The First Betrayal

by Patricia Bray

  Something was wrong. She scanned the street, which was crowded with those returning to their homes after a day spent in the city. Among them she noticed a few standing idly, islands amidst the fast-moving stream of those who rushed by. These idlers wore servants’ tunics, but their posture spoke of time spent at attention rather than menial labor.

  She had expected that the watch upon her residence would be increased, but these men were more than casual spies hired to report on her comings and goings. They were soldiers, and their presence boded ill.

  She bent, fiddling with her sandal strap to give herself time to think. If she went back inside the house, they would know that she had seen them. What they did next would depend on their orders. Were they here to follow her? Or to arrest her?

  Fortunately, she had not confided her destination to Gino, merely ordered him to fetch a litter. She could direct the litter to the embassy and see if her new watchers chose to follow. If they did, then she would know it was time to flee. If they did not, then she could assume that their presence outside her house was mere coincidence, though she doubted this.

  Thus decided, she rose and walked down the steps to the litter. Gino held open the curtains for her, though he kept his gaze firmly downcast, apparently fearing that she would be able to see his betrayal in his eyes.

  As she prepared to step inside the litter, a young girl darted from the crowd. “Gracious lady, a posy to perfume your travels?” she asked, holding out a wreath of flowers that had been nearly crushed.

  “Go now, we have no use for your kind,” Gino said, pushing the girl away.

  Ordinarily Ysobel would have ignored the girl, for to give money to one street beggar would only encourage the rest to flock around her. But Gino’s actions sparked a contrary spirit within her.

  “Wait,” she said. Reaching into the small purse concealed within the folds of her cloak she withdrew two pennies and handed them to the girl.

  “Thank you, noble lady,” she said, pressing the flowers into Ysobel’s palms as if they were the rarest of jewels. Then she darted away, scampering between the litter bearers and disappearing into the crowded street.

  “Have them take me to the embassy, then wait for further orders,” Ysobel instructed Gino.

  He nodded, then helped her climb into the litter. The curtains were left open, tied back so she could take advantage of any breeze that might alleviate the oppressive heat. Bringing the posy up to her face, she sniffed the flowers, but any scent they had held was long gone, and she wondered at the impulse that had prompted her to buy it. The flowers were so old they were practically dried, as evidenced by how they crinkled in her hands.

  She squeezed the flowers, and again heard that crinkling sound. Carefully she picked apart the posy until she found the message scroll buried within. In the fading twilight she could barely make out the words.

  Nerissa knows all. Tonight is a trap. Flee now, before it is too late.

  The message was signed with the stylized symbol of the imperial house. It took her a moment to recognize this was also one of the tattoos that masked the faces of the functionaries.

  The message was from Greeter. And with that realization came another, as she glanced outside and saw that they were approaching the square of the seven fountains. A picturesque spot, but it was not along any route between her town house and the embassy. She was being taken to the palace.

  Greeter’s warning had come too late, or perhaps there had been a change in plan when it became clear that she was not going to lead them to the other conspirators.

  She had one thing in her favor, and that was the Ikarians’ habit of underestimating a woman’s strength and cunning. They might expect her to protest once she realized that she was not being taken to the embassy. They would not expect her to act boldly.

  She brought to mind the map of Karystos. Assuming that the palace and its dungeons were indeed her destination, once they left this square, they would enter the Road of Triumph. Hemmed in on both sides by official buildings, the road would be a trap. If she was to escape, she would have to do so immediately.

  Carefully she unfolded her cloak and arranged it behind her, tying the clasp around her neck. Her gown alone would bring too much attention in the places she had to venture.

  The litter paused to let a wagon pass. Ysobel gathered herself but waited until they were once more moving. Then she threw herself to her left. The cobblestones bit into her flesh as she hit the ground, but she rolled to absorb the impact and sprang to her feet. As she began to run, she risked a quick glance behind her. The litter hung askew, as two of its bearers joined the pursuit, accompanied by at least one of the soldiers she had observed earlier.

