Chapter 16
Tell me, Lady Ysobel, what manner of fish these are? Flavian here thinks them painted carp but I say the fins are all wrong,” Octavio declared.
Lady Ysobel paused beside the rock pool where two of her guests were admiring the brightly colored fish that swam within. Formal gardens in Ikaria often included small ponds filled with tame carp. Gold was the most common variety and sometimes served at table by serious gourmands, while carp mottled in shades of red, white, and the rare green were prized strictly for their decorative qualities.
Ysobel had kept the usual fishpond in her walled garden, but twisted the custom to make it uniquely her own.
“You are correct. These are not carp but rather a breed called winged darters, which inhabit coral reefs. One of my captains brought them as a gift, and so far they seem to be thriving.”
“Are they difficult to keep? I might want to try some for myself,” asked Flavian.
“Not that difficult. A boy keeps the seawater fresh and feeds them every second day with live minnows bought at market. If you are still interested, when these breed I will make you a gift of a pair.”
“You are graciousness,” Flavian said. Then, in a hissing whisper that served only to draw attention to his question, he asked, “Is he here yet?”
Lady Ysobel simply shook her head. “If you will excuse me, I must see to my other guests.”
“Of course,” he answered, not bothering to conceal his disappointment. She wondered yet again at Dama Akantha’s decision to invite Flavian to join this select gathering. Not only was he the youngest by far, but he had no talent for dissembling. It was fortunate that he had his family’s wealth to fall back upon, for he would never be able to make a living as an actor or a trader.
The heat of the warm spring afternoon filled the walled garden, and the harbor breezes that normally rose each afternoon were unaccountably still on that day. She had ordered canopies erected over the mosaic patio so her guests would be shielded from the sun, but at present they chose to wander the paths, as she did. A young lizard darted across the path ahead of her and she grimaced at the sign that her gardens were once again home to the troublesome pests. Though she supposed that there were some who might be foolish enough to take their presence as a good omen.
By all appearances it was one of her typical entertainments, a dozen guests gathered to sip chilled wines and discuss the latest in literature and politics. Couches had been arranged in a semicircle on the patio, around tables where suitable delicacies had been set out. Raw fish pickled in vinegar, baked dough balls filled with sweetmeats, and sliced fruits arranged in colorful patterns were just a few of her cook’s creations. Yet for once the offerings were untouched, the guests preferring to wander as they spoke with one another rather than sitting and taking their ease.
Such nervousness was understandable, considering their identities. In the far corner by the roses, Dama Akantha spoke to Septimus the Elder, while Magistrate Renato looked on. She wondered if Septimus the Younger knew that his father dabbled in treason. Shaded by the blossoming fruit trees, young Flavian, heir to his ducal father, was speaking intently with Benedict, who had overcome his common birth to become second-in-command of the city watch. Octavio, a wealthy trader with aspirations to a noble title was listening intently to the elderly Salvador, formerly minister in charge of the imperial treasury and still a force to be reckoned with.
Such an eclectic gathering might well be deemed suspicious were it held in the dead of night, behind closed doors. Instead, in response to Dama Akantha’s urgent message, Lady Ysobel had chosen to hold their meeting in daylight, in the seeming openness of her garden, where the high walls prevented any from getting close enough to overhear their conversations.
Still, despite the warmth of the day, she shivered as she recalled the danger. This time there were no masks to hide behind. Those present had come so openly, as commanded by Dama Akantha.
Dama Akantha had been tight-lipped about whom she had invited, but Ysobel had carefully compared each guest to the costumed figures she had met in the wine cellar. At least two were missing, whether because they had other obligations or because they refused to reveal their true faces she did not know. And it was not them that she had to fear. Those who stayed away showed a commendable prudence. No, if Nerissa had a spy among their number, he was present, confidently barefaced among them, taking note of each name so he could inform the empress.
Even as she circulated, exchanging tepid pleasantries with her guests, her eyes kept darting to the gate in the garden wall. At last her patience was rewarded, as the gate swung open, and a figure stepped within. She was close enough to see that he was stocky, with the light brown hair and the ruddy skin of the native Ikarians, but he looked more peasant than noble. Fury welled up inside her as she realized that no one would believe this one an heir to Constantin, and thus they had taken the risk of meeting openly for naught.
