Copper Chain (The Shifting Tides Book 3)

by James Maxwell

  She pretended not to hear him, taking her staff and moving away.

  But then the blacksmith grabbed hold of her arm, gripping tightly. ‘You deaf or something? I’m talking to you, girl.’

  Chloe whirled to face him. Before she knew what she was doing, she’d cleared her mind. Her hand went to the top of her staff and a wind blew through the room, a gust strong enough to tear the cap from his head. The silver twist crowning the staff flared with white light and then subsided.

  The entire tavern fell silent. Voices stilled and the music faltered. All eyes were suddenly on her.

  ‘Let me go,’ she said. ‘Now.’

  But the blacksmith was undeterred and maintained his hold. ‘What are you?’ He glanced at her staff. ‘Some kind of witch?’

  Chloe’s heart skipped a beat when a man from the next table slowly stood up. But rather than face her, he turned to the brawny blacksmith, and she realized when she saw the thick black beard that he was the drunk from the docks.

  ‘The lady told you to let her go. I suggest you do as she says.’ He spoke in a low, ominous voice. It was somehow familiar, but his speech was slightly slurred, blurring the words together.

  ‘Who are you, then? And what’s it to you?’

  The blacksmith shoved Chloe so hard that she stumbled back against another table. He began to stand.

  The bearded man moved into action.

  He calmly reached out to take the blacksmith by the back of the head and slammed him forward so that his face smashed against the table. The smith’s wiry companion shot to his feet, but then he stepped back, eyes wide, when the bearded man drew his sword. Chloe stared at it. The workmanship was as fine as anything she’d seen. On the wide blade, near the hilt, was an embossed emblem: the eagle of Phalesia.

  ‘Here now, we don’t want any trouble.’ The wiry sailor spoke with a trembling voice, arms spread.

  ‘Good.’ The bearded man turned to scan the room, and then murmured for Chloe’s ears. ‘I suggest we leave.’

  He let her exit first, his dark eyes sweeping the room, daring anyone to challenge him. Chloe quickly left the tavern, relieved to be outside. A moment later the bearded man followed her, and with a quick wave of his hand, he led the way, walking with long strides, away from the dark street and back to the safety of the broad avenue. As they left the shadows, the moonlight cast pale rays on his back. He suddenly stopped in the middle of the street and then turned to face her.

  Chloe’s mouth dropped open.

  He’d put on weight, but the height and frame and the posture were all the same. If it weren’t for the beard, she would have recognized him immediately. His eyes were dark and penetrating, and his face was creased with crags and wrinkles.

  ‘Amos? Amos! I can’t believe it’s you!’

  Amos stared at her as if looking at a ghost. She was surprised to see his eyes becoming moist, then brimming with tears. All of a sudden he took two unsteady steps toward her and pulled her into a tight embrace. He started to mumble, sobbing the entire time.

  ‘I thought you were dead,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Shh,’ Chloe said, holding him in her arms. ‘It’s all right.’

  After his display at the tavern, she now found herself consoling him as he cried. She wrinkled her nose. He smelled of wine and sweat. He stank as if he hadn’t bathed in a year.

  ‘Shh,’ she whispered. She repeated the same words, again and again. ‘It’s all right, Amos. It’s all right.’

  18

  Chloe and Amos headed back to the harbor, walking in silence. When they reached the docks, they stood together, watching the moon’s reflection on the water and the boats knocking against the wooden piers. Glancing at the taller man beside her, Chloe saw that he’d regained his composure.

  ‘Where have you been?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ve been gone for a long time, I know,’ she said. ‘I was sick. I was taken to Athos to recover. Then, I’ve been . . . learning.’

  He looked at the staff in her hand. ‘I saw.’ He hesitated. ‘Listen, there’s something you need to know. About . . . About your father.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Yes, but there’s more. I know they say he died—’

  ‘Nilus killed him. That’s what you were about to say, isn’t it?’

  Amos’s mouth worked soundlessly; he was truly stunned. ‘But no one knows the truth.’

  ‘The magi at Athos told me.’

