“To success beyond all measure,” he proclaimed, lifting his glass in a toast.
“Success,” she echoed, raising her glass, then taking a small sip. “Now tell me, how have we succeeded?”
“A ship brought news from Ikaria. The captain is an old friend, so he came to me first. But it won’t be long before others bear the news to the council.” Lord Quesnel took another sip of his star-wine, clearly enjoying drawing out the suspense.
Ysobel refused to be drawn. She waited in silence, knowing that in time he would not be able to resist sharing whatever news he had received.
“Empress Nerissa has been assassinated,” he said.
Now it was her turn to sip her wine as a cover for her confusion. This was what she had worked for, the event that would destabilize Ikaria and ensure that their empire would no longer be a threat to the federation. Still, hearing the news was a shock. She had never truly expected they would succeed. Their schemes had been meant to turn Nerissa’s attentions within her own borders and keep the empress far too busy to cast covetous eyes upon the federation’s valuable ports and colonies.
The empress had been a threat, but she had also been a strong ruler and worthy opponent. Lady Ysobel felt a stir of regret, though it was swiftly smothered by more immediate concerns.
“How did she die? And is there any sign that Prince Nestor suspects the federation of involvement in his mother’s death?”
Not that they could have carried out such a crime. Those who had schemed with Ysobel to bring down the empress had since been executed, or had fled Ikaria in disgrace. Still, she had no doubt that Lord Quesnel would take credit, if he could.
And as Lord Quesnel’s fortunes rose, so, too, would hers. It seems her gamble might have paid off after all.
“Nestor is dead as well. And his wife, and his brother Prince Anthor. The house of Aitor is no more.”
It was too much to take in. It was as if she had cast her line for a salmon and hooked a whale instead. The empress and her two sons both gone? All of Ikaria must be reeling from the shock.
“There will be civil war.”
“Indeed.” Lord Quesnel chortled with glee. Draining his glass, he refilled it, but she waved aside his offer to refill her own. She needed a clear head to chart her course.
“What of Prince Lucius?” The prince, sole heir to the former rulers of Ikaria, had been the figurehead for the two previous rebellions. It was logical to conclude that he would be blamed for this one as well.
He shrugged. “My source tells me he was handed over to Nerissa’s torturers. No doubt he has already been executed.”
“No doubt.” She repressed a twinge as she contemplated the death of yet another acquaintance. Circumstances had forced her to work with Prince Lucius, but she had not liked him. Reportedly he had surrendered himself to Empress Nerissa in order to bring an end to the last rebellion, but such courage and self-sacrifice did not seem in character with the man she had come to know. Perhaps she had never known him at all.
And now she never would. Lucius had joined a long list of those who had once trusted her, and gone to their deaths. No stranger to death at sea, she had discovered that she had little stomach for the senseless killings that their convoluted plots inspired. Politics was a far uglier business than she had imagined, and she was well clear of it.
She had been naïve to think that she could emerge unscathed from such foulness.
Lord Quesnel glanced at the mechanical clock on his desk, then set down his glass. “I must go, but I am glad that we were able to speak. You should hold yourself in readiness. The council will want to speak with you, to hear your opinions on who is most likely to win the throne and who among the contenders will be open to a discreet partnership with the federation.”
In other words, he wanted to start the games again. He would take oblique credit for the demise of the imperial family and persuade the council to permit him to launch a new scheme, one that could very well be even bloodier than the last.
But he would have to do it without her help. She had already decided to swear off politics, and news of the slaughter in Ikaria only strengthened her resolve.
“I will be happy to give the council the benefit of my observations,” she said, hoping her face showed none of her inner revulsion. “And naturally, if the council should feel fit to recognize me for my service, I would be most grateful. I can think of no better reward than being allowed to sail once more upon one of my ships.”
“Of course,” Lord Quesnel said.
