The grim trophies were displayed in the central courtyard of the palace, an unsubtle warning to those who might have contemplated treason. The city enjoyed a general celebration, even as the politicians rushed to proclaim that there had never been any real reason for concern.
With relative calm assured, at least for the present, Proconsul Zuberi declared that he would take a fortnight’s holiday on his nearby estate.
Senator Demetrios waited until Zuberi had been gone for two days before requesting a private audience with the emperor. Ferenc was obviously troubled when he handed the invitation over to Josan, but with Zuberi gone he had no one to consult.
Josan’s preference would have been to meet with Demetrios at once, but on the advice of Lucius he agreed to a private dinner the next day, so as not to appear too eager.
It was Lucius who made the arrangements for the dinner. Breaking with tradition, it was to be held in the emperor’s private garden, where they could enjoy the cool night air—and an open venue that assured no spies could overhear their conversation. Lucius bathed, perfumed himself, and selected their attire for the evening, his elaborate preparations still puzzling to the former monk. But it was Josan who kept them both calm as the appointed hour drew near.
Protocol dictated that the emperor be last to arrive, so Demetrios was already in the garden, apparently admiring the night-blooming moonflowers. They played their parts for the hovering servants. Demetrios bowed low in respect, and Josan assured him that this was an informal occasion and they need not stand upon ceremony. Servants handed them glasses of chilled wine, and they drank a toast to the continued prosperity of the empire before taking their places on the adjacent couches.
They began with a simple course of olives to whet their appetites, and as the servants brought each succeeding course, they conversed on general topics ranging from the unseemly weather to the anticipated date when Kiril would arrive back in Karystos. Safe topics—nothing that would arose suspicion if reported back to Zuberi.
Josan drank sparingly, heavily watering his wine, and he noticed that Demetrios did as well. He ate lightly but the food still sat heavily in his stomach as he tried to project an air of confidence. Finally, after three hours had passed, the last of the courses was cleared away and the servants were dismissed.
Demetrios rose, pouring a goblet of unwatered brandy for himself, and, at Josan’s nod, another for his emperor.
“So what is it you have to say to me that you cannot say in Zuberi’s presence?” Josan asked.
Demetrios smiled, taking a sip of his brandy.
“Perhaps I merely wished to get to know my new emperor and for him to know me.”
“You could have done so anytime in these past weeks, but you have never sought out my company. Until now.”
“You are not what I expected, nor as I remembered you. When Brother Nikos proposed you as emperor, I had my doubts.”
“Then why did you agree?”
“Because no other had a better claim to the throne. It is what Empress Nerissa would have wanted,” Demetrios said, parroting the official statements.
Josan gave a bitter laugh, and after a moment Demetrios unbent enough to smile.
“I find myself in agreement with the results, but I’ll admit I’m curious as to why Brother Nikos proposed you.”
“And if I could enlighten you, what would you do for me?”
Demetrios’s eyes sharpened as he sat upright, no longer pretending that this was mere casual conversation. “I will give you something of equal value in return.”
Josan hesitated. He had picked Demetrios as the one of the four most likely to be open to alliance, but he was loath to give away what advantage he held without any guarantee of return.
Then again, this very meeting was a gamble. He had not come this far only to hesitate at the brink.
“Brother Nikos is not the innocent that he portrays himself to be. He may have been Nerissa’s man, but during the years of my exile, it was Nikos and his order who sheltered me.”
“I do not believe you.”
“Believe what you like,” Josan said, shrugging to indicate his indifference. “But be cautious in your dealings with him. He has no morals save his own advantage in all things.”
Demetrios appeared to ponder his words. “Why would he do such a thing?”
“One day, if I count you friend, I may tell you that tale.”
But privately he knew that day would never come. He could never trust any man enough to call him friend, not while he must still conceal the twin souls inside him.
“I will give you coin of my own in return,” Demetrios said. “The proconsul is dying.”
Josan blinked.
“He has a cancer in his bowels that will kill him before the end of the year.”
He should have seen it for himself. Zuberi’s increasingly haggard appearance should have roused his curiosity.
“How many know?” he asked.
“Nikos, Simon, Petrelis, and myself for certain, and I assume Zuberi’s wife knows as well. As for the rest—Zuberi’s physicians have done what they can, but soon enough there will be no disguising the matter.”
Which explained why Demetrios had been willing to share this with him—the secret had value today but soon it would be public knowledge. And once it was known that Zuberi was dying, his influence would be drastically diminished. Many would scheme to take the proconsul’s place—perhaps Demetrios among them.
He now understood why Zuberi had not taken the crown for himself. But Zuberi’s illness did not make the proconsul any less of a threat. For as long as Zuberi lived, he would remain a danger to Josan.
Chapter 10
Lady Ysobel stood at the stern rail, feet braced against the pitching deck, as Sendat’s harbor slowly faded behind them. With one hand she shielded her eyes from the wind-driven rain, straining to see if they had been followed. But so far, it seemed, they were alone.
For months she had longed for this day—schemed, cajoled, even lowering herself to beg the council for permission to return to sea. Finally, her wish had been granted, but it was a bitter triumph.
