by Amy Raby
He smiled and drew three fingers down her forehead in the Mosari way. “Blessings of the Three: Soldier, Sage, and Vagabond.”
She reached up and kissed him one last time. Then she headed for the stable, alone.
* * *
Back at the palace, Janto felt Rhianne’s loss keenly, but he knew he’d done the right thing in helping her get away. Augustan was as bad an intended husband as he’d imagined—worse, in fact. He only worried that he had not helped her enough, that he should go with her to protect her and hide her from the guards who would inevitably be turned out to search for her. But he was king of Mosar, and his people needed him. Rhianne was smart and resourceful. He had to trust in her abilities. She had as good a chance of outrunning Florian’s minions as anyone.
He’d been of half a mind to confess his true identity to Rhianne at their parting. What harm would it do now? But then, what purpose would it serve? Their paths were diverging. Let her memories of him remain untainted. She didn’t need to grieve, as he did, about what might have been, had their countries never been enemies.
Donning his shroud, Janto collected paper, ink, and a quill and returned to the hypocaust. In showing him this secret passageway, Rhianne had given him a magnificent parting gift. And until now, he hadn’t even known of its existence! This underground heating system apparently lay beneath the entire palace, a thin layer filled with heat-glows that servants activated or deactivated as needed to keep the Imperial Palace at the desired temperature. Rhianne had claimed it was useless for spying, because it had only one entrance, and spells prevented sound from leaking through the walls and floors, but for all that he loved and trusted Rhianne, the uses of the hypocaust were easily something she might lie about. Or be ignorant about. She cared about him, but she was Kjallan, and, as she had just made so abundantly clear, she would not knowingly betray her people.
In a way, he was glad she’d refused to go to Mosar with him. It was a fool’s errand; he would almost certainly be killed there. Better she should stay here on Kjall and begin a new life.
Gasping in the stifling heat, he summoned magelight and, with paper and ink, mapped the entrance corridor and everything he could see from the place he now sat, marking each individual heat-glow on the map.
Rhianne said that she and Lucien had sneaked out together through the hypocaust. She could have meant they both sneaked out through the trapdoor in her room. But wasn’t it far more likely that Lucien had a trapdoor in his own room? If so, he needed to find that door. The rooms of the Imperial Heir could hold valuable intelligence about the attack, or feint, or whatever it was that was happening on Sardos. If Janto had to map every inch of the hypocaust to locate Lucien’s trapdoor, he would do it.
Hours later, around dawn, guards began pouring into the once-empty hypocaust, and Janto knew Rhianne’s disappearance had been discovered. They crawled up and down its sweltering passageways, searching perhaps for Rhianne herself, or else the exit she’d taken. No doubt they were bewildered, trying to work out how she could have slipped past the Legaciatti.
Their presence made any further mapping dangerous, so he left the tunnels. It was time for a new approach anyway. His all-night study of the hypocaust had impressed upon him the difficulty of mapping the entire system; the structure was enormous. Since his priority right now was finding a trapdoor into Lucien’s room, why not find out where Lucien’s room was located aboveground, and then, back in the hypocaust, map his way directly to that location? He headed into the north dome with that goal in mind.
23
Lucien Florian Nigellus, heir to the Kjallan throne, tugged an ear as he studied the Caturanga board. Should he make a bid for the Soldier? Or was it time to put his Traitor into play? He raised his eyes to the young man sitting across from him in case his opponent’s facial expression might offer him any clues. Trenian was a student he’d discovered at the palaestra, where young officers-to-be were trained. At the end of the season, Trenian would earn his officer mark, and when that happened, he’d be transferred to a distant battalion, but Lucien intended to keep an eye on him from afar. He admired sharp minds, and this boy was one of the most promising Caturanga players he’d met. At the moment, Trenian looked absolutely guileless, which meant he had a trick or two up his sleeve.
Lucien moved the Traitor.
The door that led to his rooms groaned on its hinges.
