The final sacrifice, p.4
The Final Sacrifice, page 4
It was a disguise that worked equally well for Burrell, who had built a network of informants who believed him to be gathering intelligence for rival traders, while in truth he watched for signs that the Ikarian navy was preparing to break the truce.
Burrell grunted as she came up beside him, and handed her his flask. She took a sip, not surprised to discover it was merely water.
“Recognize the ship? That's Green Dragon, commanded by the emperor's favorite.”
“Captain Chenzira.” The man who had taught the rest of the imperial captains how to calculate the position of a ship at sea, when no landmarks could be seen. Some said that he had invented the technique himself, while others claimed that the knowledge had been a gift from the gods to the Emperor Lucius.
As for what she believed, well, several federation captains had gone missing during the Ikarians' campaigns against those they deemed pirates. One of them might have betrayed the secret teachings under torture—or bargained with them to save his life.
“The emperor boarded her two hours ago,” Burrell said. “He came aboard with a small entourage, and a short time ago, a monk from the Learned Brethren came on board as well.”
“Are you certain?” There was no reason for the emperor to be here, not when he was supposed to be preparing to journey to Sarna, located in the foothills west of the city.
“I would not have sent for you otherwise,” he said. He leaned over the railing and spit into the water below.
An ensign left the ship, and Ysobel held her tongue as he brushed by. She watched as he turned and started climbing the stairs that led to the harbormaster's office.
“So it is not Sarna after all,” she murmured.
“Eluktiri, I would wager,” Burrell said. “There are no signs of his ministers, yet . . .”
“But they can follow without being remarked upon,” she finished for him.
She noticed one of the deck officers staring at them, so she laughed, then poked Burrell in his side, as if inviting him to share the joke. There was nothing that an idling sailor enjoyed more than seeing his unfortunate fellows hard at their labors.
Burrell grinned, but only she was close enough to see the serious expression in his eyes.
Ysobel thought furiously. It was possible that the emperor was traveling in secret because of fears for his safety, choosing the anonymity of a naval ship over the comfort of the imperial yacht. But after a public announcement that he was retiring to Sarna, it seemed odd that he would secretly sail to his summer palace on Eluktiri. Were his ministers aware of his true destination? There would be much grumbling if only his favorites had been informed, so that they could constitute the summer court.
Or was this trip more sinister in nature? Was Ikaria intending to break the truce and attack the federation? What if Lucius sailed not for his summer palace but once again personally to take charge of his navy, as he had done the year before?
“Did you hear their destination?” The federation could not afford to be the first to break the truce, but neither could they risk being caught unprepared. If Lucius sailed to war, her people must be warned.
“The sailors were grumbling about having to load a month's worth of supplies for an overnight voyage,” Burrell said. “Eluktiri seems a reasonable bet.”
“But orders can change at sea,” she pointed out. The extra supplies could be prudence on the part of a captain carrying an emperor, or a sign that the ship had another destination in mind.
“Do we have a ship that can follow him?”
“None of ours are in harbor. Sprite sailed this morning.”
The tide would turn in less than an hour, and when it did Green Dragon would sail. She could have commandeered a federation vessel in that time, but it was not time enough to hire any other craft for her purposes.
Ysobel cursed under her breath. With one hand the Sea Witch gave and with the other she took away. Discovering the emperor secretly leaving Karystos was an advantage, but it was an advantage that she would waste if she could not confirm his destination.
She stared at the ship, willing it to reveal its secrets. As she watched, a monk scrambled awkwardly down the gangplank. He wore the cowl of his robe over his head, despite the summer heat.
She watched as the monk reached the end of the pier. If he turned west, toward the city, his path would take him by where she stood. But instead he turned toward the east.
Abruptly she straightened. “That's him,” she said, and began to follow.
Burrell grabbed his sack and hastened after her.
“Who?” he asked.
Ysobel nodded toward the monk. “Our friend who is not going to Sarna,” she said, conscious of the crowds that surrounded them.
Burrell raised one eyebrow but did not protest. She could not say how she had recognized the emperor—there was something about his gait and how he held himself. That and the fact that he kept tugging the cowl so that it shielded his face, despite the melting heat.
Curious, that there was not a single guard following him. She began to doubt her instincts as the monk stopped one laborer, then another, apparently asking for directions. Surely an emperor would not expose himself to danger in this way? Perhaps she was mistaken?
Her steps slowed as the apparent monk reached his destination—a small, aged cargo ship. The figurehead was unrecognizable, but fading letters proclaimed it as Tylenda. The monk stood with the others, waiting his turn to be acknowledged by the purser.
She shook her head, realizing that she must have been mistaken. She opened her mouth to say as much, but then the monk turned for one last look at the harbor. A gust of wind slid the cowl from his face, and there was no mistaking those features.
Lucius, emperor of Ikaria. Standing on the deck of a common freighter, wearing the robes of a monk instead of imperial silks.
It was impossible. And yet there it was before her eyes. She wondered that no one else could see what she did, but there were no cries of amazement, no protestations of loyalty. Instead the so-called monk simply disappeared into the mass of humanity that crowded the deck.
