For a moment she pitied those crews.
“It is time,” Burrell prompted. He held out a torch.
Elpheme reached for it, but Ysobel stayed her hand. “No.”
“This is my ship,” Elpheme insisted.
“It is mine,” Ysobel said. “My ship, my responsibility.”
She took the torch, and Burrell uncovered the small brazier of coals that he had been guarding against the wind. The torch caught fire rapidly.
Ysobel walked toward the deckhouse, stopping as her feet reached the edge of the pool of lantern oil. “You were a good ship and served me well,” she said. “I beg forgiveness for what I must do.”
With a flick of her wrist she tossed the torch, which spun in an arc before landing on the deck.
The lantern oil caught fire immediately, and the flames began to spread, leaping up the oil-soaked rags that led from the deck to the rigging above.
Ysobel watched for a moment, until she was forced to step back as the flames approached her feet. Already the sails were beginning to catch fire—a sight sure to strike terror in any sailor’s heart.
A fire-ship. The only defense was to run, but in the narrow harbor there would be little chance for escape.
Ysobel doffed her cloak, and the cold wind bit cruelly through the simple shirt and leggings that were all she wore underneath. Returning to the stern she saw that Burrell and Elpheme had stripped off their cloaks as well.
She could have done this without them, but they had refused to leave her. Untying her sandals, she placed her right hand on the taffrail.
“Once in the water, swim for yourselves,” she said. “Don’t wait, don’t look back. Landers will be waiting with the small boat just beyond the breakwater.”
“Yes, ma’am,” they said.
“Go,” she said. “I will be the last.”
Burrell balanced on the rail for a moment before dropping into the water below. She held her breath until he surfaced, and began to swim. Elpheme jumped next, briefly disappearing under the waves before bobbing back up.
Ysobel hesitated. It felt wrong to leave a good ship to perish without a single member of her crew. If Elpheme had been here on her own, she might have chosen to stay with her ship to the bitter end.
But Ysobel had greater responsibilities. She vaulted over the taffrail and plunged into the water below.
The icy water cut through her like a knife, even as she struggled to the surface. Her lungs were paralyzed, fighting to draw breath. She turned away from the blazing Dolphin until she could see the white foam where the sea broke over the rocks, marking the entrance of the harbor. It seemed impossibly far away, and she cursed herself for delaying so long, even as she began to swim.
She saw a dark shape moving ahead of her, but lacked the breath to call out. The winter seas would sap even the strongest of swimmers. A man could endure a quarter hour at need. A half hour was possible, but any longer and they would become paralyzed and drown.
She swam as her arms burned, and her legs grew so numb that she no longer knew if she was kicking or merely dragging them behind her. She listened for the sound of shouts or muffled oars, waiting for the patrol boat to catch up to her, but there was no sound of pursuit.
At last she passed the breakwater and saw the crew of the rowboat frantically waving their lantern. The voices that called for her spoke her own tongue, and she redoubled her efforts.
As her fingers brushed the side of the rowboat, she stared up at it stupidly, wondering what to do next.
“Your hand,” Landers said. “Give me your hand.”
Ysobel reached up with both arms, which were swiftly caught. She was heaved on board, her belly scraping against the side of the boat until she was over the side, then she collapsed in a heap on the floor of the boat.
Strong arms helped her sit up, and someone threw a blanket over her shoulders.
She was too cold to shiver and knew this for a bad sign.
The sailing master held a metal cup to her mouth, and she gulped a mixture of lukewarm tea and brandy, which burned a trail down her gullet.
“Elpheme? Burrell?” she asked, as her teeth began to chatter.
“Burrell is behind you,” someone said, and she turned her head to observe him huddled under his own blanket. “There’s no sign of Captain Elpheme.”
“She jumped before me,” Ysobel said. “We will wait for her.”
Elpheme had sworn herself a strong swimmer. Ysobel would never have agreed to her presence otherwise, no matter that Elpheme was the last captain the Dolphin would ever have.
Bracing herself, she rose from the floor of the boat, and the rowers moved apart so she could sit between them. She looked back into the harbor. The Dolphin, ablaze from the waterline to the top of her masts, had reached the anchored ships. She watched as wind-fanned sparks jumped from the Dolphin to the first ship, then to another, their furled canvas and pitch-coated lines providing ready fuel for the hungry flames.
The ships were too closely anchored together to avoid their fates. On a calm night, they might have had a chance, but the wind would spread the fires too swiftly for even the bravest crews.
Burrell moved to sit beside her, offering silent support. She resisted the urge to lean against him.
They watched in silence, save for one man who whispered a litany of prayers. The burning ships lit the harbor, and she could see signs of activity as desperate captains cut their anchor chains and tried to break for freedom. In such chaos they hindered each other, but at last one ship broke free and began heading for the harbor mouth.
“It’s time to go,” Burrell said.
There had been no sign of Elpheme. Whether by deliberate choice or the cruelty of the cold seas, Captain Elpheme had perished with her ship.
Ysobel was numb, as much from the events of this night as from the cold that had soaked through into her bones. She was responsible for what she saw. She alone had come up with this plan, and when Ancelin had refused to offer one of his vessels, she had chosen to sacrifice one of her own ships to carry it out.
