“Proconsul,” Zuberi said.
“Then whom should I congratulate? Count Hector, perhaps?”
With little to occupy his mind besides the pains of his own flesh, Josan had spent many hours carefully tracing the imperial genealogies in his head, wondering who would be named emperor. It had been purely an intellectual exercise, for he knew better than to hope that whomever they chose would pardon him.
“Count Hector will be arrested for treason, once the new emperor takes his crown,” Nikos said.
From the glare that Zuberi gave the monk, it was clear that this was a tidbit that Zuberi would have preferred to keep secret.
“Treason?” Josan repeated, too stunned to say anything else.
“For the murders of Empress Nerissa and her sons,” Nikos clarified.
It was fortunate that Josan was sitting, for his muscles sagged in sudden relief.
During these past weeks he had proclaimed his innocence, even through the taste of his own blood and the agonies of his flesh.
But a small part of him had wondered if he did bear some responsibility for her death. Some of his followers had escaped Nerissa’s justice, among them Josan’s former friend Myles, who possessed both the skills and fanaticism necessary to carry out the deed.
Instead, if Brother Nikos could be believed, it was Count Hector who had let his ambitions overrule his conscience.
“So why have you brought me here?” Josan asked. He kept his gaze locked on Zuberi’s face, knowing where the true power lay.
“I have been persuaded, against my own good judgment, to offer you a chance to stave off your execution,” Zuberi said.
“What do you want from me?”
“Count Hector must not be allowed to take the throne. And I cannot,” Zuberi said.
“So you are offering me the crown. Emperor Lucius,” he said.
His words had been meant as a jest, but no one laughed. Zuberi’s face tightened, as if he had bitten into a sour grape, while Brother Nikos smiled.
“Yes,” Brother Nikos said.
“What?”
“We want you to take the crown and ensure that Nerissa’s murderer is punished.”
This had to be a trick of some sort. A bizarre test, intended to reveal that he had been scheming for the throne all along. But he would not play their games. “Why not you?” he asked Zuberi.
“The proconsul—” Nikos began.
“I have my reasons,” Zuberi interrupted, “and this is not a jest. Already Ikaria trembles on the brink of civil war. The ministries and nobles would follow me, but I cannot rule. Count Hector has the next strongest claim, which he must have known when he put his foul scheme in action. No other candidate can hope to unite Ikaria and keep our enemies from taking advantage of our disarray.”
“So you want me? As what, a decoy for the next assassin?”
He could not believe what he was hearing. He had been prepared to beg for a merciful death. He was not prepared for this.
He longed with all his heart to accept—even an assassin’s blade was preferable to the prospect of returning to the dungeons and Nizam’s care. But to be named emperor…he could hardly comprehend it.
“If you will not deal with me, Nizam is waiting for you,” Zuberi said, proving that at least some of what Josan felt must have shown on his face.
“Why me? The newcomers will not follow one of the old blood, and you cannot truly intend me to reign over you.”
“Your blood gives you a legitimate claim to the throne, but you owe allegiance to none of the factions. Given a choice between you or one of their enemies, the nobles will prefer you,” Brother Nikos explained. “Proconsul Zuberi controls the ministries, and our allies control the treasury and the city watch. Our backing will be enough to see you seated on the throne.”
“You will be emperor in name only,” Zuberi said. “I will name your circle of advisors, and you will heed our advice or meet with a swift death at the hands of your personal guards.”
They had thought of everything.
“I know Prince Lucius will be pleased to serve his people, and to do whatever is necessary to protect his empire,” Nikos said, taking care to stress Lucius’s name.
Josan knew this was intentional, just as he knew the reason for Brother Nikos’s barely contained triumph. This was the moment that Brother Nikos had striven for when he had performed the forbidden magics linking the soul of a monk to the body of a prince. Nikos had long dreamed of having the next emperor under his control, and his dream was about to come true.
