him to make arrangements for her, nor were there plans to lay, nor enemies to deceive.
There was nothing to do but wait. Wait, and hope that the joint patrols would soon uncover proof that the so-called Ikarian attackers were simply mercenaries in disguise.
At least Ysobel had the affairs of her trading house to keep her busy. She spent much of each morning in the trader's guild hall, meeting with other master traders and negotiating agreements. From what he could gather her house was continuing to prosper; she'd just purchased a new ship to replace the lost Dolphin. King Bayard and his council might be reserving judgment, but her fellow traders were impressed by the woman who had delivered the emperor of Ikaria as if he were an exotic trade good.
The duties of a master trader might easily have filled her days, but she came back each afternoon to spend time with the emperor. Burrell did not understand why. She did not particularly like Lucius, but she was as attentive to him as if he were a valued member of her family.
Then again, she might merely be protecting her investment.
The strange wasting sickness that consumed the emperor had grown obvious to all in the days after his meeting with King Bayard. After consulting with her father, Lady Ysobel had arranged for the emperor to be moved into a hastily vacated suite of rooms on the ground floor, where it was easier for him to move about.
On good days, he was able to make his way into the courtyard to take the sun, or to the family's dining chamber to join them for meals.
On his bad days, he moved only from his bed to a couch, and then back again.
As the mansion came into view, Burrell noticed the two marines on duty were not even pretending vigilance; they were sitting on the ground tossing a pair of dice between them. The guards had been the war minister Quesnel's idea. Ostensibly a sign of respect for their visitor, they were in truth his jailers. Not that it mattered—Lucius was incapable of making an escape, and his watchers knew this.
When they caught sight of Burrell, the privates hastily came to their feet and saluted, but he ignored them. He was not their commander, and for that they should count themselves lucky.
He glanced into the courtyard but it was empty. So this was not a good day.
He turned and made his way down the corridor that led to Lucius's rooms. Captain Chenzira was leaving his own room, and he paused as he saw Burrell.
Chenzira's ship was part of the combined task force hunting the rogues, but Chenzira had refused to be parted from his emperor, turning his ship over to his first officer instead. Burrell understood such loyalty, though he knew Lady Ysobel did not. To her there was no higher duty than that of a captain to her ship, and, as a result, Chenzira now found himself the target of her scorn.
“Is he awake?” Burrell asked.
Chenzira hesitated, eyeing the parcel of books that Burrell carried. “He's awake, but in a foul mood. Hopefully those will cheer him up.”
Unable to take part in physical activity, the emperor occupied his days with books, filling scrolls with his observations on what he had read. Burrell had been given an ever-increasing list of subjects that the emperor was interested in, and by now was well-known to those who dealt in rare books.
“I appreciate the warning,” Burrell said.
The elderly functionary opened the door at his knock and bade him enter.
The emperor was reclining on a couch, a half-empty bowl of figs on the table beside him. For once there was no book in his hand; instead he played with the fringes of the blanket that covered his useless legs.
“Prince Josan, I've brought these for you,” he said.
The name was one of the conceits they had devised to conceal Lucius's presence. Everyone knew that the emperor of Ikaria was the guest of House Flordelis, but officially the man in residence was Josan, a mere envoy. It seemed ridiculous to Burrell, but he had discovered that diplomats thrived on such transparent falsehoods.
Which made it all the more remarkable that Lady Ysobel had ever considered a career in the diplomatic service.
“Say my name or just prince, if you cannot bear to call me emperor,” Lucius muttered. “I'll not be called by his name.”
Burrell knew his confusion showed on his face; this was the first time that Lucius had objected to the alias. Perhaps the emperor was merely seeking to pick a quarrel with him and could find no better cause.
“I've found these for you, as you asked,” Burrell said. “Four from your list, and two others that the bookseller swore you'd find of interest.”
He handed the books to the functionary, who untied the package and handed it to the emperor. The first time he'd tried to give anything directly to the emperor, the functionary had thrust his body between them, as if fearing an attack. These rooms were a far cry from the emperor's own palace, but the functionary was determined to preserve imperial protocol to the best of his ability.
Lucius accepted the books, his eyes flickering over them. The first two, written in the Ikarian script, received vague murmurs of approval, but the rest were tossed on the floor. “I can't read these,” he said, his tone petulant.
Burrell's jaw dropped open, as the functionary bent down to pick up the rejected books. He'd never seen the emperor treat a book in such a disrespectful fashion.
“Shall I return them?” Burrell asked.
“No,” the emperor said with a shake of his head. “I can't read them now, but later, perhaps. Unless he is gone.”
The emperor's words made no sense. Burrell had witnessed the emperor reading books in a half dozen different languages, including Taresian, yet the emperor had stared at the latest offerings as if their scripts were completely foreign to him.
