The Sea Change

by Patricia Bray

  Ysobel’s belly clenched with nervousness though she knew her features reflected none of her unease. She nibbled delicately at each dish, consuming just enough for politeness’ sake. Finally, they were left with sweet wine and dishes of nuts roasted in honey. Ysobel repressed a smile as the reserved Telfor scooped an entire handful of nuts and began dropping them into his mouth one by one, much as a boy presented with a favorite treat.

  “Lady Solange, what news have you from Ikaria?” Ysobel asked, after the last of the servants had withdrawn.

  “You waste no time,” Telfor said, punctuating his remark by cracking a nut between his teeth.

  “There are others you could have invited for pleasant discourse, and I doubt that Lady Solange needs my opinion on the skills of her chef. That leaves Ikaria as the only reason for my presence—and the ship that arrived last night.”

  “Indeed,” Lady Solange said. “The news from Ikaria was…unexpected.”

  Balere had been unsuccessful in her inquiries, and Ysobel’s investigations had been similarly fruitless. Rumors from Ikaria should have been swirling, but surprisingly there were none. She’d spent a frustrating afternoon at the docks, lightening her purse, until she realized that it was the very absence of rumors that told the tale.

  “The captain had nothing to tell you,” Ysobel said. “No news worth mentioning because there is no civil war. Emperor Lucius remains on his throne, and by all accounts holds the loyalty of his people.”

  “It is perplexing,” Lady Solange said.

  “You may recall that I warned the council against underestimating him,” Ysobel said. “We misjudged him once and must take care not to do so again.”

  It still rankled that she had been taken in by his pretense—judged him a coward, completely under the thumb of those who sought to use him. He had manipulated her, just as he continued to manipulate those around him.

  “The Ikarian navy will not allow the blockade to pass unchallenged,” Ysobel added. “Commodore Grenville cannot hold them off forever.”

  “An interesting position,” Lady Solange said. “Considering that you are one of the few houses that has not had to pay a forfeit for lost contracts.”

  “I have already lost one ship. I do not wish to lose another,” Ysobel said. “And if it comes to war, it will profit no one.”

  It was as blunt as she dared be, for all knew that Lady Solange’s house was profiting from the blockade by virtue of her contracts to supply the navy. Her former rival Lord Quesnel also had much to gain, as he used his position as minister of war to buy captured ships at prices far below their true worth.

  But true war was a different matter. The last full-scale conflict between Ikaria and Seddon had cost the federation dearly, as she had lost control of most of her foreign colonies. Entire trading houses had been obliterated, their surviving members forced to beg for refuge in other houses, forsaking both name and family.

  If war came, there would be those who profited. Even the greatest of calamities could be turned to someone’s advantage. But the survivors would need someone to blame—and it was unlikely that those present could remain in power, after bringing destruction down on their countrymen.

  “Quesnel assures the council that it is only a matter of time before the emperor is toppled. Lucius is too busy securing his own power to move against us,” Telfor said. His face was unreadable, giving no hint of his true thoughts.

  “Quesnel is a fool,” Ysobel said. “We have given Lucius what he needs—a common enemy that will unite his people. They will set aside their own concerns to move against us.”

  There were no murmurs of disagreement.

  “They may have already done so,” Solange said. “The captain held one bit of news confidential—the Imperial Navy left its winter harbor two weeks before the first day of spring. They were weighed down with men and provisions.”

  “Where did they go?”

  “They steered a course for open sea,” Solange said.

  This, too, was unexpected. The Ikarian navigators always kept land within sight. If they headed for open sea, it could only mean one thing—they meant to make sure that any watchers did not know their ultimate destination.

  “Where are they going?” Ysobel mused aloud.

  “I was hoping you could tell me,” Solange replied.

  Chapter 19

  Josan hated sailing. He hated ships. He hated the whole of the great basin, and every wave upon it.

  If there had been room for any other emotion within him, it would have been hatred for Septimus as well. Josan had elevated Septimus to the rank of admiral, and in return Septimus was doing his very best to unman his emperor.

  “Any change?” Septimus whispered.

  “The emperor is still indisposed,” Seven replied. Younger than the other functionaries, he had volunteered to accompany the emperor on this journey, a decision he was no doubt regretting.

  “The emperor wishes to die in peace,” Josan said. He opened his eyes to glare at Septimus, whose windblown hair and reddened cheeks spoke of time spent up on deck. Septimus, who had always looked vaguely ill at ease in court silks, appeared in his element on the sea.

  Josan could not say the same.

  “You will feel better if you come take the air,” Septimus said. He had repeated the same speech at least twice a day since they had left Karystos.

  “Perhaps later. After the storm passes,” Josan said, closing his eyes as Seven laid a cool cloth across his forehead. He clutched the rail on the side of the bed as the ship rocked beneath him. No matter what he did, he could not ease into the rhythm of its movements.

  He had considered himself an experienced traveler, who had traveled the length of the great basin from Ikaria to Xandropol, in accommodations far less luxurious that those available on an admiral’s flagship. But this was not his stomach in rebellion, it was Lucius’s, and the prince was proving a poor traveler indeed.