She turned as she heard the sailing master’s shouts and saw the hands scrambling to obey. They worked swiftly, despite the rain that lashed both ship and sailors. She knew from long experience that wet ropes made each task more difficult, and even the most surefooted of sailors could slip on a rain-slicked deck. It was a foul night to have set sail, which hopefully meant any potential pursuers had been caught off guard.
She watched as Captain Elpheme conferred with the sailing master. A part of her wanted to overhear their conversation, but Ysobel forced herself to remain where she was. Elpheme was captain of the Leaping Dolphin, while Ysobel was merely an honored guest, and it would not do publicly to undermine Elpheme’s command.
The Dolphin was the second largest of her ships, having originally been built as a raider for the federation navy. After two decades of service, she had been replaced by a faster, more agile ship and sold off to a merchant house. Her new owner had removed the heavy ram and replaced the lateen sail with a third mast. Belowdecks, the former marines’ quarters had been converted into storage holds. When Ysobel had purchased the ship a half dozen years ago, she’d noted the signs of a martial past—the reinforced bow meant for ramming, and the double-thick deck intended to support the weight of weapons. Her construction made the Dolphin heavier than other ships of her size and thus slower, but this meant the merchant was willing to part with her on favorable terms.
She had served Ysobel well as a hauler of bulk cargoes, but now the Dolphin was being called upon to remember her days of glory. The Dolphin was being sent to war, and Ysobel with her.
At least she had a ship of her own under her feet rather than the weed-draped hulk that Lord Quesnel had offered. After explaining that the demands on the navy meant he had no better ship to serve her, he could hardly refuse when she offered up a ship of her own. She would have preferred the Gull, natur
ally, and the steadiness of Captain Zorion at her back rather than the aged Dolphin with its relatively inexperienced captain. Still with this ship, at least, she had no fear that she would drown before her mission had begun.
Though whether she would survive the war to come was another question. For war it was, though anyone with sense could see that it was an ill-advised folly.
True, Ikaria was in disarray if the news was to be believed. Admiral Hector was dead, some said murdered by the new emperor, his fleet kept in harbor, not trusted to set sail. Buoyed by fresh rumors from Ikaria that indicated the empire was on the verge of civil war, the royal council urged King Bayard to destroy the Ikarian navy, which had long harassed honest federation ships. With their navy crippled, and Ikaria consumed by internal conflict, the federation could once more claim its place as the preeminent power on the sea. Trading colonies that had been seized by the Ikarians would be retaken, and shipping routes reopened.
If the federation moved swiftly, they could seize the ports before the end of autumn and use the long winter to fortify them. Even if the civil war was over in months rather than years, Ikaria’s lost ports would prove too costly a prize for them to reclaim. It would take time to rebuild their navy, and all the while the federation would grow stronger.
Or so the councilors had argued, and King Bayard had agreed.
What others saw as bold action, Ysobel saw as reckless folly. There were too many assumptions, and their intelligence on Ikaria had failed them before. An empire weakened by civil war would indeed be reluctant to go to war with the federation. But if Emperor Lucius was able to unite his people and bring the full force of Ikarian military power to bear, then the struggle between the two countries could well prove long and bloody, and there was no certainty that the federation would emerge triumphant.
It was a fool’s gamble. A chance no sane trader would take, where the risks far outweighed the rewards. And it worried her that the council had been so quick to follow Lord Quesnel’s lead. As minister of war, he had the most to gain should his efforts be successful, but surely the others should not be blind to the risks.
Perhaps the councilors saw the risks as well as she did. Perhaps they endorsed Lord Quesnel’s scheme not because they thought it would succeed, but rather because they thought it would fail. They sought to destroy Quesnel, not reckoning the cost to the federation.
She shook her head to clear it of such grim imaginings. Surely the council members would not imperil the federation merely to settle scores among themselves. There was no profit to gain from burning down a house that all must share.
With one last glance at the empty seas behind them, she made her way below.
Captain Elpheme had offered her own cabin, but Ysobel had refused. She was the owner, yes, but she was not sailing as captain, and instead made do with the adjacent sailing master’s cabin, as she had on her prior voyages. It was a show of respect for Elpheme’s authority as captain, meant for the crew as much as for Elpheme herself.
Between the two cabins was a small office that was shared by both, and it was there that Captain Elpheme found her, as Ysobel pored over the charts showing the entrance to Gallifrey harbor. The charts provided by the War Ministry were good, but her own—copied from the charts maintained by generations of the house of Flordelis—were better.
“Wind’s backed off two points and the storm is easing. It will blow itself out before morning,” Elpheme reported.
“Good. And the marines, are they settled?”
“Bedded down for the night, those who aren’t heaving their guts up.”
The two women shared a grin. Like most sailors, they despised the marines, who took up valuable space and refused to earn their keep aboard ship. For ordinary journeys, the Dolphin’s crew was capable of protecting itself, but for their current mission four dozen marines had been crammed into the Dolphin’s hastily converted cargo holds.
