“You have nothing to fear,” Zuberi said. “Unlike the rest of us, your sorcery will keep you alive when a better man would perish.”
“Unless, of course, you are guilty of conspiracy, in which case you will be executed,” Nikos added.
Josan began to shake. He could not do this. He could not endure another round of torture, and Nikos knew this. Nikos knew that Josan would not last long enough for Nizam to prove the truth of Josan’s words. Whether by his own hand or another, Josan would die in those dungeons.
Hatred glittered in Zuberi’s eyes, and Josan finally realized that this was not about the truth of his discovery. It was not even about whether Nikos had betrayed the council and Empress Nerissa before them. Zuberi hated Lucius not for what he had done, but for who he was.
Not simply because he was emperor.
He hates us, Lucius commented.
He envies us.
“It is not me you despise, but my magic,” Josan said, rising to his feet. The recklessness that filled him was Lucius’s, but the reason behind his actions was all his own. Holding his right hand out, palm upwards, he called fire to his hand.
Brother Nikos startled, then said, “Your petty tricks do not impress us.”
Josan moved toward Zuberi. Anger gave rare color to Zuberi’s face, but the rest of his skin was gray, his flesh sunken except where his belly bulged outward as if he were a pregnant woman. “You accuse me of treason, but it is you who are letting your envy blind you to the truth. I am trying to save the empire, while you can think no further than your own misery.”
Brother Nikos reached for him, but as he touched Josan he drew his hand back as swiftly as if it had been burned.
“Guard,” Nikos called out. “Guards!”
But it was too late. Josan had reached Zuberi. From the corner of his eye he saw Septimus leaping to his feet, but even he could not get there in time.
Josan could not stop. If he paused even to think about what he was doing, he would be lost. He let instinct be his guide, instinct and the rage within him that fueled his magic.
Zuberi scrambled backwards in his chair. “Touch me and die,” he said.
“You will kill me anyway,” Josan replied. Pushing aside Zuberi’s robe, he reached with both hands. The silk tunic underneath tore as it if was mere paper.
Zuberi’s distended belly was rigid, skin stretched tight over the tumor that was killing him. Josan put both hands on it, even as Zuberi squirmed under his touch.
“I can do nothing about the foulness in your mind,” Josan said. “But as for your belly…”
He reached. There was no other word for it. He closed his eyes and reached. It was as if he put his hands in warm porridge, or the guts of a freshly slaughtered goat. The tumor was easy to recognize, an oily malignancy that slipped out of his grasp.
He reached again, catching it between both hands and pulled. It broke free with a sucking sound.
Josan opened his eyes. The tumor was the size of a summer melon—a putrid, stinking, lump of flesh that oozed pus from between his fingers.
He felt cold steel against his neck and carefully did not move.
Zuberi’s chest heaved. His hand traced his belly, which was blistered as if from the sun, but showed no signs of wound nor blood.
“Proconsul?” he heard Balasi ask.
“Seize him,” Nikos ordered.
“No,” Zuberi whispered. He touched his belly with his right hand, drew one deep breath, then another. “What have you done?”
Josan straightened upright, though the sword followed his movements. “What needed to be done,” he said. With a flick of his wrist, he tossed the tumor onto the table, then carefully wiped his hands off on his tunic. “Now you are like other men. You may live another forty years or be killed within the hour.”
Demetrios leaned over his shoulder for a closer look at Zuberi’s stomach.
Zuberi abruptly drew his robe closed.
“Guards, leave us,” he said.
“See? He uses magic to gain his ends,” Brother Nikos insisted. “It was as I have said all along.”
But all eyes were on the emperor, not Nikos.
Zuberi caught Josan’s gaze with his own. “I will not thank you,” he said.
“I do not expect thanks, nor favors. I expect you to rule with your head and not be blinded by your fears,” Josan said.
“You swear that you can teach Septimus’s captains how to navigate the seas?” Zuberi asked.
