by Amy Raby
Flanking Kal were his zo officers and their menagerie of familiars. Behind them stood the ordinary sailors, men who did not belong to the ruling zo caste and did not possess magic.
After a moment’s awkward hesitation, Kal stepped forward and embraced him. “Brother. We feared you were lost to us forever.”
Janto returned the hug, thumping him warmly on the back. “It’s good to see you again, Kal.”
They separated, and Kal studied him from arm’s length. “You’ve seen rough treatment, kali. Sapo!”
A Healer stepped forward from the line of officers. “Yes, sire?”
Janto started at the title. Sire?
Of course. In Janto’s absence, Kal-Torres had crowned himself king. He wasn’t wearing the royal carcanet, but only because that symbol of kingship was back on Mosar, if it had survived the war at all. Would Kal renounce the title now that Janto had returned? Janto studied his brother. Kal’s expression was friendly and his manner easy, but the set of his jaw and the intensity of his gaze suggested more complicated feelings. When they’d last parted, the war had been everyone’s foremost concern, but Kal’s jealousy still simmered beneath the surface, awaiting only an opportunity to boil over.
“See to his injuries,” Kal ordered the Healer.
Janto held up a hand to stay the man. “He called you sire. But Mosar already has a king.”
The crew fell silent, leaving no sound but the wash of the waves and the creak of the rigging.
“You were away,” said Kal. “Unable to take on the responsibility. So of course—”
Janto nodded. “You held the title during my absence. Now that I’ve returned, I reclaim it.”
There was a moment’s uncomfortable silence. Kal placed an arm on Janto’s shoulder as if to guide him belowdecks. “You are ill, Brother. Let Sapo tend to you. Get your strength back, and we’ll discuss this when you are well.”
Janto took a step back, plucking the hand off his shoulder. “There is nothing to discuss. I am Jan-Torres, your king. To treat me as anything else would be treason.”
Kal’s cheeks flushed with anger. “I rescued you from that ship. A Kjallan ship. You would have died, else. And these men.” He indicated the officers at his flank and the enlisted men behind them. “Do you think they will follow a stranger over the leader they know?”
Janto’s gaze darted over the crowd. The sailors dropped their eyes. They knew he was the rightful king. Yet there was no doubt they would stand behind Kal if forced to choose.
Do not back down, said Sashi. You are king. He is not.
“You are not the king of Mosar, Kal-Torres,” said Janto. “To pretend otherwise violates our country’s tradition of peaceful succession. It insults the memory of our mother and father.”
Kal straightened, emphasizing his slight advantage in height. “You’re not fit to rule. At Silverside, your error in judgment cost us a dozen mages—”
“Ridiculous,” Janto snapped. “You’ve always envied my crown. If our father wanted to replace me as his heir after that incident, he would have. But he didn’t. Do you question his judgment? While you sat out the war, repairing your damaged ships after fleeing in the very first battle, I fought on the front lines in Mosar, and when the tide turned against us, I went into the heart of enemy territory, seeking intelligence that might help—”
“You left Mosar to get out of harm’s way,” snarled Kal. “You probably spent the whole time on Kjall cowering under your invisibility shroud—”
Kill! Sashi launched himself from Janto’s shoulder with a chitter of rage and smacked into Kal’s seabird. The familiars tumbled to the ship’s deck in a ball of fur and feathers and flapping wings.
Kal’s mouth fell open. “What the . . . Stop him, Janto!”
A chill ran up Janto’s spine. He did not stop his familiar. He knew, at least from stories, the Mosari tradition of quanrok. Loosely translated from the old tongue, it meant “gods decide.” More practically, it meant settling a dispute between two zo by allowing their familiars, the gifts and occasional mouthpieces of the gods, to fight for supremacy. Had Sashi invoked the old tradition? He took a step back, giving the creatures room.
Sashi had broken Gishi’s wing with his initial leap, grounding the bird. The two of them grappled viciously on the ship deck, hissing and spitting and biting. Though injured, the bird was large and powerful. Neither animal had an obvious advantage.
