Spy's Honor

by Amy Raby

  Augustan steered Flash alongside her. “You ought to have that groom whipped.”

  “Because of the saddle?” She shook her head. “It was a natural mistake. I usually ride this mare with the hunt saddle.”

  “Don’t permit your staff to be lax and lazy around you. It speaks to a lack of discipline. You are a princess, and they should fear to displease you.”

  Rhianne stiffened her shoulders. She liked Dice’s groom, who had a close personal connection with the mare and spent hours every day grooming and massaging and exercising the animal, keeping her happy and in top condition. She would not jeopardize that over a tack error. Was Augustan always so rigid and punitive? So far he was fitting bullet-to-bore with his reputation as a stern disciplinarian.

  They set off, trotting and cantering down well-worn bridle paths, trailed not so discreetly by their entourage, now also mounted. Rhianne led the way since she knew the lay of the land. South of the Imperial Palace was the city of Riat, but on the other three sides were lands belonging to the imperial family, pastures and plains dotted with lakes, and forests of all types, most of them cultivated, but there were two ancient, old-growth forests that the continent’s many wars had miraculously left untouched. Rhianne led her fiancé-to-be on a tour through some of the finest of these lands, and when the horses began to tire, she and Augustan dismounted at the side of a lake and picnicked, their entourage setting out blankets and food.

  “You are not quite what I expected,” said Augustan, biting into a pigeon tart.

  “Oh?” Rhianne looked at him sidelong. “And what did you expect?”

  “A more delicate, retiring sort of woman. Don’t get me wrong. I’m quite pleased with you.”

  Rhianne wasn’t sure how to answer this. She was glad he didn’t dislike her. On the other hand, he was pleased with her? He spoke like a parent praising a child.

  “Are you pleased with me?” asked Augustan.

  “Legatus, we’ve barely met.”

  “That’s fair,” said Augustan. “It was good of the emperor to bring me here so we could get to know each other a little before the marriage.”

  Rhianne nodded. “How is the war going?”

  “Very well,” said Augustan. “We’ve nearly wiped out the last pockets of resistance. I expect we’ll have it wrapped up soon.”

  It was good news, but Rhianne couldn’t help but feel a pang for poor Janto. His country was about to fall, and once it did, his people would be enslaved forever. She touched her chin. “How did you get this?”

  Augustan mirrored the gesture. “Musket fire. That was years ago.”

  “You were shot?”

  “Grazed.” He smiled crookedly. “Bullet left its mark, though.”

  “You have been many years at war,” said Rhianne.

  “Indeed. This governorship of Mosar will be a new adventure for me, commanding people in peacetime. Although leadership is nothing new. I consider your uncle a great example.”

  “Do you?” Rhianne raised an eyebrow.

  “Absolutely. He’s decisive; he’s bold. And he can be charitable too, as you must know.”

  Florian did have his positive traits, but Rhianne could not, for the life of her, think of a time he had been charitable. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, for example, when he adopted you and shielded you from the shame of your birth.”

  Rhianne stared, shock rippling through her body as if he’d slapped her in the face. Surely he could not have actually said that. “The shame of my birth?”

  “Don’t be coy,” said Augustan. “You know what I mean.”

  Her cheeks prickled with warmth. “Legatus, my parents were married. I am a legitimate child.”

  “Yes, but they eloped, did they not? Emperor Nigellus did not approve the match.”

  “He didn’t approve, but according to Kjallan marriage law, he didn’t have to. The contract was legal.”

  “Still,” said Augustan, “when Florian adopted you, he gave you his name so that you carried the imperial name, not your father’s.”

  “He did,” said Rhianne. “But on the other hand, it was a bit of an insult to my real father, who didn’t give me up by choice. I wonder sometimes what my life would have been like if I’d been raised by my parents instead of by Florian.”

  “Well, I always considered the adoption a grand gesture on Florian’s part.” Augustan wrinkled his brow, as if he found her a puzzle. “You know I would never hold it against you, your father’s low birth. You may not appreciate it, but your uncle was right to get you out of that situation. Just because the parents have done wrong doesn’t mean the child will.”

