The final sacrifice, p.7
The Final Sacrifice, page 7
Burrell shook his head. “Our friend was unwell,” he said in a soft voice.
“Unwell?”
Burrell shrugged, his features revealing his confusion. “I do not know what else to call it. He woke last night in a fit. I tried to calm him, but I would swear he didn't know me, nor where he was.”
“Was he drunk?”
“Not that I could tell. Nor feverish,” he added, anticipating her next question.
“Is he still sick?”
Two sailors bearing a chest between them tried to shove past her, and after fixing them with a glare, Ysobel belatedly remembered her assumed role. She retreated back to the rail as Burrell followed. These sailors had no reason to pay her any deference; nor could she afford to rouse their suspicions.
“He was quiet for some time, after he calmed,” Burrell said. “His eyes were closed, but I could tell he was not sleeping. When dawn came, he opened his eyes and asked if we were in Samos harbor. But he has not moved from his pallet. I don't know if he can.”
The elderly were known to have such fits of confusion and paralysis, but the monk was still a young man. Nor had he asked for help, which meant that he, at least, knew what afflicted him.
“We know the emperor was suffering from fits . . .”
“If that was the emperor,” Burrell added. “This may still be the same man—perhaps he's too ill to play the part of the emperor any longer, which is why they are getting rid of him.”
“Or it could be Lucius himself,” Ysobel countered. “Journeying in search of a cure.”
Burrell threw up his hands in frustration. “What would you have us do?”
“You will stay here to keep watch over the monk. If he tries to leave the ship, then you will follow him. I'll go ashore and send word back to the ambassador, and to the federation. Let them know that Lucius is not resting in the countryside but rather sailed to an unknown destination, and we are following a man who may lead us to him.”
“Let us hope the warning reaches them in time,” Burrell said. “I still think Lucius sailed aboard Green Dragon.”
He disagreed with her, but she did not mind. She appreciated his candor, as much as she valued his honesty. Once she'd announced her intention to leave this ship, he could easily have kept quiet about the monk's strange illness. Instead he'd shared the news with her, knowing that she might see it as proof that her suspicions were right.
“Even if we sailed on the fastest of ships, we could not hope to catch Green Dragon,” Ysobel said. “Not without knowing her destination.”
It was a peace offering, of a sort. There was nothing they could do except send word and urge others to prepare.
“And if Lucius leads his fleet to war while we are ferrying ducks and peasants along the coast?”
“The mistake will be mine, as will the consequences,” she said.
“I stand by you, whatever you decide,” Burrell said, refusing to accept her generosity.
He would question her to her face, but resolutely defend her before all others. Such loyalty was rare, and she strove to be worthy of his trust.
If she was wrong—well, she would deserve whatever befell her. As for Burrell—if she thought with her heart, she'd be tempted to send him away so that he would not suffer for his loyalty. Which would have been foolish, since she needed him. Needed him to go to places where she could not, needed to know that if anything happened to her, there was someone who would carry on. Which only served to remind her of all the reasons why she had not taken him as a lover.
He trusted her judgment, and she needed to trust it as well. To know that she charted the course that had the best chance of success rather than giving in to her own desires. He was a friend, yes, and already that friendship had tempted her to put personal considerations first, ahead of her duty. Which was the surest path to a failure that would doom them both.
She must not forget that they were in enemy territory, where a single mistake could get them both killed.
Burrell would stay with her, as aide and confidant. And she would trust in her instincts to keep them both safe.
Chapter 6
Spray from the porthole above dampened Josan's cheek. He brushed it away, then wiped his hand on his robe before once again opening his book. Since recovering from his brief illness, he'd read the book of Taresian poetry twice and begun amusing himself by translating the verses in his head. They flowed easily enough into Ikarian, so he'd begun translating them into Decanese, the language of the Seddonian court, which was proving a greater challenge. Decanese held a wealth of terms to describe extended family relationships, and there were specific forms describing whether wealth was inherited, earned through the sea trade, or from other sources. But it had only two words for love—one for the affection felt for family and another for passion.
By contrast, Taresian not only had a word for a pure love that was the basis of true friendship, but such love was often the subject of their poems and dramas. Herat it was called, and there was no equivalent in Decanese. It held the flavor of affection, loyalty, and devotion, but it wasn't precisely equivalent to any of these.
He puzzled over the phrase,
Bitter tears flowed, as Danya professed herat!
But cold-handed Hadeon scorned his vow.
It was tempting to translate herat as love, but in context with the rest of the poem, friendship was likely closer to the poet's original intent. The poem was a tragedy in which Hadeon the magistrate is reunited with his old friend, only to have to condemn Danya to death, in accordance with the law.
The agony of being torn between honor and herat played out for over two hundred lines, until Danya was hanged, and Hadeon drank poison while contemplating his friend's corpse.
By Taresian standards it was a cheerful poem, in that the ending confirmed the overriding importance of herat. Josan did not quite understand the point of law under which Danya was condemned to death for merely witnessing a crime, but that did not matter. His translation was sound enough, as it was not a scholarly exercise but a mere diversion to while away the hours on a day when the weather was too foul to be up on deck.
