Silver Road (The Shifting Tides Book 2)

by James Maxwell

  ‘That’s what they call me. But I was elected by vote, and one day another may take my place.’

  Glaukos was speechless, only able to shake his head.

  ‘We . . .’ Dion wondered how to explain. ‘We also have a new territory to administer, an island in the Maltherean, roughly between Orius, Parnos, and Athos. Its name is Fort Liberty. I’ve promised help and protection, but also a degree of autonomy. Stationing ships there will give us an invaluable port, strategically advantageous for both war and trade.’

  ‘I can see we have a lot to talk about.’ Glaukos turned away from the harbor and faced Dion. ‘Now it just remains to bring two brothers back together. You can help me find a wife for Nikolas. He doesn’t realize it, but he needs you. Now that Chloe, daughter of Aristocles, is dead . . .’

  The wine cup fell out of Dion’s hand, clattering to the stone. The shock was like a punch in the stomach, robbing him of breath.

  ‘You didn’t know?’ Glaukos was saying, but his voice was distant, as if he were in another room.

  Dion shook his head. He turned away from his uncle and left him behind, walking numbly past the orange trees and entering the palace’s interior.

  He collapsed onto the raised stone platform, sitting on a step by the high-backed wooden throne.

  67

  Surrounded by Dion’s pirates, Aristocles waited on the white pebbled beach while Amos scouted the city. Pacing anxiously, he breathed a sigh of relief when he saw his loyal captain standing up on the embankment and waving, with a dozen strong Phalesian soldiers surrounding him.

  Aristocles climbed up the diagonal steps and then he was looking around him, taking in the agora, breathing in the scents both sweet and foul, feeling pleasure at being in a place where so many people lived together, side by side. He took a moment to breathe a prayer of thanks to the gods. He was home.

  Hearing a commotion on the agora’s far side, he smiled when he saw that city folk wearing bright Galean clothing draped over their bodies were dancing and cheering, wine skins pouring into wooden mugs and flute players trilling festive music. Aristocles had brought help to his city in its time of need. Already word of the victory of the Xanthian fleet would be spreading through both the upper and lower quarters.

  He allowed himself a moment to watch his people. The blood of consuls had been spilled, but soon he would have Phalesia back to the way it was. Time had passed. Nikolas was far away. Soon he would be reunited with his two beautiful daughters.

  ‘It’s safe,’ Amos said, approaching. ‘Nikolas took his king’s guard with him. Not a single soldier of Xanthos is here. Come, First Consul.’ He gave a rare smile. ‘Let me take you back to your villa.’

  Soon Amos and the escort of Phalesian soldiers were leading Aristocles through the familiar streets. Casting his mind forward to the coming days, as he walked, already Aristocles was making plans.

  ‘Tonight I will rest, but I’ll start seeing the consuls tomorrow, starting with Nilus. I must maximize the impact of our victory against the Ilean fleet. Then, when Kargan overthrows Mydas, I’ll reveal my peace agreement with Ilea. Finally, with the support of the entire city behind me, I’ll call an election.’

  ‘But you are already first consul.’

  ‘Amos, you are brave and loyal, but you need to understand how the Assembly functions. I need to be seen as a strong leader at all times. I need a mandate from the people.’

  ‘Whatever you say.’ Amos smiled, evidently pleased to see Aristocles’ excitement.

  Then they were climbing up to the villa, and as his anticipation grew, Aristocles’ feet quickened on the steps.

  ‘Wait here,’ Aristocles ordered when they reached the terrace. He dashed inside, calling out. ‘Chloe? Sophia?’ He exited again a moment later. ‘Where are my daughters?’ he anxiously asked Amos.

  ‘I assumed they would be here . . .’ Amos cast an inquiring glance at the soldiers.

  ‘Your daughters are missing,’ a soldier with a squashed nose said.

  ‘Missing?’ Aristocles felt a stab of fear.

  ‘Lord Nilus may have more information,’ the soldier answered.

  Amos sighed. ‘I’m sorry, First Consul. Don’t worry, wherever they are, we will find them.’

  ‘Would you . . . Would you go now? Find out more?’ Aristocles asked anxiously.

  ‘Of course I will. This very instant.’

