The navy is unimportant. The strength of the empire has always been in her armies, Lucius thought. It was he who took control of their shared body and dismissed the clerk with a wave of one hand, ordering the hovering servants to bring him a pot of fresh citrus tea.
Josan despised citrus tea, and Lucius knew this. He had taken a perverse pleasure in requesting it as often as possible, savoring each sip, while Josan inwardly winced. At times like this he almost wished for the days when Lucius could temporarily banish him, but Lucius could no longer force Josan into unknowingness. Josan could not rest—he could try to silence his own thoughts in meditation, providing the illusion of solitariness, but he was always present.
He could not bring himself to apologize for something that was not in his control. Nor could Lucius accept the situation gracefully. They had begun to rub each other raw, as would any two men who had been chained together against their will.
We need the navy to protect our coast. And our ships. Unless you plan to give up the teas of Olizon, along with at least one quarter of the gold that flows into the imperial coffers.
Lucius grimaced, but accepted this point. Then what do you suggest?
Josan had the beginnings of a plan, but he was not ready to share. If he mentioned it, Lucius would insist on implementing it at once rather than waiting until the right moment. Josan resented having been forced into the role of parent, constantly reining in Lucius’s intemperance, urging caution over folly. But each time he was tempted to let Lucius simply have his way, he reminded himself that the consequences to both of them might well prove fatal.
We must ponder our strategy, Josan replied. Zuberi will return tomorrow, and I know the council will have their own ideas.
Think as much as you like. The voice in his mind was scornful. I am in the mood for fencing, unless you plan to interfere with this pleasure as well?
Josan thought a wordless agreement and wondered if the embarrassment that he felt was reflected on their shared visage. When Lucius’s mind slumbered, Josan was content to read his scrolls, consult with the clerks, or stroll in the gardens. He had learned to accept these limitations, but Lucius was used to a more energetic life. Forbidden to leave the city to engage in his favorite pastime of riding, he had taken to visiting the training hall, practicing with a sword as if he were expecting to lead his armies in the field. An unobjectionable pastime for an emperor, and far more to Josan’s taste than Lucius’s other attempts at diversion.
Lucius had still not forgiven Josan for his role in their failed attempt at seduction, though it was not clear what Josan could have done differently. Neither Josan’s apologies, nor his reminder of how such a liaison would be seen by Zuberi, was enough to deflect his wrath.
Since then he had been careful to defer to Lucius in small matters whenever Lucius was present. It would not take much to break their tentative truce.
He could feel Lucius attempting to take control of their body, and Josan let his focus diminish, ignoring the physical sensations in favor of contemplation of the mysteries of the sacred numbers that had once formed the central portion of his studies.
Lucius felt the monk’s presence diminish as he resumed full control of his body. He knew the retreat was meant as an apology, but he could not bring himself to feel grateful. The monk had done him no favors, merely ceding back to Lucius what was his by birthright—control of his own body. Though he knew from bitter experience that this control was but a temporary interlude.
It chafed that he had no way to strike back at the monk. Any action that hurt Josan ultimately hurt Lucius as well. He could not harm him, nor could he banish the monk to silence. Instead he was reduced to petty tricks—eating foods that he knew the monk disliked, insisting on vigorous exercise when the monk would have preferred to study.
He wondered if it would have been easier if they were friends. There was no common ground between them other than their mutual desire to survive. Left to his own desires, he would never have spoken two words to the monk, yet circumstances had bound them together more intimately than any friendship.
Though it was a decidedly unequal partnership. He knew that Josan considered him reckless, constantly chiding him as if the monk were his elder brother. The monk seemed to have forgotten that it had been Lucius, not Josan, who had won over Commander Kiril to their cause. Lucius had engineered their first victory against those who would see him cast off the throne, yet instead of being inspired to even bolder actions, the monk continued to counsel patience.
If the monk had his way, Lucius would turn into a mere statue, surrounded by dusty tomes.
It was not as if the monk’s studies had any value. He still refused to send for books on magic, or anything that might help them discover how to undo the original spell. At times Lucius wondered if the monk truly wished to be free of this curse. For him, this stolen half-life was better than no life at all.
But it was not enough for Lucius, whose restless spirit craved action. In the days before his exile, Lucius had engaged in mock duels with other young nobles of Nerissa’s court—younger sons who showed their daring by befriending the object of the empress’s charity. He had considered them true friends at the time, and indeed some had died in his name in that first aborted rebellion. Those that had survived had done so by denouncing him. Now fortune had turned in his favor, but so far none had shown signs of being willing to trade upon their old friendship. And for his part, he made no overtures to them.
He did not need friends. He needed allies, and the company of those who had once gambled, drunk, and wenched with him would only serve to remind others of the wastrel he had been.
And that Josan still considered him to be.
As he reached the training hall he saw that Ermanno, his usual partner, was already there.