The newcomer looked carefully around the garden, catching the eye of Magistrate Renato, who nodded to him. Then he stepped aside and a second man stepped within.
This man wore the hooded robe of a penitent or leper. As the gate swung shut behind him, he pulled off his robe and revealed his features.
“By the gods it is him,” Dama Akantha muttered.
Ysobel swiftly closed her mouth, which had fallen open with amazement. The man did not merely having the look of the old blood, she would swear that he was the old blood. It was as if Emperor Constantin had sprung to life from one of the forbidden coins that bore his visage.
Swiftly she crossed the distance that separated them. As she drew near she hesitated, wondering how she should greet him. She had been prepared to meet a pretender to the throne, one who would know he was a tool and not expect the royal courtesies. But this man, who had the look of the late prince, might well be offended if he was not greeted properly. Yet she could not risk a formal obeisance, lest she be observed by one of her servants. She had no wish to test the depths of their loyalty to her.
The man made the choice for her, extending his hand toward in the manner of old acquaintances.
“Lady Ysobel, I had not realized that you were a friend of ours. Had I done so, our last meeting might have gone differently,” he said.
As she took his hand in hers, she recognized his voice.
“Shall I call you Lucius? Or do you still claim to be the monk Josan?”
“Josan will serve well enough, for now,” he said.
It was true that clothes made the man. Dressed in rags, with shaven head and downcast eyes, he had seemed a mere monk, a bastard connection of the old imperial blood. But with his blond hair grown out to a fashionable length and his blue eyes gazing directly at hers, there was no mistaking him for anyone other than the royal prince.
“You should introduce me to your guests,” he prompted. “Some I know of old, but other faces are new to me.”
“Of course.”
As they toured the garden, she was comforted by the reactions of her guests to the newcomer. Even Dama Akantha had expected a bastard or impostor, not the return of Prince Lucius in the flesh—though six years had changed him. Gone was the soft roundness of his face and the impatient petulance that had made the prince as much a danger to his supporters as to his enemies. His face bore lines of maturity and determination, and his careful exchanges with the guests gave away nothing of his true feelings. He was as calm as if this were an ordinary garden party and not a meeting of treasonous conspirators.
By unspoken consent, after Prince Lucius had greeted each person, they wandered over to the couches. Lucius took the place of honor, at Ysobel’s right side, as servants moved among the guests, refilling their wineglasses and placing chilled decanters within easy reach. Then the servants were dismissed, as was customary when Ysobel’s guests wished to discuss discreetly the indiscretions of those not present. Months had been spent establishing a routine just for this very purpose, so that the gathering would seem no different than any others. It was time for all her careful preparations to be put to the test.
“Three nights past, the watch heard rumors that the ghost of Prince Lucius had been sighted in the old quarter, running through the streets in search of his faithful followers. I dismissed it as a drunkard’s fantasy,” Benedict said, as if recounting an idle bit of market gossip.
“I cannot explain what drunkards see,” Lucius replied.
“But you do claim to be Prince Lucius, do you not?” Benedict pressed.
“I am he.”
She swept her eyes over her guests to gauge their mood. Renato appeared triumphant, as well he might, since he was the one to whom Prince Lucius had turned. Dama Akantha’s face was still, but her eyes shone with a zealot’s fire. She would press for sudden, decisive action. Benedict, despite Lucius’s avowal, looked doubtful, and as for Salvador, perhaps his ancient eyes failed him, for his face was drawn in harsh lines, as if displeased to see his prince. The rest of the conspirators appeared cautious, wavering between the hope of Lucius’s return and their own private doubts.
“If you are indeed the prince, then why should we listen to you? Why, after you ran off to save your skin and abandoned your supporters to the racks and the pyre?” Salvador demanded. His raised voice caused his neighbors on both sides to hiss at him in warning.
“It was not my choice to leave. Those who called themselves my friends spirited me out of the city to a place far away. By the time I came to myself it was too late to return. There was nothing that I could have done.”
“Then why have you returned now?” she asked.
