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.

Which was one reason why each day she memorized the names and berths of every federation-crewed ship in harbor, and which ones could be made ready to sail at a moment’s notice. Her frequent visits to the harbor for her official duties had also allowed her to plot out four different ways of entering the dockyards unobserved and the fastest routes from the center of Karystos to the harbor.

Though she sincerely hoped that she did not need to put her knowledge to the test. Fleeing Ikaria would not only put an abrupt end to her hopes of a diplomatic career, it would also damage the standing of her trading house, perhaps irreparably. As Captain Zorion had predicted, the house of Flordelis had taken public steps to separate itself from Ysobel, though in private letters she was assured that she could still draw upon the credit of the house if all other resources failed. Opinion in the Seddonian court, which had been divided over Ysobel’s covert mission, had swung firmly against the minister of trade, Lord Quesnel, and by extension Ysobel was tainted with that displeasure. Flordelis would survive, but Ysobel’s own fledgling trading house would be crushed.

Never mind that she was only doing her best to fulfill the orders that she had been given. Anything less than complete success would be seen as a failure.

Ironically she was proving a success in her public role. The grain shipments she had negotiated on behalf of Seddon with Jhrve and the house of Septimus the Younger had been profitable for all involved, and led to a number of other ventures. In turn the harbormaster had persuaded Empress Nerissa to grant federation ships a partial dispensation from the taxes levied on foreign vessels, which meant that they could sell their goods at lower prices and still turn a fine profit.

Ysobel’s own ships had taken to stopping at Karystos during their trading runs, where her influence meant they could secure profitable cargoes that more than compensated for the extra distance traveled. She knew that Captain Zorion had motives other than mere profit when he had issued his instructions to her captains, but as long as she made a tidy profit, she would not deny herself the pleasure she felt whenever one of her own sailed into the harbor.

The Ikarian Empire still posed a very real threat to Seddon, but she was no longer convinced that promoting internal strife within Ikaria was in the federation’s best interests. Yet neither could she abandon her duty, not until new orders arrived from Seddon or Lord Quesnel was replaced.

Her carefully encrypted reports back to Seddon had contained her assessment that there was little hope of promoting a successful rebellion at this time, though naturally she continued to seek out new allies. Such temporizations were unlikely to win her any friends among the ministers, but if she continued to advance Seddon’s commercial interests, in time her other failures might be overlooked.

Unless, of course, the situation had changed. She could not imagine any other reason why Dama Akantha had summoned her, using the cover of a masked fete to shield the gathering of those who could not afford to be seen together in public. Over two hundred guests filled the rooms of Dama Akantha’s gracious mansion, representing the very cream of Ikarian society. A few of the elders wore simple domino masks that covered their eyes, along with formal attire, but the younger and more daring wore elaborate headdresses and masks that covered their features. The more elaborate the mask, the more revealing the costume, and as the hour grew late, guests slipped away from the dancing into the formal gardens, seeking out darkened corners to exchange embraces.

Ysobel wore a colorful gown made out of brightly colored silk ribbons that had been slashed in strategic places over an underdress of flesh-colored silk. As she spun in the steps of the dance the ribbons flared out, giving the illusion of naked flesh underneath. On her face she wore a half mask of stiffened silk, painted with colorful swirls that matched the streamers on her gown. It was not much of a disguise, but then she did not intend to conceal her identity.

She accepted offers to dance from several of the men present, amusing herself by trying to identify the man behind each mask. Septimus the Younger had made little attempt to hide his appearance, wearing the simple domino affected by those of his father’s generation. He proved an able dancer, and she idly wondered if he was equally athletic climbing the rigging of a ship—or between the silken sheets of a soft bed, though from his formal courtesy she doubted she was ever likely to discover the answer to either question.

Two of her partners had to be put in their places for having made the mistake of assuming that the illusion offered by her costume was a sign that she would welcome liberties taken with her person. Neither man was of particular importance, so a crushing grip on the offending hand and a sharp rebuke were enough to send them away chastened.

Ysobel danced, conversed, and took a stroll through the formal dining chamber, which had been cleared of its couches so that tables offering delicacies to tempt even the most refined palate could be erected. She accepted a glass of wine but did not drink, preferring instead to observe those around her. When a servant approached, she slipped away from the crowd, leaving her wineglass behind.

The servant led her through the portico, as if to a tryst in the gardens, but then, after pausing to make certain that no one was watching, opened a hidden door that led down to the wine cellar. Ysobel slipped through the door and, as she began climbing down the stone steps, heard the door close behind her. Carefully she held up her long skirts so that she would not trip, though a moment’s observation showed that the stairs were freshly swept, as was the floor of the wine cellar. Details were everything in a conspiracy, and after all the trouble of assembling in secret, it would be folly to have those preparations undone by having the conspirators return to the party covered in dust and cobwebs.

As she turned at the foot of the stairs, she saw six figures gathered around three sides of the wooden table the steward used to decant wines before serving. There were open bottles of wine on the table, and several glasses with splashes of wine in front of each place, as if Dama Akantha were conducting an impromptu wine tasting for a few friends.