Sailors and officers leapt out of the creatures’ way as the familiars chased each other around the deck, the seabird thrusting powerfully with its beak and buffeting with its good wing. Sashi’s lithe body flowed like water as he ducked in and out, skittering sideways to avoid blows and leaping in for a quick bite with needle teeth. The bird’s blows were heavy, knocking Sashi across the deck when they connected, but the ferret shook himself off and reentered the fray as lively and fierce as before, while the bird grew slower. Gishi was weakening. The seabird reeled, unbalanced, and Sashi leapt like a striking snake, bowling him over and pinning him with a bite to the neck.
Make Kal-Torres yield, said Sashi, or his familiar dies.
“Get him off!” cried Kal. “Your ferret’s killing Gishi!”
“Do you yield?” asked Janto.
“Do I yield?” Kal sputtered. “What are you talking about?”
“Quanrok. The gods have chosen. Do you acknowledge me as king of Mosar?”
Kal’s eyes blazed fury. Slowly, as if it caused him physical pain, he folded his body and knelt on the deck. “Men, honor your king.”
Sashi released the wounded seabird. All around Janto, the sailors lowered themselves to their knees.
* * *
An hour later, Janto watched a Sardossian boat row toward the Sparrowhawk as it rose and fell with the waves. He leaned on the rail to conserve his strength.
Kal, who’d been overseeing some detail of sail trim, walked up and leaned on the rail next to him. “Well, sire, perhaps you could tell me your plans for the fleet.”
“Answer some questions for me.” Janto pointed toward the distant lights that had to be land. “That’s Rhaylet, is it not?”
“It is,” said Kal.
“Here’s what I think you’ve been up to. First, Kjall attacked Rhaylet and captured it with six light ships. Sardos sent a fleet to recapture the port, going the long way, south around Dori, since they cannot use the Neruna Strait. The Kjallan ships made no attempt to defend the port but fled the moment the Sardossians arrived.”
Kal’s eyebrows rose. “How did you know?”
“The time I spent on Kjall was not wasted. The Kjallan ships planned escape into the Neruna Strait, but then you arrived. You pinned the Kjallans between yourself and the Sardossians and destroyed their small fleet. Am I right?”
“Yes.”
“It was an excellent maneuver, worthy of the Vagabond himself,” said Janto. “You may have saved Mosar with it. But there’s one thing I don’t understand. Those two ships there.” He pointed to the pair that had attacked the Lynx. “They are obviously of Kjallan make, so I take them to be prizes. But why do they fly a flag that is neither Mosari nor Sardossian?”
Kal grinned. “That’s my favorite part. When we attacked the Kjallans, only four ships fought back in earnest. The other two fired sporadically, often at nothing at all. We gathered that their crews were in mutiny and left them alone. By the time we’d dealt with the other four, the two mutinous ships had raised the Sage in surrender. It turned out both ships had been manned with Riorcan slaves, who rose up against their Kjallan officers in the chaos of battle and tossed them overboard. They had to plead our assistance after the battle—they were under the influence of death spells that would kill them if a Healer did not take them off, and the Kjallan Healers were among those they’d flung over. So we removed those spells with our own Healers, who also tended to them, and they’ve joined the fleet for the time being. Those flags they’re flying are makeshift Riorcan flags.”
Janto looked out at the two sh
ips with new respect. How long had it been since a ship had flown a Riorcan flag? Decades. History was being made.
“Just so you know, they’re rather bloodthirsty,” added Kal.
“I noticed. They wouldn’t accept the Lynx’s surrender.”
“Their hatred of Kjall runs deep,” said Kal. “I think all they really want is to kill Kjallans, as many as possible. Because of that, they may be willing to help us retake Mosar.”
“I’m not sure I want their help. They sound like savages who won’t take orders. Do they have a command structure?”
Kal shrugged. “A rudimentary one. But they’re all we’ve got. The Sardossians won’t help. I’ve asked. They fear the attack on Rhaylet was a feint, and Sardos itself may be the next target. They’re returning home immediately.”
“What do you know of the Sardossian fleet commander? What’s his name?”
