by Amy Raby
On a table in the corner of the room sat several logbooks, an ink pot, and a quill. Probably the overseer did his bookkeeping there, but he wasn’t in sight now. Janto picked his way to the table and extended his shroud just enough to cover the writing utensils. He tore a piece of paper out of a logbook and wrote the word Outside on it, followed by his royal signature, the letter J atop a T.
Returning to the table, he slipped the folded paper into the signaler’s hand. The man turned, startled at the unexpected contact, but there was no one for him to look at. Janto headed for the door and slipped outside behind someone heading to the latrines.
Sashi, he called, lowering a hand to the ground. The ferret came running from out of the shadows, up his arm, and onto his shoulder. We might have company.
You found Ral-Vaddis?
Someone else.
The signaler burst out of the slave house and looked around frantically in the moonlight.
With an arc of his hand, Janto extended his magical shroud to include the signaler, an act that rendered both of them invisible to everyone else, but visible to each other.
The signaler jumped as Janto materialized. “Three gods! Is it really you? Your Highness . . .” He started to get down on his knees but thought better of it, glancing about him.
“We’re invisible. You’re in my shroud. Follow me.” Janto’s shroud concealed their visibility and sound, but it didn’t prevent them from disturbing ground cover or being stumbled into by other people. He led the signaler into the cover of the forest.
When he halted beneath the branches of a great oak, the signaler dropped to his knees and bowed his head. “Your Highness.”
See? Your people love you, said Sashi.
Silverside, Janto reminded him. He’d prefer my father or my brother, but he’ll take what he can get. “Don’t do that; it could get me in trouble,” he said. “And don’t say Jan-Torres either. Call me Janto.”
“Your family name?”
“It’s a common name, shouldn’t give me away,” said Janto. “Didn’t you used to be a signaler in the palace? What’s your name, and how did you end up here?”
“My name is Iolo.” He stood. “After the palace, I did some work on merchant ships. I was a signaler on the Canary when the Kjallans took it off Bartleshore. But why are you here? I hope we haven’t lost the war.”
“Not yet.”
“Is it not going well?”
“My father’s doing the best he can, given that the Kjallan army is ten times the size of ours,” said Janto. “I’m looking for a man named Ral-Vaddis—”
“Ral-Vaddis is here?”
“You know him?”
“The shroud mage. I know of him.”
“He said he had valuable intelligence for us, that the Kjallan emperor was about to make a critical strategic error, one that could cost him the war. He was going to get back to us with details. But he never did.”
“And you came to find him? Why you? I can see why someone who could turn invisible was necessary, but surely there was another besides the Crown Prince—”
“Casualties have been high. I run Mosari Intelligence, and shroud mages are as rare as albino brindlecats. There was nobody else.”
Iolo’s face fell in dismay. “I wish I could help, but I haven’t seen Ral-Vaddis.”
“But you can help me, nonetheless,” said Janto.
“How?”
“By answering some questions. Why do the slaves in Kjall not run?”
“What do you mean?”
“You have no chains on you. Why do you not run away?”
“Because of the death spell,” said Iolo.
Janto opened his palms in confusion.
“When I was brought here as a slave, a death spell was cast on me, but it has a delayed effect. It doesn’t work right away. Each day, if I do my work and follow the rules, they cast an abeyance spell that delays the death spell by another day. If I run off, I won’t get my abeyance spell. But you could fix that. Couldn’t you?” His eyes lit upon the ferret that was the source of Janto’s shroud magic. “You’re a mage. You could remove my death spell.”
“A shroud mage has no power to remove a death spell.”
Iolo looked at the ground. “Oh.”
“If I could, I’d free all of you,” said Janto. “You work in the Imperial Palace, do you not?”
Iolo nodded. “The Imperial Garden.”
“If you want to help me, teach me to pass for a slave myself, and get me into the palace,” said Janto. “It may not be enough for me just to sneak around and overhear things. I need to be able to talk to people, interact with people—other slaves and maybe even Kjallans. There are things I must learn quickly if I’m to have any chance of finding Ral-Vaddis and discovering what it is he knows.”
