Nikos waited patiently as Zuberi mulled over his words, his right hand absently rubbing his belly. Nikos’s own belly ached with hunger as well. The proconsul might be accustomed to working long hours without considering the needs of his body, but Nikos was used to a more civilized existence.
“I will do as you suggest,” Zuberi said. “The prince will live, for at least another day. You will see that a suitable sacrifice is found to take his place?”
“Of course.”
Fittingly, the moon was high over Karystos as the Daughters of the Moon arrived to prepare the empress and her family for their final journey. The preservers had done marvels, and what could not be concealed by their arts was hidden by the carefully draped garments of imperial purple silk. But not even the preservers’ art could stave off decay forever, and a faint smell of rot hung in the air, until it was banished by the perfumes and ointments that the priestesses applied.
Brother Nikos inspected the priestesses’ work, then retired to an antechamber to don his vestments. Underneath he wore an alb of unbleached linen as a sign of humility, and over this an open cloak of red, brocaded silk. Red was traditionally worn by the brethren for both naming ceremonies and funerals since it signified both birth and death. Here it was doubly fitting since both birth and death had visited the imperial family within a few short hours.
As the first rays of dawn broke over the city, Brother Nikos stood by as the bodies were loaded onto biers, and then placed on carriages draped with black silk. Nearly five hundred official mourners filled the courtyard, and he could hear raised shouts as the functionaries cajoled them into the proper order.
Brother Nikos’s impatience grew, until finally Brother Giuliano reported that all was in readiness. As he took his place, Brother Nikos gave the signal to start.
The procession began with slaves of the imperial household waving palm branches, which occasionally dipped as they paused to remove spectators who crowded the way. Flute players followed, and behind them were young officers bearing standards that proclaimed Nerissa’s military triumphs. The two tallest of his acolytes had been chosen to play the parts of Nerissa’s father and grandfather, and they wore masks of beaten gold as they stood in a chariot, pulled by three matched horses.
Behind them, Brother Nikos walked alone, followed by the heads of the lesser religious orders. The streets were lined with people, some wearing black shawls of mourning, while others had only been able to find dark-colored ribbons to tie on their arms. Flowers crunched under his feet, as mourners cast blossoms in their path, the mingled scents rising in a sickening miasma. The excited murmuring of the crowds gave way to cries of grief as the bodies came into view, interspersed with chants of Nerissa’s name.
The official mourners followed the funeral carriages, led by Proconsul Zuberi and Count Hector. Those nobles who could walk did so, even those who ordinarily would summon a chair to bring them from one end of the imperial complex to the other.
It took over two hours for the slow-moving procession to reach the outer walls, and the sacred grove outside the city where imperial funerals were held. The commoners who tried to follow were held back by the honor guard—only the select would be allowed to witness the funeral ceremonies.
Nikos wondered if there would be violence, as there had been when Aitor I had been buried. It was said that a thousand citizens had forced their way into the grove, crying out their grief. But today’s followers, after some objections, allowed themselves to be turned aside.
The depth of their grief was surprising. Nerissa had not been a beloved figure. Indeed, twice in her reign she had been on the verge of being overthrown. But it seemed the manner of her death had bound together in outrage those who ordinarily would have rejoiced over her passing.
From the highest to the lowest, all felt the void left by Nerissa’s death. There would be no security until the next emperor was named and Nerissa’s killer caught and executed. As the mourners slowly filed into the grove, he could see the uncertainty in their faces and watched the careful maneuverings as old friends sought each other out and others purposefully distanced themselves from their former allies.
In the center of the grove were three funeral pyres, constructed of carefully arranged stacks of oil-soaked timbers capped with level planks of cedar. Under Brother Giuliano’s direction, the imperial functionaries placed the bodies of Prince Nestor and Princess Jacinta side by side on the first pyre. Prince Anthor’s body was placed on his own pyre, and finally, Empress Nerissa’s body was placed on the tallest pyre, flanked to either side by the bodies of her sons.