“Any man who can reckon his sums can be taught,” Josan said. “This I swear by the crown of my ancestors.”
Nikos protested. “I will not stay here and endorse this folly,” he said. “Lucius is a madman, who has dazzled you with his paltry tricks. If you listen to him, he will lead you to your dooms.”
“The emperor’s words have been sound,” Demetrios said. “He convinced Commander Kiril to take on the traitor Markos, and it was Lucius who suggested Septimus could bring order to the navy when it was in disarray. I think all here will agree that both choices have served us well.”
Septimus returned to his side of the table, then he and Demetrios both waited until Josan had taken his seat before resuming their own, a show of courtesy that they had seldom before offered to their emperor.
Nikos rose to his feet. “Zuberi, when you come to your senses you can send for me,” he said.
Josan waited until the door closed behind Nikos. “He will make trouble,” he warned.
“Leave him to me,” Zuberi said. “Now tell me, what other secrets is he hiding? And how can we make best use of this knowledge to eliminate the Seddonian threat?”
Chapter 18
Ysobel threw open the shutters and stepped out onto the small balcony overlooking the central harbor of Sendat. Every possible anchorage was filled with ships of all sizes and descriptions, their pennants waving in the dawn breeze. She could see smaller craft moving about the harbor and knew these were lighters bringing supplies, and gigs transporting crew between their ships and the shore. Even at this hour, the wharves would already be bustling, the harbormaster’s office crowded as captains petitioned for permission to sail or shift anchorage.
It was only the second week of spring, but the harbor was as busy as if it were full summer. Once she would have counted the ships and reckoned the wealth that they represented, but times had changed. At least half of the ships in the harbor were merchant vessels seconded to the service of the navy. Those trading ships that still ventured into Sendat harbor did so because they were too old or too slow to be impressed into service—or because their houses had already relinquished at least half of their ships.
As had she. While Ysobel herself had been ordered back to Sendat, given leave to resume the life of a master trader, the Swift Gull’s speed and large cargo holds were still being put to use carrying supplies from Melene to the ships that were maintaining the blockade off Kazagan.
She missed Zorion’s support, and the loss of Elpheme still grieved her. She even missed Lieutenant Burrell more than she had expected to, and hoped for his sake that his new commander would prove worthy of his services.
Though she had longed to be set free to live as a trader once again, the price of her freedom had been even greater than she had feared.
She was not the only master trader who had lost a ship, but to her knowledge she was the only one who had destroyed one of her own ships in pursuit of victory. So far, at least, the Dolphin’s sacrifice protected her remaining two ships, which were sailing the eastern routes, bringing precious silks and rare teas back from the Olizons, generating a tidy profit. Her ships were based out of Alcina, where she had leased space in the Flordelis warehouses. She knew better than to instruct her captains to venture into Sendat or, even worse, Melene. If the war continued to go badly, any likely ship would be seized, regardless of how much that house had already given to the war.
Unless, of course, the owner was a member of the council. Each of King Bayard’s councilors had made a show o
f designating one of their ships for naval service, but such a gesture meant little to houses that owned dozens of trading vessels. It was the smaller houses who were bearing the burden of Quesnel’s war—traders without friends at the Ministry of War, who had no recourse when their finest ships and crews were seized for the war.
In public, at least, Lord Quesnel still proclaimed this a campaign to eliminate pirates. Ysobel was not privy to their discussions, but she would wager that he spun a far different tale for the councilors when they spoke privately.
She had not seen Quesnel since her recall to Sendat, though she suspected that he was behind the orders that had released her from naval service. Some might see it as a reward for her achievements, but she suspected that her dual successes at Gallifrey and Izmar had irritated Quesnel. Rather than destroying her, his plots had only added luster to her reputation for boldness.
She hoped he was proving better at plotting against the Ikarians than he was against her.