He doffed his robe, revealing a thin tunic underneath, belted with a linen cord. Ermanno was dressed in similar fashion, though his tunic was undyed cotton rather than silk. Lucius began by stretching to limber his muscles. Ermanno mirrored him, performing his own stretches with a fluid grace that Lucius envied. The muscles needed for fighting and swordplay were far different from those required by the menial existence of a lighthouse keeper or fugitive, and his body was only slowly regaining its former suppleness.
At last Lucius straightened up. “The heavy swords today,” he said.
“As you wish, emperor,” Ermanno said. Crossing to the wall he selected two wooden broadswords. Bowing low he extended the first to Lucius, hilt first, before taking his own.
Lucius swung his arm in a serpentine pattern, accustoming himself to the weight of the sword. Usually they practiced with the lighter dueling swords, but he was in the mood to test himself today. The polished ironwood was nearly as heavy as an actual sword would be, though the dull edge would draw no blood.
No man would risk dueling an emperor with sharpened steel—not even if he commanded him to do so.
They took their places in the center of the hall, a dueling circle outlined by dark red stones set in the marble floor. It had been years, perhaps decades, since an actual duel had been fought here, but the circle still remained, testament to a bloodier past. These days the circle was used as a training device—as long as both players stayed within the circle, points were awarded by judges based on the difficulty of the attacks and speed of execution. A swordsman forfeited the match if he stepped outside the circle, or was so careless as to draw blood from his opponent.
Today there were no judges. Lucius raised his sword in salute, and Ermanno followed. As he lowered his sword, Lucius lunged forward in attack.
Ermanno blocked his strike with a blow that made Lucius’s arm ache, and the contest was joined. A part of Lucius’s mind was wholly engaged by the swordplay, though it was merely an extension of the training exercises, as Ermanno essayed one choreographed drill after another, testing his pupil’s skill and stamina. Lucius recognized the attacks, and was nearly always able to block them, though he struck few blows of his own
.
But even as he sparred, a part of Lucius’s mind was still focused on his anger with the monk. The revelation of Zuberi’s fatal illness should have spurred them to take decisive action, but the monk insisted on moving slowly.
If only there was someone he could trust to give him counsel. But even if he found a political ally, he could not trust him with the secret of his twin existence. Neither friendship nor political expediency would be enough to counter the horror of realizing that the emperor was a monster.
His lungs burned, and sweat covered his body, while his opponent was as fresh as if he were merely describing the moves rather than sparring. Lucius’s anger rose. Putting his left hand over his right, he lifted the sword high, then whirled, the sword cutting a clean arc through the air, right where Ermanno’s neck would be.
In his anger he had forgotten that a blow above the shoulders was considered in poor form. But it did not matter, because, before he could complete his turn, Ermanno hooked one leg around his own, and Lucius crashed to the floor.
He lay there, winded, his aching body protesting the bruises he had already received, and the new ones that he had just earned. He would regret this folly later.
“My apologies, emperor,” Ermanno said. He said the same thing every time he bested Lucius, as if superior skill was something to apologize for.
“I will not make that mistake again,” Lucius said.
Ermanno extended his left arm, and after a moment Lucius took it, allowing the man to pull him up.
Lucius swayed for a moment, still breathing heavily. “Enough for today,” he said.
“It was well fought, until the end,” Ermanno said.
Lucius shrugged. He wanted to believe Ermanno’s words, but suspected that they were mere flattery. Still, he could take pride in having lasted longer than he had in his last bout with the heavy swords. Next time he would last longer still.
The monk was wrong about him. Lucius had learned how to be patient when it mattered. But he had also learned when to take risks, and that was a skill the monk needed to learn. And if the monk was unwilling to learn, then it would be up to Lucius to take decisive action, regardless of the monk’s objections.
Josan raised his right arm to tug at the fold of his tunic, grimacing as his muscles reminded him of yesterday’s exertions. Almost as soon as the training session was over, Lucius’s presence had begun to fade. Rather than fighting his retreat, Lucius had cheerfully accepted his banishment, pleased to leave the burden of their aching body to Josan.
It was a child’s trick, letting another be punished for his sins. Shameful in a youth, it was contemptible in a man who claimed to be ready to rule as emperor. Any sympathy that Josan had felt for Lucius had been slowly worn away by such tricks until now he felt only anger at Lucius’s shortsightedness.
Zuberi had returned to the city last night and set a council meeting for this very afternoon. The emperor had been informed of the meeting as if he were the one who had called it and the functionary was merely confirming the time. A subtle play, meant to give the appearance that the emperor was in control. Though if matters followed true to form, any decisions would be made before the emperor arrived, so his presence was a mere formality.
Josan had been waiting for an opportunity to test his newfound alliance with Demetrios and see just how much goodwill the victory over Markos had won him. He had considered his proposal long and hard over many hours and believed he could sway the majority of the councilors to his side.
But it meant acting without Lucius’s agreement, something he had sworn not to do. Each had promised to take no action without the agreement of the other. Yet this opportunity might not come again. If he acted without Lucius, he would incur his anger. If he waited until Lucius was once more present, the moment to act might well have passed.
No matter what he did, he could not win. He had spent most of the morning desperately trying to rouse Lucius’s consciousness, to no avail. As the council chamber came in sight, he gave one last mental shout but heard only silence.
