The Sea Change

by Patricia Bray

  He did not understand why Zuberi would scheme to put a man whom he hated on the throne of Ikaria; but it did not matter, for Zuberi had unwittingly given Josan a new goal. He wanted to do more than survive. Instead he would strive to gather enough power that he was able to act on his own, free of Zuberi’s restraint.

  And when that day came, Nizam would do well to fear him. And to fear what Josan had learned in these past weeks.

  His feet were numb. Josan tried to wriggle his toes within their too-small boots, but he could not tell if his efforts had been successful. The boots, which had belonged to one of the late princes, were made of dark purple leather that had been elaborately decorated, and were intended for occasions of state. They were also intended for a man with smaller feet.

  “I don’t see why I couldn’t have worn sandals,” he complained. “I will make a poor impression if I stumble in front of the court because I cannot feel my feet.”

  Proconsul Zuberi turned to glare at him. “You will look the part of an emperor. Any discomfort you feel is a small price to pay.”

  Indeed, his cramped feet were a mere trifle compared to what he had endured in the past weeks. But it gave Josan’s mind something to focus on as he and Zuberi waited in the antechamber behind the main audience hall.

  A heavy brocaded curtain separated the chamber from the hall, muffling the sounds of the crowd gathered on the other side. From time to time, Zuberi drew back a corner of the curtain to peer through, but he had firmly rebuked Josan when he tried to do the same. Josan had time for no more than a quick glance before the curtain was pulled from his grasp.

  At last the functionary whom Josan had named One entered the room. Bowing low, he said, “All is in readiness, your graciousness.”

  His words were addressed to Josan, as the emperor-to-be, but the functionary waited for Zuberi’s dismissal before bowing a second time and backing out of the room.

  Josan’s stomach clenched in anticipation of what was to come.

  “Wait twelve heartbeats, then follow,” Zuberi reminded him, his hand poised to pull the curtain back.

  “I know what I have to do,” Josan snapped.

  Zuberi turned to scowl at Josan. “Remember that neither purple robes nor that ancient crown gives you any power. You live or die as I command, Lucius.”

  Apparently satisfied that he had put the upstart prince in his place, Zuberi drew back the curtain and stepped through onto the dais at the head of the audience chamber.

  Josan could hear the rising hum of voices as the crowd realized that Zuberi was dressed in the white silk of a minister of state rather than the robes of an emperor. Squaring his shoulders, he counted off twelve heartbeats, then stepped through the curtains.

  The murmuring voices fell silent as Josan advanced across the dais and took his place in front of the throne. To his left stood Proconsul Zuberi, in his role as the chief minister of state, while to his right stood Brother Nikos, accompanied by an acolyte who held an open case containing the lizard crown.

  His eyes swept the assembled gathering, noting that armed guards with naked swords lined the three walls of the audience chamber. An ordinary ceremony would have arrayed the witnesses by rank, but today the front row contained only those whom Zuberi had enlisted in support of this farce—Simon the Bald, Chancellor of the Exchequer; Demetrios, the leader of the senate; Duke Seneca, a cousin by marriage of the late empress; Aristid, arguably the richest merchant in Ikaria; and several others whose rank would not have ordinarily entitled them to a place in the front row, including Petrelis, whose guards ensured that there would be no disruption.

  Josan waited, expecting angry shouts and demands for his death, but there was only a low murmur.

  Zuberi turned to address the assembled crowd. “An evil plot took from us our beloved empress, and struck down her sons before they had time to fulfill their promise. We will never forget their loss, but today we look to the future. Our next emperor is a man who has given ample evidence of his devotion to Ikaria and his personal loyalty to Empress Nerissa.”

  Josan marveled as Zuberi continued to praise him, showing none of the contempt that he displayed in private. Surely the courtiers knew that these words were exaggerations at best, if not outright lies? At any moment he expected someone to call out a challenge; instead he saw only the nodding of Zuberi’s allies.

