Spy's Honor

by Amy Raby

  • • •

  Rhianne could see that the Mosari travelogue she’d found in the library wasn’t going to be much use. It had a single page of helpful phrases for travelers, but if she was going to spend the rest of her life in Mosar, she needed to learn the whole language, not just a few helpful phrases. Still, it was all she had, and until she found better, she’d make the most of it.

  “Cona oleska,” said Rhianne to Tamienne, her bodyguard. “Means good morning.” She repeated the phrase under her breath, trying to commit it to memory. “Cona oleska, cona oleska.”

  “Cona oleska,” echoed Tamienne.

  She sighed and looked up from her book. She noticed the slaves were now working near her in the garden. She wanted to learn the Mosari language, and here she was, surrounded by Mosari men, every one of whom spoke it fluently. The problem was that none of these slaves spoke more than a few basic words of Kjallan. Still, perhaps she could practice a “helpful phrase” or two on them.

  One slave was quite close, shoveling mulch. “Cona oleska,” she called to him.

  The slave raised his head and, to her astonishment, spoke in fluent submissive Kjallan. “With respect, great lady, you just wished me a ‘good mountain.’”

  Tamienne was instantly in motion, cuffing the slave across the face. “Your Imperial Highness,” she growled.

  “Leave him be, Tami!” cried Rhianne.

  “I beg your pardon, Your Imperial Highness,” said the slave.

  Tamienne retreated, glaring balefully at the slave.

  “Come closer,” Rhianne ordered him.

  Wordlessly, he did so.

  Rhianne could not help thinking that there was something distinctly unslavelike about this man. Though not especially tall or imposing, he stood before her with the carriage of a warrior, and his comfort in addressing her suggested his rank in Mosar had once been high. He couldn’t have been in Kjall long because his coloration was still sun touched, his golden hair a shade lighter than his skin but cut short, unlike the Inyans, who braided theirs down their backs. His sea-blue eyes regarded her with more amusement than fear, and she found herself wanting to know his story and maybe touch that lovely bronze skin—not that she was the type to consort with a slave. “What’s your name?”

  “Janto.”

  “I wished you a ‘good mountain’?”

  “You put the stress on the wrong syllable. You said oh-LES-ka. It’s OH-les-ka.”

  “OH-les-ka,” she mimicked. “Cona OH-les-ka. Is that right?”

  “Yes. But your accent is atrocious.” He smiled, and she was taken aback by how beautifully his features lit up.

  She smiled back. It was so funny to hear him speak words in the submissive grammar that weren’t submissive in their nature at all. Perhaps since he was a foreigner, he was not aware of the irony. “I would fault your Kjallan accent if I could, but I’d be lying. It’s perfect.”

  “Thank you,” said Janto. “I had an exacting tutor.”

  “I have a feeling you weren’t a gardener back on Mosar.”

  “No, Your Imperial Highness,” said Janto. “I was a scribe in the Mosari palace.”

  “You’re literate, then?”

  “Yes.”

  And he spoke with such confidence. If he’d truly been only a scribe, he’d been a valued one. “How did you come here?”

  His eyebrows rose. “To the Imperial Palace?”

  “Yes. To Kjall.” She realized as soon as she’d said it that it was a stupid question. Obviously he’d been enslaved, and whatever had happened to him, it had been recent, so the pain would still be raw. And he was young—around twenty-five, she guessed, which made his situation sadder still. She was curious, but she should not satisfy her curiosity by poking at fresh wounds.

  With a wry smile, he looked around the garden. “Imperial Highness. This is a beautiful place, and you are a beautiful woman. I don’t think you wish to hear my tale of woe.”

  Rhianne did, in fact, want to hear his tale of woe, but she accepted this as Janto’s polite way of saying he preferred not to talk about it. Still, if she got to know him a little better . . . but he was a slave. He could be transferred anywhere at any time, at the whim of the overseers. “Your talents are wasted hauling dirt. I would like to give you a new job.”

  “Yes, Your Imperial Highness?”

  “I’d like you to tutor me in the Mosari language.”