  “Of course. I never imagined you would hold it against me,” said Rhianne, still stunned. Did he think her damaged goods? If so, why did he want to marry her? For her name, of course—Florian’s name—and the governorship of Mosar. Unless she was much mistaken, he had no respect for her as a person. “The horses are looking refreshed. Perhaps we should head back to the palace.”

  “If Her Imperial Highness wishes it,” said Augustan, rising to his feet in one fluid motion. “I have some betrothal gifts for you—one-of-a-kind items from Mosar I think you’ll find very special.”

  “I can’t wait,” said Rhianne dully. She didn’t mind being challenged by a man. Janto challenged her. Lucien challenged her. Somehow when those two forced her to question her assumptions, she felt herself growing and stretching, becoming wiser and more knowledgeable. Janto disagreed with her often, even grew angry at times, but on some fundamental level he believed in her. Augustan’s criticism—and for that matter, even his praise!—made Rhianne feel small. No betrothal gift, no matter how one-of-a-kind or special, was going to make up for that.

  7

  With Augustan and his entourage in residence, and a betrothal ceremony in the works, the palace was stirred up in the manner of a trodden-on anthill. Janto would not waste this opportunity. With the staff preoccupied, it was time to invade the palace and brave the magical wards that were the bane of a spy’s existence. Sirali had said that the Kjallans didn’t place them in the hallways, only across doorways and probably only in sensitive areas. He prayed she was right.

  Just inside the slave entrance was an enormous, bustling hall. Janto twisted sideways to avoid a wheeled cart piled high with laundry, then dodged a pair of burly slaves carrying sacks of flour, his shoes slipping on the polished floor. Though this was only the service wing of the palace, it was striking in its beauty. Vaulted ceilings rose to lofty heights. From them, semicircular light glows hung in alternating colors of orange, blue, and white. Each glow was as large as a man. Silk hangings, bright with color, cascaded down the marble walls.

  Fine place, he commented to Sashi, who clung to his shoulder.

  Ugly, said the ferret.

  I know you’ve no appreciation for stone, but do you not at least like the artwork?

  Sashi studied one of the hangings as they walked by, a depiction of the mighty Soldier with his pike. It resembles a man, but he is flat and unmoving. He smells of dust and lye.

  Janto smiled to himself. Never mind.

  He passed from the first hallway into a larger one flanked by black marble columns. The bas-relief ceiling depicted scenes from Kjallan mythology. He began to sweat beneath the woolen overcloak he’d pilfered from a supply shed. The hallway was warm, but he had yet to see a heat-glow. Where were the Kjallans hiding them?

  He counted six hallways on his left, following the mental map Sirali had roughed out for him, and turned into the seventh. Here, alcoves set into the walls displayed artwork: paintings of warships and landscapes and battle scenes. War leaders sculpted in marble or bronze sat proudly atop their prancing steeds with swords upraised. Janto paused before the first nonmilitaristic sculpture he came to, that of a woman holding an infant.

  In the alcove next to it, a stone statue
of a mythical sea dragon sat on an obsidian table. The lines and style of the work were familiar, and he could swear he recognized the artist: a Mosari woman named Fioni. How had her work turned up here? Was it stolen? There was virtually no trade between Kjall and Mosar.

  The gallery wasn’t as crowded as the service wing. Most of the people he maneuvered around weren’t slaves or servants, but Kjallans in syrtoses or military uniforms. He located the final hallway, which was narrow and devoid of decoration. At the end of it, a stairway descended a few steps toward a heavy iron door guarded by two Legaciatti. There would be no going through that without someone opening it for him.

  Janto settled invisibly on the stairs. Looks like we wait.

  We do a lot of that, said Sashi, untroubled.

  The door to the prison might be warded, but he doubted it, since prisoners had to come in and out through that door. There were two types of wards he had to concern himself with: enemy wards and invisibility wards. Enemy wards were the most commonly used, because once placed, they lasted several days. They had to be attuned to a particular person, however, and that person had to be physically present when the ward was laid.

