As Antonio saw their approach he deliberately turned his back on them, raising both hands to the sky as he proclaimed, “In the name of the All-Seeing Sun I command you, by the power of his rays we will smite down our enemies.”

  Apparently Horacio had told Antonio of his deception, and one or possibly both of them had decided to expand upon it.

  Grenville was not a stupid man; he would suspect that he was being tricked. With luck he would decide that the religious trappings were meant to disguise the sorcery that gave the weapon its power.

  After all, who would suspect that such a terrible thing could be assembled from a common recipe, much as a baker made bread?

  “We are ready for your command,” Captain Horacio said.

  Good. He pulled out the long glass and saw the first signs of activity in the harbor.

  “Raise the battle flag,” Septimus said. As Horacio repeated his order, he turned to Antonio. “Now,” he said.

  Antonio gestured, and a sailor handed him a bundle of rags, which were carefully dipped into the heated mixture, then pulled out. Gingerly the missile was loaded into a ballista. Grenville's eyes widened in disbelief as the sailors prepared to launch.

  “When does it get set ablaze?” he asked.

  “When the gods will,” Septimus said, falling into the spirit of the deception. At Antonio's signal, the ballista was released as the first missile arched high into the air, landing on the roof of the northern fort.

  In this stone-poor land, all buildings were of brick, including the massive fortifications. But their roofs were made of wood . . .

  Septimus pulled out his long glass and stared at the fort, while beside him Grenville did the same.

  He heard the sounds of more missiles being launched, and Horacio's reports that the other three ships had begun their own bombardments. He waited, his breath caught within his chest, until finally he saw the first flame blossom. The roof began to glow with first one, then two, then four separate flames burning. He swung the glass and saw that the southern fort had also caught fire.

  He closed the glass with a snap. “Signal Dauntless and Aitor's Pride to switch to targets within the harbor,” he ordered.

  The Burning Terror could not be extinguished by water, nor by beating it out with blankets. It ignited upon contact and would burn until it had consumed all in its path. It was as terrifying on land as it had been when used at sea.

  He turned and saw that Grenville's face was pale. Septimus said nothing. There was nothing that needed to be said.

  He left Grenville to his thoughts and returned to the wheelhouse, where Horacio kept him apprised of the battle's progress.

  Though it was not a battle—it was far too one-sided to be called such. A handful of galleys managed to row out from the harbor and were swiftly destroyed, their crews leaping into the sea to avoid being burned to death. Most drowned in sight of shore, having never learned how to swim.

  It took less than an hour for the forts to collapse, their brick walls no match for the inferno that destroyed the timber frames within. By then most of the buildings within reach of the ballistae had already been set ablaze. He'd given the order to cease fire, making it appear to be a deliberate choice, when in truth they were nearly out of missiles.

  The destruction was even greater than he'd hoped, as a steady sea breeze spread the flames far beyond the reach of his weapons. By noon thick black smoke rose up over the island, obscuring what was left of what had once been a proud capital.

  Four ships had achieved victory, while the rest had stood as witness. No one would forget what they had seen this day—especially not their allies.

  It was just past noon when Grenville sought him out. The commodore's face was coated with soot, as if he'd spent the entire battle standing next to the engineers operating the twin ballistae.

  “If you had five hundred men, you could take the city,” Grenville said.

  “And I'd need five thousand to hold it,” Septimus replied.

  Grenville nodded in agreement. “A terrible thing to destroy in hours what it took generations to build,” he said.

  It was a sentiment that Septimus agreed with, but he could hardly say so.

  “If it makes the Vidrunese think twice about attacking us, then it will be worth it,” Septimus replied.

  “And what now? Will you stay to watch the city burn?”

  Septimus shook his head. “We've done what we came here to do,” he said. “We sail for home.”

  Chapter 19

  Chancellor Telamon was dead—supposedly killed in the bath by his wife, who'd then taken poison. An improbable tale, but no one would publicly speculate on what must be obvious to all.

  Zuberi's assassination at the temple of the triune gods had merely been the first in a wave of killings that were terrorizing the city. Some were clearly politically motivated, while others seemed to be using this opportunity to settle old scores. Petrelis, commander of the city watch, had doubled then trebled the patrols that protected the noble quarter, but it was of no use. A half dozen leading members of the court had been murdered in as many days, and there was no end in sight.

  Even naming a new emperor might not be enough to stop the killings—it might merely give the assassins a single target to focus on.

  In the days after Zuberi's death, Demetrios had subtly advanced his own cause, while others had put forward the name of Telamon as emperor-in-waiting. He'd made his own plans to deal with Telamon, but once again another had struck before he could.

  Was General Kiril behind this? He'd professed neutrality in public, but all knew that he'd been Zuberi's man. Or was it another, one who was hiding in the shadows, waiting for the other contenders to destroy each other so he could then step forward and assume the throne unchallenged?

  Who had killed Zuberi? Was it a rival for the throne? Or was the answer more obvious? Could it be that Lucius still had his supporters, fanatics dedicated to restoring the old blood, men who refused to countenance anyone taking his place? If so, these men would not give up until they had proof that Lucius was indeed dead, and perhaps not even then.

