Chapter 19

Nerissa had assigned a single guard as his escort, though he did not doubt that others were following, preparing to keep the magistrate’s residence under close watch until Lucius fulfilled his promises. Josan rode in a litter, alone with his thoughts, as the guard Farris walked alongside, his imposing presence ensuring that none drew too close. The fears that had plagued Josan during these past weeks were gone, because there was nothing left to fear. The time for anxiety had been when his fate was unknown. Now his path was laid out before him, and there was no turning back. He did not know whether to be angry or relieved that Prince Lucius had forced his hand in this way.

Left to his own inclinations, Josan would never have dared approach Nerissa directly. That had taken courage, and even if the prince’s will had failed at the end, he had gone further than Josan would have dared on his own. With no choice, Josan had found the strength within himself to face Nerissa with seeming confidence and complete the bargain that Lucius had planned. On their own, neither he nor the prince were strong enough to end the madness, but by working together there was a chance.

The time for secrecy was past, so instead of leaving him in the nearby square, the litter bearers had been instructed to take him to Renato’s residence. When the litter came to a halt, Farris drew back the curtains, and offered his hand to help Josan alight. Josan waited while Farris paid the litter bearers their fee and dismissed them. The sweat that prickled on his skin had less to do with the heat of the late afternoon sun than it did with what he must do next.

“Remember, you are to follow my lead. Do nothing to rouse their suspicions,” Josan said.

“I will obey my mistress’s orders,” Farris replied. Tall and solidly built, his muscled bulk brought to mind one of the massive pillars of the imperial palace. Some might take his placid features as a sign of dullness, but Josan knew that was a false impression. Nerissa would not have chosen a stupid man for this assignment.

Farris’s gaze swept the street. Josan looked as well, but did not see anything out of the ordinary. If Nerissa’s men were already there, they were well hidden.

Inside he found both Magistrate Renato and Myles anxiously waiting for his return. When he entered the study they appeared relieved to see him, then shocked when Farris followed him, one step behind and to his right, as befit a personal guard.

“Where have you been? And who is this?” Renato asked.

Josan paused to strip off his cloak, tossing it on the floor in the manner of a man who has grown up surrounded by servants.

“This is Farris. Brother Nikos did not want me walking the streets unescorted, and Benedict agreed.” This last was a gamble, though Nerissa had assured him that Benedict would have been too busy to meet with the other conspirators.

“Now you have returned, dismiss him. We have much to talk about,” Renato said. “You owe me an explanation of why you saw fit to involve the Learned Brethren.”

“Farris stays.”

“He’s one of Nerissa’s own guards. Do you truly want him to hear what we have to say?” Myles asked.

He knew he had but to say the word and Myles would attack Farris, giving his own life to buy his prince time to escape. But such a sacrifice would be pointless when Nerissa’s men had no doubt already surrounded the house. So instead he gave what he hoped was a reassuring smile.

“We have allies in unexpected places,” Josan said.

He sat down on one of the couches, and after a moment’s indecision, Renato and Myles did the same. Farris moved to stand behind him, looming over the gathering in quiet menace.

“At first I thought Flavian’s recklessness would destroy us all. But then I realized that the uproar has created a unique opportunity—one we must seize before it is too late,” Josan explained.

“And what has Brother Nikos to do with this? The empress is his patron. He is not likely to betray her,” said Renato.

“On the contrary; Nikos is the key to everything.” Which was the truth, though not in the way that his listeners imagined.

It was difficult to force himself to exude confidence when he was all too conscious of the man standing directly behind him—a man who had orders to kill him the moment it seemed that the prince intended to betray his oath to Nerissa. He searched within himself for the remnants of Lucius’s arrogance, reminding himself that the prince did not explain. He commanded, and he expected his followers to obey.

“What reason have you for trusting him? Or indeed any of the brethren?” Myles asked.

“Nikos is the reason I am alive today.” Josan directed his next words to Renato. “Nikos has already proven his loyalty, but I have my doubts about the rest of my so-called followers.”