Shivering in the chill air, she returned to her small bedroom, where she tied her sandals, then tossed a cloak over her shoulders. Leaving her apartment, she made her way through the narrow streets to the traders’ guildhall. The wooden status boards inside the main door told the true story of the war—paper scripts fitted into the slats listed the names of over a hundred ships in harbor this morning, but only a quarter of them were marked as accepting cargoes. One of the new arrivals was a neutral vessel bearing a cargo of olive oil from Ikaria—though she wagered the news that the ship had brought would be at least as valuable as its cargo.
On the opposite wall a board held the names of the trading houses, along with ivory tokens for each of their ships. Plain tokens indicated ships on the business of their house. Tokens marked with red wax were those ships in service to the navy, while black indicated a ship that had been lost so that claims for compensation could be made by any who had dealings with that ship.
More and more ships were marked in blue, which meant their status was unknown. They could be merely delayed, or they could be lost at sea or even captured. At the end of a year without news, a blue token would be changed to black.
The boards were constantly updated by apprentices as ships arrived in the harbor bearing news, most of it ill. Ysobel scanned the board, having long ago memorized the position of each house so she did not need to pause to read the labels. Flordelis still had two tokens marked in blue—one was the Palmatier, captained by her cousin Nicola. But there were no tokens marked in black, and she took comfort from this.
Her eyes lingered for a moment on the black token next to her name that represented the lost Dolphin. The token would remain on the board until she had settled with the navy on the amount of compensation owed to her house. Their initial offer had been insulting—the worth of a fishing boat, not a merchant vessel that had carried over a hundred crew with cargoes to match.
Her presence in Sendat meant she could badger the clerks in person, and slowly she was grinding them down. Their most recent offer was merely distasteful rather than insulting. Instinct told her that the next offer they made would be one that she could accept.
As for Captain Elpheme’s family, Ysobel had not waited for the navy, instead paying compensation from her own purse. Custom called for a captain to be paid the value of their last contract—Ysobel had trebled that payment. It was enough that Elpheme’s parents could buy shares in a trading vessel if they so chose. If they managed those shares with skill, they could earn enough to ensure a prosperous future for their remaining children. Though whether they would send those children to sea…
“Greetings of the day to you,” Gabirel Erromon said, breaking into her melancholy thoughts. A corpulent man whose girth almost exceeded his height, he spent his nights at lavish parties and his days in the guildhall, gathering intelligence that he could trade for favors. Those favors were needed now more than ever, as his house had relied heavily upon trade with Ikaria.
“Greetings, master trader,” she replied. She did not like him, but he could be useful.
He fell into step beside her, wheezing slightly as he maneuvered his bulk around the crowded tables that filled the central hall, where representatives from each of the trading houses held sway as they recorded contracts, negotiated agreements, or simply paused to exchange the latest gossip. The low hum of dozens of conversations filled the hall.
A few paused in their conversations to call out greetings. A year ago these very same traders had shunned her, but these days her opinions were much sought after. Banned from trading with Ikaria because of her involvement in the doomed uprising, Ysobel had been forced to shift her ships to other routes, developing new trading partners. When the blockade cut off access to Ikarian ports, many traders had been left with broken contracts and warehouses filled with rotting goods, while Ysobel was unaffected.
To an outsider, her shift in trading alliances spoke of intimate knowledge of the council’s plans, or uncanny ability to predict the future. Either made her an asset worth cultivating.
“Have you heard the news of Demetra?” Gabirel asked. “One of their ships arrived last evening—the first of the season from Vidrun.”
“They must have left before the spring moon,” Ysobel observed.
“They sailed with its rising, or so they claim, bringing a cargo of glass from Anamur,” he said.
“An interesting choice.” Generations ago, Ikaria had welcomed refugees fleeing Anamur, the so-called newcomers who had swiftly risen to power, displacing the old blood. Their craftsmen created ornamental glassware that was much in demand, but with the Ikarian markets closed, the house of Demetra had apparently chosen to return to Anamur, where the glassmakers’ craft had originated. Though it would be difficult to turn a profit on such a long voyage.
Gabirel murmured something that might have been agreement, but she refused to be drawn out further.
