The Sea Change

by Patricia Bray

  “I was not expecting you so soon,” Lucius added, wondering what, or whom, had brought Kiril so far from his post.

  Kiril flushed slightly as he replied, “I could not let Karystos stand alone in her time of need. I was already on the march when your orders reached me.”

  Lucius recalled no such order, and the monk, who took the time to read each piece of parchment that Ferenc thrust before them, agreed.

  Lacking an overall leader, the five regional commanders had reported directly to Empress Nerissa, which meant in practice that their orders had come through Proconsul Zuberi’s office. It must have been Zuberi who summoned Kiril here, in the name of the new emperor.

  Their encounter was a stroke of luck, for Zuberi would never allow Lucius to speak with Kiril alone—or at least not until he had privately informed Kiril of the emperor’s impotence.

  “Your arrival is well-timed, for I was on my way to consult with my councilors,” Lucius said. “You will walk with me.”

  “I am honored,” Kiril replied, inclining his head.

  As Lucius turned, Kiril fell into step at his right, a quarter pace behind him, close enough to hear what Lucius had to say without presuming himself his equal. It was a sign of respect, and perhaps a sign that Commander Kiril, at least, was unaware that the new emperor was a mere figurehead.

  Their escorts trailed several paces behind, out of earshot.

  Here was the opportunity he had been searching for if Lucius only knew how to use it. He thought frantically, dredging up what bits he could remember about Kiril. Among the more conservative of the newcomers, his family had a long tradition of military service. He had briefly served in the empress’s personal guard before being posted to the far-flung sections of the empire. Lucius risked a side-long glance, trying to reconcile the gallant officer of a dozen years before with the impassive man who walked at his side.

  The last time he had seen Kiril, it had been at the wedding of Kiril’s sister. All of the members of Nerissa’s court and her dependents had been invited to attend, including himself. He had forgotten the name of Kiril’s sister, a plain thing who already looked the part of a matron though she was barely sixteen. Still, the groom had seemed happy enough, for with the sponsorship of his new father-in-law, Anatoli had begun a rapid rise through the military ranks.

  Anatoli, who at last report was a senior aide to Commander Markos, whose armies marched toward Karystos.

  The vague outlines of a plan began to form in his mind. Zuberi would never agree; he would order Kiril to help fortify Karystos, but that would be a mistake. If the fighting reached the walls of the city, then win or lose the battle, they would have already lost the war.

  “Your sister’s husband, Anatoli, he is well?”

  Kiril’s face gave away nothing, but his feet betrayed him, as he froze for a moment, then hastened to catch up.

  “It has been some time since I heard from him—”

  “Nonsense. If my messengers found you, so have Markos’s. And even one as stupid as he would know enough to bait the trap with a letter from Anatoli.”

  Kiril’s complexion turned gray, perhaps recalling the Rooms of Pain that lay under this very complex. “My emperor, I would never betray you—”

  “Of course not,” Lucius said. At least not without sufficient incentive. Which was why Kiril was here. Markos must have made him an offer, and Kiril had come to see if the new emperor would better it.

  A dangerous gamble, but it showed he had courage. And he would need that in full if he was to agree to Lucius’s scheme.

  “I do not fear the pretender Markos,” Lucius said.

  “Of course,” Kiril murmured.

  Lucius stopped so swiftly that their escort nearly collided with him. Turning to Kiril, he held out his right hand, palm upwards. Ignoring the monk’s protests, he searched deep within himself, rejoicing as the power of his ancestors sprang forth at his command. Yellow flames danced on the palm of his hand, and Kiril gasped.

  Lucius waited several heartbeats, then closed his fist, quenching the flames within.

  “Markos’s destiny is already writ in the stars. He will be destroyed, utterly. I fear not him, but for those he may lead astray in his quest for power.”

  Lucius resumed walking, and after a moment Kiril once more fell in at his side.