From the sobering of his expression she knew that he had understood her message. She would testify before the council and say nothing that would contradict whatever claims he might make. And, indeed, it was not as if she would be lying. It was possible that some of their allies who had fled Ikaria had later returned to seek their vengeance. Or even that a small group of rebels had survived undetected, biding their time until they could strike.
But the price of her cooperation was the restoration of her reputation—and an end to his attempts to use her in his schemes. “It is good when friends understand one another,” he said.
“And it is important to know who your friends are,” she replied.
Chapter 5
Lady Ysobel’s testimony before the council was brief. She answered their questions truthfully, reminding the councilors that it had been a year since she had hastily left Ikaria. Much could have changed in that time, as new political alliances would have formed in the wake of the mass arrests and executions. Former friends would have distanced themselves from each other, and old enemies might have found common ground.
The supporters of Prince Lucius were widely assumed to have been behind the assassinations, though there was no word as yet if he had been tried and executed for the crime. The council issued a carefully worded statement of sympathy to the people of Ikaria, lamenting the death of their great ruler. Buried within the formal letter was a reminder that Nerissa had spent much of her reign focused on imagined conspiracies from outside her own shores, ignoring the danger from within that had finally claimed her life.
Copies of the letter were sent to federation emissaries around the great basin. The official federation position was clear—Nerissa had tried to blame earlier unrest upon agents from the federation to draw attention away from the growing disloyalty of her own subjects. But such deceptions could not last forever, and now all could see the truth. Thus neatly absolving the federation of any blame.
In public the federation offered its sympathies, while in private there was cautious rejoicing. It was clear that Nerissa’s death and the inevitable struggle for succession would weaken the Ikarian Empire, but King Bayard and his councilors had not yet decided how best to take advantage of the situation.
Not that Ysobel was privy to their debates. After her testimony, she had been dismissed so they could deliberate in private. The next day she received confirmation that all official restrictions upon her had been lifted. The council offered its regret that she had been inconvenienced because of baseless, vile rumors from Ikaria and thanked her for her patience and loyalty in the face of such calumnies. A copy of that letter was filed with the traders’ guild.
A second letter, enclosed with the first, asked her to make herself available for further consultations with the council during this difficult period. The letter was for her eyes only, but the meaning was clear. Officially she was free to go wherever she wished. In reality, though, she would not be allowed to leave Sendat. Not while each day brought ships carrying new rumors of what was happening in Ikaria. Her expertise might still be needed.
But the long-sought public approval from the council did little to change the opinion of the other traders. They were wise enough to recognize her restored status as a political favor—payment for services rendered rather than a judgment on her trustworthiness. Her mission to Ikaria had been a secret one after all. Even now, only the most senior councilors knew that she had been sent there specifically to offer federa
tion aid to those who sought to overthrow Empress Nerissa.
Surely the next ship from Ikaria would bring news of the new emperor. Privately she expected that Proconsul Zuberi would take the throne, though she had been careful to downplay her certainty when she testified before the council. She did not want to make herself appear too valuable, after all.
With a new emperor on the throne in Ikaria, the council would have no further use for her. And once she was set free, she would leave on the first of her ships that came into harbor.
A successful voyage under her command would do far more to restore her reputation than a dozen letters of praise from the council. Sailing was in her blood, and she desperately longed to exchange the stench of politics for the clean scent of a favorable wind. The salt sea was calling her, and she anxiously awaited the day that she could once more answer that call.
The threat posed by the Seddonian Federation was not forgotten, but Brother Nikos had far more immediate matters to occupy his attention. In the days following the funeral of Empress Nerissa and her sons, he had been a near-constant presence at the imperial compound. Proconsul Zuberi, who had once held himself aloof, now frequently sought Nikos’s counsel. Others sought him out as well, perhaps seeing him as impartial, while the rest of the court maneuvered to back their favorite candidates for emperor.