“It looks like him,” Burrell said. “But what's he up to?”
“I don't know,” she said. “But I'm going to find out.”
Chapter 4
Burrell held a double-copper piece just out of the boy's reach. “Repeat the message,” he ordered.
The boy, a scrawny lad of nine or ten summers, made one last try for the coin, then grimaced. “I'm to go to the Federation embassy and tell them that the captain from the house of Flordelis had to sail unexpectedly and will send word from the next port,” he said.
Burrell dropped the coin in the boy's outstretched hand. “Off with you. When you've delivered your message, they'll give you another of these for your time.”
The boy scampered off, and Burrell hoped that he intended to earn his keep. Given even a quarter of an hour more, he could have found paper and parchment and contrived to send a coded message. But there was no time. Even as he was thinking this, he had already turned and begun racing the short distance to where Tylenda was anchored.
He cursed as he saw the last of the ropes that anchored her to the dock being cast off. The gangplank had already been withdrawn, but there was a stack of crates waiting to be loaded on the adjoining vessel. Burrell raced down the pier, jumped on top of the crates, then leapt across the widening gap.
He landed on Tylenda's deck, twisting as he fell to avoid landing on a wooden coop filled with ducks, who squawked indignantly at his arrival. Scrambling to his feet, he was swiftly surrounded by curious passengers, and one irate officer.
“Here now, there's no free passage, nor room for those fleeing the law,” the officer said, eyeing Burrell disapprovingly.
“It's not the law I'm afraid of, but a woman,” he said, glancing over his shoulder toward the wharves as if he'd been pursued. “As for passage, I have enough coins to pay for the next port.”
He made a show of pulling out a flat purse from inside his tunic, and rooting through it until he found a half-silver.
“That will get you space on deck,” the purser said. “But if the harbormaster sends a patrol boat after you, I'll take it out of your hide before I toss you to them.”
Burrell shrugged with the air of a man who had nothing to hide. “Fair enough. It's unlikely my wife wants me badly enough to row out after me, but if she does, I'll help you raise the sails.”
The men surrounding him chuckled, and as the crowd dispersed, Burrell made his way to Lady Ysobel's side. From the expression on her face, he knew she was furious.
“I told you to take word to the ambassador,” she said.
“And what could I tell him? That you had sailed? I sent a runner instead.”
The ship heeled on her side as it slipped away from the dock, and the sailors ran to the masts, shoving novice passengers out of their way. Well used to the chaos of shipboard life, Ysobel unerringly picked her way around them, moving to the vacant portside railing, where they could speak undisturbed. The sailors were busy with their duties, and the passengers on deck were on the starboard side, waving to friends left behind.
Burrell scanned the passengers but saw no sign of the monk, though he noted that Lady Ysobel's gaze kept returning to the hatch that led belowdecks, where presumably her quarry could be found. When she finally stopped, he was not surprised that she had chosen a spot directly opposite the hatch.
“I asked you to inform the ambassador that the emperor had left Karystos in secret, for an unknown destination,” Ysobel whispered.
“And you are certain that it is he?” he asked.
He trusted Lady Ysobel—he had fought at her side, and risked death based on nothing more than her word. But his loyalty warred with his intellect and his own instincts. He could think of no reason for the emperor to have come aboard such a modest craft. The one tantalizing glimpse they'd had was intriguing—but hardly proof.
“He disguised himself as a monk once before, in his time of exile,” she said. “Surely I must have told you that.”
If she had, he had forgotten it. But that was not the point. “Why now? Why flee his own capital? Where are his servants, his guards? If he must travel, why not take Chenzira's ship?”
Ysobel shook her head, frustrated—with Lucius, himself, or perhaps both. “I don't know,” she said through clenched teeth. “But I know I cannot leave this ship, not while he is on it.”
The triangular foresail caught the wind as Tylenda began picking up speed. In a few moments she would pass by the moles and out into the open sea.
“We don't even know where this ship is going,” Burrell objected.
“North along the coast, all the way to the Northern Keys, if he stays with her,” Ysobel said.
The time for a decision was passing. If Ysobel had made a mistake, they would have to disembark—without assistance from the crew. It would be a long, hard swim, but it would not be the first time he and Ysobel had swum for their lives.
Or they could stay aboard, at least until the next port. Which could be equally perilous.
“Look,” he said, pointing to where Green Dragon was anchored. He could see the bright sails of the imperial navy being raised. “If the emperor is still aboard her . . .”
He let his voice trail off.
“Then I have made a grave mistake,” Ysobel said. “But I am not wrong. Trust me.”
Burrell shivered, wishing he could claim it was merely the freshening sea breeze. He trusted Ysobel with his own life—but if she were wrong, it was not just he who would pay the price. All of the federation would be imperiled if Lucius sailed on Green Dragon, ready to lead an attack, while he and Ysobel were elsewhere, unable to give warning.
He hesitated, and as he did so, the ship slipped into the open sea. He turned and watched as the sun began to set over Karystos.
“He's belowdecks, right?”
The tightness eased from Ysobel's features as she nodded. “There are two cabins on the second deck—one for men, the other for women and children,” she said. “The monk paid for sheltered passage.”