“My prince, surely you do not doubt my faithfulness,” Renato protested.

“You will prove your loyalty by summoning the others here, for a council tomorrow night. Nikos has given me the key to defeating Nerissa, and I will not wait any longer while my supporters temporize or run reckless in the streets.”

“You cannot expect us—”

“I expect you to do as I command,” Josan said. “Victory is within our grasp. Those who gather here will be remembered when I come to power. Those who are not here will be remembered as well.”

“And what plan have you for destroying Nerissa? Assassination, perhaps?” Renato’s gaze strayed to Farris, whose presence seemed to show that not all of Nerissa’s guards were loyal.

“You will learn of it at the same time as the others,” Josan said.

“But if you have already told Benedict and Nikos—”

“Enough. I owe you no explanations. Be grateful that I still have use for you, though if you continue to question me, I may reconsider your usefulness.”

“Of course, my prince. It will be as you say.” Renato bowed his head in a show of meekness, but Josan knew it was just that, a show.

Renato must realize that the prince was no longer solely dependent upon his good graces. Lucius could go to Benedict, or Dame Akantha, or any of the others that he had met, and ask for their help in arranging the meeting that he had requested. Renato would not want to lose his position of privilege to another, particularly if success was indeed within their grasp. He could count on Renato to do as he was told, in order to preserve his status as one of the inner circle of Lucius’s advisors.

Josan had but to play the part of the soon-to-be-triumphant prince for a little longer.

After the meeting, Renato’s ambitions would no longer matter.

 

Lady Ysobel had not reached her position by taking foolish chances. She knew when to take calculated risks and when to exercise restraint. Unfortunately, it seemed her instincts were not shared by the rebels. The murder of Lady Zenia and her family had inflamed tensions in Ikaria, bringing the city closer to open warfare in the streets. Now was the time for action, but instead Prince Lucius and his self-appointed advisors had decided it was a time for talking and had summoned the key members of the conspiracy to a meeting at Magistrate Renato’s residence.

When the summons came, she gave serious consideration to refusing, as her earlier doubts about Prince Lucius rose to the fore. Bringing the leaders together in a single place was a tremendous risk, especially when it was likely that the prince would do no more than scold his followers for their wanton violence.

Unless, of course, recent events had forced his hand. If he were to declare himself openly and call for an uprising, then she needed to be there, to encourage him and his followers in their doomed endeavor. She had invested too much time in grooming these rebels to falter at the last moment. The larger the uprising, the more damage would be done to the empire, and the more damage done, the more praise Ysobel would receive when she finally returned to Seddon.

She took precautions, of course, reviewing the escape routes from the district where Renato lived, ensuring that they were still viable. Then she sent a coded message to Ambassador Hardouin suggesting that he might wish to forgo his usual nightly entertainments and remain in the embassy. If there were trouble, the guards would think twice before venturing into the sovereign territory of the embassy to arrest Hardouin. Though it was unlikely that they would seek him out; he had done his best to put distance between them, spreading rumors about Ysobel that had caused some merchants to cancel their contracts with her. At social gatherings her presence now inspired malicious whispers—and only those who needed to take advantage of her bounty sent invitations or called at her town house.

She dressed with care, selecting a silk gown whose daringly split sides offered glimpses of her slender legs—and would enable her to move swiftly if the time came. A dagger was strapped to the inside of her right thigh, and the belt that encircled her waist was made out of gold disks that could be easily broken apart and used as currency. Her hair was piled on her head, the elaborate arrangement held together by two sticks of ivory that were tipped with sharpened steel. Over one arm she carried a light linen cloak, in case the evening grew chill.

The sun was setting as she emerged from her town house, and she wondered why they had chosen such an unfashionable hour. Only peasants and slaves ate with the sun. Even the rawest of newcomers to Ikaria knew that one did not dine before the third hour after sunset. If the magistrate’s residence was being watched, such an untimely gathering was bound to raise suspicion.