  Whoever was behind the killings, and whatever his ultimate goal, he had succeeded in sowing fear and confusion. Demetrios knew he was not the only one taking a hard look at those who had promised their support to him, wondering which one of his supposed allies was preparing to betray him. Without their support he could not declare himself as emperor-in-waiting, but if he trusted the wrong man, he would not live to wear the crown.

  As it was, each time he left his mansion, it felt as if he were risking his life. He was not a timid man, but it had taken his full measure of courage—and an escort of a dozen guards—for him to make the journey to his office in the senate. Just so he could be seen as a devoted servant of the empire, intent on fulfilling his duties despite the chaos around him.

  He spent the morning answering correspondence, making arrangements for the returning senators. The senate was set to convene within the fortnight—assuming there was an emperor to call it into session. Though if no emperor was yet named, as leader of the senate it would be fitting for Demetrios to welcome his fellow senators to their debates—and to let a carefully chosen delegation persuade him to declare himself as the next emperor.

  Lost in contemplation of which senators could be trusted with such a delicate task, his head jerked up sharply as he heard General Kiril's voice from the antechamber.

  “I must speak with him,” he heard Kiril say.

  Demetrios glanced around, ensuring that his two bodyguards were within arm's reach. “Stay alert,” he told them.

  Then he rose to his feet, so he was standing as Kiril entered the office.

  “General, I did not expect to see you today,” he said.

  “My business is urgent,” Kiril replied. He was in uniform, but must have left his sword at the entrance to the senate, as was custom.

  That did not mean he was not dangerous. He had the potential to be either Demetrios's greatest supporter or his greatest threat, and so far he'd given no hint which side he would choose.

  “Pray tell me what is on your mind,” Demetrios said.

  Kiril's eyes drifted to the two bodyguards. “We must speak alone,” he said.

  Demetrios hesitated.

  “Come now, if I wanted to kill you, I'd not do it here, when so many could swear that I was the last to see you,” Kiril said. He waited a heartbeat before adding, “I'd do it when you were alone and thought yourself safe.”

  Demetrios shivered at the casual tone of Kiril's words, which were far more effective than any shouted threat.

  “Leave us,” he told his men.

  Kiril watched as the two men left, then closed the door behind them.

  “Lucius is alive,” Kiril said.

  “Alive?”

  “And he's just won a great victory against Vidrun, destroying their fortresses on Anamur in retaliation for their attacks against our ships, or so it is claimed.”

  Demetrios retreated two paces, groping behind him for his chair, then sinking into it. This was not possible.

  “Who told you this?”

  “There'd been rumors all along that he was in the federation, but this morning a navy ship returned bearing the news that Lucius had allied himself with the federation and led a combined fleet to victory.”

  Admiral Septimus. It had to be. Demetrios had thought little of it when Septimus and the bulk of the fleet had left on routine patrols. If he'd thought about it at all, he'd simply assumed that Septimus had chosen discretion over valor, hoping that his absence would convince Zuberi that he was not a threat to the next emperor.

  But apparently the admiral had been following Lucius's orders all along. Which made Demetrios wonder just how many other men were quietly biding their time on Lucius's orders.

  “Who knows of this?”

  “Everyone,” Kiril said. “If not now, then by nightfall. The captain of the ship gave all of his sailors leave, and they are telling this tale in every tavern and whorehouse in the city. By tomorrow we will hear that the gods rained fire down upon our enemies at Lucius's command.”

  Demetrios grimaced. The credulous among his supporters might hesitate to rebel against one who held the favor of the gods, while the more practical among them would see Lucius as a hero, a mighty war leader who had accomplished what his predecessors could not.

  Demetrios knew his own flaws—he was respected for his political skills, but he did not inspire passion in his supporters. He had presented himself as the candidate of reason, the one who could best preserve the empire with minimal disruption to their privileged lives. His followers would have no stomach for bloody revolution.

  He could have stood against the ghost of Lucius. Ignored the murmurs of those who swore that had Zuberi lived, he would have been a better choice for emperor. But Demetrios could not hope to stand against a popular emperor, one who had seemingly risked all to bring victory to his people.

  “What will you do?” Demetrios asked.

  “Prepare for the emperor's return,” Kiril said. “I suggest you do the same.”

  * * *

  Lucius had asked to be allowed to leave without fanfare or ceremony, so it was a small group that gathered at the dockside, their breaths steaming in the chill dawn air. Lady Ysobel, wrapped in a plain woolen cloak, was flanked by her aide, Captain Burrell, who wore a military cape that lacked any insignia.

  Slightly apart from them stood Admiral Septimus, wearing a sea uniform whose brassware was tinged green from exposure to salt air.

  Lucius's servants were already on board Green Dragon, as was Captain Chenzira, who was making ready to set sail.

  Around them was the bustle of the port coming to life, but no one paid any special heed as two of the Flordelis servants helped the monk from the coach. Lucius knew he could take control, but instead he waited with growing impatience as the monk took several halting steps until he drew even with Lady Ysobel.

