Spy's Honor hat-2

by Amy Raby

“If Her Imperial Highness wishes it,” said Augustan, rising to his feet in one fluid motion. “I have some betrothal gifts for you—one-of-a-kind items from Mosar I think you’ll find very special.”

  “I can’t wait,” said Rhianne dully. She didn’t mind being challenged by a man. Janto challenged her. Lucien challenged her. Somehow when those two forced her to question her assumptions, she felt herself growing and stretching, becoming wiser and more knowledgeable. Janto disagreed with her often, even grew angry at times, but on some fundamental level he believed in her. Augustan’s criticism—and for that matter, even his praise!—made Rhianne feel small. No betrothal gift, no matter how one-of-a-kind or special, was going to make up for that.

  7

  With Augustan and his entourage in residence, and a betrothal ceremony in the works, the palace was stirred up in the manner of a trodden-on anthill. Janto would not waste this opportunity. With the staff preoccupied, it was time to invade the palace and brave the magical wards that were the bane of a spy’s existence. Sirali had said that the Kjallans didn’t place them in the hallways, only across doorways and probably only in sensitive areas. He prayed she was right.

  Just inside the slave entrance was an enormous, bustling hall. Janto twisted sideways to avoid a wheeled cart piled high with laundry, then dodged a pair of burly slaves carrying sacks of flour, his shoes slipping on the polished floor. Though this was only the service wing of the palace, it was striking in its beauty. Vaulted ceilings rose to lofty heights. From them, semicircular light glows hung in alternating colors of orange, blue, and white. Each glow was as large as a man. Silk hangings, bright with color, cascaded down the marble walls.

  Fine place, he commented to Sashi, who clung to his shoulder.

  Ugly, said the ferret.

  I know you’ve no appreciation for stone, but do you not at least like the artwork?

  Sashi studied one of the hangings as they walked by, a depiction of the mighty Soldier with his pike. It resembles a man, but he is flat and unmoving. He smells of dust and lye.

  Janto smiled to himself. Never mind.

  He passed from the first hallway into a larger one flanked by black marble columns. The bas-relief ceiling depicted scenes from Kjallan mythology. He began to sweat beneath the woolen overcloak he’d pilfered from a supply shed. The hallway was warm, but he had yet to see a heat-glow. Where were the Kjallans hiding them?

  He counted six hallways on his left, following the mental map Sirali had roughed out for him, and turned into the seventh. Here, alcoves set into the walls displayed artwork: paintings of warships and landscapes and battle scenes. War leaders sculpted in marble or bronze sat proudly atop their prancing steeds with swords upraised. Janto paused before the first nonmilitaristic sculpture he came to, that of a woman holding an infant.

  In the alcove next to it, a stone statue of a mythical sea dragon sat on an obsidian table. The lines and style of the work were familiar, and he could swear he recognized the artist: a Mosari woman named Fioni. How had her work turned up here? Was it stolen? There was virtually no trade between Kjall and Mosar.

  The gallery wasn’t as crowded as the service wing. Most of the people he maneuvered around weren’t slaves or servants, but Kjallans in syrtoses or military uniforms. He located the final hallway, which was narrow and devoid of decoration. At the end of it, a stairway descended a few steps toward a heavy iron door guarded by two Legaciatti. There would be no going through that without someone opening it for him.

  Janto settled invisibly on the stairs. Looks like we wait.

  We do a lot of that, said Sashi, untroubled.

  The door to the prison might be warded, but he doubted it, since prisoners had to come in and out through that door. There were two types of wards he had to concern himself with: enemy wards and invisibility wards. Enemy wards were the most commonly used, because once placed, they lasted several days. They had to be attuned to a particular person, however, and that person had to be physically present when the ward was laid.

  Invisibility wards were used sparingly if at all because shroud mages like Janto were rare and invisibility wards barely lasted an hour before having to be laid again. Such wards kept Warders so busy that they were typically only placed if there was reason to suspect a shroud mage was in operation, and then only in the immediate areas where the shroud mage was expected to be.