  “Storm?” Septimus’s voice rose in puzzlement. “It is as fine a sailing day as we could wish for, with a steady wind from the west quarter. We’ve had nothing but fair weather since we left Karystos. My sailors say the emperor’s luck sails with us.”

  “And will they say the same when they see me vomiting over the side?”

  Septimus wisely said nothing.

  Josan opened his eyes again. “How far away are we?”

  “Five days, perhaps four if the weather continues to favor us,” Septimus said.

  Josan pushed himself into a seated position, half-leaning against the wall of the cabin. He bit his tongue as a wave of nausea swept through him.

  Lucius had not made his presence felt since the first signs of illness had shown itself. It was his custom to flee misery, and Josan could not blame him. Though perhaps something of Lucius’s presence still lingered—though it was difficult to believe that one man could command the weather.

  It was far more likely that the fair weather was a natural phenomenon.

  And if he felt this ill on a fair day…

  Josan swung his legs over the side of the bed, and Seven tied on sandals with soles of roughened leather that would not slip on the deck. As Josan moved to stand, Seven held his left arm and Septimus his right.

  He stood, slowly, feeling his legs tremble as if from long illness. Bile rose in his throat, and he hastily swallowed. After a long moment, it subsided.

  “Walk with me,” Josan told Septimus. “I will take the air and you can tell me again of your plans for the Seddonian fleet.”

  Septimus had been right; the steady breeze made Josan feel better, even as it chilled him through the heavy woolen cloak he wore. The sailors on deck scattered as he approached, uneasy at the presence of the emperor in their domain.

  This was not the imperial sailing ship, whose crew was well used to ferrying the imperial family between Karystos and their summer retreat on Eluktiri. This was a warship, with all that entailed. An emperor was as out of place as a dancing bear.

  Emperors ruled f
rom the palace at Karystos. Occasionally one ventured into the field to lead their armies—safely from the rear, of course. The first Constantin had been such a war leader, as had Aitor I. But no emperor sailed to battle—the risks were considered too great.

  Josan had expected Zuberi to forbid him to accompany Septimus on this expedition. And, indeed, Zuberi had at first refused to consider the idea but had gradually allowed himself to be won over.

  Despite months of training, Josan was still the best navigator they had, able to perform the calculations in a fraction of the time that it took the naval officers. And only Josan understood the theory behind their new weapons, though naturally Septimus’s men had learned to operate them. Still, these reasons, compelling though they were, should not have been enough to sway Zuberi.

  Unless, of course, Zuberi had his own reasons for wishing the emperor gone from the capital. The truce between them had held all winter, but they were merely temporary allies. There was no friendship, and little trust between them. Zuberi might have allowed Josan to go because he knew that the emperor’s presence might mean the difference between success or failure.

  Or he might have given Septimus a second set of orders—meant to ensure that the emperor did not return. Whether a martyred hero, or lost in a tragic defeat, it would be easy for Septimus to dispose of him. Zuberi would lead the public mourning, and, with his newly restored health, assume the throne that many thought should have been his all along.

  A death at sea would be far more merciful than a slow extinction at the hands of the chief torturer. Josan grinned as he realized that, in his current misery, he would offer no resistance if Septimus were simply to push him over the rail. Though surely Septimus was enough of a tactician that he would not waste any advantage until after they had confronted the Seddonians.

  “You find humor in the federation’s standard line of battle?” Septimus asked.

  Josan shook his head. “A passing thought, no more,” he said. “Continue, I am listening.”

  Betrayal was easier the second time, Josan mused. Of all the lessons he had learned since agreeing to become emperor, it was this that most surprised him.

  He had agonized for days over his decision to reveal the secrets of the Learned Brethren—torn between his duty to the empire and the oaths that he had sworn. Even the knowledge that these were his very own discoveries, secrets he himself had brought to the brethren, was not enough to assuage the guilt that had haunted him.

  The second betrayal had been easier.

  Josan stood at Septimus’s side, watching as the nervous sailors poured heated pitch into the cauldron.

  “Careful,” he warned, as some of the pitch slopped over the sides. There was no room for mistakes—the final concoction would pose as grave a danger to their own ship as it did to their enemies.

  He tasted the dampness of the air on his tongue as the sailors carefully measured the volatile powder. “Another quarter measure,” he said.

  The sailor looked at Septimus, who repeated the order.

  For centuries, the secret of the Burning Terror had been lost—to all save the Learned Brethren. It had taken time for him to realize that the navigational secrets he had shared would not be enough to ensure their triumph over the federation’s fleets. But once he realized the problem, he had barely hesitated before plundering the collegium’s treasures for a second time.

  He wondered if this was how Brother Nikos had begun his descent into treachery—choosing expediency over virtue once, then again, until he became so accustomed to it that he could see no other way.

  It would be an interesting question to pose to Nikos, but Nikos had left Ikaria over the winter, taking the overland route to Kazagan from where he could catch a ship to Xandropol in the spring. Ostensibly Nikos journeyed on the business of his order, but all knew that Zuberi had given his erstwhile ally a choice between voluntary exile or imprisonment.

