The Sea Change

by Patricia Bray

  “All will be explained when the empress wills,” he said.

  Brother Basil had managed to attract the attention of one of the half dozen guards who stood on the other side of the gate, apparently deaf to the strident pleas of those outside.

  “This is Brother Nikos, summoned to counsel by the empress herself,” Basil shouted.

  It was undignified. Never before had he had to beg for admission.

  But the guards did not seem impressed by Basil’s words. Instead their eyes were hard, and their hands rested on their swords as if they feared attack.

  It did not take a scholar to know that something was gravely wrong.

  He pushed Basil aside and stood directly before the gate. “I am Brother Nikos, chief advisor to her imperial majesty Nerissa, and I demand to be taken to her presence,” he said, in the booming voice best suited to leading the faithful in prayers.

  He fixed his gaze on the sergeant, who nodded in apparent recognition. The sergeant gave orders to two of his men, who unbarred the gate. As it began to swing open, the crowd surged forward, but the remaining guards drew their swords.

  “The priest only, no one else,” the sergeant called out, and at the sight of naked steel, the crowd drew back.

  Nikos slipped through the gate, not surprised to find that it swung shut before his acolytes could follow.

  “Wait for me here,” he instructed them.

  The sergeant turned to one of the guards. “The proconsul asked to see this one. Bring him to the proconsul’s office, and see that he stays there.”

  “The empress is expecting me—” Nikos began.

  “The proconsul. Or I’ll send you back through that gate.”

  Nikos nodded, accepting defeat for the moment, though he memorized every feature of the sergeant’s face. When the time came, he would be punished for his disrespect. As the guard escorted him through the imperial compound, Nikos observed more signs of chaos—armed men were everywhere, but few servants were visible, and those that he did see rushed by with bent heads and ashen faces.

  Was it possible that Princess Jacinta’s death had not been a tragic accident? Had Empress Nerissa discovered evidence that the princess had been poisoned, and the baby’s death was an act of deliberate malice? Surely the empress would want him by her side, but instead he was forced to cool his heels in Zuberi’s outer office, under guard as if he were a common criminal. He waited with growing impatience until Zuberi finally returned to his office.

  With a curt order, Nikos’s escort was dismissed, and Zuberi led him into his private office.

  “Sorry to leave you waiting, but Anthor just died,” Zuberi said.

  It took a moment for his words to penetrate.

  “I must go to the empress,” Nikos said. “She will be devastated.”

  Zuberi stared at him in disbelief.

  “By the twisted fates, I forgot. You don’t know.”

  “Know what? How did Anthor die?”

  Zuberi sat down heavily, and after a moment, Nikos did as well.

  “After you left yesterday, Nerissa, Nestor, and Anthor retired to the royal chapel to hold private vigil for the princess,” Zuberi said. He took a deep breath, then continued. “Sometime during the night, an assassin entered. Nerissa and Nestor were slain. Against custom, Anthor was wearing a dagger, and he struggled with the assassin, killing him in turn, but he was gravely wounded. He must have bled for hours before they were found. The royal physicians did all they could, but he died just moments ago.”

  Zuberi’s words made no sense. This was not possible. Nerissa, dead? And both her sons? How could such a thing have happened?

  “How? Who?”

  “The assassin bore the tattoos of a palace functionary, and thus was allowed to pass unquestioned. As for who, we both know Prince Lucius is behind this, and I have already dealt with him.”

  “No,” Nikos said, the word escaping his lips before he could call it back.

  “No?” Zuberi echoed, his eyebrows raised in astonishment.

  Nikos thought furiously. He knew without a doubt that Prince Lucius was not behind this assassination, but he could not share the reason for his conviction with Zuberi. Not without exposing his own damning secrets.

  “I do not think Lucius is behind this. His penitence seemed sincere.”

  Zuberi snorted. “You are too trusting.”

  “At the very least he must have had help,” Nikos said. “He was too closely watched to hatch this plot on his own.”

