The Sea Change

by Patricia Bray

  As Nizam intended to do. Whatever information Prince Lucius had held was lost to him, but there were others whose knowledge might prove equally valuable. He had preparations to make and suspects to question. One way or another, the next time he saw Proconsul Zuberi, he would have information that would distract the proconsul from the issue of where to lay the blame for Lucius’s premature death.

  Brother Nikos personally oversaw the transfer of the imperial family into the hands of the preservers, who would use their arts so that the bodies would still be seemly for viewing on the day of the funeral. The stillborn infant, having never breathed on his own, was handed over to the temple of the Daughters of the Moon, who would bury him in an unmarked grave in the cemetery set aside for such unfortunates. Such burials were normally done in secret, but the Daughters agreed to allow Lady Eugenia, the wife of Proconsul Zuberi, to serve as the imperial witness to the interment.

  Then Nikos turned his attention to the details of the funeral itself. Ikaria had never before suffered such a loss—losing not just a ruler but also the entire ruling family. Many would want to pay tribute, and satisfying them would require all of his diplomacy and tact.

  At first he had his own acolytes from the collegium to assist him, as the imperial functionaries were questioned. But they were soon cleared of suspicion—all fifty functionaries were accounted for, proving the assassin had indeed been an outsider. The senior of the household—who often filled the role of Greeter—had been swift to point out that the assassin’s facial tattoos were a good copy, but his arm tattoos were wrong. Greeter and his fellow functionaries swore that they would have recognized the impostor at a glance, and there was no reason to disbelieve them. Pity that Nerissa’s guards had not been as observant.

  Once freed from suspicion, the functionaries were invaluable in helping Nikos make the arrangements for the funeral and ensuring that the palace was ready to accommodate the expected influx of mourners. Most of the nobles who would want to attend were already in Karystos, having arrived under the auspices of Nerissa’s fiftieth birthday celebration; but many who had nearby estates now decided that they must stay in the city itself to ensure that they did not miss any moment of the ceremonies—or the political maneuvering. The birthday celebrations had perforce been canceled, but many of the arrangements could hastily be converted to serve this new need. There would still be a procession through the streets of Karystos; it was merely the date and the decorations that had changed. The plays honoring Nerissa’s accomplishments could be staged, but now to the sound of funeral drums.

  There was considerable commotion at the court when news came that Count Hector, Admiral of the Imperial Navy, had arrived unexpectedly, along with a half dozen ships of the fleet. He was visibly overcome with grief, insisting on seeing the bodies of his sister-in-law and his nephews with his own eyes before he would accept the fact of their deaths.

  By now, the imperial apartments were overflowing with noble visitors, and the quarters that Count Hector normally used had been given over to Duke Seneca—who ordinarily outranked Hector; but, of course, there was Count Hector’s connection to the murdered princes to consider. The count, professing to understand the functionary’s dilemma, offered to stay in his nephew Anthor’s now-vacant bachelor apartments. Or to remain aboard his flagship if no other quarters could be found.

  Fortunately Zuberi intervened, and with some reshuffling and a few bruised egos, Hector’s usual rooms were freed for his use.

  Nikos heard of these maneuverings thirdhand, but he did not like what he heard. There had been little love lost between Nerissa and her brother-in-law. Nerissa’s husband Prince Philip had been a pleasant enough fellow, with the proper breeding and a complete lack of ambition. He had fulfilled his role of stud admirably, and shortly after Nestor had passed his seventh name day, Philip had died of what the healers said was a summer fever. It might have been a fever, but most saw the empress’s hand in his death. It was not that long ago, after all, that Empress Constanza had been usurped by her consort, and Nerissa had no wish to meet a similar fate.

  Hector might have had his suspicions about his brother’s death, but he never questioned Nerissa publicly, and for his silence he was rewarded with a post in the Imperial Navy, rising to the rank of admiral. Power, of a sort, but even here Nerissa was stingy. The army was where those with influence clamored to serve, and where noble fathers would offer favors to commanders who could advance their sons’ careers. The navy held far less prestige, and far fewer opportunities to fatten the count’s purse or increase his influence.

