Which was one reason why each day she memorized the names and berths of every federation-crewed ship in harbor, and which ones could be made ready to sail at a moment’s notice. Her frequent visits to the harbor for her official duties had also allowed her to plot out four different ways of entering the dockyards unobserved and the fastest routes from the center of Karystos to the harbor.
Though she sincerely hoped that she did not need to put her knowledge to the test. Fleeing Ikaria would not only put an abrupt end to her hopes of a diplomatic career, it would also damage the standing of her trading house, perhaps irreparably. As Captain Zorion had predicted, the house of Flordelis had taken public steps to separate itself from Ysobel, though in private letters she was assured that she could still draw upon the credit of the house if all other resources failed. Opinion in the Seddonian court, which had been divided over Ysobel’s covert mission, had swung firmly against the minister of trade, Lord Quesnel, and by extension Ysobel was tainted with that displeasure. Flordelis would survive, but Ysobel’s own fledgling trading house would be crushed.
Never mind that she was only doing her best to fulfill the orders that she had been given. Anything less than complete success would be seen as a failure.
Ironically she was proving a success in her public role. The grain shipments she had negotiated on behalf of Seddon with Jhrve and the house of Septimus the Younger had been profitable for all involved, and led to a number of other ventures. In turn the harbormaster had persuaded Empress Nerissa to grant federation ships a partial dispensation from the taxes levied on foreign vessels, which meant that they could sell their goods at lower prices and still turn a fine profit.
Ysobel’s own ships had taken to stopping at Karystos during their trading runs, where her influence meant they could secure profitable cargoes that more than compensated for the extra distance traveled. She knew that Captain Zorion had motives other than mere profit when he had issued his instructions to her captains, but as long as she made a tidy profit, she would not deny herself the pleasure she felt whenever one of her own sailed into the harbor.
The Ikarian Empire still posed a very real threat to Seddon, but she was no longer convinced that promoting internal strife within Ikaria was in the federation’s best interests. Yet neither could she abandon her duty, not until new orders arrived from Seddon or Lord Quesnel was replaced.
Her carefully encrypted reports back to Seddon had contained her assessment that there was little hope of promoting a successful rebellion at this time, though naturally she continued to seek out new allies. Such temporizations were unlikely to win her any friends among the ministers, but if she continued to advance Seddon’s commercial interests, in time her other failures might be overlooked.
Unless, of course, the situation had changed. She could not imagine any other reason why Dama Akantha had summoned her, using the cover of a masked fete to shield the gathering of those who could not afford to be seen together in public. Over two hundred guests filled the rooms of Dama Akantha’s gracious mansion, representing the very cream of Ikarian society. A few of the elders wore simple domino masks that covered their eyes, along with formal attire, but the younger and more daring wore elaborate headdresses and masks that covered their features. The more elaborate the mask, the more revealing the costume, and as the hour grew late, guests slipped away from the dancing into the formal gardens, seeking out darkened corners to exchange embraces.
Ysobel wore a colorful gown made out of brightly colored silk ribbons that had been slashed in strategic places over an underdress of flesh-colored silk. As she spun in the steps of the dance the ribbons flared out, giving the illusion of naked flesh underneath. On her face she wore a half mask of stiffened silk, painted with colorful swirls that matched the streamers on her gown. It was not much of a disguise, but then she did not intend to conceal her identity.
She accepted offers to dance from several of the men present, amusing herself by trying to identify the man behind each mask. Septimus the Younger had made little attempt to hide his appearance, wearing the simple domino affected by those of his father’s generation. He proved an able dancer, and she idly wondered if he was equally athletic climbing the rigging of a ship—or between the silken sheets of a soft bed, though from his formal courtesy she doubted she was ever likely to discover the answer to either question.
Two of her partners had to be put in their places for having made the mistake of assuming that the illusion offered by her costume was a sign that she would welcome liberties taken with her person. Neither man was of particular importance, so a crushing grip on the offending hand and a sharp rebuke were enough to send them away chastened.
Ysobel danced, conversed, and took a stroll through the formal dining chamber, which had been cleared of its couches so that tables offering delicacies to tempt even the most refined palate could be erected. She accepted a glass of wine but did not drink, preferring instead to observe those around her. When a servant approached, she slipped away from the crowd, leaving her wineglass behind.
The servant led her through the portico, as if to a tryst in the gardens, but then, after pausing to make certain that no one was watching, opened a hidden door that led down to the wine cellar. Ysobel slipped through the door and, as she began climbing down the stone steps, heard the door close behind her. Carefully she held up her long skirts so that she would not trip, though a moment’s observation showed that the stairs were freshly swept, as was the floor of the wine cellar. Details were everything in a conspiracy, and after all the trouble of assembling in secret, it would be folly to have those preparations undone by having the conspirators return to the party covered in dust and cobwebs.
As she turned at the foot of the stairs, she saw six figures gathered around three sides of the wooden table the steward used to decant wines before serving. There were open bottles of wine on the table, and several glasses with splashes of wine in front of each place, as if Dama Akantha were conducting an impromptu wine tasting for a few friends.