“Gods curse it,” he muttered, studying the altered board as he awaited Trenian’s move. The boy was setting a trap for him, somewhere. But where? He called to his door guard, “Can it wait, Hiberus?” When there was no answer, he glanced up. Florian was striding into the room.
A bolt of fear shot through him. He seized his crutch, pushed back his chair, and stood. Trenian rose awkwardly, aware that he should not embarrass the higher-ranking Lucien by standing faster and more smoothly, but not wanting to appear disrespectful to the emperor.
It was clear from the length of Florian’s stride and the tightness of his jaw that the emperor was angry about something. Lucien swallowed nervously. What had he done this time? He never tried to upset Florian. Indeed, he’d done his best to stay on the man’s good side. “Father.” He inclined his head as the emperor approached.
But Florian just kept coming. He strode to the small rosewood table upon which sat the Caturanga board, tucked his hands underneath it, and upended it, using his magically enhanced strength to fling table, board, and pieces across the room. “This. Useless. Game!” he shouted.
The board landed askew and broke. Pieces rolled along the wooden floor and under chairs and tables. Trenian stood frozen, horrified.
Lucien met the youngster’s eyes. “You’re dismissed,” he said. “Go.”
Trenian left the room as swiftly as he could without breaking into a run.
Florian advanced on Lucien.
Lucien took a step backward. “Is something wrong?”
Florian answered with a blow across Lucien’s face that might have broken his jaw if his war magic had not signaled him to turn his head. Still the impact knocked him backward and off balance. He staggered.
“Oh, stand up,” said Florian. “Sapskull.”
Lucien set his peg leg and crutch firmly on the floor and recovered his balance. He worked his jaw, blinking rapidly. When Florian hit him, some childish part of him always wanted to cry. It was embarrassing and stupid, and he was never going to let that part of him have its way. Another part of him quivered with the furious desire to strike back, but that was an urge he absolutely had to suppress. No one attacked the emperor and survived.
“Rhianne is missing,” said Florian.
Despite his still-rattling head, those words shocked him. “What do you mean?”
“Just what I’ve said. She’s run away.”
Lucien lifted his eyes to Florian’s, perplexed. Hadn’t he placed Legaciatti in front of the hypocaust exit just to prevent that from happening? “How did she get out?”
“It appears there was a trapdoor in her room leading to the hypocaust,” said Florian. “But you already knew that. Didn’t you?”
Lucien steeled himself for another blow. How was he to answer such a question?
“You must have known,” continued Florian, carefully enunciating each word, “because you placed Legaciatti in front of the hypocaust exit.”
“I was trying to stop her from getting out.”
“You failed, because she got out anyway!” cried Florian.
“I’m sorry,” said Lucien. “But I did my best to prevent that from happening.”
“You didn’t think to tell me about the trapdoor? I’d have sealed it up, put her in another room entirely—found some solution better than a couple of guards.”
Lucien shook his head ruefully. “The trapdoor was something she used as a child. You were so angry with her already. I didn’t want her to be in even more trouble. But how did she get past the Legaciatti?”
“We’re going to find out,” said Florian. “But right now I’
m more concerned with you. How do you feel about facing a treason charge?”
Lucien gulped. “I tried to stop her from getting out!”
Florian frowned. “I don’t care what you intended with your foolishness. You withheld information that led to her escape. However”—he held up a hand to forestall Lucien’s protest—“I came here to grant you the opportunity to demonstrate your loyalty.”
Lucien’s neck prickled. He had a feeling he wasn’t going to like this. “And how may I do that?”
“You will find your cousin,” said Florian. “Some of your colleagues in the north, when you were in charge of White Eagle battalion, said you were a savvy tactician. Prove it. Use your best tactics and find Rhianne.”
“Battlefield tactics and locating a runaway aren’t the same thing.” Lucien’s mind raced. What if he tried his best and couldn’t find her? She was smart, and Florian hadn’t told him how much head start she had. Would he face a treason charge if he didn’t succeed? He supposed deliberately failing at the task wasn’t an option.