  He waited, wondering if Lucius was alive, or if Zuberi had already killed him. In many ways, it would be better for Nikos if Lucius were indeed dead and his secrets buried with him.

  “I will have Nizam drag from him the names of his accomplices,” Zuberi said, confirming that Lucius was still alive. At least for now.

  “How can I serve?” Nikos asked.

  “I will draft the announcement, and you have a funeral to plan.”

  “Of course. And the next emperor…” Nikos let his voice trail off delicately. “Shall I consult him as to his wishes?”

  Zuberi smiled grimly. “You will know his name as soon as I do,” he said. “For now, we have an empress to bury.”

  Interesting. He had half expected Zuberi to announce his own candidacy and try to secure Nikos’s support. Perhaps Zuberi felt that it was too soon to make his move, with the empress’s body not yet cold. Or perhaps Zuberi was merely being prudent—biding his time to see who else would try to claim the throne so he would know the faces of his enemies.

  The difficulty was that there was no clear heir. Indeed, as a woman, Nerissa would never have been allowed to take the throne if there had been any legitimate male descendant of Aitor I. But Nerissa had been the only child of Aitor II, and had two sturdy sons of her own at the time of his death. The young princes had ensured the continuation of Aitor’s line and their mother’s seat on the imperial throne.

  Now the field was wide open. With Nerissa’s death, Nikos had lost a powerful patron, but if he maneuvered carefully, his own position might be strengthened. Whoever was chosen as emperor would need loyal advisors. And Nikos knew how to offer loyalty—in return for his own self-interest, of course.

  What was good for the empire had proven to be good for Nikos as well, and he saw no reason why this should change. It was simply a matter of backing the right candidate for the throne—which made it all the more vital that those behind the assassinations be uncovered as soon as possible.

  And if the emperor-to-be turned out to have blood on his hands, well then, there was always Prince Lucius. Nikos’s first service to his new emperor would be to arrange evidence confirming Lucius’s guilt…for a suitable reward. Prince Lucius was already doomed, from the moment the next emperor was named. At least this way his death would serve a dual purpose—to bring stability to the empire and ensure that Nikos remained in a position to guide the new emperor through the difficult days ahead.

  Chapter 2

  Nizam shook his head in disgust as he examined his newest charge. Prince Lucius lay sprawled on the floor of his cell, his naked flesh patterned in dark hues, clear evidence of the savage beating he had endured. Nizam motioned to his assistant to bring the lantern closer as he knelt down next to the prince.

  They had not cut him, but from the swelling of his belly, he suspected the prince was bleeding inside his gut. His jaw was broken, and his face so swollen that he was incapable of opening his eyes. If the bleeding in his gut did not kill him, the broken jaw would.

  There were lesser injuries as well—a broken arm, and knees swollen to twice their normal size. As Nizam turned the prince’s body over, to check for injuries to his back, the prince moaned.

  It was the sound of an animal in pain. There was no thought, no reason behind it. Lucius was beyond awareness, incapable of recognizing who was hurting him, or who had the power to end his suffering. It would be impossible to get any information from him in his current state.

  Nizam understood that men could
be driven by revenge, and many would say that Lucius had been treated as he deserved. But this was a pointless waste. It offended his sense of order, and he knew Empress Nerissa would never have permitted it.

  The empress had understood his work as few others did. Even among his chosen assistants, most were merely competent rather than inspired. The empress had never personally wielded the lash nor the irons, but he had no doubt that she would have done so with skill. If she had been present in this cell, Lucius would have spilled all of his secrets before begging for death.

  “Shall I send for the healer?” his assistant asked.

  Nizam shook his head. “No. The proconsul’s men said that he should be left untouched. I merely wanted to see him for myself before I made my report.”