  Still, it was possible that Hector, seeking to ingratiate himself into Nerissa’s favor, had chosen to surprise her with a visit during the month set aside for her name day celebrations.

  Or it was possible that he was here for some other reason. He must have been nearby, to have arrived so soon after the assassinations.

  And perhaps Hector’s grief was indeed genuine. If not for the loss of his nephews, then surely for the blow to his own political ambitions. Nerissa and her sons had reason to deal favorably with Hector, but when Zuberi became emperor, Hector would swiftly find himself without friends at the court.

  Nikos’s thoughts kept turning back to Count Hector, even as he busied himself with the funeral preparations. He glanced at the scroll in his hand, realizing that his assistant had handed him a list of musicians who would accompany the funeral procession.

  “No, not this. The other list, of those who will be offering their blessings,” Nikos said.

  Brother Giuliano nodded and rummaged through the stacks on the table. “Here it is,” he said, unrolling the scroll to reveal a list that had already been erased and reinked several times.

  The official religion of the empire was the worship of the twin gods whom Nikos served, but Nerissa had been the mother of the empire, and thus spiritual leader of all its disparate religions. Each wished to honor her, and all were demanding a suitable role in the funeral. If he said yes to everyone, he estimated it would take three days for the rites. Possibly four, judging by the latest request from Fadil, high priest of the triune godhead.

  “How many priests is Fadil bringing?”

  Brother Giuliano ran his finger down the scroll till he found that entry. “Four, it looks like. They are to recite the blessings for the martyred dead and anoint the bodies with perfume made from hyssop flowers.”

  “Tell him he can have three priests, no more. There should be no objection, since he professes to believe in the power of three. And the only ritual anointing will be done by the Daughters of the Moon, before the bodies leave the palace.”

  Giuliano made a notation on the parchment.

  It helped to understand that the true gods did not care about funeral offerings nor the order of prayers. These things were done for the benefit of men; the gods had far weightier matters to attend to. Even the passing of an empress was insignificant to beings who had seen a thousand emperors reign and die. As long as the ceremony was dignified, and no lesser religion was favored over another, it would be acceptable.

  The funeral orations were a more complicated matter. Proconsul Zuberi would deliver the main oration, of course, and Nikos, as head of the Learned Brethren, would deliver his own as he led the funeral services. Others had demanded to speak as well, to serve as a public reminder of how close they had been to Empress Nerissa. To these requests Nikos said neither yes nor no, explaining that he was considering them all and must consult with Proconsul Zuberi before making any final decisions.

  Count Hector proved harder to dissuade. First he sent a messenger with his request, then, dissatisfied, sought out Nikos himself.

  The count had not been in Karystos for the past two years, having been occupied with his duties in the Imperial Navy. But he looked much as he had then—tall and slender, with enough muscle to prove he was a warrior and not a courtier. Time had been kind to him, for his dark hair held not a streak of gray. Only his weathered face showed that he was not much younger t
han Nerissa had been.

  “Brother Nikos, I must start by thanking you for your services in such a difficult time. I know how hard this must be for you. We have all lost a great empress—but you have lost a patron, and I…Well, I have lost a friend, along with my beloved nephews,” Count Hector said.

  Nikos felt his eyebrows raise. By reminding Nikos of his family ties to the empress, the count had neatly implied that Nikos was laboring on his behalf, turning his own presumed grief into a subtle assertion of power.

  “The burden of sorrow is heavy on us all, but it is our duty to serve the empress in her death just as we served her in life,” Nikos said. It was a platitude fit for a child, but Hector seemed to accept it at face value.

  “I have come to speak to you about the funeral orations. I have prepared a draft, and would welcome your suggestions.”

  Clever. He had not asked Nikos if he could offer an oration, but rather implied that his participation should be taken for granted, and he merely needed advice on his turn of phrase.