Florian’s brows rose. “Are you making excuses?”
“No.” He swallowed. “Have you considered that maybe you should just let her go? She’s ungrateful and unreliable. Let her suffer on her own.” He couldn’t resist the opportunity to perhaps save his cousin from the fate the emperor intended for her.
Florian’s brow arched upward. “Let her go?” He spoke the words as if they had a funny taste.
“Well . . . yes. For her to take a step this desperate, she must really hate the idea of this marriage. She’ll never cooperate.”
“I handpicked him for her,” said Florian.
“She seems to disagree with your choice,” Lucien murmured, discouraged.
Florian folded his arms, frowning. “Are you quite finished?”
Flinching from the contempt in his father’s eyes, Lucien nodded.
“You speak as if I had a stable of imperial princesses to choose from and could simply swap another into Rhianne’s place,” said Florian. “I have only Rhianne and Celeste, and Celeste isn’t of marriageable age. Rhianne will marry Augustan. And you will find her for me. Unless you’d prefer to face a treason charge for abetting her escape.”
Lucien dropped his eyes to the floor. It appeared he had no choice but to drag his cousin back to this hated marriage, if he could possibly manage it. She’d never forgive him. “I’ll find her.”
* * *
Lucien stepped into the war room, followed by his father. He’d been here many times, but never in an advisory capacity. Always he’d been told to keep his head down and his mouth shut. For the first time, he would actually be dictating tactics. Too bad the circumstances were so unfortunate.
Officers and their lackeys crowded the room, some grouped together and speaking in low voices, others poring over a map spread on a marble table. There was something ironic about seeing all these men putting their heads together to work out a strategy not for winning a war but for capturing a runaway princess.
“Men,” said Florian, “I want you to give Lucien your full attention. He knows Rhianne better than anyone, and I’m putting him in charge.”
Some of the officers eyed Lucien sidelong as he limped to the table. “What have you got so far?” he asked. “She escaped through the hypocaust. What else do we know?”
A tribune raised his wooden pointer and indicated a red flag that marked the town of Old Veshon, just north of Riat. “We know she was here around midnight. She visited a Healer for the wounds on her back. Then she sold her white mare and a substantial amount of imperial jewelry.”
“After that?”
“The trail runs cold,” said the tribune. “We’re pretty sure she bought another horse. A stableman reports he sold someone a bay gelding during the night, but he can’t remember details such as the exact time or whom he sold it to.”
“Almost certainly that was her. She used a forgetting spell.”
“We assumed as much.” The tribune pointed to a semicircle of white flags marking the towns north and east of Old Veshon. “We figure she’s in one of these places by now, most likely one of the northern ones.”
“Why north?” asked Lucien.
“She rode north to begin with, and it’s likely she began her journey in the direction of her ultimate destination,” explained the tribune. “If she wanted to go east, why start by riding north to Old Veshon?”
“Because she was deliberately deceiving you. You’re underestimating her. The radius of your search is too small—you’ve marked villages only twenty miles out. If she departed Old Veshon as early as midnight, and it’s midmorning now, she could easily be a hundred miles from here.”
Florian stepped into the crowd around the table. “Not likely. Rhianne is unaccustomed to travel.”
“Doesn’t matter,” said Lucien. “She has a pile of money from Old Veshon—I assume she got good prices, with her mind magic?”
“She did,” said the tribune.
“We must assume she rode hard all night, trading horses every ten miles at post stations or anywhere she could sell the old horse and buy a fresh one. Buying and selling are easy for a mind mage, even in the dead of night. She’s skilled in the saddle, and she’s desperate. We should assume she rode until she dropped—and she might still be riding.”
Florian frowned, clearly unhappy with this characterization of his niece. “So what’s your strategy for finding her?”