“You have given me no choice,” Josan said. “I will do as you ask.”
In the end it did not matter. Emperor or prisoner, he was still damned.
Chapter 6
The Ikarian Empire had seen its share of violence and bloody conquest, and the scrolls of history contained the accounts of at least one emperor who had been crowned while still bloody from battle. But never before had a man gone from condemned prisoner to emperor-to-be in the space of a few short hours.
A part of Josan was convinced that this was a dream—a fevered fantasy created by a mind intent on escaping the horrors inflicted upon his flesh. But as each hour passed without his awaking, he was forced to concede that this was no dream.
After accepting Proconsul Zuberi’s bizarre proposition, Josan was handed over to the care of one of the imperial functionaries, who led him to the suite of rooms that had once belonged to Prince Nestor. There, body servants helped strip off the garb he had only recently donned, and Josan gave himself over to their ministrations. He had a proper bath for the first time since the assassinations. His beard was shaved off, his hair trimmed, and the servants brought him new clothes to wear—a knee-length tunic of white silk, banded in the shade of purple reserved for the imperial family. From the size of it, the tunic had once belonged to Prince Anthor, and it hung loosely on Josan’s emaciated body, as if he were a child wearing his father’s robes.
Which, he supposed, was a fair analogy. The functionary, who refused to give his personal name, treated Josan as if he were a child, even as he helped him don the garb of an emperor-to-be. Each carefully phrased request was in truth a command.
Lest he forget his new status, he had only to glance at the entrance to his suite, where Farris stood at attention. Farris, who had once been assigned by Empress Nerissa to watch over Prince Lucius, with orders to kill him at the first sign of treachery. He wondered if Zuberi had given Farris similar orders, to ensure that the new emperor remain firmly under his control.
All that Josan knew was that his coronation would occur tomorrow, and that only a handful of court members had been informed of the identity of the next emperor. Nikos had suggested this, stating that it was better to present the nobles with a fait accompli than give them a chance to unite behind another candidate. To Josan, this seemed a spectacularly poor idea. Surprising the courtiers with such unpalatable news was inviting trouble.
But Josan’s words were not heeded. Instead he was sent off to his rooms like a child, so Zuberi and Nikos could plan out his life. Though to be fair, his new cell was an improvement over the last.
The functionary waited until he had finished his breakfast before suggesting that he adjourn to the dressing chamber, where a waiting tailor took his measurements, muttering under his breath all the while. A purple robe was draped over Josan’s tunic, but it was obvious at a glance that it had been made for a man both shorter and broader than he.
“Too tall,” the tailor muttered as he knelt next to Josan, measuring the distance between the hem of the robe and the floor. “Too tall, and there’s no time.”
“Too tall?” Josan repeated.
The tailor ignored him, his eyes still focused on his work. “I don’t know what Zuberi is thinking,” he muttered. “He should have consulted with me weeks ago. Creating ordinary court robes in this short time would be a miracle, but an emperor’s robes…”
Laughter welled up inside Josan at the absurdity of it all. The
tailor’s dilemma was real enough, but he was merely the first of those whose plans were to be thrown into disarray by the realization that Zuberi was not the man who would be crowned tomorrow. A few yards of silk tacked to the hem of the robe would serve to lengthen it, but the other challenges Josan faced would be far harder to solve.
Grasping the fabric of the robe in his hands, Josan tugged the garment until the tailor looked upwards.
“You are done here. Unless you intend to sew the robe while I am wearing it—”
“No, no, you are right, I am finished,” the tailor stammered, scrambling hastily to his feet, as he suddenly realized that he was complaining to the future emperor himself. “There’s no one your size among my assistants, but I have the measurements I need, and I’m sure I can find someone to stand in for the future.”
“Yes. Fine. Go,” Josan said, as he pulled the robe up over his head and handed it to the startled man.
The tailor, clutching the robe to his chest, backed out of the dressing room, with promises that he would work all day and night.