“Keep an eye on them and watch those that appear too comfortable. Their lieutenant knows more than he is saying, and I’ll wager at least some of his marines were sailors not all that long ago,” she said.
Quesnel would have his spies among the marines, but she hoped their orders stopped short of mutiny. Still, it was best not to take any chances. The marines outnumbered her sailors, and that was assuming that all of her sailors were loyal.
Elpheme leaned over the table, looking at the charts. Her eyebrows raised. “Gallifrey harbor in Thuridon? Do I need to set a new course?” A more senior captain might have questioned why Ysobel had directed her to spend the last two hours sailing south if their intended destination was north and west, but Elpheme’s voice was even, giving no hint of her feelings.
“If you would be so kind,” Ysobel said.
“And once we arrive at Gallifrey harbor?” Elpheme’s voice trailed off delicately.
“We are to take the harbor and hold it until reinforcements arrive.”
“You jest.” Elpheme’s face flushed, anger overriding her usual deference.
“I wish I did.”
Ysobel had been ordered not to inform anyone of the details of her orders until after she had sailed. She was not certain if the ministry was trying to preserve the advantage of surprise by protecting the secrecy of her mission or merely ensuring that no one would interfere.
“One ship? It’s not possible.”
It was meant to be impossible. Ysobel was a trader, not a warrior, but she had been to Gallifrey harbor many times before. A half dozen warships with a full complement of marines might have been able to seize the port, but it was folly to ask a smaller force to make the attempt.
It was more than folly. It was murder. Or so Lord Quesnel intended. This was how he repaid Ysobel for challenging him. If she disobeyed his orders, she would be branded a traitor, forced to flee into exile. But following his orders would result in her death as well as destruction of her ship and her crew. And that was a price she was not prepared to pay.
“We will have the element of surprise, at least,” Ysobel said.
Elpheme gave her a long look. “I assume you have a plan?”
“I will,” Ysobel said. “My personal luggage was stored in the aft hold as I instructed, correct?”
“Yes,” Elpheme said. “I did as you asked, and made certain to complain loudly about master traders who had grown soft with city living and could not travel without the comforts of home.”
Elpheme had been very careful not to inquire as to what exactly was in those crates, which had been marked as personal food stores and chests of clothes sufficient to outfit half a dozen noblewomen.
“You’ll need to put together a working party tomorrow. There are six ballistae in there, along with ammunition stored in the wardrobe chests. I want them installed on the deck and the crew practiced in loading and firing. Our crew only, mind. The marines are not to touch them.”
Elpheme straightened and saluted, as if Ysobel were indeed a war captain. “If it comes to a fight, the Dolphin will give a good account of herself.”
“I know we will,” Ysobel replied, careful to keep her doubts to herself. The armaments would give them an edge in a ship-to-ship battle, particularly if the enemy was expecting an unarmed merchant ship. But ballistae would be of little use against a fortified harbor. She had the next weeks of sailing to come up with a plan that would keep her ship and her crew intact, and still carry out the war minister’s orders.
Landers, the sailing master, had spent the last forty years at sea. He boasted of having sailed aboard every type of ship in the Ikarian fleet, from the smallest skiffs that plied the island trade to a stint in the great crewed warships of the navy. When Ysobel had promoted Elpheme to captain of the Dolphin, she had sent along Landers as second-in-command, so that his experience could offset Elpheme’s lack. Landers had helped train up a generation of captains and was skilled at making orders sound like mere suggestions. He listened carefully as Ysobel described how she wanted the ballistae spaced evenly along the sides of the ship.
By the time the conversation was finished, she’d agreed to placing two flanking the prow, with four amidships.
He wasted no time in setting the sailors to work. Ysobel could not resist following him up on deck, bringing with her the cup of citrus tea that had taken the place of breakfast. She leaned casually against the deckhouse, where she could watch as the first crates were brought on deck and opened. There were a few knowing looks and low-voiced comments, but with so many eyes upon them, the sailors knew better than to voice their questions aloud. Rumors would be saved for belowdecks and the privacy of their quarters.
After all, with a cargo of marines instead of trade goods, it was already plain that this was no ordinary voyage. The armaments were merely reinforcing what everyone knew—and was forbidden to discuss.
They had barely finished unpacking the first crate when Lieutenant Burrell appeared by her side.
“Lady Ysobel, a word if you please.”
Ysobel took a sip of her tea, watching him out of the corner of her eye. There had been no marines on deck when the first crate was unboxed, so one of the sailors must have brought him word.
Too late, it occurred to her that she should have been watching the hatch that led below to see who had borne tales. It was a precaution she would have taken on any other ship, but the habit of trusting her own crew was one that died hard.
She continued to sip her tea, testing the limits of Burrell’s patience, but he refused to be drawn. He bore up steadily under her regard, even as her gaze surveyed him from head to toe.
A frown marred features that would otherwise be handsome. Pity, for the rest of him was well put together. His nearness reminded her that it had been far too long since a man shared her bed. Under other circumstances she would have been tempted, but she knew better than to lie with one who might betray her.
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