The Sea Change

by Patricia Bray

  “You overstep yourself. My marines will need time—” Armand began.

  “Time? To learn garrison duty? Lieutenant Burrell was able to seize these forts and hold them for over two months with half as many marines, but if your troops are incapable, I suppose I could ask the sailors to remain…at double their pay.”

  Burrell’s face was studiously blank, while the major’s naturally ruddy complexion darkened. “I will take command of the fortifications as soon as my marines can be set ashore.”

  “Good.” She had won that point. It was time to find out if Quesnel had sent instructions for her, as well. If not, she would seize this opportunity to implement her own plans—they could not hold her here on their own authority. “Justin, you will need to appoint a harbormaster to take my place.”

  “My quartermaster can take charge until a replacement arrives. And we will need to review any agreements you have entered into on the federation’s behalf,” Justin said.

  Here was the trap they hoped to catch her in. If they could prove corruption, or that she had exceeded her authority by entering into new treaties, then Quesnel would have the justification he needed to destroy her.

  But they had misjudged their prey. She was far too cunning to be caught in such obvious misdeeds. “Never steal anything worth less than the sum of your house,” Tilda had once advised her, and as of yet she had never come across anything that tempted her to break that rule.

  “Of course. I made no new agreements, but merely reaffirmed the old treaties under which the port was governed. If you feel you can negotiate better terms, I am certain the mayor is willing to hear you.”

  Captain Justin’s smile faltered in the face of her self-confidence.

  “Unless you have new orders for me, I believe this concludes our business. I will, of course, make myself available to meet with your quartermaster and to answer any questions you might have about the running of the port.”

  “There is one more thing,” Captain Justin added, withdrawing a scroll from a pocket in his tunic. “Upon satisfactory completion of your duties here, you are instructed to join the fleet to assist in the campaign against Kazagan.”

  “Kazagan?” she asked. It had been too much to hope that Quesnel had forgotten about her, but this was beyond anything she had expected. “Have they gone mad? Kazagan was the pride of Nerissa’s house—the new emperor cannot let it go, not without alienating his supporters. The Ikarian navy will attack us at sea, and their armies will crush us should we attempt to land.”

  Justin bristled. “It is not your place to question the minister’s orders.”

  “The Ikarians have other concerns—the legions from the north march to the capital in support of their own claimant to the throne, while their navy is still confined to harbor by order of the emperor. By the time they learn of our attack, we will already be victorious,” Major Armand said.

  It was a risky gamble. Even if the rumors were true, and Ikaria was consumed in a civil war, circumstances could change. An external threat could unite the rival factions behind the emperor, and in that case, federation victory was far less certain.

  She had no doubt that their ships would prevail in their initial attack, thanks to the superior skills of their sailors. But should the federation try to invade Kazagan…

  It was madness. She shook her head in disbelief even as she accepted the scroll from Captain Justin. Her orders were simple—return at once to the naval base on Melene and place herself and her ship at the disposal of the commodore there. There was no mention of when the orders had been written or the target for their attack.

  Perhaps the talk of Kazagan was a diversion. Or perhaps the plans were not firm—there was still time for the council to come to their senses.

  Or perhaps the war had already started.

  “And what of Lieutenant Burrell?” she asked.

  “I can find something to keep him occupied,” Major Armand said.

  So Burrell’s success had not redeemed him. And the look on the major’s face did not bode well for the lieutenant’s future.

  “You may enjoy garrison duty, but the lieutenant is far too valuable to be allowed to rot away here,” Ysobel said. She knew her hasty words were making an enemy, but she did not care. If these men were so blind that they could not see the looming disaster, then their respect was not worth having. “My instructions from Lord Quesnel allow me to retain my own crew, so if the lieutenant will agree to continue under my command?”

  “The lieutenant is an officer of the marines—” Major Armand began.

  “And I am Lady Ysobel, acting under the direct authority of Lord Quesnel, the minister of war,” she countered. “I answer to the minister, not to you.”