“Admiral Llinos. He’s a decent sort. Solid, reliable, and conservative.”
“How can we motivate him?”
Kal shook his head. “No way to do it, Brother. He’s Fifth Circle. Another promotion will move him to Fourth, which gains him a third wife. He talks often about that hypothetical wife—I think he’s got someone specific in mind.”
“Damned hive breeders,” grumbled Janto.
“I don’t care for them either, but the point is he’s not going to disobey orders when he wants that promotion, and you can’t blame him for putting his country’s needs first. Count the Sardossians out. I figure with the help of the Riorcans and your shroud magic, we can take one of the Mosari harbors. I can have Gishi scout for the one that’s least defended, now that the Healer has repaired his wing.”
Janto shook his head. “No point. Even if we take the harbor, we’ll lose the land battle. There are three battalions of ground troops on Mosar.”
“So many. Are you sure?” Kal’s brow wrinkled. “We can free slaves as we go and build up our forces before we engage them.”
“An untrained, disorganized force of freed civilians will have no chance against a disciplined Kjallan battalion.”
Kal snorted in exasperation. “What would you have us do, Jan? You walk in here and take command, and for what? To have us sail around aimlessly, doing nothing, while the Kjallans loot our country and exploit our people?”
“Be easy, Brother. We will take back what is ours. But we will not accomplish it by invading Mosar.”
Kal spread his hands. “How can we recover Mosar without an invasion?”
“There will be an invasion. It just won’t be on Mosar.”
“If not on Mosar, where?”
Janto smiled grimly. “Kjall.”
29
Janto stood with Kal-Torres in the middle of the deck, with the ship’s officers fanning out on either side of them, to receive the Sardossian admiral as he came over the side. Admiral Llinos was a heavy man, big in all directions, with a tousled mop of dirty blond hair and bushy eyebrows. He bowed to Janto. “King Jan-Torres. I am sorry for your loss.”
“I accept your condolences, Admiral. May I congratulate you on your victory?”
Llinos beamed. “You certainly may, though without your brother’s assistance, we’d never have caught them.” His smile faded. “Their quick retreat makes me think the attack was a feint.”
“I know for a fact that it was,” said Janto. “Shall we step over to the quarterdeck and I will explain?”
Kal had suggested holding the meeting belowdecks, in the captain’s quarters, but Janto, knowing he was more likely to get sick belowdecks, insisted on clearing the quarterdeck instead. Gesturing at Kal and two of his brother’s key officers, he led the way abaft the mainmast to the upper deck. Chairs and awnings had been installed there. He bade them sit.
Admiral Llinos spoke. “Your brother has already asked for my assistance in retaking Mosar. While I’m sympathetic to your situation, I must decline. We think it likely the Kjallans are mounting an attack on Sarpol, and I’m under orders to return there upon securing Rhaylet. We are finishing critical repairs to our ships and will depart at daylight.”
“The Kjallans are attacking Sarpol,” said Janto. “Very likely the attack fleet has already sailed.”
Llinos looked grim. “Then I haven’t a moment to lose.”
“You will not make it in time.”
“If sailing conditions are good—”
“You will not make it,” insisted Janto.
Llinos shrugged. “I am under orders, so I must try.”
“Is there any situation in which your proper course of action would be not to follow orders?”
“Your Majesty, I am aware that your country is in desperate need, but I cannot offer help when my own country is threatened.”
Janto scooted forward to the edge of his seat. “What if I said you could stop the attack on Sarpol completely? Avert all bloodshed and sidestep a costly invasion. Then would you consider not following orders?”
Llinos frowned. “Such a thing is not possible.”
“I will tell you how it can be done. I was recently on Kjall gathering intelligence. I know the Kjallans’ strengths and weaknesses. They are vulnerable right now, like a turtle rolled on its back. We’ll stop the invasion at Sarpol, and you will be a hero to your people.”
Admiral Llinos looked skeptical, but he cocked his head, ready to listen.
Janto unrolled one of Kal’s nautical maps and began to explain.