  He raised his eyebrows in surprise but didn’t say anything. She supposed she had shocked him, but she couldn’t resist. It had been a long time since she’d met someone who intrigued her as much as this man. A slave, yes, but educated and diplomatic. Obviously well bred. And gods, that smile.

  “I’ll be here every morning at around this time, and you can teach me,” she said. “I’ll speak to the head gardener about your absence from your other duties.”

  “May I ask why you wish to learn my language?”

  Rhianne hesitated. She could hardly tell him it was because she was supposed to help govern his country after it had been conquered. That was just cruel. “I’m . . . supposed to travel there later. I thought it would be good if I knew the language.”

  Janto folded his arms. “During the war?”

  Rhianne shook her head. If he was going to push for an answer, he was going to get one he didn’t like. “No. After we conquer it.”

  “Perhaps your efforts will be wasted,” said Janto, his chin up. “You might lose.”

  She looked down at her book, embarrassed now that she had tried to hurt him. “I can’t imagine it would ever be a waste to learn another language. I’ll see you tomorrow morning. Be prompt.”

  “Prompt as the sunrise, Your Imperial Highness.” The slave returned to his wheelbarrow.

  • • •

  Janto left the Imperial Palace grounds under cover of his shroud with Sashi on his shoulder. He watched Iolo and the others pick up their signed chits that indicated they’d done a full day’s work. As he understood it, the chits entitled them to their abeyance spells and allowed them to live another day. The brutal, dehumanizing system seemed typical of the Kjallans.

  Invisible, Janto stayed close to Iolo, who, as agreed, slowed his pace and fell behind the others. When they were alone, Janto extended his shroud to cover the both of them. “I think that went all right.”

  Iolo shook his head. “You were crazy to talk to the Imperial Princess. I about had a stroke when her bodyguard went after you.”

  He touched the tender spot on his cheek, only just now remembering the assault by the bodyguard. Once he’d started talking to the princess, all other thoughts had fled from his mind. Gods, he’d never anticipated meeting someone like her. “The bruise is a small price to pay. I need access to the man at the top—or at least to his half-witted military strategies—and this woman gets me close.”

  “I don’t question your courage,” said Iolo. “But there are other ways to get what you’re after.”

  Janto sighed. Iolo had spent the last couple of days teaching him everything he needed to know about pretending to be a palace slave. His initial fear that Iolo would be overawed by his rank had turned out to be unjustified. Iolo eagerly challenged Janto on decisions he didn’t agree with. That was good; his advice seemed insightful, and his outspokenness meant Iolo would be useful as a long-term ally and adviser, not just a temporary tutor in the ways of Kjallan slaves. But it was also annoying. “You don’t question my courage,” said Janto, “but you question my judgment.”

  “If you want me to advise you, Your Highness—”

  “By all means be honest with me,” said Janto. “I’ve no use for a sycophant. But don’t dodge the issue; come out with it. You believe my decisions are suspect because of Silverside.”

  Iolo winced. “That’s not what I said.”

  “It’s what you’re thinking,” said Janto. �
��Everybody thinks it. I made a bad decision, and we lost a dozen mages. It was a mistake, one with a tragic outcome. But I’ve made good decisions too. No one can be right all the time.”

  Iolo nodded, but Janto didn’t feel he looked convinced.

  “I need access to the imperials,” said Janto. “And they’re not gods. They’re ordinary people with human failings. Kjallans sequester their noblewomen. That princess has probably never so much as set foot outside the palace walls, and I’ll bet you anything she’s dumber than a clump of seaweed.” As he walked in silence, he decided it was a good thing Iolo wasn’t leaping to take that bet. The princess had been curious, and curiosity often meant intelligence. He’d have to be careful around her. He’d never meant to talk to her so much in the first place, but she was so fascinating. The words had poured almost unbidden from his throat.

  “Well, I’ve found something for you,” said Iolo. “I’ve discovered someone who knows Ral-Vaddis.”

  “What?” Janto looked up, jolted from his thoughts of the princess. “Why didn’t you tell me right away? This is wonderful news!”