Finishing the first poem, he began on the next, the tale of a magician who'd placed his heart in a crystal and thus thought to live forever. But his enemies destroyed the crystal and with that he perished. The point of the tale was to assure the audience that even the most powerful could not escape their destinies, but it was the mention of the crystal that intrigued Josan. Lost in thought, he was abruptly yanked from his musings when he found himself sprawled on the floor.
He blinked up at the hanging lantern, which swung wildly above him. Both he and his pallet had slid across the floor as the ship lurched to one side.
His back ached from where it had struck the deck, and his palms stung where he had scraped them in his awkward slide. Pushing himself back into a seated position, he took deep breaths as his stomach objected to the violent pitching.
The deck continued its tilt, so he did not bother standing but rather crawled back to his place, dragging his pallet with him.
“Here you are,” Burrell said, handing him his book, which must have fallen from his grasp.
Unlike the others in the cabin, who grumbled as they recovered their possessions, Burrell had not been taken off guard. Then again, Seddonians were practically born at sea. To him, such a storm was likely nothing compared to those that had rocked him to sleep.
“Thank you,” Josan said.
Burrell had continued to keep an eye on him, but after that first day there had been no further mention of his suspicions regarding Josan's true identity. Having shared sleeping quarters with the man for the past fortnight, he would wager that Burrell did indeed believe him to be nothing more than a monk.
Lady Ysobel, on the other hand, was apparently not convinced. Why else had she remained aboard this ship, if it were not to keep an eye on the man she believed to be Emperor Lucius?
Tylenda's journey along the coast had been slow, the ship pausing every two or three days to put into port. Gradually the number of passengers decreased. The men's cabin was less than half-full, and the space on deck that had been given over to the lowest class of passengers was now occupied by crates of cargo.
It seemed to Josan that the ship rode heavier than she had at the start and tended to wallow in the waves, but he was not enough of a sailor to be certain.
Either Lady Ysobel or Burrell visited each port that they called at, but they always returned to the ship. They had taken no actions against him, which gave him hope that in time they would give over their suspicions entirely. Failing that he might be able to lose them when he changed ships at Skalla.
“The storm is growing worse,” Josan observed.
Burrell shook his head. “Feel the rolling of the ship? That's not the storm. We've changed course and are heading due west by my reckoning.”
Burrell's voice was calm, but his mouth was tight, and Josan felt the first niggling of fear.
“Our next port is Skalla, to the north, isn't it? Why would we change course?”
Burrell shrugged. “Maybe the captain's seeking sheltered harbor, preparing to wait out the storm.” Then he rose to his feet. “It's time to relieve myself.”
“I will go with you.” Josan had to brace himself against the curved planks of the hull but managed to struggle to his feet. Habit made him sling his journey bag over one shoulder before setting out after Burrell.
The common lavatory was down the corridor to their right—a small room at the back of the ship, where passengers and crew alike squatted over holes that voided their waste into the sea—or sprayed it upon the hull of the ship, depending. It was a foul place, and in fairer weather most simply relieved themselves over the rail, when no one was looking.
Burrell, despite his declaration, turned left, and Josan followed as Burrell climbed the ladder and pushed open the hatch cover that was closed in wet weather.
Josan climbed out after Burrell, the wooden cover falling open beside him. As the rain-slick deck tilted crazily beneath him, he paused on his hands and knees and cursed his foolishness.
Burrell dogged the hatch closed, then offered his hand to Josan, bracing him till he found his feet.
He could see Captain Aldo standing by the wheel, while amidships the deck officer clung to a line, cursing the sailors who scrambled in the rigging above him.
To Josan's eyes the scene was chaos, but Burrell took it in with a glance.
“See, the storm has eased,” Burrell observed, his voice raised to carry above the sounds of flapping canvas and creaking timbers.
Josan blinked at the rain that pelted his face. It was true that the clouds were light gray rather than the ominous dark clouds that had greeted them at dawn, but it was still storming.
“Come,” Burrell said.
Josan hung on to Burrell's sleeve as he made his way to the bow, where a familiar figure was standing.
Lady Ysobel. Of course. Josan hesitated, then squared his shoulders. As a monk, he was curious about all things, and it would not be in keeping with his character if he were to avoid her.
“She's running for shore,” Burrell said.
Lady Ysobel glanced at Josan, and appeared to weigh her words before responding, “Indeed. And he picked a poor place for it.”
“Was the ship damaged by the storm?” Josan asked. If the captain feared his ship was sinking, his only choice would be to head for shore as swiftly as possible and hope that he could beach her, or at least get close enough to make rescue possible.
“I thought I caught a glimpse of sails on the horizon,” Burrell said.
Where? Josan turned in a full circle but saw nothing. The deck lurched again, and only Burrell's hasty grab kept Josan upright.
Embarrassed, he grasped the deck rail with both hands.
“A navy ship,” Ysobel said. She and Burrell exchanged a speaking look.