“I can do that, Your Highness,” Iolo answered with a smile.
2
As Rhianne crawled on hands and knees through the hypocaust, the palace’s underground heating system, she simultaneously cursed and blessed its existence. It was hot and cramped and ridiculously uncomfortable, yet without it she’d never be able to sneak out of the palace without her escort tagging along after her and reporting her every move to the emperor. Her poor, naïve guards believed her to be taking a nap in her bedroom right now, just as they had every other time she’d sneaked out. They must think her a prodigious sleeper.
Brushing a cobweb from her hair, she counted the massive heat-glows spaced at intervals along the floor. Forty-five, forty-six, forty-seven . . . This was where she turned left into the narrow passage. Good thing she wasn’t frightened of small spaces. The hypocaust was sweltering even with only one of every five glows activated, but tempted as she was to deactivate them, she interfered with nothing down here. She would leave no evidence of her passing.
At the end of the narrow tunnel, the crawl space opened vertically into a passageway, allowing her to stand and walk normally for a few steps until it ended at a door, the hypocaust’s lone service entrance. It was guarded, but as long as the guards possessed no magic, Rhianne had nothing to worry about. She opened the door and stepped through it, throwing first a confusion spell and then a forgetting spell over the guards who turned in her direction. She continued on her way.
She proceeded from there to the palace stables and then, on horseback, down the switchbacks to the Imperial City of Riat. When her journey was complete, she led her white mare into a tiny stable adjoining a modest home in the merchants’ district.
“Who’s there?” called a gruff voice as she dismounted and pulled the reins over the mare’s head. The huge figure of an old palace bodyguard appeared in the doorway that connected house and stable, casting a shadow over the straw-filled stall. The voice softened. “Oh, it’s you. The boy will take your horse.”
A Riorcan slave slipped into the stable and took the mare’s reins. Rhianne climbed the stairs and trailed the big man into the house. “How are you, Morgan?” she asked.
“Getting by.”
“I brought your pension.” Rhianne pulled the thirty tetrals from her pocket.
Morgan turned and rocked on his feet, frowning at the coins. Finally he extended a hand, and she poured them into his palm.
“You don’t have to do this,” he said.
“Someone has to,” said Rhianne. “Are you doing those exercises the Healer recommended?”
Morgan nodded. He puttered around his kitchen, searching for a pair of clean mugs. “I don’t know where that boy puts anything,” he groused, reaching for a high shelf but grunting when his arm wouldn’t straighten.
“He puts things away,” said Rhianne. “If you’d just look where they’re supposed to be—I’ll get those.” She pulled two mugs off the high shelf. “You’re not doing the exercises.”
Morgan didn’t answer. He took the mugs and poured a reddish drink fr
om a pitcher into each.
“Do I want to know what that is?”
Morgan grinned. “Try it. You’ll like it.” He gestured at the sitting room. “Have a seat. Catch me up on the palace gossip.”
Rhianne perched on a settee and sipped her mystery drink. It was sweet and fruity and strongly alcoholic. She coughed discreetly. “It has a kick.”
“Fig juice, honey, and gin.” He settled onto a couch across from her.
“Disgusting.” She took another sip.
“So, what trouble has your cousin gotten into lately?”
Rhianne rolled her eyes. “He spoke out against the war in Mosar during a council session. Now Florian’s ready to mount him on the wall.”
Morgan laughed. “Wish I’d been there.”
“It’s not funny,” said Rhianne. “Florian struck him, and it’s not the first time.”
“I mean I wish I’d been at the council meeting. Florian’s not used to having anyone call him on his horseshit, and Lucien’s just enough of a pissant to do it. The problem with those two is that they have only two things in common—stubbornness and pride—and everything else about them is different. Florian’s such a hothead. You know—act first, think later. But Lucien’s so controlled, he can stare at that Caturanga board of his for an hour just contemplating the moves. The two of them don’t value the same principles or see eye to eye on anything. I’ve never seen a father and son who are such opposites.”
