But Myles’s next words dashed even that hope.
“I guessed who you might be kin to from the first,” Myles said. “I thought you a bastard of the old blood, fleeing the empress’s persecution.”
It was foolish. Myles had betrayed him and yet he could still be hurt by the knowledge that it had been his stolen face that had convinced Myles to offer him aid. If Josan had arrived in that stableyard with his green eyes and light brown hair, he would have been turned aside.
“It was clear that you feared pursuit, but you would not confide in me,” Myles added.
“But all that changed when I was attacked,” Josan said.
Myles flushed and Josan felt an ugly suspicion grow within him.
“It was fortunate for me that you were there. Or was it more than just luck?”
Myles took a deep breath and drew himself to attention. “They weren’t supposed to harm you,” he said.
They must not have expected Josan to resist. But Josan, or rather Lucius, had fought back. Myles had claimed the kills as his own, but deep inside him Lucius demurred.
“You were my friend, but I’d sworn an oath to see the old blood restored to the throne,” Myles explained. “And I thought even a bastard would be better than the bitch empress. Then, once we left Skalla, you told me of your damaged memories. I knew you must be the true prince and that you belonged in Karystos with friends who could help you regain your true self.”
He supposed it was all quite logical from Myles’s point of view. Myles had not stopped to question whether Josan wished his memories to be restored. Even now he did not ask if his friend truly wanted to risk all in an almost certainly doomed attempt to seize the throne. Lucius was a prince of the old blood, and his wishes did not matter. It was no comfort that Myles had chosen to gamble his own life in Josan’s service.
Myles met his gaze calmly, fully prepared to face the consequences of what he had done. Lucius might well have ordered Renato to have Myles executed for his scheme, but Josan had no taste for revenge.
“Is there anything else you wish to confess, while I am in a mind to grant pardon?” he asked.
Myles shook his head. “No, my lord prince. I have done nothing else of which I am ashamed.”
Josan sighed. “What was in the past is in the past, and there it will lie. But if you keep secrets from me again, you will face my wrath. Understood?”
“Understood.”
Fortunately, he was too busy to brood on Myles’s betrayal and the strange workings of fate that had entwined their paths. The members of the inner circle who had met him at Lady Ysobel’s now sought him out in ones and twos for counsel. Sometimes they met at Renato’s. Other times he traveled in a closed litter, heavily swathed as if he were an elderly man whose bones could not be warmed by the fiercest sun. He lived in constant fear of arrest, for Nerissa’s spies were everywhere.
Rumors that Prince Lucius had returned continued to sweep the city, and Benedict brought word of patrols randomly bringing in fair-haired strangers for questioning. Although Josan’s disguise often included the face mask of a leper, which ensured that people did not get too close, it would be difficult to explain why a leper would be frequenting a noble house; so the most dangerous time for him was when he had to walk without his mask when he left Renato’s residence or was making his way back.
Salvador refused to see him, pleading ill health, but others were swift to pledge their loyalty and make great promises. But when it came to things of substance, they had little to offer. He divided them into two camps. The fanatics, led by Dama Akantha, burned with zeal to see Nerissa destroyed and to pay back the newcomers for every ill—both real and imagined. No act was too heinous in pursuit of their goals, no risk too grave. If he called for an uprising, they would follow. He suspected a tragic martyr would please them as well as a triumphant emperor, just as long as they had their fill of violence and retribution.
The rest of his so-called followers were opportunists. Those who had fallen afoul of Nerissa or one of her supporters, or who, like Benedict, knew that they could rise no further while Nerissa sat on the throne. These would carefully calculate the risks and potential rewards before deciding to follow him. Some even tried to bargain with him, pledging gold and fighters in return for courtly honors or control of certain ministries. To each he promised that he would consider their requests carefully. These, at least, he did not have to fear acting on their own. They would wait carefully, until victory was assured, before risking their hides.
And victory was far from reach, despite Renato’s and Akantha’s enthusiasm, Myles’s blind faith, and Lady Ysobel’s generous supply of federation gold.
In the poorer quarters, where the native Ikarians lived, hatred for Nerissa and for the hardships her high taxes imposed ran deep. Given a charismatic figure to lead them, and a stockpile of weapons, they would rise up and riot, as they had six years before. This time, they might burn half the city before reinforcements arrived to mow them down.
But for all their high-flown rhetoric and enthusiasm, the conspiracy lacked trained soldiers. There were a few scattered units of the army that might defect, but the senior officers were firmly behind Nerissa. Aitor the Great had remade the army in his own image over a hundred years ago, and loyalty to his house was ingrained in the officers’ corps.
Benedict, as second-in-command of the watch, could influence their orders and provide valuable intelligence to the rebels. But if he were to declare his loyalty to Lucius, it was doubtful that any would follow him. Indeed he would most likely be arrested by his own troops.
Unable to resist openly, assassination had become their weapon of choice. A merchant one day, a minor official the next. If their goal was to make the newcomers feel uneasy, and unsafe within their own homes, then it was an admirable one. But it was a cruel and cowardly way to fight a war, and no way to topple an empress.
