by Amy Raby
Let’s hope so, su-kali.
Together we will kill him, said the ferret.
No killing, insisted Janto. We will hurt him a little.
He released his shroud, leaving Sashi invisible, and stepped into the moonlight. “Let her go.”
“Vagabond’s breath,” Micah swore, gripping the woman’s arm as she tried to pry his fingers off it. “Who are you?”
Janto didn’t answer.
Micah peered at him. “You’re not one of mine, are you? But you can’t be anyone else’s. Get out of here.”
“Let her go,” repeated Janto. He was committed, but he realized now how big a risk he was taking. This was the overseer, who knew all the slaves by sight.
Micah leered at him. “The only reason I can think of that you haven’t left yet is that you want to watch.”
The woman he held prisoner stomped on his foot, hard. Micah yowled. She twisted out of his grip and took off running into the woods.
“Horse fucker!” roared Micah. He flung himself at Janto and flung him to the ground.
In his youth, Janto had been trained in unarmed combat, against his adolescent will. He’d been uncoordinated, gawky, his younger brother pinning him two bouts out of three. Now, for the first time in his life, he was glad of that training, because despite what Sashi had believed, Micah was not slow.
Janto aimed a knee at Micah’s groin. Micah shifted to block it, and Janto, taking advantage of his distraction, twisted out of his grip and punched him hard in the face. Then he felt a crushing pain as Micah’s fist connected with his jaw.
Kill! came Sashi’s battle cry, and through the telepathic link, Janto knew the ferret had sunk his teeth into Micah’s leg.
Micah yelled and grabbed at the animal, and Janto scrambled into the darkness beneath a tree. Sashi must have withdrawn too, because Micah was on his feet, cursing and looking around. Janto circled into the moonlight and charged him from behind. He managed to bowl over Micah and get in several good blows before Micah’s fist found him again, and pain exploded in the side of his head. He rolled into the shadows and called on his shroud. Hopefully he’d given the woman enough time to get away.
Sashi? he called.
The ferret scrambled up his shoulder from out of the darkness. Good fight, but we should have killed him.
While Micah lunged around, searching for him in the darkness, Janto hurried through the trees, back to Iolo and Sirali. When he spotted them, he extended his shroud to include them. “He does this regularly? Rapes the slave women?”
They stared at him, horrified, and he realized he presented a less-than-pretty picture: dirty and mussed, he probably had some blood on him and bruises forming.
“You attacked him,” Iolo accused.
Sirali looked awed.
“Just long enough for her to get away,” said Janto. “He’s half again my size, and I don’t carry a weapon.”
“Did he see you?” said Iolo.
“It’s better he should see me than not,” said Janto. “If the Kjallans become aware there’s a shroud mage in their midst, they’ll start placing invisibility wards.”
“You should not have done it, Your Highness,” said Iolo. “I said before, I don’t question your courage, but—”
“My judgment,” said Janto. “I know.”
“Right, and . . . of course it was the right thing,” stammered Sirali. “Micah does this to lots of women.”
Iolo turned on her. “But he’s got to find Ral-Vaddis! He’s got to find intelligence to help the war effort! He’s made an enemy of Micah, he’s aroused the man’s suspicions, and he might get caught. We don’t have any other shroud mages. Only him!”
“I came here to help my people in any way I could,” said Janto. “That woman is one of my people.”
“You have to put the most important things first,” said Iolo. “It’s awful what Micah does to those women, but if we lose you, and Mosar loses the war, how many more of them are going to be raped or killed by Kjallan soldiers?”
Sirali folded her arms. “I think if a prince would let his people get hurt right in front of him, he deserves to lose his kingdom.”
“What about everyone else in that kingdom?” snarled Iolo. “What do they deserve?”
“Right, and if it were men being hurt instead of women—,” began Sirali.
“Quiet, both of you,” said Janto. “What’s done is done.” He only hoped it didn’t turn out as disastrously as Silverside. “Sirali, you say he does this frequently?”
She nodded. “He picks out a slave. Does what he likes with her.”