The dignitaries formed a loose circle around the pyres as the religious lined up to offer their final blessings.
The Daughters of the Moon were the first to pass by the pyres, bowing their heads in respect as their leader sang in prayer. The priest Fadil followed, chanting the praises of the three gods so beloved of the old Ikarians. Other religious orders followed, in increasing order of importance, until at last it was Brother Nikos’s turn.
The acolytes wearing the masks of Aitor the Great and his son Aitor II flanked him as he approached the pyre where Anthor’s body lay. Bowing deeply, Nikos commended the young prince’s soul to the care of his noble ancestors. Next he moved to Nestor’s pyre. Here, too, he offered prayers that Nestor be allowed to join his noble ancestors. Princess Jacinta, being merely his wife, was not mentioned. As one of his possessions, it was understood that she would share whatever afterlife he had earned.
Finally, Nikos stood in front of the pyre that bore the body of Empress Nerissa. Brother Giuliano held the scroll as Nikos read out the blessings for the dead. While he proclaimed Nerissa’s accomplishments, the acolytes playing the role of her ancestors stood on either side, their arms outstretched, signaling their willingness to carry her spirit up into the next realm.
As Brother Nikos and the acolytes stepped back, Proconsul Zuberi stepped forward to give the first oration. The crowd grew silent, ready to hear the words of the man that most assumed would be their next emperor.
Zuberi’s speech revealed his mastery of politics. All the anger and frustration that he had expressed over these past nine days were put aside, as he spoke of Nerissa’s life and triumphs. Zuberi reminded his listeners that Nerissa had brought peace to her realm through her victory over the empire of Vidrun. Victory was perhaps too strong a word for what had been merely a negotiated truce, but none of his listeners were ready to challenge him. The empress was praised for her fairness, and for her mercilessness toward the enemies of Ikaria. Here Zuberi paused, and the crowd shifted uneasily at the reminder that there was at least one enemy who had yet to be uncovered.
Zuberi concluded his speech by promising that Nerissa’s noble legacy would be carried on and that the Ikarian Empire would emerge strengthened from this tragedy. He promised that Nerissa would join her noble ancestors in watching over her empire and guiding the next emperor along the paths of wisdom and justice.
In a show of humility, Zuberi did not name himself that next emperor. Today was a day for mourning, and the shadow of Nerissa still loomed large. Once her funeral was over, it would be time to name her successor. Nikos knew it would not be long before the imperial councilors demanded that Zuberi take the throne and put an end to this dangerous interregnum.
Minister Atreides was next to speak, and the elderly councilor’s voice shook as he recalled the woman he had known since her birth. In recent years, Atreides had been the leader of the conservative courtiers who had been encouraging Nerissa to resign in favor of her eldest son. Now such differences were forgotten, and the old man wept at her passing. His rehearsed speech forgotten, Atreides rambled incoherently. When he could no longer speak through his tears, Nikos signaled to Brother Giuliano, who moved forward to escort the old man back to a place among the mourners.
Seven others spoke, carefully selected from among the ranks of the nobility to ensure that no faction was slighted. They, at least, managed to stick to their prepared speec
hes, though their careful words of praise for the late empress were not always enough to disguise their own worries over what the future would bring. Anything that Nerissa had accomplished could be undone by the next emperor, and those who were in power now could swiftly find themselves cast out.
Finally, it was Count Hector’s turn. His booming voice, suited to barking out commands at sea, now served him well; his words carried to every corner of the grove. As he lauded the two princes, he shed tears of grief—though, unlike Atreides, Hector’s tears did not interfere with his speech. Hector finished by reminding his listeners that Prince Anthor had survived long enough to kill his assassin, and only later succumbed to his mortal wounds.