It would be hailed as a brilliant success. Any stragglers that managed to escape the inferno of the harbor would be easily captured by Ancelin and his ships. By the time the sun rose, the Ikarian naval presence here would be destroyed.
Ancelin’s plan for a daylight invasion could have cost them all their lives. She should take comfort in having won the victory at so little cost, but instead she felt the first stirrings of grief. She had a ship and a friend to mourn, and a weight on her soul that would never ease.
“Take us to the Gull,” she said, and as the rowers bent their backs to the oars she turned one last time to look at the harbor before turning away.
Chapter 17
After Zuberi left, Josan continued his studies, waving off the pleas of his servants that he stop to eat and rest. As their requests grew firmer, so, too, did his refusals. Finally, only Eleven, the oldest of the functionaries, was left, along with a young boy to tend the lamps. The boy, at least, had the good sense to fall asleep. When Eleven went to shake the boy awake, Josan demurred. “I will call him when I need him.”
Eleven merely grunted, settling back down on his cushion. The only sounds were the soft hiss of the burning lamps, punctuated by the boy’s snores and the sound of Josan’s pen scratching across parchment.
The journals were harder to read than he had expected. The handwriting was clear, but the words were not. They were filled with abbreviations and references to works that he no longer possessed. It was the language of scholars, one that he had not spoken for eight years.
He dimly remembered his journey to Xandropol, and his months of study that had culminated in the observations recorded in these journals. But he could not remember what it felt like to be that man—to unlock the secrets that the federation traders had so jealously guarded. The man who had written these journals seemed a stranger to him—distanced not just by the passage of years but by the sum of his experiences.
&
nbsp; The monk who had gone to Xandropol had been a brilliant young scholar, already hailed as one of the finest minds of his generation. But for all his knowledge, the monk had been innocent—heedless of the wider world around him. He had maintained that innocence during the long sea voyage back to Ikaria, eager to share his knowledge with his brethren. But instead of the respect of his peers, he had returned to find Ikaria in the midst of rebellion and been betrayed by the very men he had trusted.
Josan shook his head to clear it of such bitter thoughts. It would not do to dwell on the past. Zuberi had given him only five days to relearn what it had taken him months to master. He could not afford to waste any time on self-pity.
Use Aeneades rev Great Map, div 12 sec, exc W o Tarsus, he read. Well that seemed clear enough. There were a number of versions of the map of the great basin which showed the sea and the countries that surrounded it. Aeneades’s version was not the most popular, but this must be the version that the Ikarians used, or the closest one that could be found to it. He sifted through the pile of parchments in front of him until he found the list of references and added Aeneades’s map to it. As soon as daylight arrived he would send the servants to scour the imperial libraries for the books he required.
The collegium would have what he needed, of course, but he could not go back there. It would take a full complement of Petrelis’s guards to force their way into the collegium, and even then there was no guarantee that the books that he sought would still be there. If Nikos realized what Josan was researching, he would have removed any references that could help the emperor. He might have even ordered them burned.
The wanton destruction of knowledge was considered the ultimate sin that one of the brethren could commit, next to the sin of knowingly spreading false knowledge, and both were punishable by expulsion from the order. But Nikos had shown himself a man without honor. He would not hesitate to destroy the collegium itself if it preserved his power.
Which made it all the more vital that Josan succeed. Only once Nikos was defeated would the collegium be safe.
“The weather, what is it like?” Josan asked.
Eleven jerked his head up. “Highness?”
“The weather,” Josan repeated. “Is it fair? Cloudy? Can the stars be seen?”
“Boy,” Eleven called. “Boy!” he shouted again.
The boy sat up, rubbing sleep from his eyes. He picked up the jug of lamp oil and advanced toward Josan’s desk.
“Run to the terrace and tell us what the weather is like,” Eleven ordered.
The boy, still carrying his jug, ran out of the emperor’s sitting room and down the hall. Only after he left did it occur to Josan that he could simply have arisen and crossed to the window to see the weather for himself.
In a few moments the boy returned.
“It’s raining,” he said, panting slightly. “And it’s a cold night.”
“Thank you,” Josan said absently. It did not matter; he could not make true observations until he had a sextant and glass.
The boy’s wide-eyed stare reminded him that an emperor did not acknowledge the presence of such a lowly one, and most certainly did not speak to him. In trying to remember the man he had been, he had forgotten the role he must play.
He could not afford to make that mistake again. If Zuberi or Demetrios had witnessed his lapse, they might well wonder about their emperor’s unusual behavior, and he could not afford to rouse their suspicions.
“Check the lamps, then send for hot tea and sweet rolls for the emperor,” Eleven ordered, having apparently decided that the emperor required sustenance to clear his wits.
Josan turned the page, reaching the end of the first journal. He had not understood the whole of it, but enough for a start. He stretched his arms out before him, then off to his sides, feeling the distant aches of a body held too long in the same position. Then he picked up the second journal and began to read.
Lucius was bored. Ever since their visit to the collegium, it had been Josan in control of their body. Lucius had been present for the confrontation with Zuberi. Then, having no interest in scholarship, he had let himself slumber as Josan began his studies.
