by Amy Raby
He strode toward her, stepping so close she was tempted to cower. She held her ground, trembling, as he towered over her.
“I was raised not to strike a woman in anger,” Florian grated through his teeth. “That’s for the lower families. But never have I been so tempted.” He pointed at a chair. “Sit.”
Wordlessly, Rhianne sat.
Florian took the seat across from her. “This morning’s ceremony was to be Augustan’s moment of glory, after nine months of hard campaigning. You spoiled it with your childish behavior. You shall immediately make amends. You shall sit down at your writing desk and compose a brief speech of apology. This you will show to me, and after I approve it, you will go to Augustan and, in front of his servants and top-ranking officers, humbly beg his forgiveness for the insult you delivered him in the hall this morning.”
“Uncle—”
“This is not a negotiation,” said Florian. “I am giving you orders. We will follow your apology with a gift. I was thinking—”
“Uncle—”
“Stop interrupting, girl! Must I call the guards and order you beaten for your intransigence?”
“I’m not marrying Augustan.”
For a moment, he was actually speechless.
Rhianne leapt into the opening of his stunned silence and spoke in a rush. “I hate him, and he doesn’t care for me either. I cannot marry him. I’m sorry to disappoint you.”
Florian remained silent. A muscle bulged at the back of his jaw. After a moment, he turned his back on her, pacing the room. “Let me make something clear to you. Do you see all the fine things in here?” He swept his arm to indicate the furnishings.
“Yes,” she said softly.
“Take a moment to recall the other fine things you’ve had. Your horse and magical training, fine clothes, fine food, the imperial baths, the guards who protect you—”
“Guards who spy on me.”
“For your protection,” said Florian. “Do you think I give you those things out of the goodness of my heart? No. You are here to serve a purpose, just as I serve a purpose, as Lucien serves a purpose. Your purpose, Rhianne, is marriage. Marriage to the right man, to strengthen the family line and strengthen the empire through the governance of a new vassal state.”
Rhianne drew up her knees and clutched them beneath her gown. What he said was true. She harbored no illusions about her role in the imperial family. And yet. “I never asked for these things. I never asked for this life. You took me. You brought me here, without my parents’ consent—”
His nose wrinkled in a snarl. “You were always meant for it, even if my sister, your mother, shirked her responsibilities.” He pointed at her. “You shall not shirk yours.” After a moment, he blinked and sighed, rubbing his face. In a gentler voice, he continued. “Why did you walk out on the ceremony? Was it because of the heads?”
Rhianne nodded. “Uncle, it’s not right. Those were innocent people Augustan murdered for no reason except that they were in his way. I cannot love a man who thinks he should be praised for such a thing.”
Florian smiled sadly. “He should not have brought the heads to the ceremony—not with a lady present. I’ll speak with him about it, and that will pave the way for your apology. He was impolitic, but you were rude. Both of you were at fault. You must understand he has been at war a long time, and solely among men. He forgets that women are sensitive and have no stomach for war, especially its gruesome side.”
Florian didn’t understand. It wasn’t the gruesomeness of the heads that bothered her, but what they represented. Her country had done something horrid, and it shamed her. She couldn’t write the apology he asked from her, because it would make her complicit in those crimes. Crimes against Janto and his people.
“Still,” said Florian sternly, “this nonsense from you must cease. Augustan killed those people on my orders, and I gave those orders for the good of the empire. I do not expect you to understand why I make hard decisions that you find unsavory, but it is not your place to question my commands. It is your place, as it is Augustan’s, to obey them. Therefore I expect your written apology, for my review, within the hour.”
Rhianne blinked back tears. She couldn’t do this. “I’m not writing it.”
His expression darkened. “Do not try my patience. Wedding plans are under way, and I’ve no time to indulge your childish whims. I was raised never to strike a lady, but I will not hesitate to order you beaten if that’s what it takes to convince you of my seriousness.”
“Cancel the wedding,” said Rhianne. Gods, he was going to destroy her for this. “Forced marriages are illegal in Kjall.”
