The First Betrayal

by Patricia Bray

  Paolo, who had been caught with a sackful of gold and silver objects belonging to a minor noblewoman, had thought to bargain with this knowledge to gain forgiveness for his thefts. It had been a poor choice. At most the thefts would have cost him his right hand. But the knowledge he held ensured that he would never face a magistrate.

  Once Paolo had finished his tale, he begged for her mercy.

  “Have you told me everything? Absolutely everything?” she asked.

  He swore he had.

  Nerissa had nodded, then had turned to Nizam and given him the instruction to begin.

  Now, hours later, Nizam’s strongest persuasion had proven that there was nothing more Paolo could tell them. He had given them a description of the mercenary and the name by which the mercenary allowed himself to be called, but it was doubtful that the mercenary had returned to Karystos.

  Of the noble, Paolo could tell them nothing. He had not seen the man, nor heard him called by name. He might not be a noble at all, merely one who spoke with the accent of an educated man, which was how Paolo had identified him.

  Nerissa studied Paolo, who hung limply in the torture frame, each breath a rasping effort that brought bubbling blood to his lips. Despite Nizam’s care not to inflict lethal damage, it seemed one or more of the prisoner’s ribs was broken. Blood, vomit, and piss stained the floor beneath him and filled the air with their stench. Her sandals would have to be burned, as would her cloak.

  “There’s nothing more he can tell us, your majesty,” Nizam observed. His tone was flat, as if remarking on the weather. Nizam achieved no pleasure from inflicting pain, but neither did he shirk his duties. He could be trusted to do whatever it took to secure the information needed, but when a prisoner had told them all that he knew, Nizam had no interest in prolonging his agonies.

  “I agree,” she said.

  Nizam stepped behind the prisoner and with a swift motion looped a length of wire around his neck. As he pulled the wire taut, Paolo’s eyes bulged, and his limbs jerked within their restraints. She forced herself to watch until he ceased twitching and his body finally sagged.

  She’d asked Nizam once why he used a garrote, rather than a more traditional knife or sword. “Less mess,” he’d explained.

  The chamber would still have to be scrubbed down, a job reserved for the prisoners in the outer cells who were awaiting their own executions, though they, at least, could be grateful that they had been spared Nizam’s attentions.

  “Send the description of this mercenary to the captain of the watch,” she ordered.

  “Yes, your majesty.”

  A glance at her cloak showed it was spotted with blood. Reaching up, she unfastened the clasp, and let the garment fall to the floor.

  “You have done well, and I thank you for your service,” she said. Then, with one final glance at the prisoner, she turned and left.

  Her escort was waiting for her at the entrance to the outer cellblock. Their faces were impassive, but she was certain they all understood how she had spent the past hours, and the reason she no longer wore a cloak.

  This was not the first time she had observed Nizam at his labors, nor would it be the last. Her advisors had been shocked when she had first insisted on visiting the torture chambers, but Nerissa had held firm. She would not pretend that the torture chambers did not exist. If torture was done in her name, then she was strong enough to bear witness.

  Not that such scenes were a daily event. Indeed, it had been over a year since Nizam had last sent word of a prisoner that would be of interest to her. Rumor painted the torture chambers as pits of hell, where screams echoed day and night. That was true, when the secret cells were in use. But prisoners requiring Nizam’s special talents were rarer than most thought, and those that would be of personal interest to the empress even rarer still.

  Six years ago it had been a different matter. Then the secret cells had been filled with the supporters of Prince Lucius. The information extracted by Nizam had been instrumental in identifying the ringleaders and ultimately suppressing the rebellion.

  She had thought those days behind her, but the recent unrest in Karystos troubled her, as it did her advisors. Brother Nikos was quick to cast the blame upon the Federation of Seddon, and in particular on Lady Ysobel, accusing her of stirring up old resentments and secretly working with those who opposed Nerissa’s rule.

  Which would be a shame if it were true. She liked Lady Ysobel, or at least she liked what she knew of the woman’s character, having invited her to the palace on several occasions. Nikos had urged her to expel the new trade liaison, but none of her other councilors saw Ysobel as a threat. Most dismissed her as inconsequential because of her sex, not seeming to realize the folly of arguing such a position in front of their ruler, who was also a woman.

  There were a few who praised Lady Ysobel and pointed out the advantages to be realized through cooperation with the federation. The harbormaster Septimus could be excused his partiality, for his dealings with Lady Ysobel had already fattened his purse. But Nerissa had her own reasons for wanting to expand the partnerships between Seddon and Ikaria. The captains of federation ships were without peer, masters of sailing routes that were closely guarded secrets. Past attempts to discover those secrets had failed, but each time a federation ship allowed Ikarian merchants or Ikarian sailors aboard, it was another opportunity for knowledge. She would not destroy such chances lightly. Only when she had proof of Lady Ysobel’s deception would she act.

  But if Seddon was not behind the unrest in Karystos, then who was? How many enemies had escaped detection those long years ago? What had stirred them into action again? Had they truly found a pretender to the throne? Was this the price of Aitor’s mercy? Allowing Princess Callista and her daughters to live had been a magnanimous act of charity and proof that Aitor had nothing to fear from the former rulers of Ikaria.