  Invisibility wards were used sparingly if at all because shroud mages like Janto were rare and invisibility wards barely lasted an hour before having to be laid again. Such wards kept Warders so busy that they were typically only placed if there was reason to suspect a shroud mage was in operation, and then only in the immediate areas where the shroud mage was expected to be.

  For the next hour, Janto amused himself daydreaming about Rhianne. What if their countries had never gone to war and they’d met in a routine diplomatic visit? Not that Mosar and Kjall had engaged in much diplomacy before the war. But if they had, he might have met her at a state dinner. Danced with her, maybe. What would they have thought of each other if they’d met in such a way?

  A knocking noise roused him. One of the guards opened a tiny window in the door, looked through it, and nodded. The other unbarred the door. Janto was on his feet, and the moment they had it open to let the other man come out—another guard, as it happened—he slipped inside, turning sideways to avoid him.

  As the door slammed shut behind him and the bar crashed home, he felt a jolt of reflexive terror—would he ever get back out? But of course he would. That door had to open several times a day, if for no other reason than to bring in food and water and swap out the guards.

  The lighting was dim inside the prison, just some faint light-glows mounted sparingly, but he could see well enough. To his relief, the cell doors, though solid iron at the bottom, were barred at the top, allowing him to see in. To his left was a sort of guard room with cots and tables, where two guards sat, chatting quietly. To his right was the first cell, which was empty. He walked on.

  The next cell housed a yellow-haired Riorcan. Beyond it, the prison hallway took a sharp turn to the left.

  Janto soon discovered that the prison was a square that looped back on itself, with the prison cells on the outside of the square. On the inside were interrogation rooms. The complex was smaller than he’d expected and sparsely occupied. There were only four prisoners in residence, and none of them were Mosari. His trip had been a waste of time.

  Ral-Vaddis was not here.

  • • •

  Rhianne shielded her eyes from the lights. They made the pain stab like the Soldier’s own pike inside her head.

  “. . . Wouldn’t you say so?” said Marcella beside her.

  “What?” Rhianne tried to recall the beginning of Marcella’s question. Thank the gods this was the last social event of the day. She’d had all she could stand of constricting gowns, small talk, insincere smiles, and Augustan Ceres.

  “Wouldn’t you say the pyrotechnics outdid themselves tonight?” repeated Marcella.

  “Oh yes. Absolutely.” A hideous display. With their magical light show, set to music from the imperial orchestra, they’d reenacted Augustan’s capture of some Mosari stronghold right there in the ballroom. How strange to see brutality and bloodshed in the midst of silk hangings, polished floors, and chandeliers. The scene was ugly enough in its own right, but worse was looking around at the delighted faces of her fellows. Could they really see slaughter and destruction as something to be proud of? She could not help thinking of how the spectacle would make Janto feel, and she was ashamed.

  Marcella’s smile dimmed. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m feeling wretched,” said Rhianne, braving the bright lights to meet Marcella’s eyes. Cerinthus, Marcella’s husband, sat beside her, but he rarely said a word in Rhianne’s presence; he seemed intimidated by her rank. “It’s been too long a day for me.”

  “Ought you not to go up to your rooms and rest? Surely your uncle will understand.”

  “He told me I was attending or else.” Rhianne smiled grimly and sipped the wine, her fourth glass. At dinner, closely watched by her uncle, she’d abstained, but now Florian was making a tour of the ballroom, introducing her fiancé-to-be to her second and third cousins and the visiting officers from the northern front. Rhianne was making up for lost time.

  “Won’t the wine make your headache worse?” asked Marcella.

  “No,” said Rhianne, blinking in irritation at the lights. “It won’t make it better either, but it’ll make me not mind so much having one.”

  “In that case . . .” With a wink, Marcella poured the contents of her own glass into Rhianne’s.

  Rhianne grinned. “I knew there was a reason we were friends.”