“I advise three strategies,” said Lucien. “First, we track her through the horse. She bought a bay gelding in Old Veshon, and I’ll bet she sold or abandoned it ten to fifteen miles from where she bought it. We pick up the fellow who sold it to her and take him to all the post stations within range; see if he can identify the animal. If we find that horse, we’ll find the next one she bought, and so on. With luck, we can track her progress across the country.” Lucien paused and looked around the room. He had everyone’s attention now.
“Second, we use our signal network and notify the authorities of every town, village, and city within our search radius to be looking for her. Rhianne is clever, and her magic is powerful, but she has no skills for roughing it in the wilderness. She’ll have to venture into civilized areas for food and other supplies, and as an attractive young woman, she’s conspicuous. Forgetting spells are only worth so much. She may be seen from a distance by people she doesn’t even notice, and of course mages are entirely immune to her magic. Have the towns mobilize search parties, and make sure every search party includes a mage. Offer rewards for information and for successful capture. And make it clear that there’s a stake waiting for anyone who harms or despoils her.”
“Third, mobilize any battalions stationed within the search radius and have them patrol the roads. A young woman traveling alone is a rare sight. If they see her, and they’ve got a mage in the party to ward off her defenses, they won’t fail to recognize her.”
Florian nodded his grudging approval. “Tribune Murrius, you’re in charge of tracking the horses. Tribune Orosius, get on the signal network and organize the city authorities. Tribune Auspian, you’ll organize the battalions. Move.”
24
In the middle of the night, refreshed from a long midday sleep and a stolen supper, Janto reentered the hypocaust.
Rhianne had now been gone a full day. How was she faring? She hadn’t been captured. He knew that much from the way the officers in the north dome were still dashing about the palace with gritted teeth and wrinkled brows. But she had to be frightened all by herself on the road. What sort of life would she find out in the Kjallan countryside, assuming she succeeded in her escape from Florian? Janto wanted her to be happy, but the thought of her eventually marrying some other man—even if it wasn’t Augustan—bothered him, and the more he thought about it, the worse he felt.
Yet it was too late for regrets. He’d made his decision, and he would have to live with it.
He’d found Lucien’s rooms aboveground. Now he just needed to locate the tra
pdoor, if it existed. He pulled out his hypocaust maps, which now sprawled over a dozen pages, and laid them on the floor, connecting them end to end. In his head, he projected the big structure of the palace onto the hypocaust and worked out which unmapped tunnel he needed to start working his way down. Two hours later, he’d mapped his way to the spot which, by his calculation, should be directly underneath Lucien’s rooms.
He searched the ceiling with his magelight. There was nothing marked to suggest a trapdoor. He pressed upward, lightly, on each wooden square. All were quite firm—until he came to one that wobbled. Janto smiled. He pushed on the square again. It was loose, but there was resistance—probably a rug on top of it. He extended his shroud over the square to muffle any noise and pushed hard. The square rose enough that he could see that yes, he was lifting a rug. He slid the wooden square sideways, still beneath the rug, but away from the opening. Now only the rug blocked him. He reached up, probed for the nearest edge with his fingers, and folded it back. Through the gap, he felt a welcome draft of cool air. Sashi leapt through.
Clear? he asked his familiar.
All clear, replied Sashi after a moment. The Imperial Heir sleeps.
He dismissed his magelight and climbed up and out of the hole. He rested a moment atop the silk rug, letting his eyes and ears adjust to the new surroundings. Goose bumps pricked his arms. Sashi scouted silently, sniffing about the furniture.
Slow, rhythmic breathing emanated from a high four-poster bed. A crutch leaned against a bedside table.
Janto replaced the parquet square and opened the bedroom door, shrouding it to muffle noise. Through the door was the sitting room. He spotted Lucien’s desk and hurried to it. He settled into the plush chair and opened the first drawer.
Inside were Lucien’s personal letters. Skimming them, Janto discovered Lucien had several correspondents at the northern front with whom he discussed military strategy. The letters were detailed, going on about fine points such as supply lines and the locations of cannons.