The First Betrayal

by Patricia Bray

Once past his youth, his memories were fragmented. His mind held knowledge presumably gained from his studies, but he did not remember the books he had read, nor where he had found them. And as for his own history, he did not know whether these were true memories or merely what he had been told by the brethren as he was recovering from the fever.

  If indeed a fever it had been. Even this he now doubted, though he was not ready to share those doubts with Myles.

  “The ship that brought me back to Karystos was stricken with the breakbone fever, and all aboard fell ill. The brethren nursed me back to health, and when I recovered they sent me to Txomin’s Island to tend the lighthouse. There I lived a quiet life, until the day a stranger tried to kill me. The rest you know.”

  Myles growled. “The brethren are Nerissa’s lapdogs. If they are involved in your troubles, it means no good.”

  “But I am one of them,” Josan insisted.

  “Are you? And did the brethren teach you how to ride? Or how to handle a sword?”

  He had asked himself the same questions a dozen times before, but it cut him to the quick to hear his doubts voiced by another.

  “I know I am of the brethren,” he insisted. “They would not harm me.”

  “When we get to Karystos you will find out who your true friends are.”

  If his words were meant to be comforting, they fell far short of the mark. There was more than one way to define friendship. After all, it was possible that the brethren had acted as true friends while Josan was the one who had betrayed them.

  But regardless of what he might find, he knew he had to press onward. Even the possibility of learning that his worst fears were true was better than living in the veil of ignorance. Truth, no matter how harsh, was valued above all else. That was the sacred principle of the brethren who had guided his days. And if the truths he sought meant the end of his life, well so be it. At least he would die with integrity.

  Josan wondered if he should tell Myles about the Other, but the moment when such a confession could have been made passed in silence. He was conscious of the Other, in a way he had not been before. His attempts to meditate during the journey were often interrupted by a mocking inner voice that derided him as a coward clinging to archaic rituals best suited to beardless boys and shriveled-up men. And at night, his dreams were filled with strange images of people and places that he had never known.

  But for all his unease, he was able to maintain his control. Perhaps it was the strength of his will or the focus of the hours of meditation. Or maybe it was as simple as the company of Myles, whose mere presence kept Josan focused on the here and now. Whatever the reason, while the Other hovered on the fringes of his mind, he had yet to seize control, and for that Josan was grateful.

  He knew better than to hope that the Other would sleep forever, but for however long it lasted, he would be grateful for the respite.

  The first days of their journey were hard, as Myles was no longer used to spending days on the road in good weather and bad. Riding horseback was a mixed blessing, for while it spared feet that had lost the toughness of his infantry days, he more than paid the price with aching backside and chafed thighs. Yet these were petty annoyances, and as the first days passed, his body adapted and Myles settled into the routine of travel.

  It should have been harder to leave Utika. To abandon the dream that had kept him from despair during his long years in the army. He had grown from boy to man, enduring Empress Nerissa’s wars and the tedium of garrison duty, all with one thought in mind: to carve a new life for himself as a man of property. Not a mere farmer, pensioned off onto state-owned land, but a man of substance, with his own business and the respect of his peers.

  Utika had been the place where his dreams would come true. His store of coins, carefully hoarded over the years of soldiering, had been enough to buy a prospering business, with some left over to see him through lean times.

  He had not counted on Florek’s enmity, which had ensured that the townspeople firmly closed ranks against him. But even this he could have overcome, given enough time. Florek was stubborn but no fool. In time he would have seen the virtue of partnering with Myles rather than making an enemy out of him.

  Yet from the moment that the man who called himself Josan had come into his life, Myles had known that the future he had sought for himself was not to be. Myles had done his best to put the past behind him, but old loyalties could not be so easily forgotten. Still, he had been cautious. He had worked to gain Josan’s trust and waited patiently for him to confide in him.

  But weeks had passed, and Josan remained an enigma despite all Myles’s attempts to draw him out. It had taken the failed kidnapping to convince Josan that he could not hide from his past, and the perceived life debt that lay between them for Josan to trust Myles enough to let him help.

  And even there he had taken a huge gamble. He had arrived at the stable in time to witness Josan defeating the last of his attackers, then collapsing to the ground. For one horrifying moment Myles had thought him dead, but he was only unconscious. When Josan had woken with no memory of what had happened, Myles had instinctively protected him by claiming the killings as his own.

  Their relationship had changed on that night, as the roles of master and man were left behind, and they became coconspirators instead. Now they traveled as equals. The coins might be Myles’s, but he did not fool himself into thinking that his purse gave him any authority over Josan. All he had on his side were the bonds of friendship and the simple logic that a solitary traveler was more vulnerable than two. Slim threads indeed, but so far Josan had shown himself willing to follow his lead.

  It was strange that Josan trusted him with his life but did not trust him enough to share his true name or lineage. Myles had been angered when Josan clung to his lies in spite of the evidence that proved he was not who he claimed to be.

  But as the days wore on, Myles came to realize that Josan might be telling the truth. Or at least the truth as he knew it. If the Learned Brethren were responsible for his exile, as Josan claimed, then who knew what they had done to him before setting him loose in the world? His head might have been filled with poisonous half-truths, designed to conceal Josan’s identity from himself as well as from strangers.