  “Your point is noted,” Captain Justin said. He turned to face Burrell. “I am certain the lieutenant would prefer to remain in the service of the marines, and to assist Major Armand as he takes command of the harbor. Is that not so?”

  Burrell took a deep breath, his gaze wandering over the two officers then fixing itself on Ysobel’s face. “I have no doubt Major Armand will serve ably in his new role,” he said. “As for myself, I would be honored to serve under Lady Ysobel’s command as she goes into battle.”

  “So be it,” Justin said.

  He stood, and Major Armand hastily rose to his feet as well.

  “I will see that the necessary arrangements are made for the transfer of command,” Captain Justin said. “You may instruct your ship to prepare to sail the day after tomorrow.”

  “Excellent,” she said.

  With insincere bows, the visitors left. Ysobel waited until the door had shut behind them, then said, “I did you no favors.”

  “You did me no harm. The major and I have long disliked each other. Any service with him would have been unpleasant.”

  She wondered if he would ever trust her enough to tell her the reason for such animosity, and whether his tale would explain why a man of his age was still a mere lieutenant.

  “Any service with me is likely to be brief,” she said.

  Burrell shrugged. “If it is to be war, then eventually all of us will be called upon to fight. I’d rather do so with someone I trusted.”

  “And I as well. Come now, there is much to be done. Most of your marines will have to stay behind, but you can pick a dozen of them to come with us. I’d suggest volunteers, but I’ll leave that up to you.”

  Justin would not challenge her over a dozen marines, not when she could insist on the full complement that she had brought with her on the Dolphin. Indeed, she was tempted to ask for them all, but doing so might leave Gallifrey shorthanded should an attack come. And since the major seemed remarkably lacking in cunning, he would need to rely upon superior forces instead.

  She would have to rely upon her wits, and on those she trusted. She could only hope they would be enough.

  Chapter 12

  The servingwoman looked up at Lucius through lowered lashes, smiling demurely as she handed him a cup of chilled tipia. “The bath, it is to your liking, your graciousness?”

  He returned the smile. “I find much to like,” he said, letting his gaze wander down from her face to her lithe form.

  She blushed, as if she were a modest maiden. Then she leaned forward, reaching in with one hand to stir the rose petals that floated on the surface of the water. The pose gave him a clear view of the tops of her firm young breasts.

  She was very much to his taste—a change from the matronly servants who had been his previous attendants, and he wondered whom he had to thank for her presence. Were the functionaries finally ready to treat him as an emperor should be treated? Or was this woman’s presence here mere happenstance?

  He took a sip of his drink, the chilled mixture of fruit juices mixed with soft wine providing a perfect counterpoint to the heat of the baths. Lucius felt a stirring in his groin, as she once more leaned in—this time close enough that her breasts brushed his arm as if by accident.

  Yet it was no mere
accident, but rather the dance of seduction—a game that he had played in his youth, though never as often as he had wished. The imperial princes had been the subject of most women’s ambitions; he had had neither wealth nor influence to tempt them.

  “You are far more beautiful than my last attendant,” he said, taking up his part in the game. “Tell me your name so that I may ask for you again.”

  “Tiphene, your majesty,” she said. “It is my honor to serve you.”

  She boldly met his gaze, then dropped her eyes, this time not in modesty but in frank appraisal of his form. The scars from his torture had faded, and he knew that what she saw would please her—as it would please any woman. He was young, handsome, and well endowed—a far cry from the withered old men who were his advisors.

  Well, perhaps Demetrios was not old, though he was far from handsome. But as for the rest—only a mercenary would sleep with them by choice.

  Lucius stood, letting the water drip from his body. His male bath attendant held out his arm to help Lucius descend from the bathing pool, while Tiphene picked up a large towel. She dried him slowly, her touch lingering as she reached his waist, and he felt his flesh respond.