“My dear.” Florian’s eyes narrowed. “I’m the emperor. Do you think you can tell me what is and isn’t legal?”
Rhianne shivered. “The law applies to everyone.”
Florian laughed. “Your written apology. Until I have it, you are confined to your rooms. You will have no visitors, attend no events, and have nothing brought to you until you think better of your foolishness. And if you think these are the worst things that can happen to you, think again. My forbearance will last only so long.”
* * *
Iolo and Sirali looked downcast when Janto met them in the usual spot beneath the trees. He supposed all the Mosari must feel as he did, though perhaps with less personal grief. Most of the others did not know the fates of their families back on the island.
“Is it true?” Iolo said softly. “The rumors about the king and queen?”
“They’re dead,” said Janto.
“I’m sorry,” said Iolo. “That makes you king, doesn’t it?”
Janto nodded.
Iolo inclined his head. “Your Majesty.”
Janto waved his hand. “It’s meaningless. We have no country, not that I won’t do everything in my power to win it back. How are the slaves taking the news?”
“Badly,” said Iolo. “There have been suicides.”
Sirali nodded. “While Mosar held out, we had hope. Now we have nothing.”
“I came to say good-bye,” said Janto. “I’m leaving Kjall.”
Their foreheads wrinkled with concern. “Where will you go?” asked Iolo.
“I’ve a ship that supports me,” said Janto. “I sent it away a few days ago to relay some information, and when it returns, I’m going to have it pick me up and find Kal’s fleet. I’ll join my brother, and we’ll try to retake Mosar.”
Iolo’s eyebrows rose. “Does Kal-Torres have the men to do that?”
“I can’t imagine he does, but we’ll sell our lives as dearly as we can. There’s nothing else left for us. I only wish I’d accomplished more here.”
“Right, and you helped the slave women,” pointed out Sirali.
Janto nodded. At least there was that.
* * *
Rhianne crawled through the hypocaust on hands and knees, ignoring the stifling heat and counting heat-glows as she followed her usual pattern. She wasn’t running away—not yet. That would take some planning. But she had to talk to somebody about her plight, and Morgan seemed the only option. He always talked sense, and Florian didn’t keep a close eye on him the way he did Lucien. Morgan would help her figure out what to do.
She reached the access tunnel, where the ceiling became high enough to stand. She rose to her feet, approached the door, and eased it open, just a crack. There were the guards at the end of the short hallway.
Wait—why were they wearing orange? Those weren’t ordinary guards. They were Legaciatti! Magical guards, immune to her spells.
She pushed the door gently shut, her heart thrumming wildly against her ribs as she prayed they wouldn’t turn and see her. The hypocaust guards had always been ordinary palace guards—never Legaciatti. Why the change? Did Florian know about her secret excursions from the palace? How long had he known?
She headed back into the hypocaust, dropping onto hands and knees as the ceiling angled sharply downward. There was nothing for it but to return to the prison of her rooms. She w
as trapped.
* * *
Janto sat on the pier with his back to a post, invisible. Heavily laden boats sliced through the harbor waters, some loaded with supplies, others with troops. A battalion of soldiers massed on a nearby beach, awaiting the boats that delivered them, thirty at a time, to troop ships riding at double anchor.
A bosun’s shrill voice carried on the wind. “Man the falls! Haul taut singly! Hoist away!” Janto turned to watch the shallow-draft frigate nearest him take sealed casks on board with its water-whip. Other men were up on the yards, doing something to the sails; still others clung to ropes slung over the stern. Across the water echoed the knocks of hammers and the scrape of an adze.
The fleet was preparing to sail again. He’d assumed they were going to Mosar, since Augustan was returning there with Rhianne, but it was odd they were loading so many soldiers. Why carry them all the way to Kjall just to send them back to Mosar? It didn’t make sense.
Another thing that didn’t make sense: he’d seen new cargo loaded—things like warm cloaks and blankets. Why would anyone need those things on tropical Mosar?
No. The troops were going elsewhere. He needed to find out where.