When Lucius had surfaced the next morning, Josan was still in the same position as he had left him. The only difference was the size of the piles of books and parchment before him, and the bright sunlight that had replaced the lamplight of the earlier evening.
Lucius could feel his body protesting the lack of sleep and the aches from hours spent seated in a chair without moving. It was an itch under his skin, one that he could not scratch. He could not take control of their shared body, could not take the risk of displacing Josan’s consciousness. The monk was the only one who could master the knowledge that would save them both.
Lucius understood the necessity, but chafed at its restrictions. He tried to return to unconsciousness, but he could not lose himself in the false sleep of unknowingness. Perhaps because he had not truly taken control of his body, neither could he truly release it.
Instead he was forced to wait, a silent observer, as Josan spent the day at his desk, alternating between frantic studying and barking orders at his servants. Here, at least, Josan behaved as an emperor should, brusquely ordering Ferenc to ignore his other duties in favor of making clean copies of mathematical tables, and sending the functionaries scouring through the palace and ministries for the books he needed. The imperial jeweler was summoned, his dignity affronted when Josan ordered him to engrave a series of markings on a curved device fetched from the storerooms of the Imperial Navy.
Lucius understood what it was that Josan was trying to do—determine how to calculate precisely the position of a ship at sea, so ships could reliably find the fastest currents and safest passages. All captains knew how to calculate a ship’s position relative to the equator that divided the great basin between north and south, but accurately determining position east or west of a certain point required visible landmarks or the use of sorcery.
Not sorcery, math. And the knowledge of the precise position of the stars. Which formulas I would be able to determine, if you would stop distracting me.
It might as well be sorcery for all the sense Lucius could make of the monk’s scribbled notes, but Lucius kept this thought to himself.
Josan’s thoughts grew impenetrable, a maze of symbols that he could not follow, and Lucius lost himself in a wordless reverie. He drifted, only partially aware until he felt his body jerk to attention.
“Emperor Lucius, or should I call you Lucius the Scholar?”
Zuberi’s voice came from behind him. Lucius could feel Josan’s shock mingling with his own.
It had only been a day since he had returned from the collegium. Josan had not expected to see Zuberi this soon.
“They tell me that you have been at your studies all night and day,” Zuberi said, walking around the desk until he was visible before them.
Careful, do not provoke him, Lucius warned, though he knew that Josan was already aware of the danger.
Ferenc rose, and after directing a stiff bow precisely calculated to include both of his masters, he gathered up his writing case and left. The servants also disappeared, as they did whenever Zuberi came to see Lucius. Though they were not truly alone. At least one functionary would be within earshot, and it was safe to say that there were other spies he could not see. Perhaps even the same spies who had reported his actions to Zuberi.
“Brother Nikos had an interesting tale to tell,” Zuberi said.
Nikos must have realized the importance of the boxes Josan had taken. He had expected to have a few days’ grace, reasoning that Nikos would enlist allies before acting against him. But it seemed he had misjudged Nikos’s anger, or perhaps how much he feared losing control of his puppet emperor.
“Nikos would say anything to serve his purposes,” Josan said. He lifted his eyes to meet the proconsul’s gaze, then deliberately dropped his gaze back down to his desk.
“Nikos tells me th
at you have a madness within you, and the evidence before me seems to confirm his fears. What other reason could there be for Lucius, the idle wastrel, to have turned devoted scholar?”
Josan shrugged, seeming ready to provoke Zuberi, even as Lucius wordlessly implored him to caution. “I was in exile for seven years, as you may recall. A man has to find some way to occupy his time.”
“So you became a monk?”
Josan flinched.
Zuberi gave a cold laugh. “A monk,” he repeated. “Is that what you claim?”
Demetrios already knows, Lucius reminded Josan. We have nothing to lose.
“Let us say that the secrets contained in these journals are not the only ones that Nikos kept from Empress Nerissa,” Josan said. “For seven years he knew where to find me but said nothing.”
Zuberi slammed his fist down on the desk, and scrolls tumbled off like leaves scattering in the wind. “You lie,” Zuberi said. “One lie after another.”
“We speak the truth. It is Nikos who has lied to you and lies to you still,” Josan said.
“We? You style yourself in the manner of an emperor, but you are a mere pawn, of less use to me than the least of my slaves.”
“You promised me five days,” Josan reminded him. “Is that too high a price to pay for the truth? For knowing whom you can trust?”
Zuberi stared at him, trying to intimidate him by sheer force of will. Lucius tasted their shared fear, but Josan refused to be cowed. He did not even blink as he returned Zuberi’s gaze, measure for measure, until Zuberi finally looked away.
“You have four days left,” Zuberi said. “And then we will see.”
“I will need one of the navy’s captains to assist me, and Admiral Septimus must be recalled once I have proven my tale,” Josan said.
Zuberi shook his head. “Save your breath. Your bold lies will not convince me. In four days we shall see your true measure. And then I will give you cause to regret this insolence.” He strode away, pausing as he reached the threshold. “Nizam has missed his favorite subject,” he called over his shoulder.
The Sea Change Page 25