Lucius shrugged. “I could not forget the past, nor could my faithful friends, it seems. I came to see for myself the state of Karystos and to judge whether the time was ripe to unseat Nerissa.”
He was lying. She knew that, with the same certainty that told her when a merchant was trying to pass rotten goods off as fresh. It was not mere curiosity that had brought him to the capital after all these years. Someone or something had summoned him back, by telling him that the time was once more ripe for rebellion.
She wondered if it was her presence that was the cause for his return, and if the federation’s secret support had been the key to stirring the rebels to action after their long years of dormancy. She was well aware that it was her sacks of coins that paid for the seemingly spontaneous riots that targeted businesses owned by the newcomers and encouraged cutpurses and gutter thieves to spare their fair-headed victims while dealing harshly with anyone with dark hair and porcelain skin.
So far, such deeds had done nothing but encourage the watch to come down even more harshly on the native Ikarians, guided by Benedict’s sure hand behind the scenes. In time, such punishments would breed resentment and encourage the native Ikarians to rise up against their masters. But it was a chancy proposition at best. She’d had no real hope that their efforts would do anything more than inconvenience Nerissa, but Prince Lucius’s return changed everything.
If it were indeed Lucius—which Salvador apparently doubted. His whispered mutterings grew louder as Prince Lucius patiently asked each person in the circle what he or she could bring to the rebellion and where they judged Nerissa to be weakest. Lucius’s face was still giving nothing of his own thoughts away as he gave each speaker the benefit of his full attention. It was a masterful performance. Even Dama Akantha, who had spoken derisively of the boy prince in the past, now nodded approvingly as he spoke, while Flavian was nearly vibrating with excitement.
Salvador scowled, his grim expression in stark contrast to the enthusiasm of the others. Perhaps sensing his resistance, Lucius had saved the old man for last, and when his turn came Salvador was defiant.
“I have nothing to say and nothing to offer you. I have seen no proof that you are anything but a pretty face, a bastard whoreson whose resemblance to Lucius has these lapdogs panting for another chance to get us killed. Even if you were Lucius, I would not trust you. Our best and most loyal were killed six years ago for his miserable hide, and no explanation can put that right.”
Salvador started to rise, but Lucius was quicker.
“Hold,” he said, as he rose to his feet. Now those reclined on the couches had to twist their necks to look up at him. Salvador, half-propped on his elbow, subsided with a grumble.
“Constantin gave me more than this jawline. The old blood flows in my veins, as does the power of my forefathers.”
Lucius extended his right arm, palm upward. He closed his eyes for a moment and his lips moved silently. Then, as he opened his eyes, golden flames sprang to life on his palm. Ysobel sat bolt upright, propriety forgotten. The flames danced for several moments, but just as she reached to touch them, Lucius closed his palm.
“The Old Magic, the gift of the true blood,” Septimus the Elder proclaimed.
“A conjurer’s trick,” Salvador countered.
It had been generations since the former royal line had publicly demonstrated a talent for the old magics. Ysobel herself had believed them mere children’s tales, a bit of conjury meant to impress gullible fools.
It seemed wisdom was not the only thing that Lucius had gained during his exile. She wondered what else he had learned, and resolved to meet with him privately as soon as possible. She had thought the rebellion doomed to failure, but for the first time wondered if he might actually succeed in overthrowing Nerissa.
“My friends, I urge you pay no heed to his words or to his tricks. We have seen better on any market day,” Salvador said.
Prince Lucius pinned Salvador with his gaze. “When lightning strikes the roof of the imperial palace this night, you will remember your disbelief with shame.”
He spoke with surety, as if he were accustomed to calling lightning at his command. She swallowed hard, wondering if he were indeed gifted, or mad, or perhaps both.
“Only those present today are to know of my return. You will think on what we have discussed but take no action until I have had time to lay my plans. You will wait for my word, is that understood?”
“We hear you,” Dama Akantha replied, and the others murmured in agreement.
“It will be as you say,” Septimus said. “Only do not wait too long. For years your followers have lived in despair and they deserve to know the joy of your return.”