  ‘Ah . . .’ He wiped a hand over his face and let out a mighty sigh. ‘If you could know, Chloe, how it feels, not only to be exiled from your home, but to be the only one to carry a terrible secret. If you could know how it feels to experience just two emotions: guilt, the worst guilt imaginable, and an overpowering desire for revenge.’ He was shaking, struggling to control himself. ‘And then . . . to have someone else know the truth.’ Again his eyes were glistening; he turned his head and wiped them.

  ‘The magi at Athos taught me some of their magic . . . Amos, I want to confront Nilus. And Sophia needs me. That’s why I’m here. I know that Nilus and three other consuls murdered my father.’ Her mouth tightened. ‘But that’s all I know. What happened?’

  ‘I left him. Your father.’ He coughed, his voice quavering. ‘When we returned to Phalesia I thought we were safe, and I left him. He asked me to find you, and I wasn’t there to protect him. After all we went through together, when he needed me most, I wasn’t there.’

  ‘Amos, listen to me. I wasn’t there for him either, and I’ve cried myself to sleep more than once. You can’t blame yourself.’

  ‘Nilus told everyone that your father’s heart failed. The first I knew about it was when I saw a procession of priests carrying a body covered in cloth through the streets, the very night we returned. I’d just been speaking with him!’ He bit his lip. ‘I was stunned . . . Too shocked to do more than stare. Your father was always a strong man.’

  ‘He was,’ she murmured.

  ‘Then the next night, one of my men, Patros, came to me. He told me the truth and said he was scared out of his mind, because the only other soldier to witness what happened was murdered in the street, and he didn’t think it was thieves who did it. I couldn’t believe it. Nilus, of all people! But I was determined to do something.’ His eyes were unfocused as he relived the events. ‘I was taking Patros to meet some of your father’s friends, but Nilus’s men found us first. I barely escaped with my life. Patros was killed. I fled Phalesia and I haven’t been back since.’

  Amos reached into a pocket and took out a small flask that sloshed. Removing the stopper, he put it to his lips and drank deeply.

  ‘I wasn’t there for him,’ he said. ‘Your sister was away and everyone thought you were dead. Now . . . Now Nilus surrounds himself with soldiers, always jumping at noises in the night. I thought if I could save up enough silver I could do something . . . Though I don’t know what exactly, so I came here and started working as a guard.’

  He looked ruefully at the flask and began to raise it, but Chloe’s hand closed over his.

  ‘Enough drinking,’ she said. ‘I need you, Amos. I need you strong. Did you think of saying anything to Dion?’

  ‘What could he do? Denounce the first consul of Phalesia? Dion’s a foreign king, and I have no proof.’

  ‘What about Sophia . . . Do you know where she is? Does she know the truth?’

  He shook his head. ‘Your father was interred long before she came home. She’s working as a novice priestess, last I heard.’ He turned to face her. ‘So what happens now?’

  ‘I have a boat, but I don’t know the way to Phalesia.’

  He smiled wryly. ‘You’ve come to the wrong man if you’re after a sailor. But I can trade your boat in return for passage on one of the larger galleys. And then?’

  ‘I think my sister is in danger. I have to find her. That’s my first priority.’

  ‘Nilus won’t be happy to see you. Or me.’

  ‘That’s why you�
�re going to keep your sword sharp.’ She met his eyes. ‘I need you to be sharp, too. Can you do that for me?’

  ‘Yes, Chloe.’ He smiled. ‘I can’t tell you how happy I am to see you. I’ll get us passage, this very night, and I’ll sort myself out. I promise.’

  Chloe cursed as she passed yet another tavern and found Amos sprawled outside with half his body in the gutter. She looked up at the sun blazing high in the sky, then crouched by his side.

  ‘Get up!’ She slapped his cheeks. ‘Amos! Get up!’ She shook his shoulders until first one bleary eye and then the other opened. He groaned and raised himself before breaking into a coughing fit. Wiping his eyes, he sat with shoulders slumped and looked up at her.

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Mid-morning. You said the captain would depart at noon. I’ve been looking for you for hours!’

  Amos sat dejectedly, breathing hard as he tried to summon the energy to stand. He reached into his tunic pocket, taking out the flask, but Chloe kicked it out of his hands, sending it skittering down the street. Gripping him under the armpits, she yanked him until he was standing. He put a hand to his head as he weaved from side to side.