  “Lucius,” she said, inclining her head in a show of respect. “King Bayard has charged me to remind you of his friendship, and to offer you the hospitality of his kingdom, for as long as you wish to stay.”

  It was an offer that had been made before, but their answer was unchanged.

  “Pray tell Bayard that I value his friendship, and his generosity, but it is time that I return to my own people,” Josan said.

  “Of course.”

  In truth, Bayard would be relieved to see his imperial guest gone—a living emperor was a valuable hostage, even one who had been deposed. But a dead emperor was an embarrassment at best and a liability at worst.

  “I hope your return voyage is pleasant, and your people welcome you as you deserve,” Lady Ysobel said.

  Lucius felt his face twist into a grimace. Her words were kindly meant, but he no longer knew what he deserved. “My thanks to you, and to your honored father for your hospitality,” the monk said. “And I know you will not be offended when I say that I hope never to see you again.”

  Lady Ysobel gave a wry smile of her own.

  She'd used him for her own gain—first as the figurehead of an uprising, then later attempting to hold him prisoner in order to control his empire. She'd proven a formidable foe—but once they began working toward a common goal she'd proven to be an equally formidable ally. He still did not like her, but he knew he could not have done what he did without her help.

  And, though she might not know it, she had given him the key to unraveling the spell that bound him. At first he'd thought her help deliberate and waited for her to demand payment for her help. But she'd said nothing, even when the monk had prompted, which seemed out of character for a woman determined to wring the maximum advantage out of any situation.

  He did not understand her. But he admired her strength of purpose.

  “Captain Burrell,” the monk said, and his voice was a shade warmer. “I will always remember your kindness.”

  The monk's feelings toward Burrell were less complicated than his toward Ysobel. Burrell was a simpler man—one driven by honor and duty rather than constantly scheming for advancement. The monk liked Burrell—and would have chosen him as a friend had circumstances permitted.

  “Emperor,” Burrell said, making a half bow in place of a salute. “I wish you a safe voyage.”

  The traditional farewell was to wish the traveler a safe voyage and long life, but in the face of Lucius's disability, wishes for a long life would seem pointlessly cruel.

  “Admiral, if you would,” the monk said.

  Septimus extended his left arm, and the monk grasped it tightly. Slowly they made their way along the pier, to the wide gangplank that linked Green Dragon with the dock.

  Septimus glanced around, and when he'd satisfied himself that they were out of earshot, he spoke.

  “What course would you have me set?” Septimus asked.

  “To Karystos, of course,” the monk repeated.

  He'd given the order yesterday, but perhaps Septimus had expected that it was merely a ruse, meant to fool his hosts.

  Septimus pressed his lips together. “Are you certain that's wise? It's likely that Zuberi is already on the throne.”

  “It is home,” the monk said.

  Which was a lie. The monk could make himself a home anywhere there was knowledge to be found. Left to his own inclinations he would likely wander back to Xandropol, where he could find employment as a scribe and spend the rest of his days trying to master a fraction of the knowledge contained within the musty scrolls of the great library.

  But the monk had resolved himself upon death. He would not see either Ikaria or Xandropol. The command to return home was not his, but rather Lucius's own selfish desire.

  “The navy stands with you,” Septimus promised. “No matter what comes.”

  “I know,” the monk responded. “But it will not come to that. I will not ask you to attack our own people.”

  It was not nobility, merely pragmatism. In the islands of the federation, the backing of the navy would have secured his throne. In Ikaria, the navy was a trifle. Only the legions of the army could make—or break—an emperor.

  “You're a better emperor than he'll ever be,” Septimus declared.

  The monk was silent.

  Lucius was silent as well. He knew that the words were not meant for him. Septimus had given his loyalty to the man who had led the navy to victory against the federation. The man who had turned aside from a quest meant to save his life in order to spare his empire a pointless war.

  Chenzira, Eight, and all those others who had risked their lives to find him, and to carry out his wishes, all swore allegiance to Emperor Lucius, but the man they venerated was not he. It was Josan, whose skills had given the imperial navy the edge they needed to succeed. Josan who had agreed to leave Xandropol, knowing that it meant their deaths.

  Josan, who even now carried the ingredients of his death within the folds of his robe and was resolved to make use of them.

  Lucius had finally realized the bitter truth. The bloodline was his—but the true nobility came from the monk.

  It was a shame that one of them had to die.

  Septimus helped him up the gangplank. Captain Chenzira was waiting at the top, accompanied by Eight.

  “Your orders?” Chenzira asked.

  “Home,” the monk said. “Take me to Karystos.”

  As Eight moved forward, the monk released Septimus's arm.

  “Captain, you will keep station with me, while the other ships provide escort,” Septimus said. “We want a swift passage, but a smooth one.”

  They'd already discussed this, as well. Septimus had wanted Lucius to join him on his ship, but Lucius had insisted that he preferred to travel with Chenzira, aboard the familiar Green Dragon. Septimus and the remaining members of the task force would ensure his safe arrival.

 

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