  “There are many who wish to honor Empress Nerissa in this way—” Nikos began.

  “Of course,” Count Hector interrupted. “And I would not take that honor away from them. But someone needs to speak for the murdered princes, Nestor and Anthor. And who better than their own father’s brother?”

  Nikos had not expected this. He had assumed that Hector was like the rest, intending to praise Nerissa and her sons in a single speech. But Hector was more clever than he had supposed, reminding him that Prince Nestor had been a royal prince, heir to the imperial throne. By custom and law he, at least, deserved his own oration, and Nikos was a fool for not having seen this before.

  Hector was Nestor’s closest living relative. Nikos could not deny him, not without provoking a public scandal.

  “Who better indeed?” he echoed. “And I would be happy to look over your speech and offer my humble advice.”

  The count smiled, content with his victory. After exchanging mutual insincere pleasantries, he took his leave.

  Nikos waited until the count’s footsteps had died away before turning to his aide. “Put those scrolls aside and run to Zuberi’s office. Tell his clerk that I need to meet with the proconsul. Today.”

  “Yes, Brother, at once.”

  Count Hector was up to something. Nikos could taste it.

  Officially Prince Lucius had been an honored guest of the empress, but in fact he had spent these last ten months as a prisoner, albeit a noble one. Each day had been carefully scripted—his every action, every conversation, dutifully recorded. Nothing in those records had indicated that he was conspiring against the empress, but now Nizam delegated an assistant to read through them again, looking for clues they might have missed. As well as to compile a list of all those who had come in contact with the prince, which he would then compare against the list that Proconsul Zuberi’s clerks had provided.

  Nizam went over the list, selecting those he wanted to question first and delegating others to his assistants. The initial interviews would take place in his offices, on the level above the Rooms of Pain. Those who could not provide satisfactory information would be sent below, for the stricter forms.

  Slaves, of course, received no such consideration, and all would be lashed first, then interrogated. Most of these interviews could be safely left to his assistants, who knew how to inflict pain without permanently damaging a valuable asset. If anything of interest was discovered, Nizam would be summoned to complete the interrogation.

  He began with the guard Balasi, who had been with the prince at the time of his arrest. The prince had been sleeping when Balasi began his shift, but after the prince had awoken he appeared restless. At the time Balasi had ascribed this to the disruption of routine, and indeed when Balasi’s replacement had failed to arrive on schedule, he had been disturbed enough to send a message to his watch commander.

  Balasi was a veteran of the guard—steady, reliable, with a reputation above reproach, which was why he had been chosen for such a delicate assignment. He answered each of Nizam’s questions fully, but unlike most who were summoned to the room, Balasi showed no signs of nervousness. Balasi held himself blameless, and after an hour of questioning, Nizam privately agreed.

  Not that he told Balasi this, merely dismissing the guard and instructing him to hold himself ready to be questioned further.

  As the night wore on, a messenger brought word that Lucius had recovered sufficiently to swallow some of the medicine that Galen had prepared. It would not be enough to save his life, but Nizam cautiously hoped that Galen’s efforts would appease Proconsul Zuberi.

  Day was much the same as night here in the catacombs, and it was only by the turning of the clock that Nizam knew dawn had arrived. He had finished questioning Lucius’s guards, discovering only the usual petty crimes. Pirro had twice been too drunk for duty in the last six months, but both times his fellow guards had chosen to enforce discipline themselves rather than reporting the matter. Sifu and Oles were in the habit of swapping shifts without notifying the watch commander, but even this was a minor infraction. There had been no unauthorized visits, no messages or packages secretly slipped to Prince Lucius. If there was a conspiracy, the guards had no part in it.

  After a hasty breakfast of hot tea and sweet rolls, Nizam descended to the interrogation rooms below to assess the progress of his assistants. The maid who cleaned the prince’s quarters was currently being questioned, and he watched with satisfaction as Akil coaxed the sobbing woman into confessing that she had once thought the prince well-favored and offered to lie with him, but he had brusquely declined.

