The final sacrifice, p.9
The Final Sacrifice, page 9
Their situation was desperate, but there was a chance they would survive, though she had no intention of telling him that. Not until he told her what she needed to know.
“If you are the monk you claim, we have no reason to keep you alive,” she added. “Two can survive better than three. Once Burrell kills you, we'll feast on your flesh and drink your blood to slake our thirst.”
“Give me the word,” Burrell said, moving his hand to his knife.
It was a brilliant performance, for she knew that Burrell would not kill in cold blood. But the emperor did not know that.
Lucius's face was a mask of outrage, his lips curling in a sneer. “You loathsome bitch,” he said. “And you are less than a cur for following her.”
She waited, holding his gaze. At last, his eyes dropped. When he spoke, she had to lean forward to catch his whisper.
“What would you have of me?”
“Tell me who you are. Prove to me that you are Lucius,” she said.
She had to know. Had to be sure that this was Lucius and that she hadn't risked everything on a fool's errand.
She waited for him to speak, to tell her something that only Lucius would know. But instead he closed his eyes, seeming to fold in on himself. Then, after a long moment, he drew himself erect. His head was tilted at a familiar angle, and the light of arrogance was once more in his eyes.
“Which way is Skalla?” he asked.
Burrell raised his left hand and pointed to the northwest. “That way, about a day's sail in a fast ship,” he said.
Lucius shaded his eyes with one hand, as if his gaze could somehow pierce the miles that separated them from land. He took a deep breath, then another.
She grew impatient. Lucius had not spoken his name, nor confirmed her beliefs. She opened her mouth to protest, but Burrell nudged her.
“Wait,” he whispered.
Lucius's hands grasped the bench on either side of him. He drew in a final breath, then exhaled it, in a long sigh that lasted for two dozen heartbeats.
Her hair fluttered in the breeze, and she brushed it away from her face.
Lucius smiled grimly.
The shifting breeze strengthened into a wind, blowing out of the southeast. White clouds appeared overheard, where there had been nothing only moments before.
The rowboat spun, propelled by the waves, and began moving northwest, in defiance of the current.
Toward Skalla.
This was not possible.
“By the Sea Witch's tits, I don't believe it,” Burrell swore, the common sailor's oath sounding strange coming from his lips.
“As you commanded, Lady Ysobel. Is there anything else you require?”
Lucius's voice dripped honey, but the glare in his eyes revealed his true feelings. He hated her for having forced him to reveal himself.
“My thanks, emperor,” she said. Her voice did not tremble but inside she was shocked.
She had sworn that this was Lucius, and convinced Burrell to follow her, but she realized that a small part of her had never truly believed it was he. She had never expected him to capitulate.
Nor that he could casually command the wind and waves to answer his bidding. He was a far more dangerous enemy than she had ever suspected.
Even as she watched, the arrogance faded from his features, and his face assumed a sickly greenish cast. He put one arm around his middle as he swallowed heavily. Then he lurched for the side of the ship.
The rowboat rocked, nearly overbalancing. Burrell threw himself to one side to right it, as she moved toward the emperor, who had begun to vomit over the side.
She reached for him—to keep him from falling over, or to offer comfort, she could not say. But he swatted away her hand.
“Do not touch me. Ever,” he said. “You have no right.”
She understood his anger, and withdrew her hand. Returning to her seat, she motioned for Burrell to move to the second bench, where he would be close enough to reach for Lucius if he overbalanced.
She needed Lucius. Needed this sorcerous wind for as long as he could hold it.
She would not antagonize him any further.
But when they reached shore, it would be a different matter.
“Drink,” Burrell urged. With one hand he held the emperor's head up, while with the other he held a cup to his lips. Tipping the cup, he poured in half a mouthful.
The emperor closed his mouth and swallowed.
“More,” Burrell urged, but the emperor shook his head.
“No more,” he said. “Leave me be, brother.”
Burrell hesitated. If the emperor had merely been suffering from the landsman's disease, then reaching dry land should have settled him. Instead Lucius remained feverish and dangerously dehydrated. But forcing water upon him would cause him to choke and vomit up what little he had already swallowed.
It had happened before.
With a sigh he lowered the emperor's head back to the pillow. He set the cup on the floor, next to the pitcher of water, then sat alongside them.
This room held a narrow cot and a pot for pissing. There were no other furnishings, no chairs, nor space for them. But the cheap lodging meant that no one would pay them any attention. And it had the advantage of being next to the docks, since they'd had to carry the emperor here, dragging him between them.
The emperor had become ill as soon as he did whatever he had done to change their course. Burrell felt queasy just thinking about it. No man should have power over the elements. It was an abomination.
One man might wish for fair weather to guide his journey, but what if every ship's captain could change the weather to suit his mood? To advance his own ship or hinder his competitors?
And if this power could be used as a weapon . . .
Though such efforts were apparently not without cost. While their course had remained northwest, the emperor had been gripped by debilitating spasms. He'd swiftly become dehydrated, his gut cramping even though there was nothing left but bloody bile. By the time a fishing ship had spotted them, he'd sunk into a fever and was unresponsive.