Josan’s next visitor was the healer Galen.
“Prince Lucius, I have come to offer my services,” Galen said.
It was the first time Galen had called him by name.
“I do not need a healer.”
“Because of your recent ordeal, Proconsul Zuberi thought—”
“Proconsul Zuberi should concern himself with the empire,” Josan snapped. “If Prince Lucius needs a healer, he will send for one.”
He held his breath, wondering if the hovering functionary would choose this moment to override his wishes. But instead the man merely nodded, then escorted Galen outside.
His ordeal. A polite way of saying that Josan had been repeatedly tortured in the bowels of this very palace, brought to the brink of death again and again, but never permitted to cross over. Galen had seen him at his worst, treating his injuries with competence but without compassion, as if Josan were a broken object that needed mending rather than a man of flesh and blood.
Even if he were still suffering from the effects of his imprisonment, he would not turn to Galen for help.
He wondered what Galen had been told. Had he merely been told that the prince had been declared innocent and set free? Surely he must have wondered why the former prisoner was now to be found in the rooms once occupied by Nerissa’s eldest son and heir.
First the tailor, and now Galen. Along with the servants who had attended his bath and fetched his meal. The functionaries and the guard Farris could be trusted to hold their tongues, at least for the span of a day, but surely it was too much to expect that the others would stay silent. Brother Nikos was a fool to think that such an explosive secret could be kept for long.
Then, again, even if they did talk, who would believe them? Perhaps it was the very absurdity of the news that Nikos was counting on.
After the tailor left, the functionary politely suggested that the prince should rest. It was a sensible suggestion. Lucius’s magic might have healed their shared body, but Josan was still weakened from his long imprisonment. Catching a glimpse of his reflection in one of the many mirrors that adorned Prince Nestor’s chambers, Josan saw the face of a man stretched to his limits—exhausted and confused by the abrupt change in his circumstances.
The bed he had glimpsed earlier called out to him, with the promised luxury of a soft mattress and clean linens, but Josan resisted its temptations. The proconsul had said that he would speak with him later, but if Zuberi came and found Josan asleep, the proconsul might well decide not to awaken him, leaving Josan in ignorance.
He ignored the functionary’s increasingly firm suggestions, pleased to win a minor victory when the official finally relented. As dusk fell, another meal was brought. The first functionary was replaced by another—an older man who also refused to give his name. Their identical tattoos gave them a similar appearance, but after careful observation Josan noticed that the second functionary had darker eyes than the first, and his ears protruded slightly from his head, as if to catch the faintest sound. In his head he decided to call this man Two, to differentiate him from the first.
Farris was replaced by Balasi, who had last seen Josan as he was dragged away by Zuberi’s men. Balasi showed no sign of surprise at the change in his charge’s circumstances and resolutely refused Josan’s attempts to draw him into conversation.
The oil lamps had burned low when a grim-faced Zuberi finally sought him out. Zuberi scowled at Josan’s attendants, who quickly removed themselves to the outer chamber, leaving Josan and Zuberi alone.
Josan braced himself for the news that Zuberi had changed his mind—that he would once again be condemned to death. Or worse.
“Hector’s dead,” Zuberi said. “Poisoned, we think.”
This was not the news he had been expecting, and it took a moment for Zuberi’s words to sink in.
“Count Hector?”
“He was already dead when Nizam’s men found him, or so I am told,” Zuberi elaborated.
“But I thought he was to be arrested after the coronation—” Josan’s voice trailed off as Zuberi gave him a contemptuous glance.
“And have him disrupt the ceremony? The plan was for him to be taken into custody today, quietly. Then once you were crowned, we would announce his arrest and set a date for his judgment and execution.”
These plans had obviously been made after Josan had been dismissed from Zuberi’s presence, but he would not remind Zuberi of that fact. He wanted to see what other information Zuberi would let slip in his distraction.
“Did he take the poison himself? Or was there another hand in his death?”