  Josan might not be able to tell his friends from his enemies, in which case it would do more harm than good for Myles to challenge his carefully held delusions. Instead it was up to Myles to protect him until they reached Karystos and the members of the alliance. The brethren might be powerful, but the alliance had its own strengths, and surely they knew of someone who would be able to heal Josan.

  Myles had sent word ahead, informing those few he still trusted that he was returning to Karystos and would need their aid. But he had dared not reveal too much in his letters, lest they fall into unfriendly hands. And there was no guarantee that the letters would arrive in Karystos before he did, or that those who received the letters would take action. For now he was on his own.

  “I believe we are near Sarna, is that not so?” Josan asked, breaking into Myles’s musings.

  Myles looked to the west, where the orderly farms on the flat plains gave way to rolling hills. He searched his mind for a moment, remembering the map that they had viewed at the hostel the night before.

  “Yes, though we will not pass that way. There is an imperial crossroads up ahead, where you would turn east for Sarna, while we will go west, on the main road to Karystos.”

  Josan nodded. “I thought as much. I recognized these hills, and I see the provincials still follow their quaint custom of using orange tiles for their roofs.”

  He fell silent for several moments.

  “I spent summers here as a boy. The villa wasn’t large or fashionable, but there were horses and a lake that was bone-chilling cold even in the height of summer. It was a good place, though when I grew older I hated every moment spent away from the city and my friends there.”

  Even his accent was different, the consonants sharpe
r as he spoke of his youth.

  Myles made a noncommittal noise that could be taken for interest, but Josan once more fell silent. Still it had been a telling lapse. Myles knew full well that the brethren did not send their young novices off to summer in the hills, safely away from the fevers that swept through Karystos during the hottest part of the year.

  It was the confirmation he had long sought, but he did not rejoice. Gratitude would come later, when they were safe. For the time being Myles had to remain vigilant. They were still days away from Karystos, and until then Josan was his sole charge. He had to be protected, from both his enemies and himself. Myles had been given a second chance, and this time he did not intend to fail.

  Chapter 13

  Lady Ysobel’s rented town house was proving everything that she had hoped it would be. The large gracefully appointed rooms on the first floor hosted informal gatherings at least twice a week, while the classically designed dining chamber was well suited to intimate dinners with up to a dozen of her new friends. For her official role, she continued to divide her time between the embassy and her small office here, having observed that the more conservative Ikarians preferred to visit her at the embassy, where the uniformed clerks and trappings of authority helped overcome their reluctance to deal with a woman.

  The enclosed courtyard had proven its worth, providing a pleasant sanctuary to enjoy the fair weather. During her evening entertainments it was a favorite among her guests who wished for quiet conversation, away from curious listeners. And, of course, the gate that led into the garden from the alleyway was always left unlocked, to accommodate those who could not be seen entering the front door. The visitors who came through that gate were generally young, male, and heavily cloaked. They tended to glide through the gate in the early hours of the morning or late at night, slipping in as quietly as fog risen from the harbor.

  At first the imperial spies had stationed themselves in the back alleyway to take note of her visitors, writing down the descriptions and presumed identities of each. But the alleyway was cramped, and gradually the watchers removed themselves to a nearby tavern, contenting themselves with paying bribes to Ysobel’s footman to determine the identity of her secret guests.

  No fool, the footman had accepted the coin, then promptly reported the bribe to his mistress. Ysobel ensured that he was well rewarded for his loyalty and given a complete description of her so-called guests to pass along to the watchers. Having gained their confidence, he was then instructed which guests to see and report and which rare few he was to overlook.

  The lissome young men that Dama Akantha preferred as messengers served to reinforce Ysobel’s reputation with the Ikarian spymasters, and thus were allowed to be seen and reported. But tonight’s second caller was a far different matter.

  For several weeks, Ysobel had allowed him to make use of her town house for his own liaisons. She had been careful not to be present when he arrived, allowing him to grow accustomed to the luxury of uninterrupted time with the object of his desires, in a place where no one would disturb him, save for servants bringing chilled wine or freshly warmed towels for the bathing chamber.

  Now she had broken that routine, positioning herself in a comfortable chair in the parlor, with a brazier to ward off the chill of the hour and a book of poetry to keep her company. As the door from the patio swung open, she looked up and carefully set the book aside.

  “Good evening,” she said.

  The figure paused on the threshold for a moment, his hand still on the door. Then his hesitation passed and he came into the room, shutting the door softly behind him. His gaze swept the shadows of the room, confirming that there were no others present. Only then did he throw back his cowl and unfasten the ties of his cloak.

  “Greetings of the evening to you, Lady Ysobel Flordelis,” replied the functionary whom she thought of as Greeter, in remembrance of their first meeting.

  There were only a few lamps lit, as befit the late hour, but even in the shadows Greeter’s tattoos stood out, the dark swirling designs a shocking contrast to the fair skin underneath. He was dressed modestly, but the maid assigned to the bathing chamber had reported that the tattoos did indeed cover the whole of his body, from his head down to his feet.