Dama Akantha had hinted at striking the imperial family, perhaps even assassinating Nerissa, but Josan saw such talk as folly. Nerissa was too well guarded for such a tactic to succeed, and even if she were killed, it would not make him emperor. The army would swear its loyalty to Nestor, her elder son, then ruthlessly hunt down any suspected of being complicit in his mother’s death.
As each day passed, Josan became more and more convinced that the rebellion was doomed. Fortunately, Lucius’s spirit also agreed with his assessment, for Josan needed his help to maintain his role. Lucius remained content to whisper suggestions and to prompt him when encountering one of his former friends. He had not tried to regain control of his body—though perhaps matters would have been different had he thought that there was a chance that he could seize the throne. Then his ambitions might have come to the fore and undone all that Josan strove to accomplish.
Despite his orders to his followers to await his commands, the killings continued, and Josan felt responsible for each death. He knew his presence in the city, even if it were only rumors of ghostly sightings, had stirred up passions long forgotten.
Try as he could, he could not see a way to end the violence. If he could not convince Myles that he had no wish to be emperor, what hope did he have of convincing faceless rebels to lay down their arms and accept Nerissa’s imperfect rule?
Like Myles, they saw no difference between the title and the man, but Josan saw far more clearly. For the first time he wondered if Nerissa had wanted to be named empress, or if she, too, had once engaged in dreams of a simpler life, with only the cares of an ordinary woman. And he knew that her blood would run just as red as his own if it were to be shed.
He would have to find a way to end the killings before it came to that. For all their sakes.
Chapter 17
Weeks passed, but despite his determination, Josan was still no closer to uniting the rebels under his leadership so he could convince them to disband. All he had accomplished so far was to discover that it was much easier to study history than it was to shape it. Numbers had been his passion, and the p
ursuit of logic, not the secrets of men’s hearts. He could calculate the steadily diminishing odds of success, but he could not find within him the skills to bend men to his will.
Even Renato, who continued to proclaim his complete loyalty, had taken to leaving the house on secret errands that he would not reveal. He claimed that such secrecy was meant to protect the prince, but only a fool would believe such lies. Secrecy did not protect him; rather it protected those that Renato met with and whatever schemes they were hatching.
Ironically he would have respected Renato more if he thought that the magistrate was meeting with Nerissa’s emissaries, preparing to betray him. But he judged it far more likely that Renato had grown impatient with a prince who counseled caution and had decided to take matters into his own hands. After all, the prince was hardly likely to disdain his followers once they had raised his banner in the streets.
Which left him with one more lever to try. He had sent Myles to arrange a meeting with Lady Ysobel. It was a test, for he knew Renato would certainly object if he knew that the prince was negotiating privately with Lady Ysobel. But Myles had apparently held his tongue, for Renato made no mention of the meeting, and at the appointed hour, Josan slipped out of the town house.
Heavily swathed despite the stifling heat of the afternoon, Josan was flushed and sweating by the time he reached the rear entrance to Lady Ysobel’s garden.
A servingwoman was waiting on the other side. “You’re late,” she proclaimed. “Hurry now; her ladyship doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”
Apparently the sight of a man wrapped from head to foot in an all-encompassing robe, with the hood drawn down to cover his features was nothing new to this woman, as she tugged on his sleeve and began to lead him through the garden paths.
“Mind your manners and do as you’re told,” the woman advised. For all she was old enough to be his mother, he had to hasten his steps to keep up with her. Grumbling under her breath, she gave the distinct impression of a woman with better things to do with her time.
As he was hurried into the house and upstairs to the private living quarters, he wondered what story Ysobel had told her servants to explain his presence.
Halfway down the corridor, the woman paused in front of a paneled door and pushed it open, revealing an elaborate bathing chamber.
“If you’re quick there’s still time for a wash before she gets here,” she said, punctuating her remark with a disdainful sniff.
He paused on the threshold, blinking. On his left, water cascaded from a fountain mounted on the wall down into a cleansing pool, where swirling currents would carry away dirt into the trough below. On his right, an elaborate soaking pool occupied the place of honor in front of the large windows that overlooked the city and the harbor below.
“In with you, and strip off,” the woman ordered.
At that he knew why she thought he was there. He wondered if this was a test, or merely Lady Ysobel’s unique sense of humor.
“I am here for your mistress’s pleasure, not yours,” he said. Stepping inside the room, he shut the door behind him.
He removed his outer robe and hung it on one of the hooks on the wall, then untied his sandals. He stripped off his tunic and pants, then sank gratefully into the cleansing pool.
Despite what the woman had implied, he didn’t think he smelled that bad; nonetheless he used the pumice stone to scrape his body until his skin glowed bright red. Only then did he emerge from the cleansing pool. As he made his way over to the soaking pool, he noticed a table with a chilled pitcher of wine and a plate of fresh fruits. He poured himself a glass of wine, then stepped into the soaking pool. Ledges built into the sides of the tub allowed him to gradually immerse himself in the heat, until at last he sat on an underwater bench. He sipped the wine and looked out over the city as if he had not a care in the world.