  He cast his mind back, but he could not remember the last time he had lain with a woman.

  He could feel the monk’s presence in his mind, and so he asked, How long has it been?

  Since what?

  Since my body felt the touch of a woman?

  Not since I was joined to you.

  Lucius shuddered. Was the monk only half a man? Could he really have spent the past years in a celibate existence?

  “Quickly, fetch his robe,” Tiphene ordered her fellow servant, mistaking his shuddering for a sign that he was chilled.

  He allowed her to slip his arms into the robe, then held still as she belted it around his waist. She stood there for a moment, her hands lingering on the ties.

  “I can think of another way to warm up,” he said. He took her hand in his, then turned to his other attendant, saying, “You are dismissed.”

  He did not miss the flash of triumph that crossed Tiphene’s features, though it was swiftly hidden beneath another maidenly blush. Still, for all her feigned demureness, it was she who tugged gently at his hand, leading him toward his bedroom.

  He was content to be led. The monk might have wasted these past years, but he would not allow such an opportunity to pass him by.

  A thought crossed his mind. Perhaps those years had not been wasted—the monks of the Learned Brethren were known to lie with other men. Not solely by preference, though no doubt there were those who preferred the rugged embrace of a man to the softer joys of a woman. But the monks—who drew their ranks from the bastard outcasts of noble families—lay with their fellows in order to ensure that they would breed no challengers to the rightful heirs.

  Lucius had never felt an attraction toward another man, and the thought that Josan might have used his body in that manner was distressing. Tell me, did you lie with male lovers?

  Josan was silent, for so long that Lucius feared he would not speak. Then, finally he said, Since the time I was joined with your body, I have taken no lover, neither man nor woman.

  Lucius was relieved. Even if he had no memory of such an act, it was still distasteful to contemplate. Perhaps Josan found the idea of sex with a woman equally distasteful, for he could feel the monk’s presence retreating, allowing Lucius to take full control of his body.

  He climbed upon the bed, reclining back against the pillows, then unbelted his robe, letting it fall open.

  “Let me see you,” he said.

  Tiphene slipped her right shoulder free of her chiton, exposing one breast. She held the pose with the skill of a practiced courtesan, then slowly slipped her left shoulder free, and let the chiton puddle on the floor at her feet.

  She was not classically beautiful, but her skin was unblemished, her breasts generous and firm. White teeth flashed in a smile as she climbed onto the foot of the enormous bed and began to crawl toward him.

  He waited, enjoying the sight of a beautiful woman anxious to please him. As she approached he held out his hands, drawing her to him so that she knelt astride his thighs, the tip of his sex brushing the softness of her belly.

  She bent her head to him and he brushed her lips with a kiss as he reached forward and caressed her breasts. Their soft weight filled his hands, but it was not as pleasant as he remembered.

  He withdrew his hands, and Tiphene took this as a signal, for she brushed a kiss against his chin, then his neck, then continued down his chest, exploring him with lips and hands.

  He smelled the perfume of her hair and gazed upon her soft curves. But his attraction was waning—what should have been a delight instead felt wrong.

  She was too fragile, too yielding. Plump and curved where he wanted hardness and strength. He grasped her waist, but it was as if he were clenching a bolster rather than a lover.

  Tiphene’s lips reached his sex, which now lay flaccid against his leg. He heard her soft gasp of surprise, then she began to stroke him with her tongue.

  You, this is your fault! Leave, before you unman me.

  I would if I knew how. I am sorry.

  But the monk’s apologies were useless, and Lucius could not summon the concentration necessary to force him into oblivion.

  Lucius imagined sinking his hardness into Tiphene’s soft curves, remembering the pleasures to be found in joining with a woman, but it was no use. He could not recapture his earlier arousal. Despite his efforts, and Tiphene’s increasingly frantic ministrations, his body remained unmoved.

  He was a eunuch. Crippled by the cursed spell that had stolen so much else from him.