  “There’s a woman named Sirali who works in the palace kitchens. She knows him.”

  Janto eyed him sternly. “But can we trust her?”

  “Don’t worry, I was discreet. And I know the slaves here. We can trust Sirali.”

  “Then I need to speak to her right away.”

  “I’ve made arrangements,” said Iolo. “She’ll meet with us tomorrow night.”

  4

  Rhianne dove into the pool with barely a splash, then rolled over and let the warm water carry her to the mist-covered surface. She felt as if she were floating in a cloud of orange-scented vapor. She closed her eyes to deepen the illusion, blocking out the sight of the white marble roof and walls. As she lay there, her friend Marcella splashed by, oblivious to the pool’s comforts and obsessed, as usual, with exercise.

  After a moment, the splashing stopped, and a smattering of droplets fell onto Rhianne’s face.

  “Are you asleep?” asked Marcella.

  Rhianne straightened in the water, treading. “Not anymore.”

  “I heard the good news.” She grinned.

  “What news?”

  Marcella splashed her playfully. “Your betrothal!”

  “Oh, that.” Rhianne pushed a stray lock of wet hair out of her face, disappointed there wasn’t actually any good news. “Honestly, I’m not thrilled about it. I’ve never met Augustan.”

  “Cerinthus has nothing but fine things to say about him,” said Marcella. “I understand your nerves—I was worried about my marriage too. But it’s all worked out beautifully, and I’ve never been happier.”

  “I’m glad things have worked out so well for you and Cerinthus.” Rhianne took a deep breath and dove beneath the surface, swimming down and down until her ears hurt, all the way to the pool’s marble bottom. Cerinthus was a bootlicker. That he praised Augustan, a higher-ranking officer, didn’t mean a thing; he praised anyone who outranked him. While Rhianne hoped his excellent treatment of Marcella stemmed from a deep-seated love for her, her cynical side knew it was at least partly motivated by the fact that Marcella’s father was an influential legatus upon whom Cerinthus’s military career was entirely dependent. She hovered at the bottom of the pool for as long as she could stand it, bubbles streaming from her mouth. When her lungs cried out for air, she swam to the surface.

  Marcella took her hands and squeezed them. “I pray Augustan will be as wonderful for you as Cerinthus has been for me. And think of the things we could do, the four of us, when the war is over! We could go hunting together, hawking together. And our children, Rhianne! Our children will grow up as friends—”

  Rhianne ducked her head, suddenly sad. “It won’t be that way. Augustan is to have the governorship of Mosar, and I’m to accompany him.”

  Marcella’s face fell. “You’re leaving Kjall?”

  Rhianne nodded.

  “But you’ll be all alone on Mosar!”

  “Well,” said Rhianne, trying not to sound bitter, “I’ll have Augustan.”

  Later that afternoon, dried off and dressed, she found her cousin Lucien on her fifth visit to his rooms. He was reclining on a couch in his sitting room, his nose deep in one of Cinna’s lengthy tomes. An elderly hound sprawled atop him.

  “You’re impossible to find these days.” She gathered up the silk train of her syrtos and settled into a chair across from him.

  “Well, here I am.” He scanned a few more lines of Cinna and set the tome aside. “Florian’s always got me busy with something. War councils, meetings with his financial advisers, lunch with the governor of Worich. It never ends. And I’m not allowed to talk, by the way, unless I’m ‘enthusiastically agreeing’ with him.”

  Rhianne shook her head. “Sounds like a wonderful time.”

  “Asbolos is better company,” said Lucien, rubbing the hound’s ears. “It’s good training, at least. I’m learning a lot, and I will have to run this empire someday.”

  Looking at Lucien, Rhianne couldn’t help thinking how much he’d changed from the boy he had been, long ago, before the assassins had changed everything. As a child, he’d been superfluous like her, a spare family member to be married off someday. Ignored by Florian, the two of them had learned the ways of the hypocaust and sneaked out of the palace on a regular basis, exploring and getting into mischief and riding off into the woods to talk for hours on end. But no longer. Lucien was crippled and couldn’t go crawling around the hypocaust anymore, and now he was heir to the Imperial Throne. He barely had time for Rhianne in between all his responsibilities. He still cared for her; she didn’t doubt that. But it wasn’t the same, and even in his presence she felt the deep ache of loneliness. She was losing him, and she would lose Marcella, and she would lose Morgan too.