  For the next hour, Janto amused himself daydreaming about Rhianne. What if their countries had never gone to war and they’d met in a routine diplomatic visit? Not that Mosar and Kjall had engaged in much diplomacy before the war. But if they had, he might have met her at a state dinner. Danced with her, maybe. What would they have thought of each other if they’d met in such a way?

  A knocking noise roused him. One of the guards opened a tiny window in the door, looked through it, and nodded. The other unbarred the door. Janto was on his feet, and the moment they had it open to let the other man come out—another guard, as it happened—he slipped inside, turning sideways to avoid him.

  As the door slammed shut behind him and the bar crashed home, he felt a jolt of reflexive terror—would he ever get back out? But of course he would. That door had to open several times a day, if for no other reason than to bring in food and water and swap out the guards.

  The lighting was dim inside the prison, just some faint light-glows mounted sparingly, but he could see well enough. To his relief, the cell doors, though solid iron at the bottom, were barred at the top, allowing him to see in. To his left was a sort of guard room with cots and tables, where two guards sat, chatting quietly. To his right was the first cell, which was empty. He walked on.

  The next cell housed a yellow-haired Riorcan. Beyond it, the prison hallway took a sharp turn to the left.

  Janto soon discovered that the prison was a square that looped back on itself, with the prison cells on the outside of the square. On the inside were interrogation rooms. The complex was smaller than he’d expected and sparsely occupied. There were only four prisoners in residence, and none of them were Mosari. His trip had been a waste of time.

  Ral-Vaddis was not here.

  * * *

  Rhianne shielded her eyes from the lights. They made the pain stab like the Soldier’s own pike inside her head.

  “. . . Wouldn’t you say so?” said Marcella beside her.

  “What?” Rhianne tried to recall the beginning of Marcella’s question. Thank the gods this was the last social event of the day. She’d had all she could stand of constricting gowns, small talk, insincere smiles, and Augustan Ceres.

  “Wouldn’t you say the pyrotechnics outdid themselves tonight?” repeated Marcella.

  “Oh yes. Absolutely.” A hideous display. With their magical light show, set to music from the imperial orchestra, they’d reenacted Augustan’s capture of some Mosari stronghold right there in the ballroom. How strange to see brutality and bloodshed in the midst of silk hangings, polished floors, and chandeliers. The scene was ugly enough in its own right, but worse was looking around at the delighted faces of her fellows. Could they really see slaughter and destruction as something to be proud of? She could not help thinking of how the spectacle would make Janto feel, and she was ashamed.

  Marcella’s smile dimmed. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m feeling wretched,” said Rhianne, braving the bright lights to meet Marcella’s eyes. Cerinthus, Marcella’s husband, sat beside her, but he rarely said a word in Rhianne’s presence; he seemed intimidated by her rank. “It’s been too long a day for me.”

  “Ought you not to go up to your rooms and rest? Surely your uncle will understand.”

  “He told me I was attending or else.” Rhianne smiled grimly and sipped the wine, her fourth glass. At dinner, closely watched by her uncle, she’d abstained, but now Florian was making a tour of the ballroom, introducing her fiancé-to-be to her second and third cousins and the visiting officers from the northern front. Rhianne was making up for lost time.

  “Won’t t
he wine make your headache worse?” asked Marcella.

  “No,” said Rhianne, blinking in irritation at the lights. “It won’t make it better either, but it’ll make me not mind so much having one.”

  “In that case . . .” With a wink, Marcella poured the contents of her own glass into Rhianne’s.

  Rhianne grinned. “I knew there was a reason we were friends.”

  She turned to see how far Florian had progressed in his tour and how much time she had left before she’d have to perform the odious chore of dancing with Augustan. There was Florian—seated and engaged in a heated argument with a first-rank tribune. She smiled wryly; her uncle did so love a good verbal sparring. Not that he played fair. Winning an argument with the emperor could prove fatal to one’s career, so his opponents always made sure they lost.

  Nearby, Augustan yelled at someone, a Riorcan slave woman who fled from him, cradling a tray of wineglasses. The scene gave Rhianne pause. She couldn’t tell what had caused the incident. Augustan turned, caught her eye, and smiled. She could not bring herself to smile back at him. Instead, she looked away and hoped it would discourage him from approaching.