  Foolish girl. The prince had saved her life by refusing her offer, for Nerissa would not have allowed even the slightest possibility that Lucius might breed an heir. The maid’s infatuation and subsequent pique were duly noted, but she had little of value to reveal.

  After conferring with his other assistants, Nizam decided to check on the prince. To his surprise he found both Galen and his slave in the cell with their patient.

  “How much longer does he have?” he asked.

  “I honestly don’t know,” Galen said. “See for yourself.”

  As Galen moved aside, Nizam could see that the prince was sweating heavily. His breathing was torturously slow, but his bruises seemed to be fading, and while his belly was still swollen, a touch confirmed that it was no longer rigid.

  “Remarkable.”

  “Unexpected, I would say,” Galen said dryly. “But none of my doing.”

  “Will he live long enough to satisfy Zuberi?” The funeral was still eight days away.

  “It is too soon to say. If he is still alive tomorrow, perhaps.”

  As the day wore on, Nizam continued his interrogations, interspersed with messages from Galen charting the prince’s progress. The healer’s natural caution shone through in his choice of wording, but as the prince’s condition improved from deadly to grave, then to merely serious, it was hard not to see his improvement as miraculous.

  Magical, even, and Nizam recalled the statements taken last year from the prince’s followers. He had intended to read those statements again, to see what could be gleaned from them, but now he had a dual purpose. At the time, he had dismissed those statements as signs of the conspirators’ gullibility, but what if there was something to their tales? If Prince Lucius did indeed possess an inner magic that was healing him, then it opened up a new range of possibilities for Nizam to explore. Should he recover sufficiently to be questioned, the prince would come to regret his gifts and wish that Zuberi’s men had indeed killed him.

  The human body had limits. Nizam knew just how much damage he could inflict before the effect was fatal. The secret of his craft was to vary the types of pain and injuries inflicted until the subject had passed the limit of what he could endure. That limit varied from one man to another, but Nizam was always able to find it and push his subjects over the edge into mindless, abject cooperation.

  Sometimes he was
surprised, when one of his subjects exhibited a weak heart, or uncontrolled bleeding, and on these occasions Galen was summoned. But he had never before been surprised by a man’s ability to heal.

  For three days he left Lucius in the care of Galen and his assistant, letting him build his strength as the interrogations of his compatriots continued. They found evidence of thievery, drunkenness, and two illicit love affairs, but nothing that spoke of treason or murder.

  Still, Nizam was not discouraged. His effectiveness at his job came not just from his skill at inflicting and withholding pain but also from his meticulous checking and rechecking of each fact. Though it would hardly do for him to make this known, when his reputation ensured that most spilled their secrets long before they were strapped to the punishment frames.

  Nizam did not care whether the prince was guilty or innocent; these were questions for another to decide. His interest was in sifting truths from lies. Let others interpret the facts that he found as they would.

  He waited until all the other interrogations had been completed, and he had carefully memorized everything that they had learned about the prince. Then, and only then, did he order that Lucius be brought to the Rooms of Pain.

  His assistants knew the routine by heart and had stripped the prince and bound him to the upright punishment frame, where the bright torches cast the prince’s features into harsh relief. Nizam waited in the outer room a full half hour after the summoning, giving the prince’s fears time to build.

  The frame had been positioned so the prisoner could not see anyone entering, but as the door creaked open, Lucius stiffened and futilely tried to move his head so he could see. Nizam came up behind him, admiring the smooth flesh that showed only faint marks where days before there had been livid bruises.

  Magic indeed. The lizard had been the symbol of Prince Lucius’s forebears, and Nizam wondered what traits the lizard and the prince had in common. He had already survived injuries that would have killed an ordinary man. If Nizam cut off his hand, would he grow a new one, as a lizard would grow a new limb? If he were blinded, would he grow new eyes?