* * *
“Legatus,” Rhianne greeted her fiancé as he strode into the fitting room, draped with the silk syrtos he would wear at their wedding ceremony. It was unfinished, with pins marking the locations where alterations would be made and adornments attached.
“Princess.” He looked her over briefly and turned away, allowing the tailors to converge on him.
Rhianne, by now, was also a veritable pincushion. The seamstresses had been at work on her gown for an hour already, and they weren’t close to finished. One of them gently tapped her arm, and she raised it so the seamstress could pin something beneath it.
Since agreeing to the marriage, she’d seen astonishingly little of Augustan, which worried her. Lucien had warned her that through her rebellion she was offending the man, and now that she’d finally succumbed, she was facing a very difficult marriage indeed. She had never liked her fiancé, but at least when she’d first met him, there had been some pretense of friendliness between them. That was gone. But she was trying to make up ground. If the marriage was inevitable, she had to make the best of it.
“Are you looking forward to the ceremony?” she ventured.
He snorted. “Do not trouble me with your small talk. You have made your feelings about this wedding clear to everyone.”
She swallowed. Perhaps she would have to make a more serious attempt. “Do you remember the Mosari cat you gave me?”
“A cat.” His voice was scornful. “I vaguely remember.”
“She turned out to be a brindlecat. Did you know?”
“A brindlecat?” He turned and stared at her. “It had no stripes.”
“She has them now,” said Rhianne.
“I had no idea. Thought it was a Mosari house cat.”
A seamstress knelt at Rhianne’s feet, pinning up the hem to her gown.
“Get out,” Augustan snarled at the seamstress.
Startled, the seamstress dropped her pincushion. “Sir?”
He raised his voice. “All of you servants, get out. I want five minutes alone with my fiancée.”
The servants froze in surprise, then filed out of the room.
“Close the door behind you,” Augustan boomed. When it was closed and he and Rhianne were alone, he said more softly, “There are rumors about you.”
Nervous at this unexpected tête-à-tête, Rhianne turned away. “In the Imperial Palace, rumors abound.”
“Very specific rumors,” said Augustan. “For a long time, you were dead set against this marriage. Now, suddenly, you are all compliance and friendliness.
Why? Some say a deal was struck, and it had something to do with a Mosari man in the imperial prison.”
Goose bumps pricked on Rhianne’s arms. “Who says such a thing?”
“Though it may shock you, I do have friends here,” said Augustan. “Did you dodge a treason charge, Princess?”
“What a ridiculous accusation!”
“I don’t think so,” said Augustan. “That Mosari man was flesh and blood—several sources have confirmed to me that they saw him. But if you check the records, he doesn’t exist. No references to him whatsoever. There’s been a cover-up, and I have a feeling you were at the center of it.”
She could throw his own misdeeds back at him—the war crimes he’d committed, the people he’d enslaved, the lives he’d taken. What good was loyalty to emperor and country when loyalty led him to do such things? Could he really shame her, when all she’d done was save a man’s life?
But she would say nothing. She was supposed to marry this man, and it was no good fighting with him.
“Don’t think I don’t know what my place is in all this,” said Augustan bitterly. “I thought when Florian offered me his niece, he was presenting me with a reward for my faithful service in Mosar. How naïve! You are no prize. You’re the bad seed, Rhianne. The family member he needs to send as far away from the palace as he can. And my job in the battalion, before I became a legatus, was to reform the troublemakers.
“Well, I’ll do it,” he said resolutely. “The emperor wants my service, and he’ll have it. I’ll reform his problem niece on the distant island of Mosar. And I don’t expect you to appreciate it, though it’s for your own good. But let’s not bother with the small talk.”
* * *
The Sparrowhawk slipped upwind toward Kjall in darkness. Janto climbed the ratlines to the masthead and settled in the crosstrees. Sashi leapt from his shoulder and scampered into the rigging, chirruping with pleasure; he was fond of heights. Janto shook the rainwater off his boat cloak, pulled out a spyglass, and studied the Kjallan harbor. Up in the tops, the natural motion of the ship was magnified, sending him around in great, nausea-inducing circles. Good thing he’d skipped dinner.