“What is a federation ship doing here?” Josan asked.
“Your navy,” Ysobel said, speaking slowly as if he were wit-damaged. “A three-master, based on the short glimpse I had. Captain Aldo won't be able to outrun her for long.”
“But why would the captain flee?” He would pretend that by your navy she had meant that he was a citizen of Ikaria rather than implying that as emperor any navy ship would be under his command.
“I suspect that has something to do with the cargo we took on board at the last port,” Burrell said.
Smugglers? He was on a smuggler's ship? How had he not noticed?
But neither seemed concerned with his ignorance. As Josan looked behind them, searching for a glimpse of the navy vessel, he saw that Ysobel's and Burrell's gazes were focused firmly to the west, the direction in which they were traveling.
Though not without some difficulty, as the direction of the wind meant that the ship was heeling hard to starboard. Yet even as he watched, the sailors struggled to set even more sail in their frantic rush to escape their pursuers.
“See that? White caps, two points to the starboard,” Burrell said.
“I see them.” Ysobel's voice was grim. “And another set, ahead. If the captain doesn't turn—”
But even as the words left her mouth, the ship began turning, though far too slowly for Josan's taste.
Josan closed his eyes, frantically trying to remember the shape of the coastline. Skalla was the next port of call, but rather than hugging the coastline, the captain had charted a course that took them out of sight of land. He pictured the great map of the empire in his mind, and the approach to Skalla—
Which was marked with warnings of the shoals that guarded the approach to the Southern Keys. Only local fishermen in their shallow skiffs dared sail these waters, and even they were known to come to grief as the shoals shifted without warning.
Those very same dangers were responsible for his first meeting with Lady Ysobel, when her vessel had been shipwrecked, stranding her on Txomin's island, where a humble monk had once tended the imperial lighthouse.
There was good reason for them to fear these shoals.
“He's a madman,” Burrell observed.
“And he won't listen to either of us,” Lady Ysobel added.
“What should we do?” Josan asked. He shivered in the wind-driven rain, but had no intention of taking shelter belowdecks. If anything happened, those below would be trapped.
“Wait,” Ysobel said. “And pray the captain knows what he is doing.”
Still, there was no sense in standing without shelter. Clutching the rail with both hands, Josan made his way along the portside of the ship until he was opposite the deckhouse. The ship was tilted so steeply that at times when he glanced over the rail he saw the sea beneath him rather than the side of the ship. Another few degrees and the waves would begin lapping at the deck.
He wondered about the stability of the ship. How far could she heel over before she simply turned on her side? He'd wager Ysobel would know, but he was not inclined to be enlightened. Contrary to the brethren's teachings, he had learned that there were times when the comfort of ignorance was preferable to the grim certainties of truth.
The deckhouse was a steep climb above him. As the ship cut through the waves, he timed her motion. The next time the port side rose he was ready, and dashed up the deck, grasping one of the ropes that were tied to the side of the deckhouse.
The overhanging roof provided shelter from the rain, and this had been among the choicest spots for those travelers who had journeyed on deck. Looping his left arm through the rope, he braced his back against the deckhouse.
He was not surprised when a moment later he was joined first by Lady Ysobel, then Burrell. Either they recognized the wisdom of taking shelter, or they were determined not to let him out of their sight.
He would not have chosen either of them for companions, and yet, there was a part of him that was grateful for their company. It was cowardly of him, he knew, but he did not want to die alone.
What would happen to Ikaria if he perished? How long would Zuberi wait before taking the throne? Would his people accept a new emperor? Or would civil war break out over the succession, as it had nearly done a year ago?
And if both he and Lady Ysobel were to disappear, what would their two countries make of it? Would each side blame the other, leading to war?
He should never have left Ikaria, he realized. Leaving had been selfish, choosing his own life over the needs of the empire that he and Lucius had sworn to serve. Yes, staying would have been a death sentence, but it would have been his life alone that was at risk. Instead, in seeking a cure, he might have inadvertently embroiled two countries in a debilitating war.
He was thrown from his feet as the ship shuddered, grinding to a halt. The rope cut savagely into his arm, but it saved him from being tossed overboard.
The ship was in chaos—a dozen voices raised at once. Some sailors clung to the rigging, while one had fallen to the deck nearby. Even as Josan watched, the sailor's body began to slide toward the gap in the side that was used for loading cargo. Josan looked around, but no one was paying any attention to the fallen sailor. He unhooked his arm from the rope, preparing to rescue him, but found himself firmly restrained in Burrell's grasp.
Josan struggled to break free, but was forced to watch as the hapless sailor was washed over the side.
“Why?” he demanded, when Burrell finally released him. He turned to glare at Ysobel, knowing that this was her doing. If she were a man, he would have struck her.
“He was already dead,” Lady Ysobel said.
“You could not know that.”
“Yes, I did,” she countered.
He glared, but there was nothing to be done. As the ship groaned and shuddered, he was reminded that all of their lives were at risk.
“We've run aground,” Josan said, wondering if this was a good thing or not.