* * *
Rhianne lay prone on the settee in her rooms, trying not to move or even breathe too deeply. Florian had waited two days for her to change her mind, and when she hadn’t, he’d made good on his threat. Her back, striped with a whip and still raw, hurt like she couldn’t believe. Never again would she speak casually about someone receiving the lash as a punishment. There was nothing trivial about it.
She glanced up as the bolt slid back from her door. It couldn’t be food. Florian was sending her prison rations—bread and cheese and water, three times a day—and it wasn’t time for lunch yet. She wasn’t permitted visitors, so it could only be Florian, whose presence she dreaded.
But it was Lucien! A pleasant surprise. She gritted her teeth and raised herself just enough to make eye contact. “I didn’t think I was allowed to see you.”
“Florian thought I might talk some sense into you.” Lucien grinned and rolled his eyes. He looked again, perhaps noticing her awkward pose and loose clothing, and stopped short. The color drained from his face. “Did he have you whipped?”
“He did,” she grunted. “It was much worse than I thought it’d be.”
Lucien turned away, as if he couldn’t bear to look, though her injuries were bandaged and covered. He limped with his crutch to the far side of the room. “I didn’t think he’d go that far. How many lashes?”
“Ten.”
He rounded on her, his hands balled into fists. “That leaves scars.”
“Not if a Healer closes the wounds. He says he’ll send a Healer when I start cooperating.”
Lucien scrubbed a hand through his hair and limped back to her. He sat, leaning his crutch on the chair. “What he’s doing is wrong. You know it, and I know it. But you should do as he says. If this were a Caturanga match, he’d have you in every possible way—his Traitor behind your enemy lines, his Tribune under the Soldier’s influence, and all your battalions and cavalry mired in terrain while he’s got a clean run across the board. He has every advantage, and you have none.”
“I have my integrity,” said Rhianne. “And the law’s on my side.”
Lucien smiled sadly. “Florian is subject to no law. But think on this, Rhianne—he won’t be emperor forever.” He lowered his voice. “When I ascend the throne, everything will be different. If Augustan mistreats you in any way, I’ll send him packing the moment I become emperor. You have my word on it. And then you shall marry whomever you please. But until that day comes, you and I have to swallow our pride and accept our orders as they come. Florian destroys people who oppose him. I’ve seen him do it.”
“I know you mean well,” said Rhianne, “but Florian is healthy and strong. He could rule for another forty years.”
Lucien took her hand and squeezed it. “You speak as if you have a choice in this matter. You don’t.”
“I could run like my mother did. I’d have done it already, except . . .” She sighed in exasperation. “There are Legaciatti guarding the hypocaust now. Florian must know. Or else it was a lucky guess.”
Lucien lowered his head. “Florian doesn’t know. I put the Legaciatti there.”
“You!” hissed Rhianne. “Why would you put them there?”
His eyes glistened, liquid with guilt. “Because I knew you’d try it. And if you run, he’ll find you. And that will only make things worse.”
Rhianne, realizing his hand was still holding hers, flung it back at him. “Of all the people I thought might betray me, I never guessed it would be you!”
“I knew you’d be angry,” said Lucien. “I only hope someday you’ll understand. I did it because you’ll never escape Florian’s net. He has resources you can’t even imagine: signal towers that offer him near-instantaneous communication with every settlement in Kjall, guards in each city who can track your progress through the food and grain you buy and the houses you sleep in—”
“I’ve got forgetting spells.”
“Not as useful as you think. Mind magic is unsubtle. Forgetting spells leave holes in people’s memories, and if Florian’s agents know the right questions to ask, they’ll discover them. Flight is impossible. You’ll be caught and dragged back home and forced to marry anyway, and what is Augustan going to think of all this? Do you think you have any chance at all of a happy marriage when your fiancé knows you had to be beaten and dragged halfway across the country to wed him?”
As if there had ever been a chance of her enjoying a happy marriage with Augustan. “Remove the Legaciatti, Lucien.”