“Do not worry. I know what I owe to them,” Lucius said. He smiled, but to Ysobel’s eyes it was a false smile. If Lucius were half as intelligent as he seemed, he would realize that this group would not be able to keep their tongues silent for long. Each would tell a trusted confidant, or two, swearing them to secrecy. And then those would tell others, until the news had spread throughout the city.
Which might well be what Dama Akantha had intended, by ensuring that young Flavian was present in place of his father the duke. Even if all others held their tongues, it was doubtful that Flavian would be able to resist the temptation to impress others with the secret. And the more people who knew of the prince’s return, the more pressure there would be for Lucius to act.
With a final nod, Lucius made his way to the garden gate, accompanied by the man who had identified himself only by his rank of sergeant. Lucius once more donned the all-encompassing robe that allowed him to pass unchallenged through the streets, and then the two disappeared.
Salvador was the next to leave, his curt farewell showing that he was not ready to support a new rebellion.
Ysobel fought to retain her patience as the rest of her guests continued to murmur quietly among themselves, making their own plans on how to take advantage of Prince Lucius’s return. Gradually, in ones and twos they left, just as the sun was setting.
Finally, only Dama Akantha remained.
“I see your worry, but we should celebrate. The time will come when we show Nerissa for the liar and craven coward that she is,” Dama Akantha proclaimed. “All those years Nerissa led us to believe that the prince had died in her torture chambers, and now he has returned to confront her lies.”
“We have not won yet,” Ysobel cautioned.
“But we will. Victory will be ours. Can you not taste it?”
Dama Akantha was intoxicated, not by wine, but by the prospect of seeing Nerissa brought low, forced to pay for the crime of abandoning her countrymen in Anamur to their fates. Akantha’s eyes glittered and her cheeks were flushed, as if years had melted away. Such excitement was dangerous if it meant she forgot the caution that had kept her alive all these years.
“The race is not won until we have crossed the line and taken the laurels for our own. He who celebrates before the end will find his victory stolen by another,” Ysobel said, quoting the ancient proverb.
“And he who will not throw the die wins nothing,” Dama Akantha countered, dredging up a proverb of her own.
Ysobel smiled but did not speak. There was nothing more she could say that would be in keeping with her role as a friend to the rebellion. Instead she would have to remain vigilant, to ensure that she did not become swept up in the madness around her.
As Josan left the walled garden, Myles fell into step behind him. They walked in silence, exchanging not a single word as they made their way from the southwestern district, where Lady Ysobel had her house, to the second tier on the north, where Magistrate Renato lived. The last rays of the setting sun painted the white buildings in fantastic colors, but Josan had no heart for the spectacle. To him the rosy hues were an ominous omen, foretelling that once more blood would run in the city streets.
His thoughts were uneasy as his two selves struggled to interpret what he had seen and heard. Lucius had been touched by the devotion of his followers, inspired by their loyalty despite the years of danger and hardship, whereas Josan had seen only self-interest and heedless folly. It was as if he were viewing the same scene through two different lenses. Each distorted the image, and the truth of the matter lay somewhere in between.
Josan had seen Salvador’s doubts as the voice of reason among a crowd too eager to see what they wanted to see, but Lucius had been cut to the quick by his doubts. It had been Lucius who called upon the Old Magic to impress his followers, and who had made the prediction that lightning would strike the high towers of the palace. Left to his own inclinations, Josan would have done neither. Not that he doubted Lucius’s powers; indeed, he could feel the impending storm in the prickle of the dampness upon his skin and the faint taste of copper in the air. But it would not have occurred to Josan to use such tricks to sway his followers. In matters so grave men should be ruled by reason and logic.
What did it matter if he could summon a flame in his palm? Empress Nerissa could extend her hand and summon a thousand troops to do her bidding. And that was just the garrison within the city walls. His powers were nothing compared to hers.
When he returned to Renato’s residence he shut himself up in his quarters. A private room, now that Myles was no longer pretending to be his equal. Myles had taken the next chamber over, the one closest to the stairs, and he slept with his door open so he could hear any possible threat to his prince. Or his prince making another escape, the more cynical part of Josan observed. He did not know how Renato explained matters to his servants, nor did he care. Not as long as they allowed him his solitude, and were content merely to call him “sir” when he had cause to summon them.