Gino, the most senior of her male servants, was waiting outside beside the litter she had ordered. Normally unflappable, he had demonstrated remarkable poise in dealing with the occasional drunken noble or ejecting interlopers who arrived unannounced. But now he shifted his weight from one foot to another with uncharacteristic impatience, and as she approached he looked up at her once, then hastily dropped his eyes.

Something was wrong. She scanned the street, which was crowded with those returning to their homes after a day spent in the city. Among them she noticed a few standing idly, islands amidst the fast-moving stream of those who rushed by. These idlers wore servants’ tunics, but their posture spoke of time spent at attention rather than menial labor.

She had expected that the watch upon her residence would be increased, but these men were more than casual spies hired to report on her comings and goings. They were soldiers, and their presence boded ill.

She bent, fiddling with her sandal strap to give herself time to think. If she went back inside the house, they would know that she had seen them. What they did next would depend on their orders. Were they here to follow her? Or to arrest her?

Fortunately, she had not confided her destination to Gino, merely ordered him to fetch a litter. She could direct the litter to the embassy and see if her new watchers chose to follow. If they did, then she would know it was time to flee. If they did not, then she could assume that their presence outside her house was mere coincidence, though she doubted this.

Thus decided, she rose and walked down the steps to the litter. Gino held open the curtains for her, though he kept his gaze firmly downcast, apparently fearing that she would be able to see his betrayal in his eyes.

As she prepared to step inside the litter, a young girl darted from the crowd. “Gracious lady, a posy to perfume your travels?” she asked, holding out a wreath of flowers that had been nearly crushed.

“Go now, we have no use for your kind,” Gino said, pushing the girl away.

Ordinarily Ysobel would have ignored the girl, for to give money to one street beggar would only encourage the rest to flock around her. But Gino’s actions sparked a contrary spirit within her.

“Wait,” she said. Reaching into the small purse concealed within the folds of her cloak she withdrew two pennies and handed them to the girl.

“Thank you, noble lady,” she said, pressing the flowers into Ysobel’s palms as if they were the rarest of jewels. Then she darted away, scampering between the litter bearers and disappearing into the crowded street.

“Have them take me to the embassy, then wait for further orders,” Ysobel instructed Gino.

He nodded, then helped her climb into the litter. The curtains were left open, tied back so she could take advantage of any breeze that might alleviate the oppressive heat. Bringing the posy up to her face, she sniffed the flowers, but any scent they had held was long gone, and she wondered at the impulse that had prompted her to buy it. The flowers were so old they were practically dried, as evidenced by how they crinkled in her hands.

She squeezed the flowers, and again heard that crinkling sound. Carefully she picked apart the posy until she found the message scroll buried within. In the fading twilight she could barely make out the words.

Nerissa knows all. Tonight is a trap. Flee now, before it is too late.

The message was signed with the stylized symbol of the imperial house. It took her a moment to recognize this was also one of the tattoos that masked the faces of the functionaries.

The message was from Greeter. And with that realization came another, as she glanced outside and saw that they were approaching the square of the seven fountains. A picturesque spot, but it was not along any route between her town house and the embassy. She was being taken to the palace.

Greeter’s warning had come too late, or perhaps there had been a change in plan when it became clear that she was not going to lead them to the other conspirators.

She had one thing in her favor, and that was the Ikarians’ habit of underestimating a woman’s strength and cunning. They might expect her to protest once she realized that she was not being taken to the embassy. They would not expect her to act boldly.

She brought to mind the map of Karystos. Assuming that the palace and its dungeons were indeed her destination, once they left this square, they would enter the Road of Triumph. Hemmed in on both sides by official buildings, the road would be a trap. If she was to escape, she would have to do so immediately.

Carefully she unfolded her cloak and arranged it behind her, tying the clasp around her neck. Her gown alone would bring too much attention in the places she had to venture.