  Holding her cloak around her with one hand she ran, her sandals slapping at the stones as she weaved among the startled crowds.

  “Halt, in the name of Empress Nerissa. Halt!” The cry rose up from behind her. One man reached out to catch hold of her cloak, but an elbow to his face dissuaded him. She could still hear her pursuers, but they were far behind as she left the square. She ran a few hundred paces down the street, then ducked down the alley next to a merchant’s shop, ignoring the noxious scents. The alley brought her to another street, which had fewer lamps to pierce the twilight, and she let her steps slow to give the impression of a woman with no reason for haste.

  She walked for several moments, but just as she thought she had escaped, she heard the sound of pounding boots behind her.

  Fools, she thought to herself, even as she cursed her overconfidence. If her pursuers had simply walked up to her, they could have taken her, but their haste had betrayed them.

  She took flight once more. This time when she lost them, she did not let down her guard. The streets were filled with patrols, far more than on any ordinary night, and she realized that she was not the only prize being sought.

  It took much backtracking and one mad scramble across a stone wall before she reached the warehouse district. There the dangers were different, as her now-tattered finery led some to believe that she was a whore seeking customers for the evening. Fortunately, the dagger that she held in her right hand was enough to dissuade them from approaching too closely.

  Safety was at hand, but this was also the moment of greatest danger. Having lost her trail in the streets of Karystos, her pursuers would expect her either to seek out her allies or try to flee the city. Of the two, escape was most probable.

  By this hour of the night there was little reason for water traffic. If she went down to the docks and tried to hire a lighter, it was likely that she would be spotted. The same was true if she simply tried to steal a boat and row herself across.

  There were three federation vessels docked alongside the wharves, thanks to her negotiations with Septimus the Younger, which had opened these berths to foreign vessels for the first time. But they would be watched, and even if she could slip aboard one unnoticed, any ship would surely be searched before it was allowed to set sail.

  As she hid next to a warehouse whose sickly sweet smell told her that it most often handled imported fruits, she noticed a group of men bearing torches advancing steadily across the docks from the west. Leaning farther out, she saw that another group was approaching from the east. If she did not act quickly, her hiding place would turn into a trap.

  There was only one thing left to do. She took several deep breaths, calming herself. She forced herself to forget the fatigue from her earlier frantic escape across the breadth of the city and the dull aches of muscles grown soft with city living. There would be time later to curse Prince Lucius for his folly, and herself for the arrogance that had led her to this place. For now she would think of nothing except survival.

  She untied her cloak so that it was held together only by a simple twist of the ribbons, and with her dagger slashed the neckline of her gown. Then she took one last breath and darted out from her hiding place. Running past the shuttered customs house, she leapt over a coil of rope carelessly left at the foot of the
wharf and continued down its length. Behind her, she heard shouts of pursuit, but did not look back to see if these were sailors intent on sport or guards sent to arrest her. As she reached the end, she dived off.

  It was a long way down to the water—a jump that no sane person would make. Her hands were extended before her to cut into the water, but still the impact shook her as she plunged downward into the murky depths. Finally, her descent slowed. Her cloak had already fallen off, so she unclasped her heavy belt, abandoning a month’s wages to the harbor floor. The newly widened neckline of her gown allowed her to swim free of it.

  Her lungs burned as she kicked her way back to the surface, but she forced herself to take a diagonal route, so she would not resurface at the same spot she had gone under.

  Raising her head above the waves, she took in a lungful of precious air, then sank beneath the waves and swam several more strokes. She repeated this maneuver until she was several dozen yards from the shore. As she looked back, she saw several men with torches standing at the foot of the pier, but no one seemed inclined to follow her suicidal plunge. One man cried out as he spotted her cloak, and his voice carried across the water as he ordered a boat be summoned to fetch the body.