“I count Demetra of Demetra as a friend and know he would welcome the opportunity to hear your views on the new trading season,” Gabirel said, finally arriving at the point of this encounter.
Nothing he did was without purpose. In return for arranging this meeting, Gabirel would expect a favor from Demetra in turn. She wondered idly how he calculated her worth.
A refusal sprang to her lips, but as she opened her mouth she reconsidered. The compensation from the navy would be enough to lease a ship, and she had yet to find a likely candidate. It would do no harm to sound out Demetra to see if he would be willing to engage in such a venture.
“Demetra is known to me as well,” she said. “Though I thank you for your reminder that I have been remiss in paying the respects due to an old acquaintance. I will let the trader know that I would be happy to meet with him, at his convenience.”
“I am pleased to have been of service,” Gabirel said. With a shallow bow he took his leave, no doubt to rush to a member of the house of Demetra so he could claim credit for bringing Demetra to Ysobel’s attention.
She found her clerk Balere at a small table in the rear of the hall. From the looks of it, Balere was studying a record of yesterday’s trades—useful information to know even if she could not act upon it until her mistress leased a ship and began accepting cargo.
Ysobel pulled up the empty chair opposite Balere.
“Any news?” she asked.
“No news of our ships, as expected,” Balere replied. “The factor for Charlot is buying flax at ruinous prices, hoping to avoid paying forfeit. The house of Roquin holds the contracts, though, so most are reluctant to sell regardless of the price.”
If Charlot could not deliver the promised flax, he would be forced to pay double its worth—a heavy burden on a house that had been strained even before the blockade. If Demetra had no likely ships to lease, she would approach Charlot. If they were sufficiently desperate, they might be willing to take a lower lease payment in return for receiving the entire amount at the start of the lease rather than spread into quarters as was customary.
“I wan
t a list of the ships that Charlot has within the islands and their likely values,” Ysobel said.
“I’ll have it for you this afternoon,” Balere said. “I’ve already started drawing it up but need to confirm the value of their current trading contracts and list of sailing routes.”
“Prepare a similar list for Demetra, Searcy, and another house of your choice,” Ysobel said. It would not do to show too much interest in any one house—letting them see that there were competitors for her favors would strengthen her bargaining position.
“Was there anything else?”
Balere rummaged through the parchment on her desks, then handed Ysobel a scroll marked with the seal of the Ministry of Trade. “Only this,” she said.
Ysobel broke the seal with her thumbnail, unrolling the scroll to reveal a dinner invitation from Lady Solange, the minister of trade. The invitation was for this very evening, which showed Solange was confident that Ysobel was in no position to refuse.
“Do you know anything of the neutral ship Ahwaga that arrived last night, or the news she brought?” Ysobel asked.
Balere shook her head. “I have heard nothing, but I can make inquiries.”
“Do so. I will return this afternoon to see what you have learned,” Ysobel said.
In the meantime she would make her own investigations. Lady Solange had not summoned her lightly—and it was best to be prepared.
Servants circulated between the dining couches, some offering platters of delicacies while one did nothing but constantly fill up their wine cups. Ysobel sipped hers sparingly and noticed that Lady Solange did the same.
It was an intimate dinner party—Lady Solange shared a couch with her husband Millard, who spoke only to comment on each dish as it was presented. Ysobel’s own dining partner was Telfor, who held no official post but was widely known as King Bayard’s most trusted advisor. On any other occasion he would not have paused to greet her, but on this evening they shared plates as if they were equals or old friends.
She suspected that this was meant to be flattering—to lure her into confidences by presenting the illusion that she belonged in such rarefied company. But Ysobel knew that this was not a sign of true regard—if Lady Solange had wished to demonstrate her esteem, she would have held a large gathering where all might witness the favors that she bestowed upon Ysobel. This gathering was not a sign of any affection for Ysobel but rather a sign that Lady Solange wished no witnesses to what it was they were to discuss.
The Sea Change Page 27