And if the imperial guard followed them, they might well accept her excuse, though six years ago such a gathering of seeming political enemies would have been automatically ruled as treason.

Alone among her guests Dama Akantha wore no mask, having declared that her guests were free to amuse themselves but she had no need for such deceits. Lady Ysobel’s own half mask did little to conceal her identity, but the others gathered wore fantastic masks of metal and leather that completely obscured their features. Only Dama Akantha would know their identities, but all would know hers.

“Your summons said this was urgent,” Ysobel said, taking her place on the fourth side of the table, which had been left open.

Silently the man next to her slid two wineglasses into place in front of her. He wore the head of a badger and a bulky fur costume that must be incredibly warm even on a cool night.

“There was some discussion on the wisdom of involving you at this time,” Dama Akantha said, her gaze sweeping the table to single out those of their number who had apparently incurred her displeasure. “But I persuaded them that you had proven yourself a friend capable of holding confidences, and if our hopes are indeed true, then your help may be needed at a moment’s notice.”

Curious. So they had been assembled for some time, arguing. She noticed that some of the wineglasses were nearly empty, and wondered if there were any dissenters who had been asked to leave before Ysobel was brought down to join them.

“If I am to help, you must explain what you require of me. Seddon is sympathetic to your aspirations, but we will not blindly commit ourselves to folly.”

All eyes shifted toward the man who wore the beaten-silver mask and white-hooded cloak of Death. An ominous choice in this place of shadows and secrets, but well chosen for purposes of disguise. At least a half dozen young men had also chosen to dress as Death, in an attempt to appear shocking or mysterious. Once he ascended to the public rooms, it would be difficult to single this one out from his fellow poseurs.

“I received news this week from a friend of ours and sought Dama Akantha’s counsel,” Death said, using the phrase that connoted a member of the rebellion. He spoke in a raspy whisper, but there was something familiar about how he held himself, the slight stoop of his shoulders, and in the cadence of his words.

“And what news was this?” Ysobel prompted. She had no patience for those who loved drama and the sound of their own voices.

“He has found one of the true blood. The letter was brief, but indicated that they had been pursued and would require a place to hide once they reached Karystos.”

The true blood. Had they really found an heir to Constantin’s line? Or merely one who looked the part?

“This is wonderful news indeed,” she said, forcing a smile to her lips. She should be rejoicing.

Dama Akantha returned her smile with one filled with equal parts malice and unholy glee.

“How well do you trust our friend? Are you certain that this is not a trap?” Ysobel asked.

“He has proven trustworthy in the past. I can vouch for his honor and his dedication to our cause. He would not have sent word unless he was certain,” Death answered.

In that moment Ysobel knew his identity. Magistrate Renato, one of the seven judges who presided over the imperial courts. Dama Akantha had played this one very close, for there had not been even a whisper of his involvement in the events six years before.

“If he is of Constantin’s line—” Ysobel began.

“The natives will rise up and drag Nerissa from her throne,” Dama Akantha proclaimed. “She will pay the price for turning her back on her own people, for they will not lift their hands to save her.”

Dama Akantha’s hatred allowed her to believe what she wanted to believe. Ysobel could not afford such blindness. Six years ago the rebellion had been utterly crushed—despite having had Prince Lucius, a legitimate heir to Emperor Constantin, as their figurehead. Now they were at a disadvantage in two ways. First there were the memories of Nerissa’s ruthlessness in putting down the last rebellion. There would be many who would sympathize with their goals but would not risk their lives out of fear of the empress’s wrath.

And second they did not have a legitimate heir, merely one who had convinced this mysterious informant that he could play the part. He could be an unlettered bastard with all the charisma of a lump of stale cheese.

Or he could be exactly what they had been hoping for. A presentable fool who could be carefully managed to act as figurehead but would allow others to rule from the shadows of the throne.

Not that the rebellion had any hope of succeeding. But a prolonged rebellion would weaken Ikaria and allow Seddon to expand its trading empire unchallenged. That was what she had been sent to accomplish. It was the very goal that she had thought out of reach and had worried that her failure would mean the end of her career in politics.

It was a moment for celebration. Ysobel picked up the nearest wineglass. “A toast to the new emperor. May the triune gods watch over his journey and deliver him safely to his people.”

They raised their glasses, and said, “To our next emperor.”

The others sipped decorously, but Ysobel tossed the contents back in three quick swallows. It had been a long night already, and her adventures were far from over.

“When do you expect him to arrive?”

“Within the fortnight,” Death said.

“Dama Akantha, what do you require of me?”

“A safe hiding place if he is followed. As for the rest, I will call upon you in two days’ time, and we can discuss how you can best aid us.”

“Of course,” she said. In her head she began making lists. They would need weapons, of course. She had already amassed a small stockpile to replace those that had been lost when the Pride sank. She should assemble small sacks of coins to use for bribes, old coins of mixed lineages so they could not be traced back to their source. And any new trading ventures would need to be put on hold, at least temporarily.