  He forced his wandering mind to pay attention as Zuberi continued, “This was not an honor that he sought, but in all humility Prince Lucius has accepted our plea to devote himself to the service of the empire. I can think of no worthier candidate, and thus we are honored to bear witness as he accepts the crown of Ikaria and the steward-ship of the empire.”

  Zuberi turned back to face him once more, and at his signal Josan knelt, presumably for the last time in his life.

  Brother Nikos came to stand beside his shoulder, ensuring that all present had a clear view of their future emperor. As Brother Nikos prayed to the twin gods, Josan’s attention was caught by the acolyte who stood at his side. He looked familiar, though from his age he would have been a boy when Josan was last in the temple. Minsah was his name, or perhaps Mensah. The acolyte’s shifting gaze and the faint tremors that ran through his outstretched arms indicated that he was overwhelmed by the occasion, and Josan felt a twinge of sympathy.

  Then his gaze drifted upwards to the burnished crown, wondering where they had found it. Called the lizard crown because of the lizards that lurked among the twined olive leaves, it was the traditional crown of Lucius’s forebears. Scurrilous legend had it that the crown had bitten the usurper, Aitor the Great, at his coronation, though it was likely that the ancient crown had merely scratched him. Whatever the reason, Aitor had had a new crown made—a wide band of gold heavily encrusted with costly gems—that had been worn by his son and his granddaughter.

  That crown was presumably held in safekeeping, meant for the next true emperor. Prince Lucius was deemed only worthy of the lesser crown, a sign that he had not truly taken Nerissa’s place.

  “Do you swear to carry out the legacy of Empress Nerissa, to safeguard and protect her people, and to give your life in service of the empire?” Brother Nikos asked.

  Giving his life in service of the empire—or in service of Nikos and Zuberi’s schemes—was exactly what he had promised, so his voice was steady as he gave the reply that they had drilled into him. “I swear to honor the memory of Empress Nerissa, to rule as she would have done, with mercy and compassion, guided by the wisdom of those around me.” Thus he proclaimed himself a mere puppet for those who had not the wit to see this on their own. “I swear to devote my life to the service of the empire, and to safeguarding her people.”

  Brother Nikos reached into the case and lifted the crown high, so that all could see.

  “Accept the crown of Ikaria and the devotion of your people.”

  Josan had a brief moment of panic. What if the crown did not fit? What if it was like the boots, so small that it appeared a jest?

  But Brother Nikos did not appear concerned as he raised the crown one final time, then lowered it onto Josan’s head. The delicate filigree fooled him, for it was heavier than he had expected, and he braced himself at the unaccustomed weight.

  As Brother Nikos removed his hands and stepped back, Josan felt a flash of warmth where the metal touched his skin. The acolyte gasped, and Brother Nikos’s eyes widened. A few in the crowd cried out in amazement, though he didn’t know why.

  Proconsul Zuberi, his face now pale with anger, gestured for him to rise.

  Surprise welled up inside him, then triumphant glee. At last. In his mind he heard a voice that had been silent for nearly a year. The scene before him blurred, as if he were seeing it through another’s eyes. For an instant he lost all sensation in his limbs, as he heard Prince Lucius’s voice ask, What dream is this?

  Josan stumbled as he tried to rise to his feet, and only Nikos’s quick grasp of his arm kept him from falling.

  He knew he should be p
leased that Prince Lucius’s soul had survived, but the prince could not have chosen a worse time to make his presence known. Please, Josan thought furiously, I will explain everything. But we must do nothing to rouse their suspicions.

  As sensation returned, he slowly seated himself on the backless ivory throne, wishing for an ordinary chair with a back that he could lean against. He took his time arranging his robes around him as he fought for composure. He could feel Lucius trying to take control of his body but he could not let that happen. Not when one false word could result in their deaths.

  This is no dream? They have crowned me emperor?

  Yes, but in name only. Zuberi holds the chain around our neck, and we must do nothing to rouse his suspicions.