  No such luck. He showed up at her table minutes later with a steaming tea mug in his hand. “Rhianne. You look stunning as always.”

  Marcella and Cerinthus rose from their seats, as did Rhianne, wincing at the pain in her head. “Legatus Ceres,” she said formally. “These are my friends Tribune Cerinthus Antius and his wife, Marcella.”

  Augustan took in the insignia on Cerinthus’s uniform that marked him as third rank and gave him a dismissive nod.

  As they sat, he turned to Rhianne and pushed the mug toward her. “I brought you a drink. Spicebush tea. It’s fine stuff—we brought it back from Mosar.”

  Rhianne indicated her wineglass. “Thank you, but I already have a drink.”

  He smiled indulgently. “My dear, it is your fourth glass. I know you do not wish to appear unseemly.”

  She stared at him, incredulous. Had he been watching her this entire time, keeping track of how much wine she drank? “Thank you, but I don’t care for tea.”

  “Try it. Perhaps you will develop a taste for it.” He pushed the mug closer to her and edged her wineglass away.

  Rhianne considered how much trouble she would be in with Florian if she threw a mug of spicebush tea into Augustan’s face.

  “Well, if you are not thirsty,” said Augustan, a line of irritation appearing in his brow, “I believe the crowd is eager for us to begin the dancing. Shall we?”

  “With respect, Legatus, I’m not feeling well enough this evening to dance.”

  He stiffened with affront. “Indeed? I beg your pardon. I thought you the very picture of health.” He got up from the table and walked away.

  Rhianne slumped in her seat, infuriated, yet relieved he was gone. Who was he to tell her what to drink and act like she was faking when she said she wasn’t feeling well? She shoved the tea away and gulped her wine. Marcella’s hand fell upon hers in sympathy. Cerinthus stared at her in horror.

  Moments later, Emperor Florian slid into the seat next to Rhianne. “Leave us,” he barked to Marcella and Cerinthus, who scrambled to their feet and departed. “Rhianne, you are being unacceptably uncooperative.”

  “I’m not feeling well.”

  He glared at her.

  “He’s rude, Uncle. He tried to force me to drink tea because he thought I’d had too much wine—”

  “You have had too much,” said Florian. “I see the flush in your cheeks.”

  “And now he wants me to dance, when I have a headache that would send the Soldier himself packing off to bed.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Do you think when Augustan is feeling poorly, he cancels the war for the day?”

  Rhianne raised her eyebrows. “What a strange argument you make, Uncle. Do you imply that waging war and dancing are equally important?”

  “Augustan will only be here for a couple of days, and the empire needs this match.”

  “He’s not going to walk away because I refused his disgusting tea or didn’t feel like dancing one evening. I’m your niece. He’d marry me if I had two heads and tentacles.”

  “It’s not heads or tentacles I’m concerned about, but your tongue, which is excessively sharp.”

  “Augustan, by the way, hasn’t expressed the slightest bit of concern for my condition.”

  “Neither have I.”

  “From you I have given up expecting it.”

  “No more excuses,” said Florian. “Go and dance with him, or your head won’t be the only part of your body that hurts.”

  “I’m going.” With a sigh, she stood. The throbbing in her head accelerated to match her pulse. Draining the dregs of her wineglass, she searched the room for Augustan. There he was, speaking to Taia Livia and two young women Rhianne did not know. All three women were simpering in his presence. Great, she thought, shooting a look of exasperation at Florian. Now Augustan will think I changed my mind out of jealousy.

  The conversation ceased at her approach. Taia and the two younger ladies dipped into curtsies, murmuring, “Your Imperial Highness.”

  “Taia,” she answered. Best to get the moment of humiliation over with as quickly as possible. She turned to Augustan. “Legatus, would you do me the honor of dancing with me?”

  A corner of his mouth quirked. “Feeling better, are you?” He offered her his hand.

  “No. But I’ll dance anyway.” Deep in her gut, she knew that handing him even this small victory was a mistake. It would only encourage him. But what choice did she have? She had another day of this to endure, and when the war in Mosar was over, a lifetime. Gritting her teeth, she slipped her hand into his.