Ysobel had spun a tale of a simple journey between the islands gone awry when they'd been caught in a storm and lost their oars. Her eloquence, along with a double-silver, had inspired their rescuers to cut short their day of fishing and bring them to Skalla.
Once they'd settled into the rooms above the tavern, Ysobel had left, making it clear that Burrell was responsible for caring for the emperor.
He did not begrudge her. Someone had to stay here, and the emperor had made it clear that he would not tolerate her touch. Ysobel had promised to return as soon as she'd made contact with the local factor who handled her house's affairs and arranged a line of credit.
She'd said she would wait before sending any messages. She had not said why, but he knew as well as she.
It was one thing to have found the emperor. It would be another matter entirely if the emperor were to die while in their company.
At least no one seemed to recognize Lucius. If he died, they might be able to pass him off as the monk he had claimed to be, arranging for a quick burial in an unmarked grave.
Even having witnessed his powers, and heard the emperor respond to the name of Lucius, it was still hard for Burrell to believe that this man ruled over a vast empire. He couldn't reconcile the man who had humbly shared a cabin with two dozen other voyagers with the arrogant, self-confident princeling Lady Ysobel had oft described.
Perhaps Ysobel was correct in her belief that Lucius had spent the years of his exile living as one of the Learned Brethren. It would explain how he had learned to play the role so well. And why in the confusion of his illness he kept referring to Burrell as brother, and apologizing for causing so much trouble.
He placed a hand on the emperor's forehead, which seemed cooler than it had been. But Burrell had little experience in caring for the ill. He could offer water and keep the man from choking on his own vomit, but that was the extent of his skills. If the emperor was no better by the morning, he would send for a healer and damn the risk.
He decided to let the emperor sleep for an hour, then try again with the water. The tavern had offered fresh well water, and sent up ginger tea, though so far neither had been tolerated. Ysobel had promised to see if there was black root to be found in the markets—a cure that he remembered from his own childhood and the first time he'd set foot aboard a ship.
With nothing else to do, he picked up the emperor's journey bag and began to search through it. There were a handful of letters and a leather-bound book, both still dripping with water, and he spread them open on the floor beside him. The smallclothes he spread out on the windowsill—they could be washed later, or used as rags once they had dried.
The purse at the bottom of the sack was not unexpected, though its contents were surprisingly modest—mostly coppers, with a mere half dozen hexagonal silvers and an equal number of worn gold pieces. The gold coins were stamped with Empress Nerissa's profile on one side, and her father Emperor Aitor II's on the other.
It occurred to him that there were no coins with the new emperor's likeness—the imperial mint continued to use the old dies, even a year after he had assumed the throne.
Perhaps the emperor did not care whose face was on the coins. Or perhaps no one had expected him to live long enough to make it worth the trouble to change them.
He returned the purse to the journey bag. He would have expected an emperor to have an imperial purse, but the sum, while more than a monk might claim, was hardly riches.
The book was mostly ruined. What writing he could make out appeared to be Taresian—a book of stories or perhaps a history, since there were neither sums nor diagrams.
The two scrolls were illegible, the ink having washed away. Journey bags were intended to protect against rain, not meant to endure immersion in the salt sea. But one letter, folded into a square and coated with wax, had survived.
Burrell hesitated—the emperor was not a friend, but neither was he their enemy. The truce that existed between their countries could be said to extend between them as well. And yet, if there was any possibility that the letter would explain why the emperor had fled his capital—
He broke the seal with his knife and unfolded the letter. It was addressed to the master of the library at Xandropol, and bid him offer all due courtesies to Brother Mensah, a fellow scholar.
Mensah. Not Josan. A monk's journey bag, but perhaps both the journey and the bag belonged to another man? And the emperor had taken his place?
Or perhaps he'd intended to change his name yet again, from Lucius to Brother Josan, and finally to Brother Mensah, making it even more difficult for his pursuers to find him.
“He liked you.”
Burrell turned, and saw that the emperor was awake—and watching him paw through his possessions. He could feel his face flushing.
“The monk liked you,” the emperor repeated. “Thought you kind when you weren't following Lady Ysobel's commands. Well-favored, too. He wouldn't have minded bedding you, if he'd had a chance.”
Burrell was stunned into silence. Liked him? Surely the emperor didn't mean to imply—
“Of course, I know differently,” the emperor said. “You stink of treachery, as does your mistress.”
“Lady Ysobel—”
“Is not here,” the emperor said, pushing himself upright. “But I see she has found only the best for us. Tell me, as your prisoner, am I allowed food and water? Or must I beg for them?”
Hastily Burrell reached for the cup and filled it with fresh water. “Slowly,” he said, as he handed it over.
Heedless of his warning, the emperor drained the cup, then held it out.
“More,” he demanded.
It was as if this was a different man. The emperor drank three full cups with no ill effects, then repeated his demand for food.
Burrell was unwilling to leave him alone, but went to the top of the stairs and called down to one of the servants. Her ire at being summoned in such a fashion was soothed by the promise of a pair of coppers if she fetched soup.
The emperor disposed of the soup as quickly as he had the water. He still looked fatigued, but no longer did he appear at death's door.
