EMPIRE REWRITTEN [Isekai ? Alt-History ? Strategy]

Bertrandon de la Broquière stood on the deck of the small merchant galley, hands clasped behind him, watching the rugged shoreline of the Morea fade against a dusty, pink horizon. The wind ruffled his hair and tugged at the loose sleeves of his traveling cloak. Seagulls cried overhead, circling in long, lazy arcs. It should have felt serene, a moment of respite in a sea of uncertainty. Yet there was an unease clinging to him like salt on the skin, and it had little to do with the threat of pirates or storms.

Iskandar stood not far from him, gazing at the same view, though with eyes that seemed to see a different landscape altogether. In the weeks since Glarentza, Bertrandon had come to sense that beneath the scholar's polite smiles and well-chosen words pulsed an urgency bordering on desperation.

They were bound for Canea, the Venetian port on the Northwestern tip of Crete. Word around the docks claimed it was a vibrant waystation for ships headed east. Bertrandon, as Duke Philip's envoy, believed he'd simply accompany Iskandar as far as Antalya—gathering intelligence. But with every new port, the Tatar scholar's path seemed less incidental and more deliberate.

When at last, they stepped ashore in Canea, the heat and the clamor greeted them like a bracing slap. Fishermen shouted prices in a blend of Greek and Italian, while Venetians—merchant agents—bickered with local dockworkers over cargo fees. The stench of fish and brine mixed with the sweet aroma of spices from stalls whose owners hailed from Euboea, Cyprus, or farther east still.

It was there, amid the chaos of the docks, that Bertrandon and Iskandar encountered yet another swirl of rumor: Ottoman pirates threat pressing more profound into the Aegean, and always, always the talk of how the Morea clung to its new innovations—books, and printing—for a semblance of power in an era of swords.

That evening, over a simple meal of boiled octopus and bread, Bertrandon ventured onto delicate ground. "You seem...preoccupied. More than a man simply traveling for study," he said, voice low.

Iskandar regarded him calmly, swirling watered-down wine in a tin cup. "Knowledge, my Burgundian friend, can be as sharp as any blade. Perhaps sharper. The Byzantines have lost their advantage over centuries of complacency. Yet if they had harnessed knowledge—true, transformative ideas—maybe they would not be in such peril."

Bertrandon leaned forward, drawn in despite himself. "You suggest knowledge could reverse their decline?"

Iskandar offered a tight smile. "Or inspire the ordinary man to question why he must bow so low to power. Why must the fisherman in Canea or the farmer in Thrace remain at the mercy of an emperor or sultan who barely knows their names?"

Bertrandon heard passion simmering beneath the scholarly tone. "Are you speaking of a...rebellion?"

Iskandar did not answer directly. Instead, he let the question hang between them. They passed the rest of the meal discussing the day's impressions—Venetian influence, local customs—maintaining an air of polite detachment. But in the hush of the inn's cramped quarters, while Bertrandon tried to sleep, he could still feel the weight of Iskandar's unspoken convictions pressing in like the humid night air.

From Canea, they secured passage to Candia. The galley was larger this time, and the captain was an affable Venetian who regaled them with tall tales of sea monsters and legendary storms. While Bertrandon took in the banter, Iskandar remained withdrawn, perched on a bench by the helm, scribbling notes in a small leather-bound book.

One evening at sea, Bertrandon mustered the nerve to sit beside him. "You work so diligently on that manuscript."

Iskandar barely looked up. "Just reflections. Observations of what I see and hear."