Perhaps it was merely his eyes that pained him, or an ache in his head that made struggling to understand a foreign tongue too difficult at the present. Surely that must be what he had meant to say.
As soon as the emperor dismissed him, he sought out Lady Ysobel.
“I've just seen the emperor,” he said.
“And how is he?”
“He was not himself.”
“Which self?” she asked, then she shook her head. “Sorry, that was petty. What do you mean he was not himself?”
Burrell hesitated. The emperor's actions could be explained by the effects of his illness. All he had was his feeling that something was wrong, and he struggled to find the words to convey his unease.
“He threw the books on the floor,” he finally said. “Ordered me not to call him Josan.”
Ysobel nodded, unsurprised. “Was there anything else?”
“You expected this,” he said. “What is it?”
She shook her head. “Better that you not know,” she replied. “I wish I did not.”
He wondered what secret she was concealing. Was the emperor's mind weakening, failing him just as his body was failing? Or was there something else?
Burrell had been under the impression that she trusted him.
Something of his dismay must have shown in his face, for she reached forward and put her hand on his arm. “It's not that I don't trust you,” she said. “The secret is not mine to tell. And I will not break faith with a dying man.”
“I would not ask you to. But if there is anything I can do—”
“Do what you have been,” she said. “Forgive his ill temper, and be a friend to him if he asks. His servants believe the emperor's temper feeds his illness. When he is calm, he is much improved.”
“I understand,” Burrell said.
Ysobel pitied the emperor, but her advice was as much pragmatism as kindness. They needed Lucius alive. If it came to war between the federation and the empire, then the emperor's presence here was a useful bargaining lever.
But if the empire was innocent of the attacks, then the federation would have to move quickly to avoid being labeled as the aggressors. Only Lucius could testify that he had come to the federation of his own free will. Were he to die while in their custody, there was nothing to prevent the Ikarians from using this as the reason to launch the war they all hoped to avoid.
“I'll do my best,” he said. And he prayed that the ships returned soon.
The bustling port at Sendat was the envy of every other civilized nation—more trade ships visited here in a week than visited Karystos in a month. But when Septimus looked at the crowded harbor, with its long piers interspersed with carefully tended warehouses, it was not their wealth that he envied but rather the sheer number of federation ships. Merchant vessels for the most part, but that was no comfort. Any merchanter could be turned into a war vessel if hostilities broke out.
Though hopefully the news he brought would make that war less likely.
The rest of the flotilla was anchored outside the harbor, but Septimus's ship was allowed to enter and was given a berth along a pier adjacent to her federation escort. It took mere moments to clear customs, a feat of efficiency that he knew from personal experience was far more difficult than it looked. Then he was given the freedom of the city.
He'd watched as Commodore Grenville left to make his own report, so Septimus wasted no time in finding a runner who could guide him to his destination.
The mansion owned by the house of Flordelis was imposing, but Septimus wondered why Emperor Lucius had not chosen to reside at his embassy instead. Surely it would have made more sense—
Unless, of course, he was not free to choose where he would stay. If he was a prisoner . . . Well, Septimus was prepared for any eventuality. As were the ships of his task force, in case he should fail to make contact with them within the day.
He paid off his guide, then approached the open gates. Two federation marines were on duty, but they offered no challenge as a girl stepped forward to greet him.
“Admiral,” she said, after surveying his uniform. “We've been expecting you.”
He turned, realizing that the mansion's position on top of a hill would give the upper stories a clear view of the harbor and any arriving ships.
“I am here to see—”
“Our guest,” she said smoothly, cutting off whatever he was about to say.
“Your guest,” he agreed. He'd thought her a servant, at first, but began to wonder if she was a Flordelis by birth. Her manner was far more poised than one would expect for a girl who had not yet reached maturity.
“Please, this way,” she said.
He followed her through the gate and into a small courtyard, where an old man reclined on a couch, napping in the afternoon sunlight.
“Your pardon, but Lady Ysobel asked to be fetched as well,” she said.
Septimus nodded, assuming that he would be taken to the emperor as soon as Lady Ysobel joined him.
The courtyard was smaller than he was accustomed to, and he paced in a circuit around the fountain.
“I'm awake,” a voice said.
“I beg your pardon for disturbing you—” Septimus began. His next words died on his tongue as Emperor Lucius opened his eyes, and turned to his side to face him.
“Septimus,” he said. “They told me you were coming.”
Septimus swallowed, his mouth dry. He'd known that the emperor was ill even before he'd left Ikaria, and Chenzira's letter to him had confirmed as much. But this was far worse than he'd feared.