“Where are we? And how did I come to be your prisoner?” the emperor asked, once his hunger was satisfied.
“We reached Skalla at midday,” Burrell said. “It is two days since Tylenda sank.”
He did not answer the second question. Emperor Lucius was not precisely his prisoner, but neither could he let the emperor leave this room. Not until Lady Ysobel had returned.
He felt a wistful longing for his days of service in the marines, when his life had been orderly and predictable. True, he'd been frustrated at his inability to advance, and there had been no one whom he trusted in the way that he had come to rely upon Lady Ysobel. But at least back then he'd never been called upon to explain to a reigning emperor why he was being held in a squalid room above a low-class tavern for his own protection.
“Never mind,” the emperor said as he settled himself back down on the cot. “I will not bandy words with a slave. I see I must wait for your mistress.”
Burrell ignored the insult. He would not be provoked. Deprived of a target, the emperor closed his eyes and seemed to fall back asleep. It remained to be seen if he would be in a better mood when he awoke.
It was dusk when Ysobel returned to the tavern and climbed the stairs that led to the rooms above, which could be rented by the hour or day, depending on the needs and purses of the patrons.
It had taken her longer than expected to find the factor—Skalla was a minor port, so rather than a member of her house who would have known her by sight, Ysobel had to deal with a factor who handled the affairs of a number of trading houses. The woman was duly skeptical when Ysobel first presented herself. Ordinarily the signet ring of a master trader would have been proof of her identity—but not when such a ring was worn by a woman wearing the salt-stained garb of an Ikarian sailor.
Finally, when she'd proven her knowledge of both ciphers and the inner workings of her trading house, the woman's manner had changed. Suddenly she was eager to supply Ysobel with a full purse and a letter of credit that would be accepted anywhere in Skalla.
The woman had also shared the latest news from the capital—or rather the lack of news. Ikaria was calm, the emperor taking advantage of the peace to retreat to his estates to escape the summer heat, as was the custom of his predecessors. There was no word of uprisings or unrest.
Nor of a frantic search for their missing emperor. Though perhaps that news would come on the next ship. Unless Proconsul Zuberi had decided to keep this to himself.
It all depended on why Lucius had fled and what Zuberi knew of it.
She wondered if Lucius would be in any condition to tell them why he had left. The factor had sent her own clerk out to fetch black root, along with clean garb for all of them—simple tunics and leggings that would not be out of place in this part of the city.
The factor had also provided the name of a healer who could be trusted to be discreet, though Ysobel was reluctant to call upon him unless absolutely necessary. A man might well hold his tongue in the face of scandal but be unable to resist sharing the news that he had treated the emperor. If Lucius were alert, he would likely have no wish to reveal his true identity, but if he were out of his mind with fever, who knew what he might let slip?
She pushed open the door and saw that the emperor was asleep, with Burrell sitting on the floor next to him, just as she had left them both.
“How is he?” she asked.
Burrell rose to his feet and drew her over to the window.
“Much improved,” Burrell said, but his face was wary. “He was sick when you left, but woke an hour ago, drank his fill, and ate a bowl of soup before falling back asleep.”
“Good.” It seemed she'd been worried for naught.
“It doesn't seem natural,” Burrell said. “To go from being that sick, to being merely tired, in the space of a few hours.”
He'd been uneasy with Lucius ever since the emperor had called upon his magic, and this was no different. Burrell would suspect magic in anything the emperor did.
“You think he healed himself,” she said, intending to point out why this was absurd.
“I've done it before,” Lucius said, interrupting her carefully planned speech. “My efforts may have sapped my strength for a time, but as my powers recovered, so have I.”
She turned as Lucius sat up, then swung his legs over the side of the bed. He braced himself for a moment, then stood up.
He looked unkempt, as they all did, after their ordeal at sea. But he no longer appeared to be sick.
“I need to piss,” he said.
His crudeness was intended to discomfit her, but she had spent most of her life at sea. It would take far more than mere words to disturb her sensibilities.
“There's a pot here, or Burrell can show you to the privy downstairs,” she said. She handed Burrell the bundles that held clean clothing for the two men. “Here, you'll want to put these on.”
Lucius looked at the clothing and shook his head. “After I've bathed.”
She gritted her teeth. “I'll see what can be arranged,” she said.
Her own skin itched with dried salt, but she'd far more important matters than her own comfort on her mind.
Lucius, it seemed, had different priorities.
Still, it would cost nothing to indulge him.
“I'll see if I can find a servant to bring up a basin of water and clean towels,” she said. “And when you've changed, we'll talk.”
Lucius nodded his agreement, then walked over to the chamber pot.
The servingwoman was old enough to be Ysobel's mother and inclined to be surly, but several coppers inspired her to bring water to Lucius's room and the adjacent room that Ysobel had claimed for herself. Dinner had been ordered as well, so she made quick work of stripping her clothes off and sponging herself down with the rags provided.
She longed for a proper bath and a chance to wash her hair. She'd been spoiled by living in Ikaria so long and promised that tomorrow she'd find an opportunity to visit the public baths for a proper scrub down.