  Amos dashed down the steps without another word, leaving Aristocles standing on the terrace with the dozen soldiers of his escort. Muttering, shaking his head, Aristocles descended to the servant’s quarters on the villa’s lower level, but even Aglea and old Hermon were gone; the place was completely deserted. Then, as he climbed back up, he saw a newcomer waiting for him outside the villa’s main entrance.

  The slim young man with the embroidered yellow tunic bowed. ‘First Consul. I bring a message from Lord Nilus. He wishes to speak with you at the lyceum.’

  ‘Lead the way,’ Aristocles said with a sharp nod. He waved at a pair of the soldiers. ‘Come with me, please.’

  Filled with worry for his daughters, Aristocles followed the messenger back down to the city, passing through the cobbled streets and crossing the agora. Climbing the broad marble steps to the horseshoe-shaped structure with the peaked triangular roof, he glanced up at the statue of Aldus as he passed under the god’s stern gaze.

  ‘I will leave you now.’ The messenger bowed.

  ‘Thank you,’ Aristocles said absently.

  As he entered the lyceum he saw it was exactly the way he remembered it, open at the sides but with a central floor accessed by a descent of steps that also doubled as seats when the Assembly of Consuls was in session. Flaming torches ensconced at the columns scattered light throughout the structure’s interior, but there were no columns in the center, so it grew dimmer as he approached the floor. Aristocles saw a group of four consuls in white tunics standing below, waiting for his arrival.

  Recognizing Nilus’s round face, Aristocles descended swiftly, leaving the pair of soldiers at the top of the steps.

  ‘Welcome home, Aristocles,’ Nilus said as he reached the floor.

  ‘Consul Nilus,’ Aristocles said. He would have greeted his friend warmly, but he was far too consumed with concern for his daughters. He nodded at each of the other three consuls in turn. He was surprised to see Nilus with men whom he’d long considered opponents. ‘Consul Harod. Consul Leon. Consul Anneas.’

  They were all acting wary, but Aristocles supposed some strangeness could be expected.

  ‘The fleet that allied with the Xanthians. That was your doing?’ Consul Anneas asked.

  ‘It was,’ Aristocles said.

  ‘What other news do you bring?’ Nilus asked.

  Aristocles’ intuition told him that although he’d initially thought to save the revelation, now was the time to show strength. ‘Mydas is going to fall,’ he said. ‘There may already be a new king in Ilea. I bring his assurance of peace.’

  ‘You have this written?’ gray-bearded Harod asked.

  ‘I do,’ Aristocles said proudly.

  ‘We’ll see what the future brings.’ Anneas glanced at Harod. ‘Let us be clear though. The present danger is past?’ he pressed.

  ‘It is.’ Aristocles turned to face Nilus, ignoring the other three men. ‘Nilus, where are my daughters?’

  ‘Sophia has gone to Koulis, where she will marry King Nikolas of Xanthos.’

  Aristocles rounded on Nilus; he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. ‘What . . . ?’ he stammered. ‘But . . . Chloe?’

  ‘Our alliance with Xanthos will be strong,’ Nilus said. ‘Nikolas and I have an understanding. He will be grateful that I found her and sent her to him.’

  ‘Nilus . . .’

  ‘Be at peace, Aristocles,’ Nilus said, clasping Aristocles’ shoulder. ‘I have other news.’ He met his friend’s eyes, and something passed between them, a fleeting look of regret. ‘Chloe is dead.’

  Nilus pulled him close and
pain flared in Aristocles’ chest. Aristocles looked down and saw that Nilus’s hand was around the hilt of a knife. The weapon fell out of Nilus’s fingers, remaining in Aristocles’ torso as Nilus stepped back, staring at what he’d done.

  Aristocles watched crimson blood bloom around the blade in his chest. He felt as if he’d been kicked in the guts. He was surprised to find that the pain didn’t feel sharp at all. His breath shuddered as he gazed up at the two watching soldiers. They looked on impassively. Neither man stepped forward.

  ‘You’ll be seeing her shortly,’ Nilus said. His voice was shaking, but he managed to nod at the other three consuls as he took another step back. ‘We all have to do it.’

  Each man suddenly brandished a blade. Harod was the first to strike, stabbing Aristocles in his side. Anneas pierced the area just below his heart. Leon came in low, thrusting into his abdomen.