The litter paused to let a wagon pass. Ysobel gathered herself but waited until they were once more moving. Then she threw herself to her left. The cobblestones bit into her flesh as she hit the ground, but she rolled to absorb the impact and sprang to her feet. As she began to run, she risked a quick glance behind her. The litter hung askew, as two of its bearers joined the pursuit, accompanied by at least one of the soldiers she had observed earlier.

Holding her cloak around her with one hand she ran, her sandals slapping at the stones as she weaved among the startled crowds.

“Halt, in the name of Empress Nerissa. Halt!” The cry rose up from behind her. One man reached out to catch hold of her cloak, but an elbow to his face dissuaded him. She could still hear her pursuers, but they were far behind as she left the square. She ran a few hundred paces down the street, then ducked down the alley next to a merchant’s shop, ignoring the noxious scents. The alley brought her to another street, which had fewer lamps to pierce the twilight, and she let her steps slow to give the impression of a woman with no reason for haste.

She walked for several moments, but just as she thought she had escaped, she heard the sound of pounding boots behind her.

Fools, she thought to herself, even as she cursed her overconfidence. If her pursuers had simply walked up to her, they could have taken her, but their haste had betrayed them.

She took flight once more. This time when she lost them, she did not let down her guard. The streets were filled with patrols, far more than on any ordinary night, and she realized that she was not the only prize being sought.

It took much backtracking and one mad scramble across a stone wall before she reached the warehouse district. There the dangers were different, as her now-tattered finery led some to believe that she was a whore seeking customers for the evening. Fortunately, the dagger that she held in her right hand was enough to dissuade them from approaching too closely.

Safety was at hand, but this was also the moment of greatest danger. Having lost her trail in the streets of Karystos, her pursuers would expect her either to seek out her allies or try to flee the city. Of the two, escape was most probable.

By this hour of the night there was little reason for water traffic. If she went down to the docks and tried to hire a lighter, it was likely that she would be spotted. The same was true if she simply tried to steal a boat and row herself across.

There were three federation vessels docked alongside the wharves, thanks to her negotiations with Septimus the Younger, which had opened these berths to foreign vessels for the first time. But they would be watched, and even if she could slip aboard one unnoticed, any ship would surely be searched before it was allowed to set sail.

As she hid next to a warehouse whose sickly sweet smell told her that it most often handled imported fruits, she noticed a group of men bearing torches advancing steadily across the docks from the west. Leaning farther out, she saw that another group was approaching from the east. If she did not act quickly, her hiding place would turn into a trap.

There was only one thing left to do. She took several deep breaths, calming herself. She forced herself to forget the fatigue from her earlier frantic escape across the breadth of the city and the dull aches of muscles grown soft with city living. There would be time later to curse Prince Lucius for his folly, and herself for the arrogance that had led her to this place. For now she would think of nothing except survival.

She untied her cloak so that it was held together only by a simple twist of the ribbons, and with her dagger slashed the neckline of her gown. Then she took one last breath and darted out from her hiding place. Running past the shuttered customs house, she leapt over a coil of rope carelessly left at the foot of the wharf and continued down its length. Behind her, she heard shouts of pursuit, but did not look back to see if these were sailors intent on sport or guards sent to arrest her. As she reached the end, she dived off.

It was a long way down to the water—a jump that no sane person would make. Her hands were extended before her to cut into the water, but still the impact shook her as she plunged downward into the murky depths. Finally, her descent slowed. Her cloak had already fallen off, so she unclasped her heavy belt, abandoning a month’s wages to the harbor floor. The newly widened neckline of her gown allowed her to swim free of it.

Her lungs burned as she kicked her way back to the surface, but she forced herself to take a diagonal route, so she would not resurface at the same spot she had gone under.

Raising her head above the waves, she took in a lungful of precious air, then sank beneath the waves and swam several more strokes. She repeated this maneuver until she was several dozen yards from the shore. As she looked back, she saw several men with torches standing at the foot of the pier, but no one seemed inclined to follow her suicidal plunge. One man cried out as he spotted her cloak, and his voice carried across the water as he ordered a boat be summoned to fetch the body.