And if the imperial guard followed them, they might well accept her excuse, though six years ago such a gathering of seeming political enemies would have been automatically ruled as treason.
Alone among her guests Dama Akantha wore no mask, having declared that her guests were free to amuse themselves but she had no need for such deceits. Lady Ysobel’s own half mask did little to conceal her identity, but the others gathered wore fantastic masks of metal and leather that completely obscured their features. Only Dama Akantha would know their identities, but all would know hers.
“Your summons said this was urgent,” Ysobel said, taking her place on the fourth side of the table, which had been left open.
Silently the man next to her slid two wineglasses into place in front of her. He wore the head of a badger and a bulky fur costume that must be incredibly warm even on a cool night.
“There was some discussion on the wisdom of involving you at this time,” Dama Akantha said, her gaze sweeping the table to single out those of their number who had apparently incurred her displeasure. “But I persuaded them that you had proven yourself a friend capable of holding confidences, and if our hopes are indeed true, then your help may be needed at a moment’s notice.”
Curious. So they had been assembled for some time, arguing. She noticed that some of the wineglasses were nearly empty, and wondered if there were any dissenters who had been asked to leave before Ysobel was brought down to join them.
“If I am to help, you must explain what you require of me. Seddon is sympathetic to your aspirations, but we will not blindly commit ourselves to folly.”
All eyes shifted toward the man who wore the beaten-silver mask and white-hooded cloak of Death. An ominous choice in this place of shadows and secrets, but well chosen for purposes of disguise. At least a half dozen young men had also chosen to dress as Death, in an attempt to appear shocking or mysterious. Once he ascended to the public rooms, it would be difficult to single this one out from hi
s fellow poseurs.
“I received news this week from a friend of ours and sought Dama Akantha’s counsel,” Death said, using the phrase that connoted a member of the rebellion. He spoke in a raspy whisper, but there was something familiar about how he held himself, the slight stoop of his shoulders, and in the cadence of his words.
“And what news was this?” Ysobel prompted. She had no patience for those who loved drama and the sound of their own voices.
“He has found one of the true blood. The letter was brief, but indicated that they had been pursued and would require a place to hide once they reached Karystos.”
The true blood. Had they really found an heir to Constantin’s line? Or merely one who looked the part?
“This is wonderful news indeed,” she said, forcing a smile to her lips. She should be rejoicing.
Dama Akantha returned her smile with one filled with equal parts malice and unholy glee.
“How well do you trust our friend? Are you certain that this is not a trap?” Ysobel asked.
“He has proven trustworthy in the past. I can vouch for his honor and his dedication to our cause. He would not have sent word unless he was certain,” Death answered.
In that moment Ysobel knew his identity. Magistrate Renato, one of the seven judges who presided over the imperial courts. Dama Akantha had played this one very close, for there had not been even a whisper of his involvement in the events six years before.
“If he is of Constantin’s line—” Ysobel began.
“The natives will rise up and drag Nerissa from her throne,” Dama Akantha proclaimed. “She will pay the price for turning her back on her own people, for they will not lift their hands to save her.”
Dama Akantha’s hatred allowed her to believe what she wanted to believe. Ysobel could not afford such blindness. Six years ago the rebellion had been utterly crushed—despite having had Prince Lucius, a legitimate heir to Emperor Constantin, as their figurehead. Now they were at a disadvantage in two ways. First there were the memories of Nerissa’s ruthlessness in putting down the last rebellion. There would be many who would sympathize with their goals but would not risk their lives out of fear of the empress’s wrath.
And second they did not have a legitimate heir, merely one who had convinced this mysterious informant that he could play the part. He could be an unlettered bastard with all the charisma of a lump of stale cheese.
Or he could be exactly what they had been hoping for. A presentable fool who could be carefully managed to act as figurehead but would allow others to rule from the shadows of the throne.
Not that the rebellion had any hope of succeeding. But a prolonged rebellion would weaken Ikaria and allow Seddon to expand its trading empire unchallenged. That was what she had been sent to accomplish. It was the very goal that she had thought out of reach and had worried that her failure would mean the end of her career in politics.
It was a moment for celebration. Ysobel picked up the nearest wineglass. “A toast to the new emperor. May the triune gods watch over his journey and deliver him safely to his people.”
They raised their glasses, and said, “To our next emperor.”
The others sipped decorously, but Ysobel tossed the contents back in three quick swallows. It had been a long night already, and her adventures were far from over.
“When do you expect him to arrive?”
“Within the fortnight,” Death said.
“Dama Akantha, what do you require of me?”
“A safe hiding place if he is followed. As for the rest, I will call upon you in two days’ time, and we can discuss how you can best aid us.”
“Of course,” she said. In her head she began making lists. They would need weapons, of course. She had already amassed a small stockpile to replace those that had been lost when the Pride sank. She should assemble small sacks of coins to use for bribes, old coins of mixed lineages so they could not be traced back to their source. And any new trading ventures would need to be put on hold, at least temporarily.