She would return to the embassy to sleep so she could catch Ambassador Hardouin before he began his day’s duties. He should be informed of the new development, though as of yet they had nothing more than hopes and unfounded rumor. Still, her danger sense was tingling—the sense that warned of hidden sandbars under placid seas or that a crowded marketplace was about to turn violent. Perhaps it was Dama Akantha’s excitement, so different from the reserved pessimism she had displayed in the past months. Or perhaps it was merely the uncanny effect of discussing rebellion and treason with a man wearing the mask of Death.

A storm was coming, and Ysobel had best prepare. This was the test that she had wanted, and for good or ill she would make her mark on the place.

She smiled again, wondering if the others could sense the falseness of her emotions as she pretended to an enthusiasm she did not feel. And she wondered again if one of the masks concealed the face of one who would betray them.

She shivered and blamed it on the chill of the wine cellar, whose cool dampness was more suited to the comfort of grapes than people.

“I will take my leave. Dama Akantha will pass messages to me. I ask that you not contact me directly unless there is no choice.”

There was a vague murmur of agreement.

As she climbed the stairs the others stayed behind, no doubt to talk more among themselves. Carefully she eased the door open a fraction, waiting until the corridor was empty before she slipped out. She continued down to the garden, making certain that she “accidentally” stumbled across two lovers locked in an indecorous embrace. The young woman shrieked, then hid her face behind her partner, as Ysobel stammered apologies while fighting off a grin.

Thus having established her presence in the garden, she returned indoors. The playwright Khepri called out when he saw her, and she joined the circle of his admirers for a short time. Then, judging that she had stayed long enough, she summoned her litter bearers to take her to the embassy.

It had been a long night, but she doubted that she would sleep. She realized that, until now she had been certain that there would be no rebellion. That any attempted uprising would be doomed to failure. She had made endless preparations, but had been confident that they would never be used. Ironically she was made uneasy by the prospect of success.

“May the gods give you what you wish for” the ancient curse ran, and Ysobel felt herself the recipient of such largesse.

Still, a good trader could turn even the most dire situation to his advantage. She should not let herself be dismayed by the coming events. Instead she should keep her eyes firmly fixed on her goals and seize any opportunities that arose. She had asked for a chance to prove herself, and at last she had it.

The federation councilors who had opposed Lord Quesnel’s plan had done so because they feared the consequences of failure. In their view, the uneasy truce between Ikaria and Seddon was preferable to the open warfare that would ensue if the empress ever discovered proof that agents of Seddon had been behind the rebellion. But success was the universal coin, accepted in any market. If she succeeded in miring Ikaria in internal strife without revealing her hand in the matter, then the council would be quick to claim her success for its own and to reward her for her efforts.

She could achieve in her lifetime what it had taken Flordelis generations to accomplish. She would be head of a trading house of the first rank, with a fleet of the finest ships and the capital boldly to explore the most distant markets in search of the rarest treasures. And she would be able to put politics firmly behind her.

But first she had to survive, and hope that Dame Akantha and her allies remained cautious. Otherwise, she risked falling into the empress’s hands, and if Nerissa suspected her of inciting treason, there was not enough gold in all of Seddon to save Ysobel from a slow and painful death.

 

“Please, no more, no more,” the prisoner gasped between shuddering breaths.

He had stopped screaming sometime ago, after Nizam had cut off the last of his fingers. Not because the agonies he had endured since then had been any less painful, but by then his broken body no longer had the strength to scream, or indeed to resist in any way as Nizam demonstrated the skills that had made him a master at extracting information from even the most reluctant of subjects.

Not that Paolo had been reluctant to tell everything he knew or suspected. Indeed, after five days of Nizam’s personal attention, Paolo had eagerly shared every thought he had ever had in his miserably short life. Once satisfied that he had broken the prisoner, Nizam had sent word to the empress.

Upon receiving the missive, Nerissa dressed in a simple linen gown and made her way to the cells that lay beneath the imperial garrison, through the door that was not spoken of, and down the corridor that led to the rooms of pain that all knew existed but few had ever seen.

Patiently she had waited as Paolo—a onetime sneak thief and petty criminal—was led from his cell. She knew the moment that he recognized her, for he began to struggle in earnest, and it took the efforts of four guards to strap him into the wooden interrogation frame. Like most prisoners, until that moment he had nursed the hope that his secrets might win him his freedom, or at least spare his life, but even the dullest of minds knew that her presence in the chamber meant that they could not be allowed to live.

Still, the days of agony had given him strong incentive to cooperate. Nizam and his assistants had stood carefully back as the thief poured out his confession to her. Sweating, his eyes darting round the chamber, unable to stay focused on her face, Paolo told what little he knew.

Some months ago he had happened to overhear a conversation between a pair he judged to be a noble and a mercenary. The mercenary had been hired to find a man and bring him back to Karystos in secret, but the noble was offering to treble his payment if he killed the man instead. A strange, twisted plot, which would ordinarily have been of little interest to Nizam, were it not that the intended victim was described as bearing an uncanny resemblance to the late Prince Lucius. Like enough to be his cousin, or even his brother, was how he had been described.

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.