  Brother Thanatos was the new head of the collegium, chosen by his peers and confirmed by the emperor. It was unclear how much the brethren knew about Nikos’s dabbling in treason, but the selection of Thanatos as their head signified a wish to return to the old days, when scholarship, not politics, had been the focus of the order.

  Josan had respected their decision, then had promptly dragged the order back into the realm of the political when he had scoured the libraries looking for weapons they could use against the federation. The brethren had claimed no such knowledge, but an afternoon’s diligent searching had yielded the tome he sought.

  He knew the brethren wondered about his intimate knowledge of their treasures—for while Brother Nikos had been Prince Lucius’s tutor, it was also well-known that Lucius had been an indifferent scholar at best. The detailed knowledge the emperor possessed could only have come from one of the monks. They would be casting suspicious eyes upon one another, wondering which of their number had betrayed them.

  Their suspicions would be correct, but they would never find the traitor. No one would think to cast suspicion on a man whom they believed dead for the past eight years.

  A sailor, wearing leather gloves to protect his hands, picked up a wooden paddle and slowly began to stir the mixture. Josan leaned forward, inspecting its color and texture. It appeared a trifle thicker than in his experiments and he fretted, wondering how much the damp sea air had changed the elements.

  He leaned too close and coughed as he breathed in noxious fumes. He took a hasty step back, Septimus’s hand grasping his shoulder to steady him. Lucius’s body had ceased its endless vomiting, but he still staggered around the deck with less grace than a newborn goat. If it were not for Septimus, he would have fallen a half dozen times already.

  “It is ready for your blessing,” the sailor said.

  Josan sighed. Try as he might, he could not convince the sailors that the deadly concoction had nothing to do with magic. Even Septimus—who had readily accepted his teachings in the art of navigation—viewed these preparations askance, whispering a prayer to the old gods when he thought himself unobserved.

  Or perhaps it was not the taint of sorcery that Septimus feared, but rather the power that Josan was about to unleash.

  “See? The enemy has formed into two rows, as I predicted,” Septimus said, pointing toward the waiting federation ships.

  “Are our ships ready?” Josan asked.

  Septimus conferred with his lieutenant, who was observing the signalers on the deck of each ship. “They are ready.”

  The Ikarian fleet consisted of two dozen ships—selected from the largest in their navy. Half of them held engineers whom Josan had taught to make the Burning Terror. These would form the front line of battle. The remaining ships were crammed with armed sailors who would form boarding parties as needed.

  Naval tactics were simple in theory. When two enemy ships met, the weaker of the two would attempt to flee. If it could not flee, the two ships would maneuver for advantage. A heavy ship might attempt to ram its opponent and sink it. Or, if a prize was sought, once the ships were in close range, grappling lines could be used to bring the two ships together, and boarding parties would stream across. Such battles were usually won by the ship with the larger crew.

  The theory was simple, but execution was not. A captain had to take into consideration the wind, weather, seas, and hazards such as shoals. The difficulties were multiplied when more than two ships were involved. In large-scale actions, your own ships could prove as much a hindrance as the enemy’s.

  A ship could give itself an advantage by installing ballistae, which were used to hurl lead balls, or linked chains to foul an opponent’s rigging. Such tactics were useful only at close range, in preparation for boarding.

  But Josan had found a new use for them.

  As they approached the federation ships at the mouth of the Naryn River, Josan knew that the Seddonians must be feeling confident. They held the advantage in numbers, and their ships were more maneuverable, able to tack in the slightest breeze. The sudden appearance o
f the Ikarian fleet would have surprised them, but they had aligned themselves in good order, showing no signs of panic.

  When Septimus had outlined his plans, he had expected to find only a small detachment here—perhaps a half dozen ships at most. Instead they had encountered a large force. Too big for guarding the river, it was either the vanguard for an invasion of Kazagan, or perhaps they were en route to challenge Ikarians in their home waters. What would have been a disaster under other circumstances was a stroke of luck. The more ships they faced, the more witnesses there would be to carry the tale.

  The formula for the Burning Terror included a rare earth that was far more precious than gold. Every speck they’d been able to seize was being carried aboard this fleet. They had only enough for two engagements—perhaps three if they were frugal. They needed decisive victories that would cow the Seddonians into surrender before anyone realized that their supplies were limited.

  Josan’s hands clenched on the railing and he drew a deep breath as their ship sailed ever closer to the enemy. What had been a vague mass of ships separated into individual vessels. He could see their sails and the signs of purposeful activity on their decks.

  The wind favored the Ikarians, blowing from the north, while the Seddonians were arrayed to the south of them, with the Naryn River and the coastline of Kazagan in the distance behind them.

  “If the wind changes,” Septimus murmured, so low that only Josan could hear.

  “It will not change,” he said, then wondered why he felt so confident. Perhaps there was magic at work. Or more likely it was simply it his own desire speaking—if the wind changed, they would surely fail.