  Aitor II had followed his father’s example, and when Nerissa ascended the throne, she had seen no reason to change the status quo. Lucius might have been the great-grandson of Callista, but it had been a hundred years since one of his blood had sat on the throne, and there had seemed little to fear from the squalling child. Nerissa had shown her mercy in allowing a male heir of Constantin to live and demonstrated her prudence by insisting that he be raised under the watchful supervision of the court.

  Tragically, Lucius had confused mercy with weakness. Rather than being thankful for her generosity, he had allowed himself to be swayed by those who sought only to use him. And for his folly he had paid the ultimate price. Most believed that he had screamed his life away in the very chambers she had just left, and she had done nothing to discourage that belief.

  The truth, that Lucius had escaped her justice, was known only to her, Brother Nikos, and a few of her most closely trusted allies. Six years ago, as the rebellion was collapsing, Lucius’s own followers had turned on him, hoping to buy their own forgiveness with the prince’s corpse. Mortally wounded, Lucius had escaped their clutches, only to be discovered by a member of the Learned Brethren. Taking his own revenge, Lucius had revealed the names of his former allies before he died, and she had then used that information to good advantage.

  She would send for the records of those long-ago interrogations to see what they might have overlooked. There had been more than one who had fallen under suspicion, but there had not been enough evidence to bring them in for questioning. They would have to be reinvestigated and watched carefully until she could be certain where their loyalties lay. Last time she had been taken unawares; this time she would be ready. And she would do whatever it took to secure her throne, even if it meant she had to wield the lash herself.

  There was a time for mercy and kindness. And there was a time for strict discipline and punishing wayward children to teach them their places. The native Ikarians would come to heel, and in time they would learn to thank her for her care.

  Chapter 14

  Home. Josan could feel the pull of the city, calling t
o him. The weight of his years of exile on Txomin’s Island and the longing to be once more among his own kind rose within him, pulling him inexorably toward the one place he associated with safety—the high stone walls and quiet courtyards of the collegium. The closer they came to Karystos, the more impatient he became.

  The night before, he had been unable to sleep, knowing that the coming day would bring them within the walls of his native city. His restless pacing around their rented room had brought grumbles from Myles, who slept lightly in recent nights, as if fearing an attack. So Josan had settled himself as if to meditate, but such mental discipline was no longer within his grasp. Perhaps it was simply the anticipation of his long awaited homecoming. Or perhaps it was the pressure of the Other, who stirred restlessly, an unwelcome presence beneath the surface of Josan’s thoughts. Whatever the reason, he could no longer summon the calm reflection that had been as natural to him as breathing by the time he was a novice.

  Instead he had let his mind drift to recollections of his days in Karystos, calling to mind the perfect order of the central library of the collegium, the low hum of the brethren chanting the praises of the twin gods, the feel of cool marble beneath his feet. His mind stretched outward from the buildings of the collegium, traversing the great square, then following the Road of Triumph that led from the great square of the people up the central hill to the imperial compound, where the palace was surrounded by buildings of state.

  In his imagination he stood on a balcony at the topmost floor of the palace, gazing over the city spread below him as it sloped down to the central harbor. The sun glinted off the white-stone buildings as if the city was new-built, or a noble’s toy laid out for his pleasure. For a brief moment he allowed himself to wonder if this was what the empress saw when she gazed out the windows of her apartments. Did she see the city and think of the lives contained within it? Or did she see merely the wealth and power at her command?

  The question occupied his mind for some time till he realized how foolish his speculations were. How could he expect to know the mind of an empress? He was a monk, accustomed to obedience, not leadership, and his studies had focused on science, not politics.

  Though his arrival in Karystos would be seen as a sign that he had not learned the lessons of obedience. Brother Nikos had strictly forbidden his return, but surely once he understood Josan’s circumstances, he would also understand the reasons that had compelled him to return. And if all Josan had to fear was punishment for disobeying that order, he would be a fortunate man indeed. More and more, he had become convinced that the gaps in his memories hid the knowledge of some unspeakable crime.

  Which, paradoxically, only increased his eagerness to return to the brethren. He was tired of being protected from himself, treated as one not capable of making his own decisions. The brethren might have been trying to protect him, and indeed the confused man who had left their care six years before had been much in need of guidance. But Josan was no longer that man. He did not need protection; he needed the truth. Regardless of how ugly it was. He could not move forward until he had faced his past.

  Such thoughts had occupied his mind throughout the long night. An hour before dawn the shreds of his patience had snapped, and he had risen from his cot and awakened Myles. With only a few words they dressed in the darkness, then went down to the common room of the hostel, where a few coppers convinced the yawning attendant to stir the kitchen fire so they could have hot tea and barley soup before they set off.

  The road leading to Karystos was wide and level, with a raised berm on either side to channel rainfall away from its surface. At first traffic was sparse, but soon after sunrise the road became packed with travelers on foot, drovers taking beasts to market, wagonloads of goods to feed the ever-hungry city, plus the occasional rider or carriage. If the road had been clear, they could have reached the city in just a few hours, but as it was it took them most of the day to make their way through the press of humanity.