Lady Ysobel had a taste for the finer things in life if this room was any indication. But he wondered if it reflected her true self, or if it was yet another self-serving mask, just as he suspected that she used her licentious reputation as a cover for conspiracy.
He heard the door open, then shut, but he did not turn around. There was the barest whisper of silk, as it slid onto the tiled floor, then Lady Ysobel stepped into view.
She paused to pour herself a glass of wine, giving him ample time to admire her slender form. Her breasts were small but firm, the dusky rose of her nipples a perfect complement to her exotic golden skin. Ikarian women were praised for their soft curves, but Ysobel’s body was firm, with muscles that rippled lightly under her skin. As she climbed into the soaking pool, she met his gaze frankly, then allowed her eyes to travel downward, inspecting him as if he were there solely for diversion.
Intellectually he knew she was beautiful, and her bold confidence would prove irresistible to many. But he admired her with the same spirit with which he admired the delicate mosaics that graced the walls. She was pleasing to look at, but he did not lust for her, and he would not allow her charms to tempt him from his path.
Josan wondered if his disinterest came from his lifelong adherence to his vows? Or did it come from the knowledge that the flesh she admired was not his own?
He raised his glass in salute. “Lady Ysobel.”
“Prince Lucius,” she replied, raising her own glass. Whatever her plans might have been, she apparently sensed that he had no interest in dalliance, and she adjusted her tactics accordingly.
“I do not know what to make of you,” she said. “Your friends agree that you have changed much in your exile.”
“All men change,” he said.
“But few return from the dead, bringing with them the gifts of the gods.”
“I was not dead.”
“Of course,” she said. Reaching over to the table next to her, she selected a quartered peach and devoured it in neat bites. “Tell me, how did you summon the lightning that struck the palace?”
“Lightning strikes the palace in nearly every storm,” he said.
“But you knew that there would be a storm that night. Just as you warned the islanders that the great storm was coming,” she said.
He shrugged. He had not come to discuss his feeble gifts.
“A useful talent for a sailor to have,” she said.
“Since I am not likely to find myself on a ship, it makes no difference,” he said. “Surely Seddon has more at stake here than a mere interest in predicting the weather.”
“The weather is important to a sailor, as important as a sound ship or a good captain,” she pointed out. “Misjudging the weather cost Captain Tollen his life, and his ship.”
He could not fault her logic, but both knew that he was not here to discuss the weather, or the hazards of sailing. He held his silence, waiting to see what she would say next.
“Tell me what stake the Learned Brethren have in this? Was it their idea for you to hide on that island? What has Brother Nikos told you, and what is he prepared to do to help our cause?”
The less she knew of the brethren’s involvement, the better for them both. “Our cause? Since when has the federation interested itself in who sits on the imperial throne? And do not try to tell me that you care about restoring the ancient bloodline. Dama Akantha may profess to believe that nonsense, but I do not.”
A swift attack was the best form of defense.
“The federation seeks mutual cooperation against the common threat of Vidrun’s unchecked expansion,” Lady Ysobel explained. “In the decade since Empress Nerissa made peace with Vidrun, their empire has grown even stronger. Nerissa should be gathering allies of her own, but she has been unwilling to see the advantages of closer partnership between our two lands.”
“So you want to replace her with someone who will be suitably grateful to the federation. An emperor who will be inclined to see matters as you do.”
“Of course.”
He shook his head. “If I had an army of ten thousand in the field, I might believe you. But there is no l
ogic in your argument when success is so far from our grasp. Tell me, do you really think these rebels have any chance of overthrowing Nerissa?”
“Surely you cannot doubt the loyalty and devotion of your followers?”
It was not their loyalty he doubted, it was their intelligence. Though he could hardly say as much to Lady Ysobel—not if he were to keep the pretense that he was indeed Prince Lucius.
“Even with your help, my followers have accomplished nothing except petty crimes and meaningless deaths. I see no profit for any of us in this,” he observed. “I came here to rule, not to hide in the shadows while murderers and arsonists tear apart the city in my name.”
“You must be patient,” Ysobel counseled. “With you to lead them, your people will accomplish great things. They will put you on the throne.”
“But even if I seize the throne, can I keep it?” he mused aloud. “Nerissa’s allies are too numerous to be ignored, and they will not sit there quietly as I strip them of their power.”
A flash of impatience crossed her face, then her expression smoothed back into its placid lines. “Have faith, Prince Lucius, and trust in those who wish you well.”
“Of course,” he said. He had learned what he had come for, and there was no sense in further argument.
Ysobel had no grand plan to put him on the throne; indeed, the more she proclaimed her faith in his ultimate victory, the more certain he became that she was lying. She did not believe that he would be able to defeat Nerissa.
She had been honest about one thing. Vidrun was the key. Not because of the idea that Seddon and Ikaria would someday unite against Vidrun—for even the most foolish would realize that Ikaria, newly emerged from civil strife, would be unwilling to engage in another war. But Vidrun had steadily squeezed the federation out of the easternmost trading routes. With the east closing, that left the routes to the west. There Ikaria was making its own inroads, but if the empire were torn apart by civil war, then the federation would be free to expand.
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