  Rising to his feet, he gave the prince one last look before leaving the cell. He made his way swiftly through the passages and stairs that led from his secret domain up through the public spaces and finally into the palace itself. He knew the way, though he had seldom traveled it. Nerissa had preferred to meet with him in his domain, often insisting on being present for the interrogation of important prisoners, but her ministers lacked her spirit. Proconsul Zuberi had never set foot in the catacombs, preferring instead to summon Nizam to him on those rare occasions when he needed to speak with him.

  Nizam smiled mirthlessly as servants blanched with fright, then quickly scurried out of his path. They did well to fear him. The assassin must have had help in gaining access to the palace, and until his accomplices were caught, all lived under suspicion.

  Nizam had no fear for his position. Whether Proconsul Zuberi was crowned emperor or another, there would still be a need for a man with his talents. Especially now, with the assassin dead and Prince Lucius unable to speak, Nizam’s services would be in high demand as they sought to ferret out the rest of the conspirators.

  A dozen courtiers paced in the corridor outside the proconsul’s offices, while more crowded inside the anteroom, along with an officer from the guard, and one of Petrelis’s lackeys from the city watch. Each was badgering the clerks in turn, demanding immediate admittance.

  Nizam said nothing, knowing his reputation would serve him far better than any words. True enough, the petitioners drew back as they recognized him and with a hasty swallow, the senior of the two clerks motioned him forward.

  “Please, he is waiting for you,” the clerk said.

  The proconsul was still wearing the formal court attire he must have worn when he announced the deaths of the imperial family. The only concession made to the summer’s heat had been to remove the black shawl of mourning, which was now draped carelessly over the back of his chair. The empress’s death must have hit him hard. Though it had been only a few weeks since Nizam had last seen him, the proconsul seemed to have aged years in that time.

  “You are authorized to use all lawful measures to enforce the peace—” Proconsul Zuberi’s voice broke off as he saw Nizam.

  The scribe, who had been taking notes, looked up, then rose swiftly to his feet even before Zuberi waved him away.

  “Wait outside. I will summon you when I am ready to finish this,” Zuberi said.

  The scribe bowed as he gathered up his writing things, then swiftly backed away.

  “There is a curfew in the city tonight, for all the good that will do,” Zuberi said, by way of greeting. “I expect Commander Petrelis will have his hands full.”

  “Have him hang the first dozen violators that he finds and leave their bodies dangling as a warning to the rest.”

  It was what Empress Nerissa would have done. It would be impossible to arrest all of the violators, but the deaths would discourage honest citizens from trying to test the limits of the curfew. Then those still out on the streets could then safely be assumed to be lawbreakers and dealt with accordingly.

  Zuberi shrugged. “And what of the hundreds of mourners out in the square? Now that sunset has fallen they are all in violation of the decree, but for each one that leaves, another two come to take their place.”

  Rumors had swept through the city far ahead of the official announcement, and the square had been packed for most of the day. Zuberi had ordered a curfew, to quell unrest, but privately Nizam doubted that there would be any riots tonight. The city of Karystos was in shock, the loss too enormous to comprehend. If trouble were to come, it would come tomorrow, once the shock had worn off and men began to reckon what they had gained and lost with Nerissa’s death.

  “Have the priests send them home. Or to the temples, where they may pray all night, and leave the streets free for patrols.”

  Zuberi nodded. He did not thank Nizam for his suggestion. It was not his way.

  “What of Prince Lucius? My men said he told them nothing.”

  “Your men were ignorant brutes who smashed his jaw to stop his screams. Of course he told them nothing since he is no longer capable of speech.”

  He had thought to shock Zuberi with his bluntness, but Zuberi appeared unmoved. Perhaps he was no longer capable of being shocked after the tumultuous events of the past two days.

  “He must have had accomplices, and I need you to discover who helped him.”

  “And how do you suggest I do that? The prince cannot speak and he is not fit to be questioned.”

  Zuberi shrugged and turned away slightly, his attention seemingly caught by the overflowing basket of scrolls on his desk. “Then we will question all those that Lucius has had contact with since he became the empress’s guest. One of them must be guilty, and he will lead us to the others.”

  “And as for the prince?”