  ‘Get moving.’ Chloe pushed and prodded until he took his first steps. She didn’t relent until he was managing a brisk pace.

  ‘Which boat is it?’ she asked when they reached the harbor. ‘It had better still be here.’

  Amos looked worried as he shielded his eyes to scan the docks. Finally he pointed. ‘That one.’ He swore. ‘It looks like they’re getting ready to depart.’

  ‘Run!’ Chloe cried.

  Pulling him along behind her, she sprinted toward the galley, waving and shouting. Half a dozen oarsmen were at the ready and the vessel was filled with barrels, sacks, and crates. The stern-faced captain glared at them.

  ‘Get in!’ he bellowed, pointing at the interior of his ship. ‘Quickly now or we’ll miss the tide. Another moment longer and you were going to have to find another way to Xanthos, deal or no deal.’

  Chloe and Amos tumbled into the galley up near the bow, and a moment later the crew pushed off and oars thrust out from the sides. Chloe found a place to sit and cleared space for Amos. She breathed a sigh of relief, feeling the wind fresh in her face as the rowers maneuvered the vessel toward the harbor mouth. Turning to Amos, she saw that he’d turned green. Waves lifted them up and down. He met her eyes and swallowed.

  ‘Amos. Are we going to Xanthos?’ Chloe asked.

  ‘We have to,’ Amos said, giving a hiccup. ‘Ships from Myana to Phalesia always stop in Xanthos.’

  Chloe put out a hand. ‘Give me your knife.’ He looked worried as he handed it over, but she tested the edge, nodded, and handed it straight back to him. ‘Something to take your mind off things. Shave your beard.’

  ‘But the boat—’

  ‘—is moving, I know. You’re a warrior. Warriors should have a steady hand. It will take us several days to get to Xanthos. By the time we get there, you’re going to be the Amos I know and love. Understood?’

  He nodded slowly, his face turning even greener as he leaned out over the gunwale and dipped the knife in the water before starting to scrape the blade against his face.

  19

  Dion inhaled; the soft breeze was fresh and fragrant, carrying scents of thyme and lavender. He and Glaukos were climbing marble steps, passing manicured gardens and side paths leading to sumptuous villas. High overhead a perfectly blue sky promised fair weather, while the rays of the golden sun warmed the bare skin of his arms. Phalesia was always beautiful in the spring.

  The steward climbing ahead of them, wearing a navy-blue tunic embroidered with gold, turned and smiled. ‘We’re nearly there. Not much farther, King, Lord.’

  A pair of soldiers brought up the rear, also wearing navy and yellow: nephews of Lord Philippos, if Dion remembered correctly. Despite their youth, the two men looked at ease with their weapons.

  ‘He didn’t mention what the urgency was?’ Dion murmured to his uncle.

  ‘Philippos is a canny man. He wouldn’t ask you to come all the way to Phalesia and visit his home if he didn’t have something of importance to discuss.’

  ‘If it’s about this election . . .’ Dion knew he had a thousand matters to attend to at home. ‘I have no desire to get caught up in Phalesian politics.’

  ‘You hosted him in Xanthos. Perhaps he is simply returning the favor.’ A smile tugged at the corners of Glaukos’s mouth.

  Dion’s brow furrowed. He was excited to be seeing Isobel again, but he was also worried that she might have told her father about their night of passion. He didn’t regret it, but he knew that Lord Philippos wouldn’t be pleased that they’d been together outside marriage. They’d only known each other for a few days.

  Glaukos glanced across at him and saw his expression. ‘Dion, I was jesting. He knows kings aren’t asked to dinner like merchants and consuls. All will be clear soon.’

  The steward came to a halt, indicating a side path as he bowed. ‘Right this way.’ He allowed Dion and Glaukos to enter first.

  The wide path was paved with marble and framed by stunted evergreens, the trees carefully trimmed into the shapes of lean pyramids. Dion saw a villa at the end of the path: a grand, single-storied residence hidden from the lower city by a section of gardens and a final barrier of poplars. A sudden gust rustled the trees, making them sway from side to side.