  Josan tasted fear, but it was quelled beneath Prince Lucius’s pleasure.

  Lucius, who had been spared the past twelve months and knew nothing of what Josan had endured to preserve their lives.

  Lucius, who had always wanted to be emperor, and only in the final days of his existence had learned to reckon the cost of his ambitions.

  I can wait, Lucius said. For now, let us enjoy the sight of Zuberi on his knees.

  Josan shivered. Lucius had only reluctantly come to terms with the invader who had taken possession of his body—a truce forced upon them by circumstances that had demanded their cooperation. He had no reason to welcome Josan’s presence, and indeed many reasons why he would seek to banish him. And while Zuberi had the power to confine Josan’s body, Lucius had a far more insidious power. He could banish Josan’s soul, locking his intellect away in a kind of endless sleep, denied even the relief of dreams—a prison from which there would be no escape.

  Josan had as much to fear from Lucius as he did from his enemies—and Lucius was the one person from whom he could never escape.

  Chapter 7

  Lady Ysobel watched from the foredeck as the hoist swung the last load of crates into the Swift Gull’s main hold. From where she stood, she could not see what was happening below, but mere moments later the empty cargo net was raised again, indicating that her sailors had unloaded and stowed the cargo with the practiced speed of a well-trained crew.

  “That was the last of them,” Captain Zorion said.

  “I know.”

  “There’s a favorable tide tonight, and good weather…” His voice trailed off as she turned to face him.

  “I know that, too.”

  Zorion was not merely one of the captains in her employ, he was a friend—in fact, her oldest friend. He had entered her service more than ten years ago, when her aunt Tilda had seen fit to chart one course to serve two ends—gifting her favorite niece with a captured pirate vessel and sending along her favorite captain to serve her niece, so that Tilda would be free to take him as a lover.

  A fever had taken Tilda from them, but the bonds she had forged had outlasted her death. Zorion’s wisdom helped guide Ysobel from novice ship owner to master trader, with all the privileges and responsibilities that entailed.

  Zorion knew Ysobel better than anyone. Better than the young men who sometimes graced her bed, better even than her own father. In the past he had never hesitated to offer his advice, nor to point out when she was behaving foolishly. She knew the only reason he held his tongue now was that he did not need to speak. There was nothing that he could say that she had not already told herself a dozen times over.

  It was just over a month since she had testified before the council. As each day dawned, she was confident that this would be the day that she was finally released by the council, free to leave Sendat and resume the life she was meant to lead. The arrival of the Swift Gull in harbor had seemed an omen that her fortunes were about to change, and she had spent long hours in conference with Captain Zorion, plotting her next voyage and negotiating their cargo.

  Time spent in harbor was coin wasted, and the federation rightly boasted that no harbor in the world made quicker work of supplying ships, or of loading and unloading cargo. The repairs to the Swift Gull’s rigging had been completed yesterday, and with the last of the cargo on board, she was ready to sail tonight, a mere four days after she had arrived.

  Her ship was ready, but Ysobel was not.

  A freshening breeze brought the clean scents of the open sea, banishing the familiar stench of the dockside. Ysobel closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

  “Take the Gull out into the harbor and anchor there tonight,” she said. Space at the wharves was at a premium, and each hour they spent tied to the wharves drained more coins from her dwindling reserves.

  “A trader listens to her head, not her heart,” Zorion said, his lips tight with disapproval.

  She placed her hand on his forearm, in silent entreaty. “It has been a long time since I lived as a trader. Nearly two years since I last stood on the deck of one of my ships as she sailed from harbor. Give me one more night. If the council does not release me on the morn, you may sail without me, on the noon tide.”

  “One more night,” he said. “You know nothing would make me happier than having you on board but—”

  “But your duty is to my house. As is mine.”

  “I’ll pray to the Sea Witch that the land-bound officials see wisdom,” he said, with familiar scorn for those who chose to make their living on dry land. “And I’ll ask your aunt Tilda to put in a good word with her as well, seeing as she was so devoted to her.”