  “I knew Markos,” Lucius said. “He was a bully and a liar then, and he has not changed since. Whatever promises he has made you, I assure you they are worthless.”

  As a boy, Lucius had joined Nerissa’s sons as they were tutored in the military arts. Markos, an ensign at the time, had been in charge of their physical training. Their lessons had been supposed to instill discipline, but Lucius had learned something else. Markos had repeatedly praised him to his face, then later blamed him publicly for being unruly and the source of all mishaps in the training hall. Markos had been swift to curry favor with those who could be useful to him, only to discard them once their use was over. Well regarded by his superiors, he was despised by his underlings—a fact that Kiril must know.

  “Emperor Lucius, I seek only to serve,” Kiril said, still visibly shaken by Lucius’s earlier display.

  He was hardly likely to confess to considering treason, though it would have saved time if they could have spoken plainly to each other.

  “You will take your armies north, where, on your signal Anatoli will arrest Markos and turn him over to you, along with those who conspired with him. Restore order to his legions, and bring Markos here to me to face judgment, and I will name you general of the armies.”

  It was probably the same offer that Markos had made him—generalship of the armies in return for supporting Markos’s claim to the throne.

  “As your first act, you may promote Anatoli to your place as commander of the southern legion. Though if Kazagan has used your absence to rebel, your first task will be the reconquest of those lands.” Lucius kept his tone casual, implying that disagreement was inconceivable.

  They walked in silence for several paces, and Lucius fought the urge to hold his breath. He must not show any sign of weakness.

  “What of the other commanders?”

  “I would have made the same offer to any of them,” he said. “You arrived first, but if you do not feel up to the task, I will raise another in your place.”

  Lucius gave a cold smile. If he failed today, it was unlikely that he would have a chance to make this offer again, but Kiril did not know that. Kiril believed he was speaking with an emperor, a man favored by his gods. Once he met with the councilors, he would gain a far different impression.

  Lucius said no more, striving to give the impression of a man negotiating from a position of strength. He fought to appear confident, but his heart sank as Kiril remained silent. As the doors to the council chamber came in sight, Lucius realized that time had run out.

  Bitter disappointment welled up within him. If he could not convince this man to follow him—a man who believed that he was emperor in truth—then what hope did he have of ever being more than Zuberi’s slave?

  As their escort opened the doors to the council chamber, Kiril finally spoke. “I will be honored to carry out your orders. My emperor.”

  Lucius did not bother to conceal his pleasure, which grew at the anger he saw on Zuberi’s face as he realized just who it was who had intruded on the council session.

  “Lucius,” Zuberi began, the informal address a marked departure from the imperial protocol they observed in public. Then Zuberi paused as Commander Kiril followed Lucius into the chamber.

  Lucius’s eyes swept over the small gathering. Zuberi, Brother Nikos, who was never far from his side these days, Demetrios, and Simon. Four men who ruled the empire in his name and ruled him as well.

  “My trusted servants,” he said, ignoring Zuberi’s obvious displeasure. “Commander Kiril begs your attention as he explains how he will bring the traitor Markos to justice.”

  Demetrios frowned thoughtfully as Zuberi swallowed
whatever remark he had been about to make. He had surprised them, and men of power did not like surprises. Despite his announcement, Lucius was the focus of all eyes, not Commander Kiril.

  Lucius took the vacant seat opposite Zuberi, nodding to each of the councilors as the monk cataloged each of their expressions. Then he turned toward their guest.

  “Commander, if you would?” Lucius prompted.

  Kiril saluted, then began to speak. If he wondered why his emperor wanted him to claim ownership of their plan, he gave no sign, instead speaking as if he had been considering this strategy for weeks rather than mere moments.

  He had chosen his first ally well. Lucius leaned back in his seat, savoring this moment of triumph. He knew that the councilors were suspicious, but what could they accuse him of? Conspiring with Kiril to achieve a victory that would benefit them all?