Many assumed that Proconsul Zuberi would take the crown, and indeed there were those who asked Nikos to urge Zuberi to make his announcement now, rather than decorously waiting until a full month had passed. To these Nikos offered his reassurances, though as the days passed he began to suspect that Zuberi had no intention of claiming the throne for himself. And with each day that passed, the other claimants to the throne grew bolder, interpreting Zuberi’s silence as weakness.
Darius, one of the few native Ikarians left in Nerissa’s court, suggested that an election be held to name the new emperor, following the barbaric customs of the Seddonian Federation. Both Darius and his suggestion were widely mocked, his detractors finding common ground in their disdain—though they could not agree on anything else.
Finally, with only two days left before the official period of mourning was to end, Zuberi summoned Nikos to an informal dinner. The location, Zuberi’s private residence rather than his official apartments in the imperial compound, was perhaps meant to disguise the meaning of the invitation, but anyone watching would know that this was not a mere dinner but rather a council of war.
In addition to Nikos, Zuberi had invited Petrelis, head of the city watch, Simon the Bald, who served as Chancellor of the Exchequer, and Demetrios, the leader of the senate. With the imperial bureaucracies firmly under Zuberi’s control, these were four of the most powerful men in the empire. Five, counting Nikos himself, who wielded power not by official position but rather through the reliance of others on his counsel.
As Nikos took his place on the last empty couch in the dining room, an unwelcome thought occurred to him. Anyone wishing to complete the destruction of Nerissa’s legacy need only assassinate the men in this room, and there would be none left to oppose him.
He hoped fervently that Zuberi’s servants were loyal and that Petrelis’s guards on watch outside could be trusted.
Dinner itself was a modest affair, a mere six courses, accompanied by wine so heavily watered that it was impossible to guess its provenance. The dishes were mild, almost peasant fare, when contrasted with the heavily seasoned meals that were offered at the palace. Nikos and the others ate enough to seem polite, though he noticed that Zuberi himself ate only enough to assure the others that the dishes were not poisoned.
They spoke of trivial topics until the servants had cleared the last plate away and shut the doors firmly closed behind them.
“My men intercepted one of Commander Markos’s lieutenants trying to enter the city today,” Petrelis began. A man of modest stature, his unprepossessing appearance caused many to underestimate his ruthlessness. Though little known outside of Karystos, within the city walls he was a man to be feared. “He took poison before we could question him, but it is obvious that Markos is in contact with his supporters in the city.”
“He must be closer than we suspected,” Demetrios said.
“But did he bring his troops? Or are they still in the north?” Simon asked.
“He would be a fool if he moved without them,” Petrelis said.
Commander Markos was one of the five regional commanders of the imperial army, and married to Atlanta, the great-granddaughter of Aitor the Great. There were a handful that championed Atlanta’s claim to the throne as the only living descendant of the imperial line. But most had lost their taste for an empress, even if it was understood that Markos would rule in his wife’s name.
“Who knows what the armies will do? If Nerissa had replaced General Kolya, then we would not have this uncertainty,” Simon grumbled. As the oldest of those present, and one who had known Nerissa from her childhood, he was often freer in his criticisms of the late empress than the rest.
“And then we would be dealing with one man, rather than five. One man might be tempted to seize the throne, but if Markos tries to bring his troops into the city, the other commanders will oppose him,” Demetrios said.
Perhaps they would. Or perhaps Markos had already found common cause with one or more of his fellow commanders, offering a promotion in return for supporting Markos’s wife’s claim to the imperial throne. It was what Nikos would do, in his place.
“Zuberi, we’ve had enough of your modesty,” Simon said. Second in power to Zuberi, he could speak bluntly where another might have tried a more delicate approach. “Propriety is good enough in its place, but the longer you delay, the more time your foes have to gather strength and form alliances. Have Demetrios call the senate into session tomorrow, and when they offer you the throne, you will accept for the good of the empire. Then we can put the schemers in their place.”
“No,” Zuberi said.