Zuberi shrugged. “It seems unlikely he would kill himself—”
“If he knew you had evidence of his role in Nerissa’s murder…”
“Perhaps,” Zuberi said, though from his tone it was clear that he was skeptical. “Or perhaps there is a second conspirator. If Hector had lived, he would have told us what we needed to know to prove his guilt. Now there will be those who see him as a martyr.”
“And they will place the blame for his death on my shoulders,” Josan said.
Would Hector’s supporters unite to bring down the new emperor? Or would they obey him, at least publicly, out of fear for their own lives?
Josan drummed his fingers on the side of the couch, impatient with his own ignorance of court politics. His studies had done little to prepare him for the role he must play, and there was no time to remedy his deficiencies. Only experience would aid him—if he survived long enough to be schooled.
“We will worry about them when the time comes,” Zuberi said.
“The list of our worries grows longer by each hour,” Josan pointed out.
“You need only concern yourself with doing as you are told. Leave the empire in my hands.”
“And what orders do you have for me?” Josan asked, frustration lending a sarcastic edge to his words.
“You will be crowned tomorrow at noon, in the great chamber. Brother Nikos will place the lizard crown on your head, and accept your pledge to serve Ikaria faithfully. I will be first to swear my allegiance, followed by Demetrios and Simon the Bald. The rest will fall in line.”
“I admire your confidence.”
Zuberi snorted. “Petrelis will have his men inside the chamber to quell the dissenters.”
“Then what happens?”
“Demetrios will retire to the senate, where the senators will unanimously vote to confirm you.”
“Surely there will be some who object. Hector’s supporters will want to avenge his death, and there are others who will wish to support their own claimants to the throne.”
“Demetrios assures me that the majority will follow his lead. As for the rest, regardless of their personal opinions, no one will want to be seen taking the losing side. Not publicly.”
It seemed Zuberi had matters well in hand. Which only made Josan wonder, once again, why Zuberi wasn’t taking the crown fo
r himself. Surely it would be far easier for him to rule directly rather than through a proxy.
Unless, of course, Josan was not a proxy but a target. A distraction, meant to draw the eyes of whatever conspirators still lurked. If Count Hector had indeed been murdered, then Zuberi’s caution was well-founded. He knew that Zuberi would cheerfully sacrifice the puppet emperor if it meant drawing his enemies out into the open where they could be dealt with.
“My clerk is drafting a series of orders for your signature. Once you are crowned you will sign all of them, without question,” Zuberi added.
“Understood.” This, after all, was the bargain he had made in exchange for his life.
“Among them is an order for compensation for the men who were executed today.”
“Which men?”
“The guards who arrested you,” Zuberi said.
“But those were your men, obeying your orders—”
“They laid hands upon you, and then boasted of what they had done.” Zuberi shrugged, then spread his hands wide in a gesture of helplessness. “Letting them live would make you appear weak.”
“So you had them killed. Your own men.” After the tumultuous events of this day, Josan had thought that there was nothing left that could shock him, but Zuberi had just proven him wrong.
He had underestimated Zuberi’s ruthlessness and the depths to which he would sink to gain his own ends. If the proconsul could so casually speak of killing his own men, then what else he was capable of?
A new thought occurred to Josan. “So I may expect to see an order for Nizam’s death?”
He objected to murder, but that was one decree that he would sign with a clear conscience. Surely if anyone deserved to die for his crimes, it was Nizam.
“Nizam is too useful. And he knows how to keep his mouth shut, as do his men,” Zuberi said.
Pity. Josan would have enjoyed watching Nizam die.
“Your freakish powers protect him,” Zuberi said, with a malicious grin. “If he had left you visibly scarred or maimed…”
In that moment Josan knew that Zuberi didn’t merely despise him. Zuberi hated him, as evidenced by the pleasure he took in reminding Josan of his torments, and that he was powerless to take revenge upon those who had injured him.
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