  Aristocles sank to his knees. He saw blood pooling around him. So much blood . . .

  ‘Why did you have to return?’ Nilus pleaded softly. Aristocles looked up at him, clutching at his arm, until Nilus fended him off.

  Consul Harod lifted a finger at the pair of watching soldiers. ‘Not a word about this. Not ever. The city must be united behind the first consul.’

  Aristocles tried to stand but fell backward, sprawling out in the pool of his own blood. He found himself lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling of Phalesia’s lyceum. This was where he gave speeches. It was in this room that he became first consul. This was where he stood fast with the eldren.

  Chloe was dead.

  His eyelids fluttered and then his eyes closed. He hoped he would see her soon.

  68

  After a day of talking and deal making, with agreement after agreement being reached and then renegotiated at the last moment, Nikolas was exhausted.

  His army was now encamped a good distance from the walls of Koulis, and it was dark when he finally rode in and immediately dismounted, handing his horse to a waiting groom and heading directly for his tent.

  He limped as he walked; the wound in his thigh was paining him more than he cared to admit. The surgeons were worried. Infection had taken root, and they’d told him that if it didn’t clear soon, he could be in danger of his life.

  Lothar had said that negotiations could go on without him, but Nikolas knew that if he didn’t attend the wily old man would try to foist some ploy on the new treaties and trade deals between Ilea and the four Galean nations. Cursing Lothar, Zanthe, and the spear that sliced him, he thrust the tent flap aside and entered the dimly lit interior.

  A solitary oil lamp glowed on the table, but Nikolas found the darkness soothing. Wincing, he went directly to the flask lying beside his scabbarded sword. Searching the table, he finally spied the golden goblet lying on its side under his rumpled cloak, and with a sigh of relief he immediately lifted the flask to pour the cup full of sweet Sarsican wine. Setting the container down, he lifted the goblet and drained it to the bottom. He was about to refill his cup when he heard a voice.

  ‘Sire.’

  He frowned when he heard the young, female voice. He turned in surprise and saw a girl sitting on a pile of cushions in the corner. She had long dark hair and dimples on her cheeks. Her blue eyes regarded him intently.

  ‘Sophia?’ Nikolas wondered if his eyes were deceiving him. ‘What in Balal’s name are you doing here?’

  She remained seated, her gaze meeting his directly. ‘Lord Nilus sent me but, in truth, I came of my own accord. I’ve taken a long journey to be here.’

  ‘By all the gods, why?’ Nikolas still couldn’t believe she was here. ‘The crossing is dangerous.’

  ‘I know. But I wanted to see you. I told Nilus that I want to become your wife.’

  Nikolas drew back, nonplussed. His head was still full of border lines and trade guarantees. ‘My wife?’ He scowled at her. ‘I have a wife, girl.’

  ‘My sister is dead.’

  Nikolas’s eyes widened. ‘Chloe is dead?’

  He poured himself another goblet of wine as he thought furiously. Tossing a gulp of the tart liquid back, he kept his back to her. Chloe was dead . . . She was always going to be a difficult wife . . .

  Realization slowly dawned.

  There would soon be peace throughout the Maltherean Sea. He needed a wife and an heir.

  ‘Yes, lord. Ask the men who brought me here. She is dead.’

  Nikolas turned to face her. ‘You are a woman? You have had your season?’

  ‘Yes, lord.’

  Her piercing blue eyes were staring at him with fierce determination. He felt a thrill course through him. She was pretty, and would grow into a beautiful woman. She was a child, but certainly wouldn’t remain one.

  ‘Remind me how old you are,’ he mused, appraising her.

  ‘Twelve, sire.’

  ‘You’re quite bold for your age. Nilus said you disappeared. Where were you?’

  ‘With a man in the city and his family. An apothecary.’

  ‘Your sister . . . How did she die?’

  ‘She was murdered on the road to Tanus.’ Sophia swallowed, but when she spoke, her voice was clear as she looked up at him. ‘You forced her to marry you,’ she said. Her eyes lingered on the goblet in his hand. ‘You killed her.’

  Nikolas’s mouth gaped; he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He had to resist the urge to strike her; she was only twelve. But no one spoke to him in this way. The words shocked him, spoken so flagrantly. It was some time before he replied.