“Lucien suffers,” said Rhianne. “He puts a brave face on it, but Florian’s hatred torments him.”
“Of course it does,” said Morgan. “But wait and see. If Lucien survives these years under Florian’s thumb—and I know they are not easy—he will make a fine emperor someday. One of the best.”
Rhianne leaned back in her chair. “You say this, having served his elder brother?”
A shadow crossed Morgan’s face. “I’d have saved him if I could. You know I would have. But Sestius would have made, at best, a mediocre emperor, and the same goes for Mathian. I know it was Riorcan assassins who did it, but . . . sometimes I wonder if the Vagabond may have meddled with us, just a bit.”
“Calling on the gods now? You’d better keep those treasonous thoughts to yourself,” said Rhianne.
“Well,” said Morgan with a twisted smile, “I don’t work in the palace anymore. To treasonous thoughts!” He raised his mug, apparently with no expectation that Rhianne should raise hers, and drank deeply.
Sometimes Morgan frightened Rhianne with his bitterness and plain speaking, but at least he came by his faults honestly. He was former Legaciatti, once the personal bodyguard of Sestius, Lucien’s eldest brother, who had been heir to the Imperial Throne. Assassins had attacked the pair of them, killing Sestius and leaving Morgan for dead. Morgan survived, but his injuries were crippling; he could not continue in his duty as a Legaciattus. He was entitled to a lifetime pension, but Emperor Florian had been so furious at his failure to save Sestius that he’d dismissed Morgan from the service empty-handed.
Morgan, during his service, had always been kind to Rhianne. He’d tipped her off a couple of times when Sestius was in a rage so that she could stay out of his way, and he’d always seemed to be conveniently blind when she and Lucien had played their childhood pranks. She and Morgan hadn’t been close back then, since in his service he’d been attached to Sestius. Nonetheless, she’d perceived him as family, as a sort of distant uncle. He had no real family, of course; none of the Legaciatti did, and after his disability, he would have been destitute had she and Lucien not come up with the scheme to support him with their personal spending money.
“You tell your cousin to keep his head down,” said Morgan. “Florian is not a man to be crossed. He bears grudges.”
“You would know, I suppose,” said Rhianne.
“Lucien’s goal right now should be to sit back, quietly learn as much as he can about governance, and survive. He’ll have his turn to run the empire, in time—if his father doesn’t kill him first.”
“Lucien’s afraid there won’t be an empire left for him if Florian governs so recklessly.”
“Such dramatics,” said Morgan. “He’s, what, seventeen? A difficult age.”
“I have news too,” said Rhianne. “Apparently I’m to be married.”
“Are you?” Morgan sat up straighter. “Who’s the lucky fellow?”
“Augustan Ceres.”
Morgan’s eyebrows went up.
“I didn’t choose him,” Rhianne added quickly. “Florian simply informed me I was marrying him. He’ll have the governorship of Mosar when it’s conquered.”
“Mosar? You’re leaving, then.”
“Yes, but don’t worry,” she said. “I’ll find another solution for your pension. Maybe Lucien can deliver it. Or I can send it from overseas.”
“You’re a good woman,” said Morgan. “But don’t involve Lucien. The poor boy’s got enough to deal with.”
Rhianne swallowed. “Do you know anything about Augustan?”
Morgan shook his head. “Seen him around the palace a few times, but he wasn’t there much—always out on assignment. A great legatus, I’ve heard. Handsome fellow.” He smiled tentatively.
Rhianne waved a hand. “I don’t care if he’s handsome.”
“Sure you do,” said Morgan. “You wouldn’t want an ugly old man like me.”
“You’re not ugly, and thirty-six is far from old,” said Rhianne. “It’s nice if a man is handsome, but that’s not the most important thing. The most important thing is what sort of person he is. Is he kind? Is he generous? Is he loyal?”
“Those are the second most important things,” said Morgan. “The first most important thing is how big his cock is.”