Burrell nodded “Then I'd best find someone who wishes to trade his space for a few coins,” he said.
They had nothing. No provisions, not even a change of clothes. He had a long knife tucked in his belt, in keeping with his disguise as a laborer, but Ysobel did not even have that much.
They were in for an uncomfortable few days, at the very least. The secret purse that he kept for emergencies would only stretch so far.
“I have coins enough for supplies,” Ysobel said, proving that their minds ran along similar channels. “And we can draw upon my credit at the first port we pass.”
He straightened. What was done was done, and it was up to him to make the best of it. First to secure a spot belowdecks, then a chance to observe this monk for himself. If Lady Ysobel was correct in her suspicions, then it was essential that Burrell not let the emperor out of his sight.
And if she was wrong . . . Well the sooner he proved that she was mistaken, the better it would be. Ysobel would forgive him for doubting her, but if her actions endangered the federation, then it was unlikely that she would ever forgive herself.
Tylenda cleared the harbor and turned north. Some of the passengers watched Karystos shrink in the distance behind them, while their more practical brethren began claiming spots on deck.
Burrell observed those who were not claiming spaces, knowing that they would be the ones sleeping below. He circulated among them, until he heard a man comforting his obviously pregnant wife. The man's voice had a sharper accent than that commonly heard on the streets of Karystos, and it did not take long to realize that they were returning to the country to join his family. Likely he'd come to the capital hoping to make his fortune, but instead had found a different kind of treasure to bring back.
The man had paid good silver to buy his family space below, but was willing to give up his own berth for twice what he'd paid—money that would ease the rest of his journey. Haggling with one of the sailors eventually yielded a small seabag, including a set of nearly clean clothes left behind by a passenger who hadn't survived a previous journey, along with a blanket for sleeping.
When Burrell finally made his way below to the second deck he found the door to the men's cabin propped open, though he had to bend down to enter. Once inside, he realized that the low ceiling meant it was impossible for him to stand erect.
Two smoking lanterns swung on hooks, providing dim illumination. There was space for about twenty pallets laid on the floor for landsmen, rather than the hammocks that sailors would have used. Most of the pallets were claimed, except for a pair on the right-hand wall, which were the least desirable as they were farthest from both the portholes and the door.
A group of men were cheerfully gossiping in the left corner, while one of them tossed a set of dice in his hands. The rest seemed to be traveling alone—some already lying down, trying to sleep, while others sat with their backs against the walls, lost in their own thoughts.
The monk was sitting opposite the door, underneath one of the portholes. The pallets adjacent to him were already occupied, but that could be remedied. The man to the monk's left was an older man, dressed in clean clothes but his hands were stained. A weaver, he surmised, come to Karystos to purchase dyes he could not find at home. The man to the monk's right wore the garb of a laborer, and had the crooked nose and battered ears of one who had seen his share of brawls.
Burrell nudged the weaver with his foot. “You're in my place,” he said.
The weaver shook his head. “I was here first,” he said.
“And I am here now,” Burrell said. He disliked having to intimidate the other man, but he needed to be near the supposed monk. He scratched his jaw, then let his hand fall as if by accident onto the hilt of his knife. “I always sleep under the porthole while I'm on a ship. Otherwise I get . . . tetchy.” He waited, but the man did not move. Burrell bared his teeth in a grimace. “I'd hate to have anything disturb your sleep,” he advised. “The pallets over there will be more peaceful for a man of your age.” With a jerk of his head he indicated the far wall.
“There is no need for you to move,” the monk said. “The sailors said we were free to choose our own berths . . .”
But the weaver was already getting to his feet, recognizing a threat when he heard one. The crew of Tylenda would not interfere in the affairs of the passengers—not until they endangered the safety of the ship or blood was spilled.
“Thank you,” Burrell said, as the weaver brushed by him.
He dropped unceremoniously to the deck.
In the dim light the monk's features had been obscured, but at this distance he could see the fear in his eyes. The monk was afraid—but was it fear of being recognized? Or merely the fear felt by an unarmed man when faced with a potentially violent companion?
“I'm Burrell,” he said.
The resemblance that he'd seen from a distance was even more pronounced in person. But in this dim light, a resemblance was all he was willing to swear to.
“I am Brother Josan,” the monk said. “And the man that you chased off was Tomasso of Umber, a cloth maker by trade.”
A cloth maker, not a weaver. He'd been close.
He stared at the man who called himself Brother Josan, but the man returned his gaze calmly, apparently recovered from his earlier fright. If he were indeed Emperor Lucius, then wouldn't he be worried over the possibility that he'd been followed by whatever enemies had caused him to flee his city in the first place? But if this man was worried, he hid it well.
The monk's robe was clean but obviously not new, and the sandals on his feet showed similar signs of wear. His hair was close-cropped, shorter than would be worn by an emperor or noble, but hair could easily be altered. It was hardly telling evidence.
Burrell sighed at his own foolishness. Had he expected the man to be wearing the imperial crown? Or to introduce himself by his given name? The emperor would not be likely to give himself away so easily.