So be it. He was on his own.
Josan did not break stride as he approached the council chamber, trusting that the guards would open the door at the correct moment. It was a trick he had learned from Lucius—an emperor expected others to serve him. The more he behaved like an emperor, the more others were likely to perceive him as such.
Entering the chamber, he was not surprised to see that the councilors were already seated, apparently having been here for some time. Mindful of the watching guards, they rose to their feet and remained standing, until he took his seat, then resumed their own as the doors swung shut behind him.
He used the opportunity to study Zuberi carefully. He looked better than he had—not quite as worn, his complexion warmed by the sun rather than the pale gray of exhaustion. But he was not a well man, and Josan wondered how he could have missed seeing the signs of illness.
Perhaps it was because he had seen Zuberi only as his enemy, not as a man. It was a blindness he could ill afford.
“Proconsul Zuberi, Senator Demetrios, Brother Nikos,” he began, acknowledging each man in turn. “It has been too long since I heard your words of wisdom.”
“Fortunately there has been little to discuss,” Nikos said.
“Oh? Then the news that our colonies are under attack were mere rumors, not fact?” Josan pressed.
“A single colony,” Zuberi said. “And the attackers were repelled.”
“One colony that you know of,” Josan pressed. “And how many ships lost at sea?”
Zuberi frowned.
“It is difficult to determine if the ships are lost, or merely delayed,” Demetrios said.
“Delayed.” Josan let the word hang in the silence. “And how many ships must be delayed before you will believe that there is a threat?”
“We did not summon you here today to talk about ships,” Zuberi said.
“Then you are overlooking a grave danger. Or do you truly think that the Federation of Seddon has forsaken its ambitions?”
“And what makes you think the federation is behind our losses? Perhaps you are still in communication with the treacherous Lady Ysobel?” Brother Nikos asked.
Josan shrugged. “Lady Ysobel’s plans are her own. But those who sent her here to stir up trouble are still in power in the federation, and it is not likely that they will miss any opportunity to take advantage of our weakness.”
“What would you have us do?” Demetrios asked, drawing a sharp glare from Zuberi.
“The fleet needs a new admiral. The captains blame me for Hector’s death, seeing him as a martyr to my ambitions. They will not follow me unless they are led by someone they trust.”
“We have discussed this before. The senior captains are all Hector’s men, chosen by him and personally loyal to him,” Nikos said, with the air of a teacher correcting a difficult student.
“And most are of the old blood,” Josan said. “We need one of the old blood who can hold their loyalties yet who would be faithful to us.”
“Every candidate we’ve proposed either has no experience at sea or enough experience that he will decline this honor. We waste our time discussing this,” Demetrios added.
“But we all agree that the need is urgent?” Josan asked. There were reluctant nods from all present. “Then I suggest we publish a decree recalling Septimus the Younger.”
“No,” Zuberi said, slamming his fist against the table. “I will not see a traitor go unpunished.”
The others startled at his vehemence though Josan had expected no less. Simon the Bald had been the only one who could reach him in his anger, and since Simon had been murdered the council had lost an important voice of reason.
“Septimus the Elder was a traitor. I myself gave evidence against him,” Josan said. “As for his son, not even Nizam could find a whisper linking him to the conspiracy. Septimus’s flight from Ikaria was a sign of prudence, not guilt.”
“The guilt of the father is
shared by his sons,” Demetrios pointed out. Such was true by law, though the law was rarely enforced.
“I will not stand for this,” Zuberi said. “You think to grasp power—”
Demetrios laid a hand on Zuberi’s forearm. “Hear him out,” he said.
Josan took a deep breath, forcing himself to display a calmness he did not feel. These men held his life in his hands, and the moment they thought him beyond their control, they would dispose of him. The trick was to guide them while letting them make the final decision.
“Septimus was an experienced captain before he became master of Karystos harbor. He is of the old blood, and well known to the navy. Moreover, if we are seen to deal with him fairly, it will set an example for all those captains who might feel threatened by our rule. Give them a reason to serve faithfully, and they will fall in line.”
“And if not?” Brother Nikos asked.
“If not, are we any worse off than we are now? Our fleet and sailors are rotting in harbor, while our enemies’ aggression goes unchecked,” Josan said.
“I do not believe the situation is as dire as you say. Still, it would do no harm to recall Septimus the Younger and put our own questions to him,” Demetrios said. He turned slightly away from Josan so that he was facing the other councilors. “If we then see fit to offer him a post, that will be our choice.”
Demetrios was a master politician. By reminding Zuberi of where the power lay, he had both supported the emperor while simultaneously undercutting his position.
But it was enough for Zuberi. “So be it. Draft up a decree recalling Septimus, guaranteeing his safety. But do not think yourself clever, princeling. You have not gotten your way. Not yet.”
“The final decision will be yours, of course,” Josan said. “I merely offered my advice.”
“And have you any other words of wisdom for us today?” Zuberi asked, his voice dripping with scorn.
The Sea Change Page 19