It was a masterful performance, especially considering that Hector had never before shown any inclination for public oration. No doubt he was hoping to trade on the grief for his murdered nephews to secure his own position. And, indeed, Zuberi might well decide to leave Hector in his post as admiral of the navy. Replacing him would cause upheaval at a time when continuity was needed, and it was hardly a plum post. Zuberi’s clients would be maneuvering for far more important positions in the new government.
When Hector stepped back, two bullocks were led forward—one of deep black and the other the purest white. Their handlers forced the bullocks to kneel in front of Nerissa’s pyre, then Brother Giuliano slit their throats. Despite his care, blood sprayed, soaking Giuliano’s red vestments, and Nikos knew he had been wise to delegate this task to another.
More than two hours had passed since they had first entered the grove, but now, at last, an imperial functionary handed Nikos a lit torch. As he touched the torch to the base of Anthor’s pyre, the oil-soaked wood caught in an instant, and Nikos stepped back hastily to avoid setting his robes on fire.
Prince Nestor’s pyre was lit next, then finally Nerissa’s. The flames swiftly leapt up, obscuring her body. The fragrance of the cedar boughs that were laced into the pyres could not disguise the stench of burning flesh, and Nikos was relieved when he was able to step back.
One by one, the funeral guests lined up in strict order of precedence to pay their respects. From highest to lowest, they bowed before each of the pyres and cast their offerings upon the flames.
Once the ritual death offerings would have included slaves of the imperial household, as well as priceless objects such as favorite weapons and jeweled crowns. Now most of the offerings were miniature versions meant to show the giver’s regard, but even these tokens were of the finest quality. There were caskets of rare spices, porcelain dolls to take the place of servitors in the next life, and enameled jewelry in the shape of mythical beasts.
When Count Hector’s turn came, he was followed by an aide bearing a large chest. Ignoring protocol, Hector went first to Nerissa’s pyre, where his aide placed the chest on the ground and opened it. Reaching into the chest, he handed Hector a silk-wrapped object, which the count opened to reveal a splendid jeweled torc of rank, which he placed on Nerissa’s pyre.
Next Hector moved to Prince Nestor’s pyre, where he placed a necklace of moonstones—the traditional gift for a new mother—on the side occupied by Princess Jacinta. For Prince Nestor he offered a glass sculpture of the imperial city, so large it had to be held in two hands as he leaned forward to place it on the pyre. Swirling sparks fell on his arms, but Hector showed no sign of the pain he must be feeling. Within seconds, the priceless sculpture had begun to sag and melt.
It would have taken a master craftsman weeks to create such a work, and Nikos wondered where Hector had found it. It was, by far, the most expensive offering that had been made and would ensure that Hector’s largesse would be talked about for days.
Hector waited until the sculpture was devoured by the flames before moving to Prince Anthor’s pyre. There he bowed far more deeply than he had to the empress. His aide handed him a second glass sculpture, this one of a noble stallion since horses had been Anthor’s passion. Imploring the ancestors to take charge of the spirit of his beloved and most worthy nephew, Hector placed the sculpture on the pyre. Then he unbuckled the belt of his dress sword. Stabbing the sword into the heart of the pyre, he asked the War God to look after one of his own.
Nikos shivered, despite the blazing heat of the pyres. He knew that Hector’s every move had been calculated, first to remind his watchers of his family ties to the murdered princes, and then to remind them that Hector himself was a warrior, proven in battle.
Nikos looked to his left, where Proconsul Zuberi stood, and as their gazes met, he saw his own concerns reflected in Zuberi’s grim expression.
Hector’s offerings were not spur-of-the-moment gifts, gathered in the days since Hector had arrived in Karystos and learned of the imperial family’s tragic deaths. These had been planned well ahead of time. Were they merely the signs of a man who had prepared for all contingencies? Perhaps remnants from the time of the rebellion, when Nerissa’s hold on the throne had been in doubt?
Or had they been specifically made for this occasion? Had Hector somehow learned of the plot to assassinate the imperial family?