  Lord Philippos stood in front of his home with his servants arrayed behind him. As Dion approached, they all bowed as one, from the youngest, a girl in the costume of a cook’s helper, to the oldest, a stooped manservant with thinning hair. Dion returned the bow and smiled, making the cook’s helper blush as she grabbed hold of the girl next to her and they giggled together.

  ‘King Dion.’ Philippos stepped forward and gave a small bow before clasping Dion’s hand. He then turned to Dion’s uncle. ‘Lord Glaukos . . . It is a pleasure to have you both in Phalesia, and a great honor to welcome you to my home.’

  Philippos smiled broadly, opening his arms in a gesture of welcome. He was dressed in a white tunic fastened with a navy cord, contrasting with Dion’s crimson tunic belted with gold. His dark hair was cut shorter than when he and Dion last met, but was still oiled. The eyes above his patrician nose were as sharp as ever.

  ‘I was surprised and pleased by your invitation,’ Dion said, choosing his words carefully. ‘Fortunately, though matters in Xanthos are busy as always, I was able to make the journey, although by necessity I will be returning home tomorrow.’

  ‘Of course. I understand completely.’

  Dion looked around. ‘I was expecting to see your daughter here. How is she?’

  ‘Isobel is preparing herself, but will join us soon. You know how women are.’

  ‘We do indeed,’ Glaukos said with a smile. ‘We look forward to her company.’

  ‘Now, please. Come. Let me show you inside.’

  The servants dispersed while Dion and his uncle fell in behind Philippos. They passed through a colonnaded terrace with grape vines trailing through the wooden beams above and found themselves in an expansive reception room with views of the gardens. Philippos indicated a cluster of low sofas and the three men sat, settling the folds of their tunics. Servants brought watered wine, olives, hard cheese, and flat bread.

  Dion finally broke the silence. ‘So, Lord Philippos, how goes the election? Have you secured the votes you need?’

  Philippos shrugged as he took a dainty sip of wine from a silver goblet. ‘A few influential lords are holding out. Lord Nilus has reigned over a period of peace in Phalesia, and although the treaty with Ilea was the work of Aristocles – may Aldus guard his soul – many credit Nilus with the result.’ He set down his cup and then met Dion’s eyes. ‘How do you regard Lord Nilus, King?’

  Dion was careful with his words. ‘He has a swift mind, and makes a fair bargain. I’ve never found reason to say anything against him.’

  ‘Hmm . . .’ Phil
ippos scratched his sharp chin. He hesitated, before leaning forward. ‘King, I must confess that I’ve been dissembling. I asked you here for one reason alone, and it has nothing to do with politics. My daughter is in her sitting room, which is at the end of that hallway. Isobel is waiting for you. She . . . She has something to tell you.’

  Perplexed, Dion glanced at his uncle. Glaukos raised an eyebrow, while Philippos stood and gave another small bow, before placing his hand over his heart.

  ‘Please, King Dion. I apologize for the theatrics, but my daughter insisted, and she is someone I can never say no to. Please?’ His eyes drifted toward the hallway.

  Dion frowned and left his seat. Wondering what in the names of all the gods was going on, he left the reception and soon found himself walking down the hallway alone, feeling the two older men watching his back. Thoughts whirled through his mind. He remembered the fool he’d made of himself at the banquet, and worse still, the way he’d accosted Isobel in his bedchamber. Philippos hadn’t appeared unfriendly at all – quite the opposite. Feeling his heart hammering in his chest, he took a turn at the end of the corridor to find a curtain of thick blue linen.

  He reached for the fabric and then decided to clear his throat. ‘Lady Isobel?’

  Her soft voice replied immediately. ‘King Dion. Please, come in.’

  Dion pushed aside the curtain and entered the sitting room, seeing tall mirrors surrounded by stools and side tables, in a chamber crowded with statues and bright-colored flowers in vases. The air smelled perfumed; after growing up in a male-dominated household, it felt strange to be entering a room so strongly feminine.

  Seeing Isobel sitting on a wooden sofa, facing the doorway, Dion stopped in his tracks. Her golden hair was brushed long and straight, glowing in the crisp afternoon sun that poured through the window, and her eyes matched the blue jewel in a brooch pinned to her coral-colored chiton. She still wore the medallion with the dolphin, dangling from her slender neck. She looked beautiful.