  A part of him wanted to claim credit for winning Kiril over to their cause, but the monk’s voice urged him to caution. Zuberi will let us live only as long as he thinks he holds the whip, Josan reminded him. And we cannot stand against him.

  Not yet, Lucius replied. But that day will come.

  After a short debate, the council approved Commander Kiril’s plans and dismissed him. At the monk’s urging, Lucius also departed, so as not to give Zuberi a chance to vent his anger. His glee was tempered by the monk’s dry reminder that he had won a minor skirmish, not the war, and that the cost of victory was still to be reckoned.

  The monk’s presence in his skull was a constant irritation—an itch he could not scratch. The monk yielded when Lucius asked, but he never quite disappeared. He could force the monk into silence, but such an effort of will would drain him, ensuring that his solitary control would not last long.

  The monk had no such difficulties. Once in command of his stolen body he could remain so indefinitely, until the next time Lucius was strong enough to regain awareness. It was fundamentally unfair—this body was Lucius’s by right, but the monk’s ties to it were the stronger, perhaps because his presence was more recent, or perhaps it was merely the result of the long years when Lucius’s spirit had lived in the dreamworld.

  It was as if Lucius had returned from years spent in a foreign country to find a stranger living in his villa. The villa was his by law, but the stranger had the advantage of long occupancy and servants accustomed to obeying their new master. Even after asserting his rights, he was still no more than a mere guest in a place that had once been his personal domain.

  It was no wonder that he felt angry, yet that anger was mixed with shame, knowing that Josan had not chosen this fate. There were far worthier targets for his anger. For both of them.

  And such targets were close to hand as Zuberi swept into Lucius’s private quarters.

  “How dare you?” he demanded.

  Lucius carefully set down his glass of chilled fruit juice, and with a wave of his hand he dismissed the boy who had brought it.

  “What is it that you believe I have done?”

  “You broke our agreement when you conspired with Kiril.”

  Zuberi’s complexion was dangerously red, his face beaded with sweat from the heat of the day. He appeared close to losing control, and this shocked Lucius more than anything else. Zuberi was famous for his self-possession. If Zuberi had indeed changed so greatly, then it was difficult to predict what he might do next.

  “I did not conspire,” Lucius said. “Kiril encountered me as I returned from the gardens, and I could hardly deny him, not when he had been summoned in my name.”

  “And it was mere chance that you happened to be there to greet him?” Zuberi’s voice dripped with scorn.

  “How could it be anything except chance? I knew nothing of his summoning.”

  Lucius remained seated even as Zuberi paced furiously around him. Strangely, the angrier Zuberi became, the easier it was for him to remain calm. Here, at least, was an enemy he could fight, even if the only weapons in this battle were his wits and his temperament.

  “I will not tolerate your disobedience,” Zuberi said. “You swore to take no action on your own. If you cannot be trusted, then you will be replaced.”

  He did not doubt that Zuberi had the power to have him imprisoned, even executed. But he wondered why Zuberi had come alone to confront him. Could it be that the rest of the councilors did not share Zuberi’s sentiments? They had much to gain from peace and little to gain from strife. If Commander Kiril succeeded in his task, Lucius might well find he had allies among Zuberi’s former cronies.

  But first he must survive.

  “The army serves the emperor. If the commander judged me a weakling, what reason had he to support me? He would have rushed to offer his sword to Markos and returned to Karystos at the head of a conquering army.”

  “You do not give the orders.”

  “And I did not. I merely listened to Kiril as I escorted him to the council, so you and the others could judge the worthiness of his proposal.”

  Zuberi turned away abruptly. “We had other plans for his legions.”

  “Then you could have overruled him. Couched your orders as advice to me, and I would have endorsed them. The worthy commander would have left the council room believing the orders were mine even as he hastened to do your bidding.”

  Zuberi growled, apparently unable to find fault with Lucius’s logic. As he resumed pacing, Lucius allowed himself to believe that the danger was passed.

  Then Zuberi halted. He turned, and his anger was gone, replaced by a cruel smile.