  The very tattoos that marked him as the empress’s own within the palace walls, anonymous among his peers, served to brand him in the city. He could not go anywhere outside the imperial compound without being noticed.

  “Is something wrong? Was my friend delayed?” he asked.

  “Nothing is amiss. Your friend is waiting for you upstairs. But I thought we might try her patience a moment or two longer if you would consent to drink with me.”

  “Of course,” Greeter said.

  There were two carved-crystal glasses on the table next to her, along with a pitcher of a red wine so dark as to appear nearly black. She poured two glasses, then handed one to Greeter and took the second for herself.

  He took the glass and sipped politely, though he refused her invitation to sit.

  “I heard there was another disturbance in the old city today,” she began. “Some said it was a riot, while others claimed it was nothing more than a few mischievous boys throwing rocks at a passing patrol.”

  “If it had been serious, I would have heard about it,” Greeter said.

  Which was true, since the functionaries were the eyes and ears of the imperial household. But she noticed that he did not say whether or not he had heard of a riot, merely that if there had been a riot, he would have been informed.

  “I trust that the empress is not distressed by the recent unrest,” she said.

  “The empress is naturally concerned with maintaining order,” Greeter replied.

  “As am I,” Lady Ysobel replied, though her concern was the exact opposite of the empress’s. Where Nerissa sought order and harmony, Ysobel sought to sow unrest and discontent.

  “You will understand my concern, of course,” she added. “Six years ago the unrest spilled from the walls of the palace down to the very ships in harbor. Many traders lost everything, and I do not want to repeat their mistakes. If unrest comes, I wish to be prepared.”

  Greeter inclined his head. “I understand your concern, but the troubles of the past will not repeat themselves.”

  Unfortunately for Ysobel’s covert mission, it appeared that Greeter was correct in his assessment. Nerissa had made many enemies, but none were powerful enough to take her on. Even Dama Akantha agreed that without a charismatic leader to unite them, there was little chance of the rebellious factions accomplishing anything more than the occasional act of vandalism or petty violence.

  Still, she had accomplished what she had set out to do. She had reminded Greeter that there was a price to be paid for his indulgences but ensured that the cost was not so high that he would balk and suddenly recall his loyalties. It had been a marvel that she had discovered his weakness in the first place—a forbidden liaison with a young matron from a noble family. Unable to be seen together publicly, even the private places used by other couples who required discretion were too dangerous for one marked with the tattoos of an imperial functionary.

  “Forgive me, I have kept you waiting too long while I indulged my curiosity. Accept my apologies and do not keep your friend waiting any longer.”

  He did not demur or reply that he was in her debt. Both were true, but the rules of the game demanded that they pretend that she was simply a friend offering her hospitality to another friend so he could conduct his affair in private.

  Instead, Greeter set down his nearly full wineglass and gave a half bow of respect. Then he departed, walking so quietly that he made no sound as he left the parlor and climbed the stairs to the second floor, where his lover was no doubt eagerly awaiting his presence.

  At least they could be happy for one night, though both must know that the relationship was doomed. They could never be together publicly, and even with the help of Lady Ysobel, every secret meeting increased the chance
that they would eventually be discovered. If the fates were merciful, they would burn their passion out and go their separate ways before that time came. But, of course, regardless of whether the affair flourished or withered, Ysobel intended to extract full value for her services.

  The difficulty with conspiracies was in knowing whom one could trust. After all, once a man had decided to commit treason, what was there to stop him from committing a second betrayal? More than one disenchanted young man or disaffected noble had dabbled in the talk of treason, only to draw back at the first hint of danger, buying the empress’s forgiveness by betraying his erstwhile comrades.

  No sworn vow could hold a man who had already betrayed his oaths by joining the rebellion, nor sense of honor silence the tongue of a man who had already committed dishonor. And even the strongest ties of friendship were not proof against the rumored torments of the empress’s torture chambers.

  Ysobel was wary of self-proclaimed patriots and passionate ideologues. She preferred those with simpler motives. Greedy men could be bought and merely needed to be watched to ensure they understood the consequences of trying to sell their services to two masters. Vengeance, too, was a motive that she could understand and use. As with Nikki, the elder brother of the boy Kauldi, who had been executed for treason. His parents had retired to the countryside to nurse their grief out of view of the empress, but Nikki had refused to accompany them. Instead he had remained in Karystos, frequenting taverns where he poured out his rage to any who had the price of a second jug of wine. Subtle Nikki was not, but he could be used, provided he did not know who was using him.

  Men like Greeter and Nikki were commodities, tools used for a purpose, then discarded when they no longer had value. It was the others, those whose hatred for the empress was based on political ideals or out of a lust for power, who could prove the most dangerous. And yet meet with them she must.

  Six years ago such meetings had been the task of her senior, while Ysobel merely ran errands for the conspirators, her contacts with them limited to a trusted few such as Dama Akantha. Now Ysobel was the public face of federation support for the rebels’ aspirations, and the risk of exposure was tenfold what it had been before.