  Silence stretched uncomfortably between them. “Three gods, you spoil that dog,” she said, just to have something to say.

  “No more than you spoil Morgan.”

  Rhianne shook her head. “Morgan’s earned what he gets.” It was a similar situation for the dog, however, an ancient animal the houndmaster had intended to drown for being too old to work anymore. Lucien, who’d hunted with Asbolos when the animal had been in his prime, had stepped in and adopted him, much to his father’s annoyance. “Does Florian still give you a hard time about Asbolos?”

  “I just shut him in a back room when I’m expecting His Royal Unreasonableness. Not that he doesn’t drop in unexpectedly now and then and chew me out for being too weak and softhearted to run an empire.”

  “It’s not weakness,” said Rhianne.

  “No,” agreed Lucien. “It’s loyalty. Florian doesn’t realize it, but when he threw Morgan out on his ear, he weakened his position with the Legaciatti. I’m not saying they’d go so far as to depose or assassinate him, but they know now that he doesn’t have their back. And if push comes to shove, they won’t have his. That’s what I learned when I was stationed with White Eagle—your people need to know you’ll stand behind them.”

  “Of course they do.” Rhianne eyed the Cinna tome. Lucien was the military strategist, not she. But loyalty to one’s friends seemed such a basic concept. One didn’t need to study thousand-page books to know it was important. “So what do you know about Augustan Ceres?”

  “He’s coming here,” said Lucien. “Florian had already summoned him, even before he spoke to you.”

  “He’s coming soon?”

  “A matter of days.”

  Days. She didn’t feel ready. But maybe she never would. “What sort of person is he?”

  Lucien frowned. “I don’t know. He’s always been on assignment in the south, and I was in the north. He’s got a reputation. . . .”

  “What sort of reputation?”

  “He’s strict. Stern.”

  Rhianne bit
her lip. She’d been hoping for a kind, jovial husband. Someone who made jokes, like Morgan. Someone thoughtful, like Lucien.

  “It’s not necessarily bad,” offered Lucien. “Most good officers are on the strict side. They’re clear about their expectations, and the men like that.”

  “I’m not a soldier,” said Rhianne.

  “Of course you’re not. I’m not implying he’d be strict with you.” Lucien gave a nervous laugh. “You’d be his wife, not his, uh . . .” Whatever word he was searching for, he didn’t find it.

  Rhianne tried to calm the anxious flutter in her stomach. It was no use getting worked up about a man she had never met and was hearing about thirdhand from a soldier’s point of view. Augustan might turn out to be wonderful. She couldn’t help wondering about him, but she would not pass judgment until she could evaluate him in person. “So after I go to Mosar, what are we going to do about Morgan?”

  Lucien sighed. “I don’t mind contributing the fifteen tetrals, but if you’re expecting me to go crawling through the hypocaust in your place, well . . .” He held up his crutch. “Come up with another plan.”

  Rhianne dropped her chin into her hands. “Morgan said not to involve you. Is there anyone else we can bring into this little conspiracy? Celeste?” As soon as she said it, she knew it was ridiculous.

  Lucien shook his head. “Out of the question.”

  Celeste, Lucien’s younger sister, was only eight years old and in the constant company of her nurse and tutor. She had not yet soulcasted. Rhianne could safely evade guards and travel through the city of Riat with the aid of her mind magic, but until Celeste acquired her own magic at around the age of twelve, it was ludicrous to consider sending her on such a mission.

  “When I become emperor, I’ll reinstate his pension, but that won’t happen any time soon. Florian is likely to outlive Morgan. What about sending the money from Mosar?” said Lucien. “Once you’re married, you should have the authority to do that. And the island is wealthy—you’ll have money to spare.”