  “Your cleverness will be your undoing,” he declared. “If Kiril succeeds in uniting the legions, we may find we no longer have a use for a mock-emperor.”

  The thought had occurred to him as well, but he would not show fear. He would not give Zuberi that satisfaction.

  “If you are so eager for the throne, why not take it today? There are none who would deny you.”

  He felt the monk’s anger at his challenge. But Lucius was counting on Zuberi’s intelligence overriding his anger. Zuberi had put Lucius on the throne, and for whatever reason he still needed him. Zuberi would not move against him.

  Not yet.

  “The scales of balance remain in your favor. For the moment. Challenge me again, and I will accept your offer.”

  “Understood,” Lucius said, inclining his head as if Zuberi had just complimented him.

  And, indeed, he understood his position well. He must keep Zuberi satisfied while at the same time gathering enough supporters to himself so that, when the time came, Zuberi would not be able to act against him. It would be a close race, but one he must win, or die trying.

  Prince Lucius had declared his goals, but it was left to Josan to strategize how they could achieve his objectives. He agreed that they needed to gather power to themselves if they were to survive, but despite the lofty title of emperor, he had very little with which to work. Lucius had no former friends in positions of power, nor could he dispense favors—the traditional means by which emperors built their followings. Even his purse was constrained—the senate had confirmed him as emperor but, for the moment, at least, Nerissa’s private fortune was out of his grasp. The functionaries saw that he was fed and clothed royally, but he had not a single coin to his name.

  His clerk Ferenc routinely refused all invitations on his behalf, for reasons of security. Those few who attempted to wait upon him in person were turned back by the functionaries long before they reached the imperial apartments. The court must think him an arrogant recluse, which was hardly likely to gain him any allies.

  Days passed with no change to the tedium of his existence. Josan could feel Lucius growing impatient, and tried to reassure the prince that any change to their situation would take time.

  Josan very carefully did not think about what had happened the last time the prince had decided to take decisive action, abandoning calm calculation for bold action. He had survived two internments in the Rooms of Pain. He had no wish to endure a third.

  The
re had been no word yet from Commander Kiril, and privately Josan wondered if Kiril would keep his oaths or if he would throw in his lot with Markos. It was what Josan would have done, if he were in Kiril’s place.

  It seemed as if each day brought more bad news. The mood of the council grew grim, and Zuberi’s distemper gave him a haggard appearance. On those rare occasions when the emperor was called into the council’s presence, he noticed that the other councilors couched their words carefully, lest they draw Zuberi’s wrath. Weeks passed, and Josan was no closer to making allies than he was to discovering why Zuberi had placed him on the throne.

  Then came the news that Simon the Bald had been killed—murdered while he slept. As a prominent supporter of the new emperor, it was hard not to see this as a prelude to an attack on Lucius himself.

  Simon’s funeral was a private affair, supposedly at the request of his family. Though Josan suspected the real reason was that Petrelis and his guards were not certain they could guarantee the safety of the emperor and his supporters if they chose to attend.

  When the emperor’s bimonthly court reception was abruptly canceled, supposedly for reasons of ill health, Lucius would have protested, but Josan held him silent. He no longer trusted Zuberi’s grasp on the shreds of his temper. It seemed increasingly likely that Zuberi would forget himself, or, worse yet, forget his need for his pet emperor and take irrevocable action against him.

  Everyone’s tempers were frayed as the heat of the summer wore on and fevers swept through the poorer districts. A few nobles left for their country estates, but most remained in the city to ensure that their rivals did not take advantage of their absence. Karystos had the feeling of a city under siege, as all waited to see if the emperor could hold on to his throne or if the legions would rise up against him.

  Finally, a messenger from Commander Kiril arrived bearing a tersely worded note stating that the legions had been restored to order after Commander Markos’s suicide. He might have skimped on his words, but the messenger also brought gruesome proof in the form of Markos’s severed head and hands.