  Ysobel turned away and began to swim toward the eastern side of the harbor. The waning moon illuminated the ships moored in the bay, and she was careful not to swim too close to any of them, lest she be spotted.

  She swam for what seemed hours, or perhaps days, until at last she reached the great ship that was anchored at the far end of the eastern mole. It was the farthest spot a ship could be and still be within the harbor, and thus one of the least desirable since it made bringing cargo to and from the ship an onerous task. But for her purposes the ship was perfectly placed.

  She clung to the anchor chain, blinking her eyes against the light of the lamp that swung from the prow. “Sanctuary,” she called up, in her own tongue. “I claim sanctuary.”

  No one responded, and she forced her panting breaths to slow. “Sanctuary,” she cried again, and this time she was heard, as a sailor’s head appeared above the railing.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  “A countrywoman in need,” she said. “Throw me a line, then fetch your captain.”

  A knotted rope was thrown over the side. As she pulled herself up, hand over hand, the gentle rocking of the ship caused the rope to sway, scraping her naked flesh against its wooden sides. At last she reached the top, and with a weary sigh she heaved herself over the top railing.

  The sailor stood by, along with two of his fellows, gaping at the apparition before them. Only her breast band had survived the swim, and her naked flesh, shivering in the night air, told the story of her adventures. She was bruised and bleeding, but she was alive, and she refused to feel ashamed of her appearance.

  “By the gods, girl, what happened to you?” Captain Zorion’s voice boomed over the forecastle. His shirt hung loose outside his pantaloons, indicating that he had been roused from sleep.

  “It’s a long story,” she said. “Nerissa’s men are searching the harbor for my body, and they will think to look here next. We need to leave now.”

  Stripping off his own shirt, he handed it to her. “Put this on. Mayhew will take you below and see to your needs, while I get us under way.”

  In that moment she was reminded yet again of why her aunt had loved him so much. Zorion did not argue, nor did he waste time with questions. Once he decided to act, he was unstoppable.

  “We need to move swiftly or we will lose the tide,” she said. “How many are ashore?”

  “Two dozen of the crew. We’ve a dozen on night watch, and the rest are in their bunks.”

  “You’ll need every hand,” she said. “Mayhew, rouse the crew, then fetch me a pair of pantaloons.”

  As Captain Zorion barked orders, the sailors on watch threw themselves against the bars of the capstan to lift the anchor. It began to turn, first slowly, then more swiftly as their fellows arrived to lend their muscles.

  “We’ll have to leave those sailors behind,” she said.

  Zorion nodded. “They’ll be fine. I declared hostile port before they left, and they know the rules.”

  In a friendly port the majority of the crew would be on leave at night, returning during the day when required to assist with the loading or unloading of cargo. When a captain declared hostile port, only a small portion of the crew was allowed to leave the ship, and they were given instructions on what to do if the ship had to leave without them. Once they made their way back to Seddon, Ysobel would see that they were compensated for their trials.

  Mayhew returned, holding out a pair of pantaloons and a blouse. She handed Zorion back his shirt, finding that both blouse and pantaloons were a perfect fit. He must have carried them on board for this very purpose.

  She looked up as sailors were scrambling up the four masts, preparing to unfurl the sails.

  “We’re short two topmen, and a bosun to call their orders,” he observed.

  She’d noticed that as well.

  “She’s your ship. You take her out, while I go aloft and lend a hand,” he said.

  For a moment Ysobel was tempted. It had been too long since she conned a ship, and she had been itching to sail the Swift Gull since she first beheld it. But her desires would have to wait a little longer.

  “You know this ship, and I don’t have time to learn her ways,” she said. “I’ll go up.”

  She ripped a strip from the hem of her blouse and tied her hair back.

  “Are you certain you can do this? You’re still bleeding,” he said.

  “This is what I was born to do,” she replied.