  On either side of the road, villas whose modest size belied their expense alternated with orchards that bore exotic fruits to cater to the wealthiest residents of Karystos. Gradually these open spaces disappeared, until either side of the road was lined with buildings—merchants’ and artisans’ shops mixed in with apartments for those who made their living serving the great capital but could not afford to live within. This was the outer city that had sprung up beyond the city walls, and as the buildings enclosed Josan and Myles on both sides, it felt increasingly like a trap.

  It was barely spring, but Josan felt the sweat running down his back as if it were high summer. He fought the urge to draw the cowl over his head, knowing that hiding his face would only serve to draw attention to him. Myles, too, was doing his best to appear an ordinary traveler, having decided not to wear his leather armor.

  As they approached the gate that led into the city proper, Josan tensed. He knew at least one magistrate had issued a warrant for his arrest in connection with the death of the assassin at the lighthouse. It was unlikely that they would expect him to return to Karystos, but if they did, then the guards at the gates might well have been alerted to look for him. It was small comfort that he bore no resemblance to the shaven-headed monk of the island. He no longer recognized his own face in the mirror, but his enemies were not as easily confused. They had had no trouble finding him in Utika, after all.

  “Easy,” Myles murmured, as it came their turn to pass through the gates.

  Josan noticed that Myles had loosened his sword in his scabbard, though if it came to blows, a single mounted soldier could not expect to prevail against a half dozen guards, even if they were on foot. Crop Ear, who had shown a remarkably placid disposition for the entire journey, chose that moment to take offense as a kid goat ran bleating between her hooves. She reared back just as a young boy dived in pursuit of the goat.

  Josan jerked hard on the reins to keep Crop Ear’s hooves from dashing the boy’s skull. After a few dancing steps, and much head tossing, she settled down.

  The two nearest guards had seized both goat and boy, and were impugning their probable joint ancestry with rough eloquence. With a mere glance they waved Josan and Myles through, still caught up in berating the boy for his carelessness.

  It was only when the angry shouts of the guards had faded behind them that Josan allowed himself to relax. Luck had favored them this time, but he knew better than to assume it would last. As they reached the first of the ring streets that encircled the city, Josan guided his horse toward the right, only to have Myles seize his reins.

  “Hold,” Myles said. “Where are you going?”

  Josan glanced around, but none of the passersby seemed interested in them. Still he lowered his voice to a whisper as he replied, “The collegium, where else?”

  Myles shook his head. “And how do you know it is safe?”

  How could he not trust the brethren? This was the whole point of his journey, was it not?

  “But—”

  Myles pulled the rein, guiding their horses to the left. “We will stay this night with a friend of mine. Find out what is happening in the city and whether there are watchers at the collegium, hoping for you to fall into their hands.”

  Josan hesitated, then gave in. “For tonight, only,” he said.

  On the journey it had been easy for him to let Myles make the decisions. Simpler to play at master and man rather than to risk their friendship becoming something else. He knew Myles wanted more than mere friendship from him, but Josan had nothing to offer. He could not trust himself, not while madness threatened, and not while so much of his past was still veiled in darkness.

  Fortunately, Myles was not put off by Josan’s diffidence, seemingly content for the moment with friendship. And he had once again proven his worth with his clear thinking. The collegium had fewer entrances than the city and was far easier to watch. If his enemies had set a trap, it would most likely be there.

  He had been so focused on the collegium as a place of ref
uge that it had not occurred to him that, the closer he came to that refuge, the greater danger he would be in. Fortunately, Myles was able to reason logically while Josan had been blinded by his emotions.

  Still he would only be guided by Myles for so long. If Myles reported that it was unsafe to approach the collegium, then Josan would send word to Brother Nikos to arrange a meeting in a safe location. Either way, he would have his answers.

  The city streets were too steep and crowded to navigate on horseback, so they left their mounts at a livery stable, where the price of a month’s stabling in Utika bought them a week of care and a promise that the horses would be cooled off before they were put in their stalls. With their saddlebags slung over their shoulders, Myles led them unerringly through the streets, giving a wide berth to the imperial compound before turning down the wide avenue that separated the second ring from the third. A respectable neighborhood inhabited by government ministers and minor courtiers, it seemed an unlikely place for a friend of a former mercenary. In the late afternoon the streets were quiet as the inhabitants dozed in their chambers or went about their business elsewhere in the city. Still, there were a few people about—mostly servants hurrying by on errands, who eyed the travelers askance, as if suspecting they were criminals bent on mischief.

  Myles turned into a narrow alleyway between two of the great houses. He paused as soon as they were out of view. “Your cowl, raise it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because.”

  Josan shrugged, then tugged his cowl so that it hid his face, wondering why Myles had not done the same. To his surprise Myles continued down the alleyway, which led to a narrow lane behind the great houses, used for access by servants and delivery carts. Now their route made more sense. Undoubtedly Myles’s friend was a servant in one of these great houses.