  Ysobel laughed, as he had meant her to do. The contrary Sea Witch brought fortune both good and ill to sailors, who swore by her fickle charms. There were many stories about her, most of which contradicted each other. One thing all agreed upon was that the Sea Witch had a wicked temper and a tongue to match. Much the same could have been said about Tilda when she was alive.

  Zorion surprised her with a quick embrace. Ordinarily such gestures were reserved for when they were in private. In public he was careful to treat her with the deference due his employer. From the strength of his arms around her, she knew that he expected that this was good-bye, and that tomorrow he would set sail alone.

  “I hope to see you in the morning,” she said. “And if I do not, I wish you fair winds, calm seas, and a profitable voyage.”

  After leaving the Swift Gull, Ysobel made her way to the western end of the fish market, where street vendors set up stalls to feed dock laborers and those who had no kitchens of their own. By now, most of the vendors knew her—or knew of her at least, since it was seldom that a master trader chose to eat such humble fare. But with every coin she could lay claim to earmarked to support her ships, there was little left over for self-indulgence.

  She knew that tonight Zorion would dine better than she, but that was as it should be. Zorion and the sailors aboard the Swift Gull were an asset, their labors bringing valuable coin to her house. They deserved every consideration, while she was merely a drain on her resources. Until the council released her, she could do little. And despite her brave words, she had little hope that the next day would bring a change in her circumstances.

  Such grim thoughts did nothing to whet her appetite, and so rather than examining today’s offerings, she simply wandered through the stalls till she found one that was less crowded than the others. She recognized the proprietor, Brice—a white-haired former sailor who had lost both legs below the knees some years ago. His forced retirement seemed to sit easily, as he could often be found chatting cheerfully with his customers, and when no customers were to be found he gossiped with those who minded the adjacent stalls. She’d heard the tale of how he lost his legs at least a dozen times, and each time it was different.

  Today it was a pair of apprentices that held his attention, listening with wide-eyed fascination as he spun a tale of his encounter with a beautiful mermaid. Ysobel caught his eye and pointed to the grill. Brice nodded, not missing a single beat in his story as he grabbed a chipped bowl from the stack at his elbow, then filled it with fried fish balls and two stuffed cabbage leaves.

  The bowl and metal fork were wort
h more than the price of her meal, so like the rest of the customers she ate standing up, careful to keep within his sight lest she be accused of theft. The spicy batter disguised the plainness of the fish, while the red cabbage leaves were stuffed with a mixture of goat cheese, beans, and herbs. Cheap fare, but filling. She ate swiftly, finishing her bowl just as Brice reached the climax of this story—this time the mermaid’s jealous lover transformed himself into a shark. She’d heard this variation before, so she handed her bowl back to Brice and left.

  Making her way to the seawall that formed one end of the fish market, she climbed the stairs and looked out into the harbor, where she saw that the Gull was already anchored among the others waiting for their sailing orders. With all of her heart she longed to be there, and for a moment she contemplated simply hiring a lighter to take her to her ship, and leaving in the morning with the Gull, whether the council approved or no.

  But she knew better than to indulge in such folly. The council jealously guarded its privileges, and they would take swift retaliation against one who flouted their will. And, indeed, from their perspective they were not punishing her. Most traders spent their lives ashore, managing their trading houses and fleets of ships. Her own father set foot on ship only when he needed to travel between the islands.

  Sea captains had the freedom to explore. Master traders led lives that were more circumscribed, maneuvering for power.

  She had known when she entered diplomatic service that she was giving up the sea, but it had seemed a fair trade at the time. She had imagined spending a year or two in service, then returning to the federation, where her experiences would elevate her to the first rank of traders. But as time passed, she had come to regret her ambitions. Though she wondered whether it was truly her love for the sea that drove her, or merely her contrary nature that made her long for the one thing that was denied her.