The First Betrayal

by Patricia Bray

  “It’s been seven days,” Myles said.

  He nodded.

  Myles waited, apparently waiting for him to speak, but there was nothing for Josan to say. He knew enough to know that Myles had already made up his mind, and whatever his decision, Josan would not demean himself by begging.

  One corner of Myles’s mouth twisted in what might have been a smile. Reaching his right hand into the pocket of his cloak, he pulled out a small leather sack and tossed it toward Josan, who plucked it out of the air.

  “Five coppers, as I promised,” he said. “You’ll stay then?”

  “Until spring,” Josan replied, only then aware that he had been holding his breath.

  Myles’s gaze swept over him, lingering for a moment on the borrowed boots that Josan wore to keep his feet clean from the filth that inevitably accompanied a stable.

  “The bootmaker Salvo has his shop at the corner of the third alley, just past the green fountain. When you’re done here, go see him. He’s expecting you.”

  “But—” Josan began. Five coppers would not cover the cost of new boots, or even remade ones. Ten coppers would not be enough.

  “You can barely walk in those,” Myles pointed out.

  Josan’s boots had belonged to the former owner of the stables. Made for a man with feet both longer and far broader than his own, he had stuffed them with rags to keep his feet from sliding around. Still, even as ill fitting as they were, they served him better than his tattered sandals.

  “I will deduct the cost from your future wages,” Myles said.

  “Agreed.”

  Though Josan wondered if Myles would indeed remember to deduct the cost of the boots from his wages, or if this was simply a ruse to cover his charity.

  He had known Myles for a week, but for all Myles’s seeming openness, he could still not puzzle him out. Indeed, within the first day of their acquaintance, Myles had told Josan the story of his life. The youngest of six sons, he had chafed at the lot of a farmer’s son, and when barely more than a boy had run away, eventually winding up in Karystos, the imperial capital.

  There his choices had been simple. A boy with neither trade nor family could choose between a life of petty crime or prostitution, or he could enlist in the imperial army, which in those days had been hungry for recruits to fight in the endless campaigns against Vidrun. Myles had chosen the army, rising through the ranks to sergeant. After twenty years he had taken his pension and retired, using his carefully hoarded wages to buy the stable, sight unseen.

  It was not done for a master to confide in a servant in this way. Nor was it seemly that the two should eat their meals together, as if they were equals. Josan had never played the part of servant before, but he knew the protocols as well as any. You did not try to make a friend out of one who was scarcely better than a slave.

  But it was hard not to feel a bit sorry for Myles, who clearly had no one else to turn to. Florek, the late stable owner’s nephew, not only owned the large inn that stood immediately across the street from the stableyard, he also owned a smaller inn on the opposite side of town, and three taverns. By the standards of Utika he was a wealthy man indeed, and he was not used to having his will crossed. Especially not by a foreigner, one who had neither ties of blood nor birth to this province.

  Without Florek to stir their anger, the others in Utika might well have come to accept the newcomer in their midst, for Myles was a likable enough man, and from what Josan had seen so far, he was scrupulously honest in his dealings with others.

  But until Myles found a way to win Florek over, or his enemy found a new target for his wrath, it was unlikely that any would choose to befriend Myles and thus risk inciting the anger of one who held the ear of the local magistrate.

  Not for the first time, he wondered why Myles did not simply sell the stable to his rival and settle somewhere else. Perhaps one day he would ask. But for now Josan was careful to ask no questions of Myles, so that he would not be obliged to answer any of Myles’s questions in return.

  The small pouch containing the five coppers was fastened to the inside of his tunic, ensuring that if he had to flee he would not do so penniless. He took himself off to the bootmaker, who traced his feet, then bade him come back in three days. He did so, and found himself the owner of a pair of plain but serviceable boots, and he gladly set aside the ill-fitting pair he had borrowed.

  On the day he took possession of his new boots, Myles instructed him to saddle the post rider’s mare and bring her to the paddock. The intricacies of the tack posed no challenge to him, and he hoped that this boded well for the other skill he had claimed. In his travels, Josan had ridden on horseback on a few occasions, but always in the company of a guide who had ensured that the monk was given a placid beast well used to the antics of a novice rider.

  When Myles had asked him if he rode, it had been on the tip of his tongue to say no. But some strange instinct had prompted him to say yes. The same instinct, he supposed, that had told him he could handle a highbred horse. Where he had gained these skills was a question he did not wish to examine too closely. Like his unexpected talent for combat, it was something he could not remember learning. And yet, this skill too, had saved his life. Myles would never have offered employment to a scholar who did not know one end of a horse from another.

  He was aware that such deliberate blindness was a form of cowardice, but he brushed aside that thought as he had done many times before. The precepts that had governed his life as a scholar had taken on less and less meaning as he was forced to battle for survival.

  Josan led the mare to the paddock and at Myles’s command swung himself up into the saddle with ease. Banishing from his mind the memory of his last jouncing, awkward ride, he guided the mare around the paddock at a slow walk, then at a trot, using only the pressure of his knees as he guided her in a circle, first one way, then the other. The mare was restless, having spent the last three days in the stable because of the autumn rains. He could feel her impatience to run, but he controlled her with ease.