Ysobel turned away and began to swim toward the eastern side of the harbor. The waning moon illuminated the ships moored in the bay, and she was careful not to swim too close to any of them, lest she be spotted.

She swam for what seemed hours, or perhaps days, until at last she reached the great ship that was anchored at the far end of the eastern mole. It was the farthest spot a ship could be and still be within the harbor, and thus one of the least desirable since it made bringing cargo to and from the ship an onerous task. But for her purposes the ship was perfectly placed.

She clung to the anchor chain, blinking her eyes against the light of the lamp that swung from the prow. “Sanctuary,” she called up, in her own tongue. “I claim sanctuary.”

No one responded, and she forced her panting breaths to slow. “Sanctuary,” she cried again, and this time she was heard, as a sailor’s head appeared above the railing.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“A countrywoman in need,” she said. “Throw me a line, then fetch your captain.”

A knotted rope was thrown over the side. As she pulled herself up, hand over hand, the gentle rocking of the ship caused the rope to sway, scraping her naked flesh against its wooden sides. At last she reached the top, and with a weary sigh she heaved herself over the top railing.

The sailor stood by, along with two of his fellows, gaping at the apparition before them. Only her breast band had survived the swim, and her naked flesh, shivering in the night air, told the story of her adventures. She was bruised and bleeding, but she was alive, and she refused to feel ashamed of her appearance.

“By the gods, girl, what happened to you?” Captain Zorion’s voice boomed over the forecastle. His shirt hung loose outside his pantaloons, indicating that he had been roused from sleep.

“It’s a long story,” she said. “Nerissa’s men are searching the harbor for my body, and they will think to look here next. We need to leave now.”

Stripping off his own shirt, he handed it to her. “Put this on. Mayhew will take you below and see to your needs, while I get us under way.”

In that moment she was reminded yet again of why her aunt had loved him so much. Zorion did not argue, nor did he waste time with questions. Once he decided to act, he was unstoppable.

“We need to move swiftly or we will lose the tide,” she said. “How many are ashore?”

“Two dozen of the crew. We’ve a dozen on night watch, and the rest are in their bunks.”

“You’ll need every hand,” she said. “Mayhew, rouse the crew, then fetch me a pair of pantaloons.”

As Captain Zorion barked orders, the sailors on watch threw themselves against the bars of the capstan to lift the anchor. It began to turn, first slowly, then more swiftly as their fellows arrived to lend their muscles.

“We’ll have to leave those sailors behind,” she said.

Zorion nodded. “They’ll be fine. I declared hostile port before they left, and they know the rules.”

In a friendly port the majority of the crew would be on leave at night, returning during the day when required to assist with the loading or unloading of cargo. When a captain declared hostile port, only a small portion of the crew was allowed to leave the ship, and they were given instructions on what to do if the ship had to leave without them. Once they made their way back to Seddon, Ysobel would see that they were compensated for their trials.

Mayhew returned, holding out a pair of pantaloons and a blouse. She handed Zorion back his shirt, finding that both blouse and pantaloons were a perfect fit. He must have carried them on board for this very purpose.

She looked up as sailors were scrambling up the four masts, preparing to unfurl the sails.

“We’re short two topmen, and a bosun to call their orders,” he observed.

She’d noticed that as well.

“She’s your ship. You take her out, while I go aloft and lend a hand,” he said.

For a moment Ysobel was tempted. It had been too long since she conned a ship, and she had been itching to sail the Swift Gull since she first beheld it. But her desires would have to wait a little longer.

“You know this ship, and I don’t have time to learn her ways,” she said. “I’ll go up.”

She ripped a strip from the hem of her blouse and tied her hair back.

“Are you certain you can do this? You’re still bleeding,” he said.

“This is what I was born to do,” she replied.