“Oh, be quiet,” said Rhianne. “So, what’s the news from your corner of Riat?”
“Nothing of import,” said Morgan, but he filled the next hour with tales of the crazy widow next door and the fortune-tellers across the street, plus a story about a donkey that sat down in the middle of the road and refused to budge until someone scared it off with a squealing pig. For that hour Rhianne managed, at least for a little while, to forget her own worries.
3
Infiltrating the Imperial Palace as a garden slave turned out to be easier than Janto had expected. There were a couple dozen such slaves, and when Janto joined the horde at the back gates of the palace in the morning, dressed in a single-belted gray slave tunic so that he blended in with the group, no one remarked on his presence. The head gardener, a creaky Kjallan fossil, didn’t know the slaves by name or even seem to regard them as individuals, so the biggest problem Janto faced was having no gardening skills, nor any experience with manual labor. That and having to hide Sashi, whom he concealed with his invisibility shroud and instructed to stay close while disturbing as little ground in the garden as possible. He could see Sashi himself, since the shroud was his own creation, but the ferret looked faded, almost ghostly, behind the veil of his magic.
He took instruction from Iolo as he went. The garden itself was stunning. Janto had never seen such a variety of trees and plants in one place. Most of them were leafless, which he found creepy and strange. Mosari trees never lost their leaves while they lived, and walking through a forest of bare trunks made him feel as if he were walking through an arboreal graveyard. But he understood they were only dormant, waiting for the spring, and as he spread mulch around the tree trunks, he tried to imagine what each tree would look like when it came to life again.
This is a terrible forest, complained Sashi, scampering invisibly at his heels and keeping to the dirt paths, where his passage would not bend grasses or stir leaves.
How so?
No rats, no voles.
Are you certain? asked Janto. It seemed plausible that rodents might find places to nest in the thicker ground foliage.
Can�
�t you smell? Sashi drawled with a look of condescension.
Janto smiled. His ferret loved to lord his superior senses over Janto when he could. I’ll take you hunting later. In a real forest.
As he wrestled a wheelbarrow of mulch from one section of the garden to another, with Iolo trailing after him, he discovered the garden was divided by country—here were Inyan plants, there were Sardossian ones—and he was astonished when he arrived at a Mosari section. It was warm, wonderfully so, with heat-glows strategically placed to simulate Mosar’s tropical climate. He recognized many trees and plants. There was an avocado tree, fruitless and pruned rather strangely, but he recognized its distinctive leaves. He spied a Poinciana and a lemon tree, along with other familiar plants whose names he did not know. Most of them looked a bit odd, and some were unhealthy. He felt as if he were looking at a copy of a copy of a Mosari garden, recognizable but not quite right in its essentials.
This forest is sick, fussed Sashi.
You’re quite right. I wish we were at home.
Sitting on a bench beneath the Poinciana tree was a woman—a Kjallan noblewoman, no doubt, since a uniformed bodyguard, female but substantial-looking, stood watchfully at her side. The noblewoman was perhaps twentyish, of average height, pretty, with walnut-colored hair that hung in ringlets. She wore the feminine version of the syrtos, which flattered her figure, and over it was draped a loros, a thin band of jewel-encrusted brocade. At the sight of the loros, Janto adjusted his estimation of her rank upward by several degrees. In all likelihood, she was a member of the imperial family.
“Who is she?” he whispered to Iolo.
“Don’t know,” he whispered back. “Very high rank. Stay away.”
Janto pushed his wheelbarrow closer to the woman. He’d come here to spy on the imperials, and here was an imperial, although he doubted a sheltered Kjallan princess knew much about the war.
The scent of orange blossoms wafted toward him as he neared her. The princess’s voice was soft and liquid as honey, and she was speaking Mosari! Reading it from a book, it appeared. She was misprouncing most of the words, and she had the most atrocious accent he’d ever heard. Poor woman—nice to look at, but it seemed she had dandelion fluff for brains. He listened anyway, mesmerized.