The emperor was barely thirty, but he had the frail, transparent look of an old man. Only his eyes were sharp.
“You have news for me?” Lucius prompted, as he pushed himself upright.
Septimus nodded. “You were right,” he said. “We disguised three of our own as merchant ships, and when the mercenaries struck, we were ready for them.”
Forming a task force out of two dozen ships from each country's navies ensured cooperation between the two, but the very size of the flotilla meant that the rogue ships would stay far away. It had been Commodore Grenville's suggestion that they form smaller groups of two or three ships, scattering them to draw the enemy out.
“Were you there? Did you witness this yourself?” Lucius asked.
“Not for the first capture,” Septimus said. “But I was there for the second.”
The enemy had fallen for two of their traps, and they'd managed to take most of the mercenaries alive—along with the worm-riddled ships they'd tried to pass off as part of the Ikarian navy. It had been sheer luck that he'd been there to witness the taking of the second ship and the interrogation of her crew.
Fortunately Commodore Grenville had been there as well, unwilling to let his counterpart out of his sight. If Septimus alone had made the capture, there might have been questions raised, but as it was, there could be no doubt.
He answered Lucius's questions as best he could, and when Lady Ysobel joined them, he repeated the story for her.
“Grenville has gone to report to Lord Quesnel, correct?” she asked.
“Yes. And to make arrangements for the senior prisoners to be transferred for interrogation.”
“Good,” Ysobel replied.
The mercenaries had been unforthcoming. They were Vidrunese by birth, but swore that they'd no allegiance to their homeland. Their officers portrayed themselves as lawless pirates, but pirates would not senselessly destroy both ships and cargo. Someone was paying these men for their crimes, and from the evidence aboard their ships, they'd been paid handsomely indeed.
“Commodore Grenville and his officers agreed,” Septimus said. “Those were not your ships, and they were not crewed by your men. The quarrel they have is not with us.”
“Well done,” Lucius said.
Any satisfaction Septimus might have felt at this praise was overshadowed by the realization that his emperor was dying.
“If Commodore Grenville's story agrees with yours, and if the council sees reason, then the treaty between our peoples remains unbroken.”
Lady Ysobel's caution was understandable. He'd judged Grenville to be an honest man, but honest men could be overwhelmed by the politicians.
“What happens next?” Lucius asked.
“The council will hear Grenville's report—” Lady Ysobel began.
“You will return home—” Septimus said, at the same time.
“No,” Lucius said, raising his hand to cut both of them off. “What do we do about Vidrun? We cannot allow this insult to pass unpunished.”
Septimus looked at Lady Ysobel, then back at Lucius. “I think it best if we discuss this in private,” he said.
Lucius shook his head. “I have no time to waste. Whatever you tell me, I will only have to repeat to our allies.”
He did not like this. He did not trust Lady Ysobel, but Lucius was his emperor, and the order had been unmistakable.
“When your message reached us, I was already on patrol for a training exercise. Most of the patrol came with me, but two ships sailed back to Ikaria for . . . supplies, and have recently returned.”
Lucius's lips quirked in a twist. “By supplies you mean our new weapons—”
“The Burning Terror, yes,” he confirmed. At this rate they'd have no secrets left. They might as well invite Ysobel to join their war councils or sit in debate in the senate.
His flagship had already had sufficient ingredients to carry out a small attack, but once he'd heard that the emperor was in the federation, he'd sent orders that had stripped the arsenals bare. Every ounce that could be mustered was at his command.
He'd been prepared to use it to attack Sendat harbor, inflicting enough damage that the federation would be forced to yield Lucius to him or see their harbor destroyed.
He still might have to.
“And what do you suggest?” Lucius asked.
“That we return the insult. Our ships will sail east and attack the fortress at Anamur, burning it to the ground.”
“And have you men enough to hold the island?” Lady Ysobel asked.
Septimus shook his head. “We go not to conquer but to punish. To show those of Vidrun the price they will have to pay if they go to war with us.”
It would be a bluff, of course. The Burning Terror was a fearsome weapon—an unquenchable fire that devoured everything in its path. But it could not be used too often; it required a rare earth element that was nearly impossible to find, at any price.
“And what of us? Your pride was injured, but it was my people who lost ships, crews, and valuable cargo,” Lady Ysobel pointed out. “We will not want to stand idle.”
“You may send your ships to aid in the attack,” Septimus said. “But you must arm yourselves.”
The secret of how to prepare the Burning Terror was known only to Lucius, Septimus, and six of his senior captains. He knew the federation craved that knowledge, but he and his men had sworn to take the secrets with them to their graves.
“Where is Captain Chenzira?” Septimus asked. “Green Dragon is anchored outside the harbor, and we should make arrangements to send you home.”
