Nikos stared at Zuberi, trying to read the truth from his face, but the proconsul was inscrutable. It was hard to believe that Hector could have been so careless as to transport the assassin on his own ship, knowing that the assassin bore the damning tattoos of a functionary. Then, again, who else could Hector have entrusted this errand to?
“Why haven’t you given the order to arrest him?” Petrelis asked.
“Only the next emperor will be able to order him jailed,” Zuberi replied.
“If Zuberi will not take the crown—” Simon began.
“I will not.”
“Then the empire is doomed,” Simon continued. “Only you or Count Hector had a chance at uniting the various factions. Anyone else will launch Ikaria into civil war.”
“What of yourself?” asked Petrelis.
“I am too old and have made too many enemies,” Simon said calmly, as if he was discussing the weather. “Demetrios, you have the power of the senate behind you, but you also have an older brother. We cannot elevate your blood by slighting his.”
Demetrios nodded, no doubt having already reached this conclusion days before. Ambitious and charismatic, he had friends among commoners and nobles alike. Next to Zuberi he was the best-known official outside the walls of Karystos and would have made a suitable emperor were it not for his older brother. Though if the struggle for succession stretched on, his older brother would do well to fear for his life.
“Petrelis is baseborn, and the city watch is as high as he will be allowed to rise. And as for Nikos, only a fool would name a celibate monk as emperor,” Simon concluded.
The insult stung, but Nikos recognized the truth of Simon’s words. The next emperor must have a son of his own to follow him.
Zuberi picked up the pitcher and refilled their wine cups, but no one drank. The five men sat in silence, their heads bowed as if they felt the weight of the empire pressing down upon them.
Strange to think that five men, lingering over the remains of an indifferent dinner party, held the fate of Ikaria in their hands. And yet, who else was there to guide the empire in these crucial days?
“We are agreed that Hector will not be allowed to rule?” Nikos asked.
“I will kill him myself before I see Nerissa’s murderer crowned in her stead,” Petrelis swore. It was not an idle threat.
“Then we must choose the next emperor ourselves. We cannot wait to let the factions fight among themselves and plunge Ikaria into civil war. I had come here tonight to pledge my loyalty to Zuberi, but if the proconsul will not rule, then there is another we should consider. A man who will owe no loyalty to the factions, but instead allow himself to be guided by us. And one whose claim to the throne cannot be disputed.”
“There is no such man,” Zuberi declared. “But would to the gods that he existed.”
“He does. And he is in Karystos at this very moment,” Nikos said.
Josan tensed as he heard booted footsteps approach his cell. After weeks spent in the dark confines of the dungeon, he was intimately familiar with its routines, and he knew that this sound boded ill.
Two sets of booted footsteps meant that the guards were coming with his daily allowance of food and a bucket of water. One man to bring them into the cell and a second who stood watch lest the prisoner try to escape.
The sound of sandals meant that the healer Galen or his slave was approaching, though it had been days since Josan had required the service of a healer.
This was the sound of several guards approaching, and he trembled, knowing what was to come.
It had been over a week since Nizam had last questioned him, but he knew better than to think that the chief torturer had forgotten him. The long intermission merely meant that Nizam had run out of questions to ask, and Josan had run out of answers to give him.
He wondered what new questions Nizam would put to him and whether this would be the day that Nizam finally learned the truth about his royal prisoner.
Not that Josan had been able to conceal anything that Nizam wished to know. Nizam had shown himself a master at his craft, capable of inflicting unimaginable pain—and stripping a man’s soul bare in the process. In the end, Josan had found himself begging to be allowed to answer Nizam’s questions.
After his first torture session he had been convinced that he was dying, a fate he welcomed. But instead he had awoken to find himself being tended by a healer. And to his utter disbelief, in a mere two days he had healed well enough for Nizam to begin his work again.
Over and over again he had recounted his activities during the months of his confinement in the palace, knowing himself blameless and desperate to convince Nizam of his innocence. Nizam had given no sign whether or not he believed his prisoner, merely moving on to questions about his role in the aborted rebellion.
Josan had told him everything he could remember. The names of everyone he had met with, every conversation he could recall, every detail that he had known or guessed about the conspiracy. All information that he had given the empress before, though this time his statements were punctuated with screams, his veracity guaranteed by the torments of his flesh.
Nizam had seemed equally interested in his magical abilities, though a talent for fire-starting seemed a paltry enough trick. It had taken a careless comment from the healer’s servant for Josan to realize that there was other magic at work—his body was healing itself. Injuries that would have killed another man were instead mere inconveniences. Broken bones mended within days, open wounds closed themselves overnight.
And as for the other—each rape hurt as if it were the first.
At times Josan cursed his body’s ability to heal—death would have been preferable to the repeated agonies that he had been forced to endure. Nizam had taken Josan’s healing as a personal challenge and tested the very limits of this new power.
Strange to think that he had learned more about the Old Magic under Nizam’s care than he had in all his months of surreptitious studying. But it was knowledge that he could have lived without.