  She turned to see how far Florian had progressed in his tour and how much time she had left before she’d have to perform the odious chore of dancing with Augustan. There was Florian—seated and engaged in a heated argument with a first-rank tribune. She smiled wryly; her uncle did so love a good verbal sparring. Not that he played fair. Winning an argument with the emperor could prove fatal to one’s career, so his opponents always made sure they lost.

  Nearby, Augustan yelled at someone, a Riorcan slave woman who fled from him, cradling a tray of wineglasses. The scene gave Rhianne pause. She couldn’t tell what had caused the incident. Augustan turned, caught her eye, and smiled. She could not bring herself to smile back at him. Instead, she looked away and hoped it would discourage him from approaching.

  No such luck. He showed up at her table minutes later with a steaming tea mug in his hand. “Rhianne. You look stunning as always.”

  Marcella and Cerinthus rose from their seats, as did Rhianne, wincing at the pain in her head. “Legatus Ceres,” she said formally. “These are my friends Tribune Cerinthus Antius and his wife, Marcella.”

  Augustan took in the insignia on Cerinthus’s uniform that marked him as third rank and gave him a dismissive nod.

  As they sat, he turned to Rhianne and pushed the mug toward her. “I brought you a drink. Spicebush tea. It’s fine stuff—we brought it back from Mosar.”

  Rhianne indicated her wineglass. “Thank you, but I already have a drink.”

  He smiled indulgently. “My dear, it is your fourth glass. I know you do not wish to appear unseemly.”

  She stared at him, incredulous. Had he been watching her this entire time, keeping track of how much wine she drank? “Thank you, but I don’t care for tea.”

  “Try it. Perhaps you will develop a taste for it.” He pushed the mug closer to her and edged her wineglass away.

  Rhianne considered how much trouble she would be in with Florian if she threw a mug of spicebush tea into Augustan’s face.

  “Well, if you are not thirsty,” said Augustan, a line of irritation appearing in his brow, “I believe the crowd is eager for us to begin the dancing. Shall we?”

  “With respect, Legatus, I’m not feeling well enough this evening to dance.”

  He stiffened with affront. “Indeed? I beg your pardon. I thought you the very picture of health.” He got up
from the table and walked away.

  Rhianne slumped in her seat, infuriated, yet relieved he was gone. Who was he to tell her what to drink and act like she was faking when she said she wasn’t feeling well? She shoved the tea away and gulped her wine. Marcella’s hand fell upon hers in sympathy. Cerinthus stared at her in horror.

  Moments later, Emperor Florian slid into the seat next to Rhianne. “Leave us,” he barked to Marcella and Cerinthus, who scrambled to their feet and departed. “Rhianne, you are being unacceptably uncooperative.”

  “I’m not feeling well.”

  He glared at her.

  “He’s rude, Uncle. He tried to force me to drink tea because he thought I’d had too much wine—”

  “You have had too much,” said Florian. “I see the flush in your cheeks.”

  “And now he wants me to dance, when I have a headache that would send the Soldier himself packing off to bed.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Do you think when Augustan is feeling poorly, he cancels the war for the day?”

  Rhianne raised her eyebrows. “What a strange argument you make, Uncle. Do you imply that waging war and dancing are equally important?”

  “Augustan will only be here for a couple of days, and the empire needs this match.”

  “He’s not going to walk away because I refused his disgusting tea or didn’t feel like dancing one evening. I’m your niece. He’d marry me if I had two heads and tentacles.”

  “It’s not heads or tentacles I’m concerned about, but your tongue, which is excessively sharp.”

  “Augustan, by the way, hasn’t expressed the slightest bit of concern for my condition.”

  “Neither have I.”

  “From you I have given up expecting it.”

  “No more excuses,” said Florian. “Go and dance with him, or your head won’t be the only part of your body that hurts.”

  “I’m going.” With a sigh, she stood. The throbbing in her head accelerated to match her pulse. Draining the dregs of her wineglass, she searched the room for Augustan. There he was, speaking to Taia Livia and two young women Rhianne did not know. All three women were simpering in his presence. Great, she thought, shooting a look of exasperation at Florian. Now Augustan will think I changed my mind out of jealousy.