  He shoved Tiphene so that she toppled to her side. She looked up at him, pouting lips topped with dark accusing eyes.

  “I am bored of this,” he said. “Leave me.”

  “But—” she began.

  “Leave,” he said, in a voice that would not countenance disagreement.

  Tiphene scrambled to her feet, picking up her garment but not bothering to don it as she raced from the room. She must have feared that he was about to order her whipped for her presumption.

  I should have her whipped, he thought. By tomorrow the whole of the palace will know that I am not a man. In a few days the news will spread throughout the city.

  They will think her words a sign of pique—the spite of a serving girl angry that the emperor refused her advances, the monk observed.

  But he was not in the mood to be reasonable. And what if this happens again? What if I can no longer lie with a woman? An emperor must have an heir.

  Lucius was furious, but the monk’s mind voice was calm. It is likely that we will fall victim to Zuberi’s machinations long before the question of an heir arises. And, if by chance it comes to that, I am certain Zuberi would be happy to father our heir. He has already assumed the rest of your powers.

  And how is Zuberi any different from you? Lucius asked. He, at least, is honest in his intentions. You are just as much of a usurper, but you cover your deeds with apologies and feigned regret.

  He felt a flash of rage from the monk, then silence. He could still feel the monk’s lingering presence, an unclean shadow lurking in his mind. He vowed that he would not endure this partnership forever. Someday he would find the means necessary to rid himself of the monk’s spirit—whatever it took.

  There could be only one emperor, and Lucius was determined to be that man.

  The mood of the palace had lightened, perhaps owing as much to Zuberi’s absence as it did to the news that the rebellion in the north had been put down. Other news was less encouraging—Ikarian merchant ships were returning to port with tales of harassment by coastal raiders, and several had gone missing entirely. Their absence could be the result of storms or pirates, or there could be more sinister forces at work. There were many countries that might seek to take advantage of Ikaria’s internal distractions—chief among them the Federati
on of Seddon.

  At least Josan no longer languished in ignorance. His tentative accord with Demetrios had already borne fruit—each morning at breakfast a clerk would arrive to brief him on the news of the previous day. As troubling as the rumors had been, the bare facts were even worse.

  The mood of the populace was grim. Violence remained a daily fact of life in Karystos, and Petrelis’s guards were hard-pressed to maintain even a semblance of order. Two of the provincial governors reported that they had suppressed rebellions, though Josan wondered if they were merely using this as an excuse to seize the assets of their rivals.

  Some nobles who had remained in the capital throughout the summer now chose to return to their estates. Perhaps they were fleeing the violence, or perhaps they sought to return to their bases of power, in preparation for the civil war that most feared loomed on the horizon.

  Today’s briefing brought the disquieting news that the federation had recalled their ambassador for consultations—a diplomatic phrase that meant he was suspected of wrongdoing, or considered too valuable to leave as a potential hostage in case war broke out. Ambassador Blaise had only served a short time, replacing Ambassador Hardouin, who’d been expelled for not noticing that his assistant, Lady Ysobel, was conspiring with the Ikarian rebels—Prince Lucius among them.

  Josan wondered what had happened to Lady Ysobel after her escape. Had she returned to the life of a sea trader? Or was she weaving new schemes, once again risking her life to fuel her ambitions? She must have been astounded by his rise to the throne though he had no doubt that she had somehow found a way to claim credit.

  What would he do if the federation sent her back as part of their delegation? Would he be expected to greet her as an ally? But surely she, at least, knew better. After all, he had betrayed his supporters to Empress Nerissa, Lady Ysobel among them. Having once fled Karystos to save her life, she could not be anxious to return.

  This morning’s report brought more troubling news, a rumor that the federation was massing its naval forces, converting merchant vessels to troop transports. It was a single report, but if true, it boded ill. Especially with the Ikarian navy still captive in port and no likely successor for Admiral Hector found.