He shook his head. “I can’t watch you destroy yourself.”
“Remove them!” she cried.
“No. I’m sorry.”
“Get out of my room, then,” she snapped. “You and I are finished.”
Lucien rose wearily, turned his back on her, and limped for the door.
22
For the first time, Janto entered the north dome of the Imperial Palace, the home of Emperor Florian’s personal chambers and offices. This area was certain to be salted with wards, but he was less concerned about tripping one than he had been before. With Mosar conquered and most of his family dead, part of him almost welcomed the opportunity to use his poison pill.
So far he seemed to be getting off easy. No wards yet, and with so little traffic, these hallways were easier to navigate invisibly than other areas of the palace. Legaciatti guarded most of the doors, and probably some of the rooms beyond those doors contained reams of useful intelligence, but finding a way into them would not be without challenge.
Around the corner, a pair of voices broke the silence. Janto moved toward them.
“He’s not back yet,” said one man.
“But I’m on his schedule,” replied another.
Janto turned the corner and saw Augustan Ceres, accompanied by one of his officers, speaking to a door guard.
“He’s running late,” said the Legaciattus. “You can wait in the anteroom.”
Augustan nodded and, along with the officer, headed toward a side room. Janto followed and was delighted to discover the anteroom had no door. He didn’t enter but hovered outside, in case the arched entryway was warded.
Augustan and the officer took seats, looking irritated.
The officer spoke in a quiet voice. “You think he’ll give us the ships?”
“Can’t imagine he wouldn’t,” said Augustan. “There’s still a Mosari fleet out there, and he won’t want anything to happen to his precious niece.”
The officer snorted a laugh. “What’s the word on her? She break yet?”
Janto blinked, confused but interested. Augustan and the officer had to be referring to Rhianne, but what was this about her breaking?
Augustan shook his head. “He had her whipped yesterday, but she’s a stubborn bitch. Not giving in yet.”
Stubbo
rn bitch? She’d been whipped? Surely Janto had heard wrong or misunderstood. They could not be talking about an imperial princess. They were speaking softly, and he could have missed something. Maybe they were talking about a hunting dog, or a horse.
Or maybe they weren’t. What in the Sage’s name had been going on here while he’d been hiding away, mourning his parents and his conquered land?
“He’s going about it all wrong,” said the officer.
“’Course he is,” said Augustan. “She’s thoroughly spoiled. Forget the wedding—just sign the marriage papers and throw her into my cabin on the Meritorious. I’ll make a wife of her. I’ll have her on her knees on the quarterdeck before the voyage is over, sucking my cock and thanking me for the privilege.”
Janto stiffened. He didn’t know how he would do it, but somehow he was going to kill that man. His fingers twitched, wanting to wrap themselves around Augustan’s neck and crush it.
Yes, muttered Sashi darkly, picking up his thoughts. Kill.
Later, said Janto, coming to his senses. That man was a war mage, blessed with preternatural speed and strength, as well as the gift of anticipation, which allowed him to sense blows before they landed. His combat skills would be formidable, to say the least. Right now, I need to buy Rhianne some time.
Augustan and the other officer launched into a comparison of their sexual exploits, some of which had involved captured Mosari women. Janto listened with half an ear, not wanting to get too angry and lose his composure. Finally one of the door guards came and nodded at Augustan. “He wants to see you first.”
Augustan rose. “Any word on the princess?”
“You’ll have to ask him yourself.” The guard led him to the door, and Janto followed.
“Come in. Don’t stand on the doorstep,” called Florian from inside.
Augustan stepped into Florian’s office. Janto, invisible at his side, crossed the threshold with him.
Fireworks crackled and spat as fingers of red and blue lightning raced along the door frame. Shouts erupted, and Legaciatti raced into the room. Two of them backed Emperor Florian into a corner, shielding him with their bodies. Another shut the door, while others tackled Augustan and wrenched his arms behind his back. The legatus cried out in confusion and anger. He could have fought them—he was a war mage—but he seemed to have the wit not to resist.