  After several circuits, Myles called a halt.

  “You’ll do. Take her out through the south gate, and you can give her a run in the campground. The dirt there is hard-packed, but keep an eye out for holes left by tent pegs and the like. An hour, no more, then cool her down before bringing her back, understood?”

  “Understood,” Josan said, offering a half salute, as if he were a novice soldier.

  For the convenience of travelers arriving from the southern province, the stables were located close to the gate, as was Florek’s inn. Once the two had been owned by the same man, since most travelers at the inn arrived by horseback or in carriages. Those who arrived on foot stayed at the cheaper lodgings outside the town proper. When the owner had died he had split his properties between his two sons, but at least they were still owned by the same family. Now Florek was reminded of his lost inheritance every day as the guests at his inn were forced to patronize his enemy across the street in order to provide stabling for their horses and shelter for their carriages. Florek had been heard to speak of building his own stables, but that would require buying and demolishing one of his neighbor’s properties, and so far he had found no takers.

  If Josan were in his place, he would have tried to win over his rival and convert Myles from rival into business partner. Florek had a daughter, after all, of the right age and as yet unmarried. She could do worse for herself than a man of property who had no other claims on his purse. And, if in a few years Myles were to fall victim to a mysterious ailment, few would question his death. Nor would they question the right of his widow to manage her children’s inheritance. With the help of her father, of course.

  Perhaps it was best for Myles that Florek lacked the cunning to implement such a plan. Or perhaps he had already tried and failed before Josan had arrived.

  Such thoughts provided a diversion as he guided the mare through her paces. He exercised her lightly, enough to work up a sweat but not enough to
hinder her if she should be needed within the day. There was a fresher mount back at the stables who would be the next to be taken, but Myles had warned him that sometimes two imperial riders passed through on the same day. It was rare, but not unheard of.

  It crossed his mind that Myles had shown great faith in entrusting the horse to him. The mare was worth more than he could hope to earn in years of labor as a stable hand. But she was imperial property, and stealing her would set a price on his head—if there wasn’t one already.

  Besides, he was not a thief by nature. He had stolen only when he had to, when stealing meant the difference between life and death by starvation. He could not claim such necessity now.

  Josan returned the mare to the stables when she was thoroughly cooled down, and groomed her carefully before returning her to her stall. If Myles was relieved by their return, he gave no sign, merely grunting when he caught sight of Josan refilling the hay bags in each stall.

  His days fell into a rhythm. Up at dawn to exercise the post-horses if they had not been ridden in the last three days. Then the horses were fed and turned loose in the paddock if the weather was fine, while he mucked out their stalls. If guests had stabled their horses or carriage overnight, Myles would be there to ensure that all was ready when they wished to depart and that the guests paid their fees without quibbling.

  Afternoons were for cleaning tack, restacking hay, shifting grain from the barrels in the storeroom into the bin in the stables, and whatever other task Myles could think up for him. Then at the end of the day the horses had to be fed and watered again before he joined Myles for dinner at the tavern. The city gates closed at dusk, but such rules did not apply to nobles or imperial messengers, and so Josan learned to sleep with one ear listening for the ringing of the bell that announced a late arrival.

  Myles was a generous master, allowing Josan a free hour each afternoon if there was no pressing business at the stable. With his second week’s wages Josan took himself to the market. There he bought tinder and flint to replace those he had lost. With his last coin he paid a barber to shave him and trim his hair.

  His hair had grown long enough that it fell into his eyes and brushed the top of his shoulders. Strange sensations for a man who had shaved his skull since he was a boy; they had made him feel like a stranger in his own body. Now he felt more himself, as the barber held up a polished tin mirror so Josan could admire his work. His hair was shorter than most men wore it, but the even crop made it clear that this was a choice. But what startled him most about his reflection was not his hair, but rather his face. It was far more angular than he remembered, with grim lines around his mouth. Even his eyes had changed. They were a stranger’s eyes—the eyes of a man who had killed an assassin and tamed a fractious horse with the touch of his hand.

  “I only did as you asked,” the barber said, apparently unnerved by Josan’s long silence. No doubt he was expecting a complaint.

  “You did fine,” Josan assured him. Hastily, he handed over the copper and took his leave.

  He shivered, but not from the cold. It was nothing, he assured himself. It had been years since he had seen his reflection in anything other than a pool of water, or the curved distortion of the lighthouse mirrors. It was no wonder that he did not recognize himself, after all he had been through in the last months.

  Chapter 10

  Empress Nerissa, Most Gracious Sovereign, Heir to the Wisdom of Aitor the Great, Defender of Ikaria, and Blessed Mother of Her People, stifled a yawn as the actor advanced to the front of the stage and began proclaiming Aitor’s heroic virtues in flowery couplets. The rest of the cast picked up the mock weapons they had previously cast off and gathered around the actor in a half circle, once more standing at attention as their leader rallied them to their duty.