As midnight drew near, Josan threw open the shutters and stood watching as the storm finally broke. Thunder rolled and flashes of lightning lit up sky as if it were day. He could not see the palace from the window, but he did not need to. He watched as a jagged bolt cut across the sky, and knew that it had been struck. Then, the clouds opened, and rain began to fall in torrents, so heavy that he could barely see. Still he stood there, as the wind drove the rain through the open window, soaking him and his borrowed finery, as he savored his bitter triumph.
The next morning, Magistrate Renato greeted him at breakfast with the news that the palace had been struck by lightning, just as Josan had predicted. It was unclear whether this display would convince the reluctant Salvador, but Renato appeared awed. A royal prince who needed his help to regain his throne was one thing, but a man who could call lightning at his command was clearly marked by the gods, and Renato showed the deference due Lucius’s newly revealed gifts.
Myles was even more awkward around Josan. He supposed it would be difficult to reconcile the tattered beggar who had shoveled manure for you with the man Josan was now pretending to be. Once Josan had called Myles “Master.” Now Myles called him “my lord,” in lieu of more damning titles. Josan needed him, but he could not pretend to the easy friendship that they had once shared. Myles had even made a wry jest of it, saying that he had known that things had to change, but he would always treasure the memory of his future emperor having been tossed in the muck pile by a balky steed. Josan had joined in the laughter, but swiftly sobered as he remembered Myles’s betrayal.
“When did you know who I was?” he asked. “Was it from that first day?”
Myles shook his head and, strangely, Josan was comforted. He had not wanted his memories of Myles’s first kindnesses to him to be tainted with the knowledge that it had been not kindness but rather cool calculation that had driven Myles to offer his friendship.
But Myles’s next words dashed even that hope.
“I guessed who you might be kin to from the first,” Myles said. “I thought you a bastard of the old blood, fleeing the empress’s persecution.”
It was foolish. Myles had betrayed him and yet he could still be hurt by the knowledge that it had been his stolen face that had convinced Myles to offer him aid. If Josan had arrived in that stableyard with his green eyes and light brown hair, he would have been turned aside.
“It was clear that you feared pursuit, but you would not confide in me,” Myles added.
“But all that changed when I was attacked,” Josan said.
Myles flushed and Josan felt an ugly suspicion grow within him.
“It was fortunate for me that you were there. Or was it more than just luck?”
Myles took a deep breath and drew himself to attention. “They weren’t supposed to harm you,” he said.
They must not have expected Josan to resist. But Josan, or rather Lucius, had fought back. Myles had claimed the kills as his own, but deep inside him Lucius demurred.
“You were my friend, but I’d sworn an oath to see the old blood restored to the throne,” Myles explained. “And I thought even a bastard would be better than the bitch empress. Then, once we left Skalla, you told me of your damaged memories. I knew you must be the true prince and that you belonged in Karystos with friends who could help you regain your true self.”
He supposed it was all quite logical from Myles’s point of view. Myles had not stopped to question whether Josan wished his memories to be restored. Even now he did not ask if his friend truly wanted to risk all in an almost certainly doomed attempt to seize the throne. Lucius was a prince of the old blood, and his wishes did not matter. It was no comfort that Myles had chosen to gamble his own life in Josan’s service.
Myles met his gaze calmly, fully prepared to face the consequences of what he had done. Lucius might well have ordered Renato to have Myles executed for his scheme, but Josan had no taste for revenge.
“Is there anything else you wish to confess, while I am in a mind to grant pardon?” he asked.
Myles shook his head. “No, my lord prince. I have done nothing else of which I am ashamed.”
Josan sighed. “What was in the past is in the past, and there it will lie. But if you keep secrets from me again, you will face my wrath. Understood?”
“Understood.”
Fortunately, he was too busy to brood on Myles’s betrayal and the strange workings of fate that had entwined their paths. The members of the inner circle who had met him at Lady Ysobel’s now sought him out in ones and twos for counsel. Sometimes they met at Renato’s. Other times he traveled in a closed litter, heavily swathed as if he were an elderly man whose bones could not be warmed by the fiercest sun. He lived in constant fear of arrest, for Nerissa’s spies were everywhere.