  “He is to be burned alive at the foot of Nerissa’s pyre, so the sound of his screams may ease her passage.”

  Zuberi had spent too long in the corridors of power, far removed from the realities of life and death. He could have benefited from a few hours spent observing Nizam’s apprentices at their craft.

  “The prince will not live that long,” Nizam said. “Your guards were undisciplined and the damage they did too grave. The prince will die within days, either from the bleeding in his gut or from his broken jaw if he is unable to swallow water.”

  “They were under orders to leave him alive.”

  “He is alive. But he will not stay that way.”

  Zuberi growled in frustration. “I will not let him slip away this easily. The funeral is nine days from today. Do what you must to keep him alive until then.”

  “I will do what I can, but I do not think it will be enough,” Nizam said.

  Zuberi nodded, apparently satisfied. “If he dies, notify me at once, and we will display his body in the courtyard. I will send you a list of all those who have been in contact with him, and you may start questioning them immediately.”

  “As you command, proconsul,” Nizam said, recognizing the dismissal.

  Returning to the secret catacombs that were never shown on the official maps of the palace compound, Nizam sent a runner to fetch Galen the healer. He doubted that there was anything a healer could do to prolong Lucius’s life, but he had promised Zuberi that he would try.

  A former slave himself, Galen normally tended the servants of the imperial household, but he had worked with Nizam before when his special skills were required. As he entered Lucius’s cell, followed by a slave carrying the tools of his trade, Galen took in the situation with a single glance.

  “This was not your work,” he said.

  “No,” Nizam agreed. “But now it falls upon me to keep him alive long enough that he may be properly executed.”

  Lucius had been moved to a low cot in preparation for Galen’s visit, but other than that he was untouched. Unlike earlier, this time he did not make a sound as his abused body was turned one way, then another. Galen’s face darkened as he manipulated the rigid abdomen, then carefully felt the shattered jaw.

  “No matter what I do, he will be dead before morning,” Galen announced.

  This matched Nizam’s own conclusions.

  �
�Proconsul Zuberi will be most displeased.” It was both a statement of fact and a warning. Nizam, by his position, was immune to Zuberi’s displeasure but Galen was not.

  “Why? Was this one of the assassin’s helpers?”

  “This is, or rather was, Prince Lucius.”

  Galen gave a low hiss of surprise, turning the prince’s face toward the light. “So it is.” Then he shrugged. “Prince or prisoner, it makes no difference. He will die nonetheless.”

  “Do what you would if you expected him to live,” Nizam advised. Galen had been of use to him in the past and there was no reason to sacrifice such a valuable tool to Zuberi’s ire. “Bind his jaw and splint his arm. Let Zuberi see that we tried to save him.”

  “A waste of my time and supplies,” Galen muttered, but he turned to his slave and gave the necessary orders.

  Nizam watched as Lucius’s broken arm was splinted, his swollen knees wrapped in compresses. His jaw was realigned and bound with linen strips, two reeds holding his lips parted to help him breathe. None of these efforts would save him but they were visible signs of the healer’s arts.

  Lastly Galen mixed powdered herbs into a bowl of well-watered wine. Soaking the corner of a rag in the bowl, he wet the prince’s lips, then carefully allowed a few drops to fall into his mouth. They watched, as three drops became four, and then a dozen, but there was no sign of the reflexive swallowing that should have occurred.

  Galen handed the rag and bowl to his slave. “Try again in half an hour, then every half hour after that. If his condition changes, send a guard to fetch me. I will be back to check on him myself later tonight.”

  The slave nodded, taking up his position crouched on the floor by Lucius’s cot.

  “I have done what I could, but it will not be enough,” Galen said, as they exited the cell. “If I had been called at once, I might have been able to stop the bleeding in his belly.”

  “Or he would have died under your knife and you would have been held to blame,” Nizam said. He did not believe in dwelling on what might have been. Facts were facts and the past could not be altered. A wise man accepted this and simply made the best of the present.