Whether willing conspirator or merely someone who had come into possession of another’s secrets, one thing was clear. Hector had come here prepared to stake his claim as the true heir of his nephews—and the next emperor of Ikaria.
Chapter 4
Alcina was the largest of the islands that made up the Federation of Seddon, but it was the smaller island of Sendat that served as the federation’s capital, the center of both government and commerce. There was a lesson to be learned from this: that size did not equal power.
Or so Lady Ysobel had been told, when she had been a bored child, impatient to exchange her lesson slates for a berth on a trading ship. But her tutors had been wrong. Sometimes size did equal power. Having earned the wrath of not one but two nations, she had swiftly found herself outmatched, and spent much of the past year fighting for the survival of both herself and her ambitions.
A fight that she was slowly losing. Each day her capital dwindled, and her efforts to repair her reputation had yet to bear fruit. Reluctantly, she had decided to ask her father for help, but such a request could not be confided in a mere letter. Instead she had had to wait until her father made one of his rare visits to Sendat.
Lord Delmar Flordelis of Flordelis of Alcina had become head of the house of Flordelis six years ago, when his cousin, Lord Etienne, had chosen to step aside. Though most of his time was spent in the countinghouses and dockyards at their home on Alcina, all of the major trading houses maintained a presence on Sendat, and the house of Flordelis was no exception. Her father journeyed here two or three times each year, as duty required, and to consult personally with his representatives.
Ysobel had seen her father only once since her return, a visit that had coincided with the annual merchants’ council held each fall, before the winter seas made travel too risky. It had been a tense reunion, his love for his daughter balanced against his concern for the rest of his children and the extended family that depended upon the house of Flordelis for their livelihood. In public they had kept their distance, lest Flordelis be tainted by her tarnished reputation.
Both Ysobel and her father had seats on the merchants’ council, but they did not sit together, nor did they acknowledge each other in any way. When the representative from Charlot proposed that Ysobel be stripped of her seat, it had been left to others to speak in her defense. And those who defended her did so only out of self-interest. Their words had saved her, but the margin in her favor had been a mere twelve votes.
To this day, she did not know if her father had been one of the twelve.
When her father had arrived on Sendat two days ago, Ysobel had sent one of her clerks to request a meeting. She had known better than to arrive unannounced and risk public rejection. The response to her request had been in a clerk’s hand, inviting her to call at her father’s residence today at the third hour. There had been no personal message, but she took heart from the
fact that her father asked to see her at the Flordelis family residence rather than at the countinghouse.
As the appointed hour drew near, she dressed with care, selecting a tunic and trousers of light wool, suitable for one master trader calling upon another. A simple leather clasp held back her hair, and sandals of the same leather adorned her feet. Only a keen eye would notice that the rare, wine-dark woven leather was imported from Kazagan. The only obvious sign of wealth was the signet ring on her left hand, with the seal of her personal trading company.
She hesitated, wondering if she should wear the family ring as well but reluctantly set it aside. She had worn it for years, ever since her father had gifted it to her on her sixteenth name day, but of late the ring had remained in her jewel case. It seemed presumptuous to wear it, when her family’s support could no longer be taken for granted.
Any success she achieved would bring reflected glory upon the house of Flordelis, while the burden of failure was hers to bear alone. She had known this from the moment she had accepted her aunt’s gift of a trading vessel and chosen to make a path for herself separate from that of her siblings. Even now, despite all that had happened, she did not regret her choice. Let her brothers and sisters toil under their father’s direction, patiently biding their time. She was made of sterner stuff, unwilling to stay in shallow waters when there were riches to be gained by venturing into the deeps.
By the standards of Sendat, the mansion owned by the house of Flordelis was large, having been acquired when Flordelis was at the height of its power. Their influence had diminished in the hundred years since, but Flordelis was still a name to be reckoned with. The mansion was both a symbol of past glories and the so-far-unfulfilled pledge that those glories would return again.
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