  She eyed the actor critically. Couldn’t they have found a taller man to play the role of her grandfather? As it was, the stilted boots that the actor wore frequently made him wobble as he walked, which was hardly in keeping with the dignity of her noble ancestor.

  Nor had Aitor been given to poetry, or indeed to speechmaking of any kind. The plot of this play, if indeed there were anything resembling a coherent plot, had long ago diverged from the events that she knew to be true. Still, if this scene was meant to portray the night before the battle at the Denavian Fords, then the playwright had taken substantial liberties with history. When faced with doubting commanders, her grandfather had told them, “Stand and fight, or I’ll kill you myself for your cowardice.”

  There had been no poetry, no impassioned speechmaking. But in the end, there had been a hard-won victory, so at least Khepri had gotten that part of his wretched play right.

  Her son Anthor had sworn that this play was tolerable. She would have to find a particularly creative way to punish him for his impertinence.

  She signaled to the attendant, who drew the heavy drapes on either side of the imperial booth closed. Her view of the stage remained unobstructed, but the audience members could no longer see inside. If the performance had been on any other subject, she would have simply left the theater or sent a messenger to the theater manager to bring the performance to a hasty close. But she had come to show respect to her grandfather’s memory, and for the sake of her lineage she would endure till the end.

  “How much longer does this go on?”

  “We are approaching the end of the first act,” Brother Nikos said, with a glance at the stage. “There will be a brief period for refreshments, and for the slaves to change the stage decorations from battlefield to the imperial palace. Another hour, I would guess.”

  Brother Nikos had already seen the play at least once, but she had not thought to ask him his opinion on the work. Now she regretted the omission—though from the monk’s face, it was impossible to tell if he were enjoying himself or not.

  Not that he had come to see the play. He had come for the prospect of two hours alone in her company, with none to distract her save the ever-present servants and her personal bodyguards. As an advisor, his voice was generally one of many, so this was a rare sign of favor. He would have been equally pleased to watch stonemasons erecting a wall, or wheat growing in the fields, as long as it meant that he had her sole attention.

  But she had not invited him because he was a skilled conversationalist, which he was. Nor because he was one of the few that she trusted to give unbiased advice, although that was also true. She had invited him because she had questions to ask, ones she did not want to raise in a more public setting.

  Nerissa selected a sliver of orange fruit from the tray beside her couch and chewed it slowly, savoring the sweet taste with just a hint of bitterness underneath.

  She reached for another slice of fruit, which allowed her to keep one eye on Nikos’s face as she said, “I have heard the strangest tale from the north. Something about a monk run mad?”

  Nikos gave up all pretense to indolence, sitting up straight on his couch. “I hope that you were not distressed by what you heard?”

  “I was distressed that I had to hear this from others rather than from you.”

  He spread his hands wide in the gesture of contrition. “I wanted to confirm the facts for myself rather than bringing you mere rumors.”

  “Tell me what you know of this.”

  “You know that the patronage of our order requires us to send one of the brethren to tend the lighthouse on Txomin’s island?”

  She nodded, for that much she did indeed know.

  “Five years ago, when the last keeper died, we sent a young monk to replace him. His wits had been damaged by the breakbone fever, but he still wanted to serve, and that simple task was well within his capabilities. Or so we thought.”

  “And now?”

  Nikos shrugged. “And now he has vanished. One account says that thieves killed him when they broke into the lighthouse to steal the enchanted silver mirrors. Another story says that he grew mad in his isolation and murdered the laborer who brought his provisions, then fled w
hen his crime was discovered.”

  So far, both tales agreed that murder had been done. The story her spies had brought said that the monk had been an impostor, a criminal who had taken the place of the true monk, then killed the man who had threatened to expose his deception. Which still begged the question of what had happened to the young monk that Nikos had sent to the remote outpost. And why would a criminal choose to hide there, of all places?

  “What do you think happened?”

  “I do not know. I sent two of the brethren to investigate. They wrote back that they could find no sign of Brother Josan, though the lighthouse was intact. The native villagers offered conflicting tales regarding what may have happened. The provincial magistrate had issued orders that all should be on watch for a man matching the description of the missing keeper, but so far there has been no sign of him.”

  She noted that he did not refer to the keeper as one of his monks. Perhaps because Nikos thought the man an impostor, or perhaps because he wanted to distance his order from the crimes of a killer.

  “I want to be informed at once if you receive any news. Even if mere rumors, I need to know.”

  “Of course.”

  This was not about the fate of the missing monk, nor the likelihood that a murderer was loose in the northernmost province of her domain. As empress, she had far more important matters to worry about than a single criminal. This was about the Learned Brethren overstepping their authority. The lighthouse was an imperial post, and if its keeper had been murdered or turned rogue, she should have been informed at once.

  Nikos had provided wise counsel in the past, but she needed to keep his ambitions in check, and the missing monk provided her the perfect excuse to remind him that he served at her pleasure. She did not want to find another to replace him, but she would do so if she could not bring him to heel.

  “This monk, would he be the same one that Lady Ysobel of Alcina encountered when she was shipwrecked?”