Rumors that Prince Lucius had returned continued to sweep the city, and Benedict brought word of patrols randomly bringing in fair-haired strangers for questioning. Although Josan’s disguise often included the face mask of a leper, which ensured that people did not get too close, it would be difficult to explain why a leper would be frequenting a noble house; so the most dangerous time for him was when he had to walk without his mask when he left Renato’s residence or was making his way back.
Salvador refused to see him, pleading ill health, but others were swift to pledge their loyalty and make great promises. But when it came to things of substance, they had little to offer. He divided them into two camps. The fanatics, led by Dama Akantha, burned with zeal to see Nerissa destroyed and to pay back the newcomers for every ill—both real and imagined. No act was too heinous in pursuit of their goals, no risk too grave. If he called for an uprising, they would follow. He suspected a tragic martyr would please them as well as a triumphant emperor, just as long as they had their fill of violence and retribution.
The rest of his so-called followers were opportunists. Those who had fallen afoul of Nerissa or one of her supporters, or who, like Benedict, knew that they could rise no further while Nerissa sat on the throne. These would carefully calculate the risks and potential rewards before deciding to follow him. Some even tried to bargain with him, pledging gold and fighters in return for courtly honors or control of certain ministries. To each he promised that he would consider their requests carefully. These, at least, he did not have to fear acting on their own. They would wait carefully, until victory was assured, before risking their hides.
And victory was far from reach, despite Renato’s and Akantha’s enthusiasm, Myles’s blind faith, and Lady Ysobel’s generous supply of federation gold.
In the poorer quarters, where the native Ikarians lived, hatred for Nerissa and for the hardships her high taxes imposed ran deep. Given a charismatic figure to lead them, and a stockpile of weapons, they would rise up and riot, as they had six years before. This time, they might burn half the city before reinforcements arrived to mow them down.
But for all their high-flown rhetoric and enthusiasm, the conspiracy lacked trained soldiers. There were a few scattered units of the army that might defect, but the senior officers were firmly behind Nerissa. Aitor the Great had remade the army in his own image over a hundred years ago, and loyalty to his house was ingrained in the officers’ corps.
Benedict, as second-in-command of the watch, could influence their orders and provide valuable intelligence to the rebels. But if he were to declare his loyalty to Lucius, it was doubtful that any would follow him. Indeed he would most likely be arrested by his own troops.
Unable to resist openly, assassination had become their weapon of choice. A merchant one day, a minor official the next. If their goal was to make the newcomers feel uneasy, and unsafe within their own homes, then it was an admirable one. But it was a cruel and cowardly way to fight a war, and no way to topple an empress.
Dama Akantha had hinted at striking the imperial family, perhaps even assassinating Nerissa, but Josan saw such talk as folly. Nerissa was too well guarded for such a tactic to succeed, and even if she were killed, it would not make him emperor. The army would swear its loyalty to Nestor, her elder son, then ruthlessly hunt down any suspected of being complicit in his mother’s death.
As each day passed, Josan became more and more convinced that the rebellion was doomed. Fortunately, Lucius’s spirit also agreed with his assessment, for Josan needed his help to maintain his role. Lucius remained content to whisper suggestions and to prompt him when encountering one of his former friends. He had not tried to regain control of his body—though perhaps matters would have been different had he thought that there was a chance that he could seize the throne. Then his ambitions might have come to the fore and undone all that Josan strove to accomplish.
Despite his orders to his followers to await his commands, the killings continued, and Josan felt responsible for each death. He knew his presence in the city, even if it were only rumors of ghostly sightings, had stirred up passions long forgotten.
Try as he could, he could not see a way to end the violence. If he could not convince Myles that he had no wish to be emperor, what hope did he have of convincing faceless rebels to lay down their arms and accept Nerissa’s imperfect rule?
Like Myles, they saw no difference between the title and the man, but Josan saw far more clearly. For the first time he wondered if Nerissa had wanted to be named empress, or if she, too, had once engaged in dreams of a simpler life, with only the cares of an ordinary woman. And he knew that her blood would run just as red as his own if it were to be shed.
He would have to find a way to end the killings before it came to that. For all their sakes.