Simon sat upright. “No? What madness is this? With us to support you, who will gainsay your right to the throne? Why else have you gathered us here?”
“Would that matters were so simple, but the gods have other plans for me,” Zuberi said. With his right hand he rubbed his stomach, a gesture that had become habitual with him in the last weeks. “I have a cancer in my stomach that will kill me before the year is done.”
Nikos drew in a sharp breath. It was scant comfort that the others seemed to be equally stunned.
“Are you certain?” Simon asked.
Zuberi nodded.
Nikos thought frantically, his careful calculations in disarray. If Zuberi was not to take the throne, then who?
“You could still rule,” he said, after a moment’s thought. “Ikaria needs your guidance for however long you have left with us. And your son Bakari will make a fine emperor himself one day.”
Bakari was only ten or eleven, as Nikos recalled. After his father’s passing, he would need regents and advisors to help him govern. Zuberi had many trusted friends, himself among them, who would gladly offer such service.
Zuberi shook his head. “I will not do that to my wife, nor to my sons. Has anyone forgotten what happened to Lady Zenia’s children? Not to mention the two princes? Once I am gone, my family will be easy prey.”
“The people will not rally behind a boy emperor, no matter whose hand guides him,” Demetrios added.
“Then it will have to be Count Hector,” Simon said. “Prince Anthor did survive after his mother’s death, as Hector’s supporters constantly remind us. With Nestor dead, Anthor would have inherited his mother’s titles. And under the law, without children of his own, Anthor’s possessions pass to his father’s nearest relative.”
“And if Hector merely wanted Anthor’s stud farm, I would see it given to him. But Nerissa sat on the imperial throne, not her husband. If Nerissa’s consort Philip could not call himself emperor, neither can his brother,” Demetrios argued.
Nikos realized that Zuberi had
not told the others of Hector’s guilt. He, alone, had been privileged with this information, since he had been the first to cast suspicions upon Hector.
“Hector must not rule,” Zuberi said quietly. Zuberi’s calmness was in stark contrast to his frantic guests. Then, again, Zuberi had known of his death sentence for months, while Nikos and the rest were still trying to fathom the consequences of his illness.
“I know Nerissa never liked him, but he’s served the empire faithfully,” Simon said. “We could do worse.”
“I have proof that Hector arranged for Nerissa’s assassination,” Zuberi said.
Petrelis slammed his fist down on the table. “Proof? What proof do you have? And why have you kept it from me?”
Ordinarily Petrelis deferred to the others, conscious of his common birth. But he guarded the privileges of his office fiercely and would be slow to forgive any slight. He leaned forward, ready to demand answers, and Nikos wondered how Zuberi would respond. If Zuberi had indeed discovered proof of Hector’s treachery, it was news to him as well.
“Hector’s ships anchored off the coast three days before the empress’s murder. The duke has said that he was waiting to make a grand entrance on the day of her birthday celebrations, but when he sailed into Karystos harbor, he saw the black ribbons of mourning and learned of the tragedy,” Zuberi said.
This much was public knowledge.
“He played the role of grief-stricken uncle so well that no one questioned him, no one except the learned Brother Nikos and myself. We could not question Hector, so we questioned his lieutenant.”
“Lieutenant Azizi? He was reported missing—my men found signs of a struggle in his quarters but no trace of him,” Petrelis said. “This was your doing?”
Petrelis was angry over the slight to his authority.
“On my orders,” Zuberi said. “As for the lieutenant, well, after two days in Nizam’s care, he told the tale of a heavily cloaked stranger who boarded Hector’s vessel when they stopped in Kazagan. The stranger stayed in his cabin for the entire voyage, until Hector’s ships anchored off the coast. A skiff rowed from shore to meet the flagship, apparently by prearrangement. As the passenger descended from the ship to the waiting skiff, the wind disturbed his cloak, and the lieutenant is prepared to swear that the stranger’s face was covered in tattoos.”
The Sea Change Page 7