  ‘I did not kill your sister.’

  ‘It’s your fault that she’s dead.’

  He lifted a clenched fist. ‘Shut your mouth!’

  Sophia climbed slowly to her feet, staring at him defiantly. ‘I came a long way to be here. I’ll say what I like.’

  Nikolas moved to strike her.

  Suddenly his legs collapsed from under him and he found himself on the ground.

  It happened so quickly that he couldn’t understand why his body had failed him. The wine goblet clattered to the floor beside him, spilling crimson liquid over the thick carpet. His vision blurred and he blinked but couldn’t clear the haze. He tried to pull himself back to his feet, clawing at the table, but instead he pulled it down on top of himself. The oil lamp tumbled before righting itself just a foot from his head, filling his eyes with bright yellow light.

  ‘Wha—?’ Nikolas tried to speak but his tongue felt swollen. His mouth was dry and he felt thirsty, more thirsty than he’d ever felt in his life. ‘What . . . ?’

  He looked up to see Sophia standing over him. She glanced down at him sadly. Her eyes flickered to the wine goblet and then back at him.

  ‘Goodbye, sire,’ Sophia murmured.

  Nikolas felt darkness encroaching. He tried to fight it but barely managed to twitch his fingers. His blurred vision was now filled with black shadow. He tried to speak but all that came out was a gurgle, and then he heard his own breath rattle in his chest.

  It was the last sound he heard.

  69

  Kargan couldn’t banish the slight smile on his face as he strode through the corridors of the grand palace in Lamara. From here he would rule an empire. It was all his.

  Six of his most loyal soldiers, recently promoted to palace guards, followed him as he reached the audience chamber and approached the throne, an immense high-backed chair of ebony with engraved lion’s claws at the arms, raised on a high dais. He climbed up to the throne and sat down, wriggling in his seat.

  ‘How do I look?’ he grinned at one of his men.

  ‘Imperial, king of kings,’ the soldier said, bowing low.

  ‘Perhaps not yet, but I will have new clothing to suit the part, and a crown of solid gold.’

  Uncertain what response was expected, the soldier hesitated and then bowed again.

  Barking a laugh but becoming restless, Kargan slipped off the throne and left the audience chamber to head out to the nearby terrace. It was night and the lights of L
amara, greatest city in the world, filled his vision. He clasped his hands on the rail and gazed out at the city below and then lifted his vision to the harbor, watching the dark shadows of the ferry boats coming and going, fighting the current to make their way across the wide brown river.

  He had a difficult task ahead of him to reform the Ilean Empire and bring it to greater heights than even Solon had dreamed of, but for now, he was enjoying his moment.

  Kargan heard a voice clear behind him and turned.

  ‘You summoned me?’ Javid asked, frowning.

  ‘Yes, Javid,’ Kargan said. He glanced past the tall warrior at the guards standing behind him, and then nodded to himself. ‘I want to inform you that for the stability of the realm, it might be some time before we have our first vote. In fact,’ he scratched at his beard and then smiled, ‘there might not be any voting for a very, very long time.’

  He waited to see what reaction his words would have.

  Javid’s frown deepened. He crossed his arms in front of his broad chest and now he was truly scowling. ‘I will speak plainly. When we made our bargain, you said you would always be truthful. You gave me your word.’

  Kargan shrugged. ‘Words come easily.’

  ‘The Phalesian, Aristocles . . . He helped put you where you are now. You promised him help in turn, but you sent him home.’

  ‘I gave him his treaty. I spoke the truth. I have no interest in Phalesia.’

  ‘Then why not give him what he needed?’

  ‘I was busy with other matters. I had bigger things on my mind than an accord with a weak foreigner.’

  ‘You know how I feel. Now why am I here?’ Javid asked bluntly.

  Kargan sighed. He stepped toward his bodyguard and gazed up at him. ‘Your problem, Javid, is that you’re a dangerous man. You’re here because I need to know where you and I stand. The only person you can hold to your own ideals is you, and if you want to know what I value, it’s loyalty. I’ll be loyal to you, and I’ll even put up with all your talk of justice and truth. But if I have to worry about my safety then we won’t be friends anymore. Which is it to be?’