Josan had answered every question that Nizam put to him, usually more than once. But for all his thoroughness, Nizam had yet to touch upon the biggest secret that his prisoner concealed.
The magic that sustained him was not his. It belonged to Prince Lucius, the heir to the former rulers of Ikaria and the rightful owner of the body that Josan now wore.
Both Josan and the prince were victims of a plot by Brother Nikos, who had sought to mold the prince into an obedient servant. Forbidden magics had been used to place the soul of a dying monk in the body of the rebellious prince. But rather than a compliant pawn, the spell had produced a damaged man who was neither prince nor monk. After years spent in exile, last summer Josan had learned the truth of what had been done to him as the prince’s spirit finally roused from its long slumber.
After struggling to cast the invader from his body, Prince Lucius had finally reached a truce with Josan, and the two had united to bring an end to the bloody rebellion. Then, as they surrendered to the empress and certain death, the prince’s spirit had fled. There had been no trace of his presence since. Josan had striven to awaken him but could not afford to rouse Brother Nikos’s suspicions by requesting works that dealt directly with the forbidden magics.
In the weeks before the empress’s murder, Josan had begun to fear that the prince’s spirit had indeed passed, leaving Josan alone to pay the price for the prince’s misdeeds. But his miraculous healing indicated otherwise. Some part of the prince still lingered.
And if any part of the prince survived, it was up to Josan to keep that secret for as long as he could. At first he had kept silence out of respect for the members of his order. Brother Nikos deserved punishment for his crimes, but the rest of the Learned Brethren were innocent. Once it was discovered that the collegium was studying forbidden magics, all members of the brethren would be seen as equally guilty.
Now he kept silent for the prince’s sake. And for his own. He had been very
careful not to imagine what Nizam would do once he realized that he had two souls to toy with, but he suspected it would make his prior torments pale in comparison.
He could not withstand Nizam’s questions, so he must give him no reason to suspect that there was anything left to discover.
Josan rose to his feet as the door to his cell swung open, refusing to let his captors see his fear. A foolish gesture, perhaps, since Nizam and his assistants had already witnessed his degradation, still, such gestures were all he had left.
He was not a particularly brave man, and these weeks had taught him far more than any man should know about the depths of his own cowardice. But bravery wasn’t all there was to a man. Sometimes stubbornness would serve just as well, and a blind refusal to accept that he was defeated. It was not bravery that drew him to his feet and kept him calm as the hated guards approached. It was a refusal to grant them any more power over him than they already had. He feared them, yes, but he was still Josan. Still the man he had always been, even as he wore this borrowed body. And perhaps there was a bit of Prince Lucius’s arrogance still lurking, enough to help him stand without trembling, his face a mask of calmness.
“It has been too long,” he said. “I was beginning to think that Nizam had found a new favorite.”
There was no reaction from the guards, but he knew his words would be reported to Nizam. It was a subtle challenge, one he knew Nizam would understand. Josan had not broken. Not yet. Nizam might be able to make him bleed, but he had to work for his triumph, every time.
No doubt used to prisoners who were too damaged to walk on their own, two of the guards seized his arms, prepared to drag him if necessary. Their bruising grips discouraged any thoughts of resistance. Indeed, if he escaped them, where could he go? These underground catacombs were Nizam’s domain. Even if he had the strength to flee, Josan would not get ten yards without being recognized and recaptured.
Two more guards stood outside his cell, and as Josan was led out they formed up behind him. It was a curious sign of respect, that he was considered so dangerous that four armed men needed to watch over him. Then again, he supposed there was no established protocol for dealing with a man who was both royal prince and suspected regicide.
When they reached the end of the corridor, he automatically began turning left, toward the Rooms of Pain. His escort had other ideas though, and he stumbled as the guards jerked him to the right.
“Where are we going?” he asked.
They did not answer. Neither did they strike him, the usual reminder that he must keep silent in the corridors.
Interesting.
He was brought to a small room, with a proper wooden door instead of an iron grate. Bright lanterns illuminated the room, and he blinked furiously as he tried to take in his new surroundings. It was not one of the torture rooms, that much was clear. Instead there was a plain wooden table holding a basin of water, with a pile of folded cloth next to it.
“Clean yourself up,” a voice said, and Josan turned to find that one of his escort had followed him inside. Strangely enough, the others remained outside, with the door shut.
“If you won’t do it, I’ll have my men do it for you,” the guard said.
Josan nodded. Swiftly, he stripped off his filthy rags, dropping them carelessly on the floor. The water was tepid, but even this was bliss to a man who had gone without bathing for weeks.
A cake of soap rested on top of the folded towels and with the help of a small towel he scrubbed himself as clean as he could. The water was black when he was finished. He dried himself with the second towel, for the first time able to see the faint scars that were all that remained from his injuries. His skin felt better, but he was all too conscious of his rank hair and the itching of his unkempt beard. He stood there for a moment, holding the towel, unwilling to put on his filthy rags.