She would return to the embassy to sleep so she could catch Ambassador Hardouin before he began his day’s duties. He should be informed of the new development, though as of yet they had nothing more than hopes and unfounded rumor. Still, her danger sense was tingling—the sense that warned of hidden sandbars under placid seas or that a crowded marketplace was about to turn violent. Perhaps it was Dama Akantha’s excitement, so different from the reserved pessimism she had displayed in the past months. Or perhaps it was merely the uncanny effect of discussing rebellion and treason with a man wearing the mask of Death.
A storm was coming, and Ysobel had best prepare. This was the test that she had wanted, and for good or ill she would make her mark on the place.
She smiled again, wondering if the others could sense the falseness of her emotions as she pretended to an enthusiasm she did not feel. And she wondered again if one of the masks concealed the face of one who would betray them.
She shivered and blamed it on the chill of the wine cellar, whose cool dampness was more suited to the comfort of grapes than people.
“I will take my leave. Dama Akantha will pass messages to me. I ask that you not contact me directly unless there is no choice.”
There was a vague murmur of agreement.
As she climbed the stairs the others stayed behind, no doubt to talk more among themselves. Carefully she eased the door open a fraction, waiting until the corridor was empty before she slipped out. She continued down to the garden, making certain that she “accidentally” stumbled across two lovers locked in an indecorous embrace. The young woman shrieked, then hid her face behind her partner, as Ysobel stammered apologies while fighting off a grin.
Thus having established her presence in the garden, she returned indoors. The playwright Khepri called out when he saw her, and she joined the circle of his admirers for a short time. Then, judging that she had stayed long enough, she summoned her litter bearers to take her to the embassy.
It had been a long night, but she doubted that she would sleep. She realized that, until now she had been certain that there would be no rebellion. That any attempted uprising would be doomed to failure. She had made endless preparations, but had been confident that they would never be used. Ironically she was made uneasy by the prospect of success.
“May the gods give you what you wish for” the ancient curse ran, and Ysobel felt herself the recipient of such largesse.
Still, a good trader could turn even the most dire situation to his advantage. She should not let herself be dismayed by the coming events. Instead she should keep her eyes firmly fixed on her goals and seize any opportunities that arose. She had asked for a chance to prove herself, and at last she had it.
The federation councilors who had opposed Lord Quesnel’s plan had done so because they feared the consequences of failure. In their view, the uneasy truce between Ikaria and Seddon was preferable to the open warfare that would ensue if the empress ever discovered proof that agents of Seddon had been behind the rebellion. But success was the universal coin, accepted in any market. If she succeeded in miring Ikaria in internal strife without revealing her hand in the matter, then the council would be quick to claim her success for its own and to reward her for her efforts.
She could achieve in her lifetime what it had taken Flordelis generations to accomplish. She would be head of a trading house of the first rank, with a fleet of the finest ships and the capital boldly to explore the most distant markets in search of the rarest treasures. And she would be able to put politics firmly behind her.
But first she had to survive, and hope that Dame Akantha and her allies remained cautious. Otherwise, she risked falling into the empress’s hands, and if Nerissa suspected her of inciting treason, there was not enough gold in all of Seddon to save Ysobel from a slow and painful death.
“Please, no more, no more,” the prisoner gasped between shuddering breaths.
He had stopped screaming sometime ago, after Niz
am had cut off the last of his fingers. Not because the agonies he had endured since then had been any less painful, but by then his broken body no longer had the strength to scream, or indeed to resist in any way as Nizam demonstrated the skills that had made him a master at extracting information from even the most reluctant of subjects.
Not that Paolo had been reluctant to tell everything he knew or suspected. Indeed, after five days of Nizam’s personal attention, Paolo had eagerly shared every thought he had ever had in his miserably short life. Once satisfied that he had broken the prisoner, Nizam had sent word to the empress.
Upon receiving the missive, Nerissa dressed in a simple linen gown and made her way to the cells that lay beneath the imperial garrison, through the door that was not spoken of, and down the corridor that led to the rooms of pain that all knew existed but few had ever seen.
Patiently she had waited as Paolo—a onetime sneak thief and petty criminal—was led from his cell. She knew the moment that he recognized her, for he began to struggle in earnest, and it took the efforts of four guards to strap him into the wooden interrogation frame. Like most prisoners, until that moment he had nursed the hope that his secrets might win him his freedom, or at least spare his life, but even the dullest of minds knew that her presence in the chamber meant that they could not be allowed to live.
Still, the days of agony had given him strong incentive to cooperate. Nizam and his assistants had stood carefully back as the thief poured out his confession to her. Sweating, his eyes darting round the chamber, unable to stay focused on her face, Paolo told what little he knew.
Some months ago he had happened to overhear a conversation between a pair he judged to be a noble and a mercenary. The mercenary had been hired to find a man and bring him back to Karystos in secret, but the noble was offering to treble his payment if he killed the man instead. A strange, twisted plot, which would ordinarily have been of little interest to Nizam, were it not that the intended victim was described as bearing an uncanny resemblance to the late Prince Lucius. Like enough to be his cousin, or even his brother, was how he had been described.
The First Betrayal Page 19