  8

  Rhianne cradled the cat in her arms as she walked, trying to make it comfortable, but it squirmed, and one of its needlelike claws poked through her syrtos. She winced and removed it.

  “Your Imperial Highness,” said Tamienne from behind her. “Perhaps we should leave the animal in your rooms?”

  “No, I want Janto to see it.” She couldn’t wait to see him again. She’d survived two horrid days of Augustan, including the world’s most tedious betrothal ceremony, which had lasted a mind-numbing three hours. She’d finally seen him back to his ship, waving prettily as he set sail and praying that the war lasted another fifty years. If he lost the war entirely, might the marriage be called off? Gods, she was thinking the most horrid thoughts lately. Janto and Morgan and Lucien, with their treasonous ideas, must be wearing off on her.

  She sat on her usual bench beneath the Poinciana.

  Janto arrived soon after and spotted the cat in her arms. His eyes went wide.

  “Please tell me you’re not afraid of cats.” Rhianne patted the space next to her.

  “House cats, no,” said Janto. “But, three gods, that is a brindlecat.”

  She laughed. “How can it be a brindlecat? They’re ten times this size. And do you see any brindling?” She held up the cat to display its plain brown coloration. It had no stripes at all.

  Janto sat beside her. “Brindlecats are born without stripes, and what you have is a kitten. Watch the ears over the next few days—that’s where they’ll appear first. Do you see the claws?” He picked up one of the cat’s paws. “They don’t retract. This is not a house cat. Where did you get this animal?”

  “Augustan gave it to me.” She studied the cat—kitten—with chagrin. Maybe it really was a brindlecat. Augustan had said it came from Mosar, and brindlecats were native to that island. He’d probably had no idea what it really was.

  Janto recoiled. “Is he trying to kill you?”

  “Well, honestly, it doesn’t look dangerous. Can you tell if it’s a boy or a girl?”

  Janto inspected the cat. “It’s a girl. Princess, you have to cage this animal. She may not be dangerous now, but if you feed her properly—and it would be cruel not to—she’s going to grow quickly. Within a month, she will be deadly.” />
  “I can’t imagine.” However, Rhianne could see a little of what he was talking about. The kitten’s claws and teeth were larger than she’d seen before, and the animal wasn’t exactly sweet-natured. “Don’t you think I could make a friend out of her? If I handle her every day?”

  Janto looked horrified. “Absolutely not. Brindlecats are wild animals. If you’re the one who feeds her, she’ll probably refrain from clawing you to pieces. But she’ll make a mess of your floors, she’ll shred your furniture, and she’ll play so rough she leaves gashes in your arms. This is not a pet.”

  “Three gods,” said Rhianne. “I don’t think Augustan had any idea.”

  “I should hope he didn’t.”

  Rhianne stroked her brindlecat kitten. Janto was probably right that the animal would grow dangerous quickly, but she would enjoy her while she could.

  “Didn’t you bring a book today?” asked Janto.

  “No,” said Rhianne. “I thought we could just talk. I want to learn more about Mosar—your customs, your way of life. Is it true your people live in caves?”

  Janto’s eyes narrowed. Perhaps he thought she was insulting him. “It depends what you mean by caves. In the Mosari language, we have two words meaning cave. The first is lerot, a beast cave, naturally occurring, usually rough and inhospitable. The second is usont, a man-made cave carved into the mountain by one of our stoneshapers. We live in usonts.”

  “And what’s an usont like?”

  “Like any indoor space, except carved of stone. Our stoneshapers’ magic can make the walls, ceilings, and floors flat and the corners right-angled, like your Kjallan houses built of wood. But stoneshapers can also make graceful curves, undulations, strange textures, rooms that are perfectly round. Parts of the Mosari palace would astonish you.”

  “It sounds interesting. But why do you live in caves rather than houses?”

  “Because of the storm season. During the late summer and fall, Mosar is battered by storms so severe that they would rip apart the sorts of houses you build here on Kjall. During the storm season, we send our ships to safer waters and retreat into our usonts for safety. The rest of the year is our growing and building season, and we erect some temporary structures then. But there’s not much wood on Mosar. What we have, we wouldn’t waste on houses. We use it for ships.”