“Put these on,” the guard said, handing him a small bundle.
Josan opened it to find a cotton tunic and leather sandals. Plain enough garb, but luxury for a prisoner. He wondered at the meaning of this. He knew that Nizam had no interest in his comfort, but perhaps he was trying a new tactic—offering his prisoner courtesies that could then be withheld.
Though even that rang false. Perhaps the answer was simpler.
In the dark of the catacombs it was difficult to distinguish night from day. By his reckoning he had spent thirty-seven days here. But what if his count was wrong? What if today was the thirty-ninth day?
The empress would have been buried on the ninth day after her death, and then there would have been thirty days of mourning. By custom, on the thirty-ninth day the new emperor would take up his crown.
And what more fitting time could there be for the execution of the man who had killed his predecessor?
Josan was being prepared for his death, his ablutions meant to ensure that none could mistake the man being led to his doom. He searched inside himself for outrage or fear, but instead he found only calmness. He had known from the beginning that he could not expect his freedom. Regardless of whether or not he was found guilty of Empress Nerissa’s murder, the new emperor could not afford to let Prince Lucius live. Death was inevitable, and a swift death was preferable to remaining Nizam’s personal plaything.
“I didn’t kill the empress,” he said, needing to make this much clear. He would face his death calmly but not out of any sense of guilt.
“I know,” Nizam said.
Josan started. He had not heard the door open.
With fingers that shook only slightly, he finished tying the straps of his sandals, then straightened up and turned around.
The guard had left the cell, and Nizam stood in his place. Josan felt his closeness as if it were a blow, cold sweat breaking out along his spine, and his stomach clenched in anticipation. He was grateful that he had not eaten anything since yesterday.
If Nizam came closer, he knew his limbs would tremble. He could not control how his body reacted to his torturer, but he was more than mindless flesh.
“If you know I am innocent, then why wasn’t I freed?”
Nizam shrugged. “It is my job to uncover the facts. Others decide what to do with what I find,” he said.
Nizam stepped closer, and Josan locked his knees to keep himself from sagging as Nizam tugged at the folds of his tunic until it was arranged to his satisfaction.
“I will miss our conversations,” he said, giving one of his rare smiles. Josan had learned to dread those smiles. Then Nizam stepped back. “Come, they are waiting for you.”
The waiting guards had been dismissed. Apparently Nizam himself was considered sufficient escort. They climbed the stairs that led up from the catacombs in silence, emerging from an unmarked door into a small courtyard that accessed the buildings set aside for the ministers of state. It was a different route than the guards had taken when they took him to the dungeons, and Josan wondered just how many entrances and exits there were to the secret realms.
With each step, he grew more puzzled. He’d expected to be met by a contingent of soldiers, ready to lead him off in chains, and to hear the distant roar from the great square as the crowds prepared to witness his execution. Instead he was greeted only by the soft rays of dawn and the sounds of birds twittering as they splashed in the ornamental fountain.
But he was given no time to savor the peaceful scene, for Nizam urged him across the courtyard and into the nearest building. Prince Lucius might have once known what offices this building held, but Josan the monk could only speculate on where he was being taken.
And why.
At this early hour the ministry was empty. They encountered no one until they reached their destination—an unmarked door. Nizam rapped on the door once, then opened it.
“As you ordered,” Nizam said, pushing Josan into the room.
Caught off guard, Josan stumbled for a few steps until he was able to regain his balance. Looking up, his gaze met that of Proconsul Zuberi, whose frown of displeasure boded ill. Seat
ed next to the proconsul was Brother Nikos.
There was no one else. He had expected Petrelis, the head of the city watch, or his deputy at the very least, but there were no guards. No irons. Merely two of the most powerful men in Ikaria, seated at a table that held the remains of their breakfast.
“Should I wait for him?” Nizam asked.
“Yes,” Zuberi said, just as Nikos said, “No.”
It seemed the two men were not in accord. They glared briefly at each other, then Zuberi said, “Wait outside.”
“Sit,” Zuberi added, gesturing at the empty chair at the opposite side of the table. “I won’t have you looming over me.”
Josan pulled out the chair and took his seat, using the time to study the two men. Zuberi’s face was drawn with exhaustion, his lips compressed in anger. By contrast Brother Nikos appeared impassive, but one who knew him well could see the pleasure that he was trying to hide.
Brother Nikos picked up the teapot and poured tea into an empty cup, sliding it across the table to him.
Tea? They were offering him tea? The last time he had seen Zuberi, the proconsul’s men had beaten him nearly to death. And now he was expected to drink tea with him?
“What do you want from me, proconsul? Or is it Emperor Zuberi I by now?”
He was proud of the steadiness of his voice, despite his parched throat and cracked lips. The rising scent of cinnamon tea made his mouth water, but he carefully ignored the cup, assuming that it was either drugged or poisoned.
With a small smile, Brother Nikos filled his own cup and took a hearty sip. And then another.
Only then did Josan drink from his own cup.
The Sea Change Page 8