  Chapter 20

  Josan retired to his quarters, emerging the next morning only long enough to confirm that Renato had the preparations for the gathering well in hand. Then he retreated to his room, listening with faint amusement as Myles and Farris squabbled over who should be guarding him. Josan solved the dispute by sending Myles on a series of errands. Farris appeared suspicious, but he could hardly object while the others were listening.

  When it came time for the afternoon meal, servants brought a tray to his room. He had no appetite, but forced himself to eat, knowing that he would need his strength later. Farris, still on his self-appointed watch, refused the offers of food, and Josan wondered idly if he had eaten anything since entering the magistrate’s residence. A fast seemed pointless, but perhaps he took his rations when he made his periodic forays outside. Each time he returned from one of his tours of inspection, he loudly assured Josan that all was quiet, which no doubt meant that Nerissa’s men were in place and poised to strike.

  As sunset approached, Josan summoned Renato’s valet and instructed him to prepare the silk robes from the back of his wardrobe. Renato had trained his servants well, for the valet showed no sign of surprise as he unwrapped the cotton coverings to reveal a dark purple robe embroidered with golden lizards—the seal of Constantin’s house. Josan glanced over at Farris, whose face turned red with fury, then studiously blank under Josan’s regard.

  The mere existence of the robe was proof of Renato’s treason. Having it made was a foolish risk, and for what? Yards of silk and golden thread did not make a man an emperor. If men were prepared to risk their lives for him, they should be willing to serve him regardless of whether he was wearing rags or silk.

  Myles had seen the man underneath the dirt and beggar’s rags he wore. Had recognized him and judged him worthy of his loyalty, though his prince had nothing to offer him but danger and hardship. But Myles was the exception, and those invited tonight would be expecting to see the symbol and not the man.

  After the valet left, Farris let his disgust show. “Do not think of betraying your oath to Nerissa. I will not hesitate to kill you at the first sign of treachery.”

  “I understand.”

  The threat had been intimidating the first time he had heard it, but after dozens of repetitions, Farris had lost any power to t
errify him. Josan had passed beyond fear, to the point of numbness. He just wanted the night to be over and to meet his fate.

  He searched his thoughts for any trace of the spirit of Prince Lucius, but felt only a vague echo of his own feelings. It was the prince’s plan, but it seemed it would be up to Josan to see it through to the bitter end.

  At last, Renato came with the word that the guests had assembled.

  “Is everyone present?” Josan asked.

  “Lady Ysobel has not arrived. Salvador sent a servant with word that his master has fallen ill,” Renato explained. “And your man Myles is not back from his errands.”

  Josan frowned as if surprised by that last bit of news. He had taken advantage of one of Farris’s patrols to give Myles a final set of instructions that would ensure he was far away when the arrests took place. Myles had argued, but Josan had not hesitated to invoke the debt of friendship to ensure that Myles did as he was bidden.

  He could not protect Myles, but at least he could give him a chance to escape. Whatever debt lay between them, he had repaid it in full.

  “Salvador’s illness is mere cowardice,” Josan declared, in keeping with his role of imperious prince. “And Lady Ysobel has been helpful, but she is not one of us. I will wait no longer.”

  Gathering his robes about him, he swept from the room, trailed by Renato and Farris. When they reached the foot of the stairs, Farris bowed and took up position by the front door.

  Josan tasted bile as he realized that in moments that door would be opened and the empress’s men would stream in to arrest them all. There was just one act left in the drama.

  The drawing room had been cleared of its usual furnishings, with stools brought in to accommodate the three dozen guests Renato had invited. At the front of the room was the massive chair from Renato’s study, now adorned with a purple cushion.

  Josan repressed a snort as he regarded this monstrosity. Did Renato think him so simpleminded that he would be appeased with the trappings of power? Was this merely Renato’s way of trying to cement his influence over his future emperor? If so, it was poorly chosen—though he suspected that the Prince Lucius of old would have very much enjoyed such a display.