Janto bit his lip. “What can we do to stop him from doing it?”
“Kill him,” she said cheerfully.
Yes, kill. Sashi bared his teeth.
“Oh, no,” said Iolo. “You couldn’t possibly. There’d be an investigation.”
“Iolo’s right,” said Janto. “But start thinking. I helped one woman tonight, but that won’t help the one Micah chooses next time. Come up with an answer.”
10
When Rhianne arrived at the bench under the Poinciana for her language lesson the next morning, Janto wasn’t there. Annoyed, since it was beyond ridiculous for a slave not to show up for an appointment with an imperial princess, she sat down to wait for him. Ten minutes dragged by, and he did not come.
“Do you suppose he might be sick?” she asked her bodyguard.
“We could ask the head gardener,” replied Tamienne.
“What about that man?” Rhianne angled her head toward an anxious-looking slave who kept glancing over at her as he pulled weeds. “Maybe he knows something.” She raised her voice. “You there.”
The man stood, trembling but confused.
“Pox it,” said Rhianne. “Probably doesn’t speak Kjallan.” She switched to Mosari, hoping she wouldn’t need any difficult words. “Where is Janto?”
A flood of frantic Mosari erupted from the man.
“Wait, wait,” she called. “I don’t understand. Come closer.”
He approached.
“Speak slowly and use easy words. Please. Where is Janto?”
“Guards came,” said the man. “Took him.”
“What?” she cried. “Why?”
The man looked frightened. He shook his head and shrugged.
He knows something, but he doesn’t want to tell me, thought Rhianne. “What guards? Where did they take him?”
“Legaciatti,” said the slave. He pointed toward one of the garden exits.
Rhianne nodded. “Come on, Tami. We have to find him.”
“He said Legaciatti. If they took him—,” began her bodyguard.
“I don’t care.” If Janto’s crime had been something minor, like insubordination or being late to work, ordinary guards or the slave overseer would have dealt with it. Since the Legaciatti were involved, Janto was accused of something serious—theft or the assault of a Kjallan, perhaps. Or they might suspect him of being a spy. From what she’d seen of Janto, it didn’t surprise her terribly that he’d wound up on the wrong side of Kjallan law, but it did frighten her. She realized just how much she didn’t want to see Janto come to harm.
• • •
Janto was trapped. He’d been refilling his wheelbarrow in the company of three other slaves when a bruised and angry-looking Micah had stalked through the gate not twenty paces away, flanked by two orange-garbed Legaciatti. Janto could not throw a shroud over himself with an audience so near. He’d tried to discreetly slip away, but it hadn’t worked. Micah had spotted him.
Micah grabbed him by the tunic and hauled him before the Legaciatti. “This is the one. This is the slave who attacked me last night.”
Sashi, invisible, came running. I’ll bite him, su-kali!
Do not, cautioned Janto. Stay hidden and stay close. His ferret
, who lived in the moment and lacked the capacity to regret past errors, would not chide him for failing to kill Micah the night before. But Janto had regrets enough for both of them.
“He’s not on the books?” asked a Legaciattus with a scar on his lip.
“No. I don’t even know his name.”
Lip Scar jerked his chin at his uniformed partner. “We’ll take it from here.”
The Legaciatti led Janto out of the garden and down a long pathway through the courtyard. They entered a small, simply furnished outbuilding with a table and four chairs. Sashi, still invisible, slipped in the door before they closed it and pressed himself into a corner, out of the way.
Kill them now? asked Sashi.
I don’t have a plan yet, said Janto. Sit tight. Killing, unfortunately, was beyond his means. They were armed, and he wasn’t, and one or both of them might be war mages.
Lip Scar pushed Janto into one of the chairs, cuffed his wrists, and sat down across from him. “Get a mind mage,” he ordered his partner, who nodded and left.
A mind mage. Janto felt sick with despair. They would use a truth spell on him, and then he would have two choices, either of which would reveal him. He could use his magic to repel the truth spell, but the mind mage would know if he did that, and he would give himself away as a mage. If he didn’t repel it, the mind mage would know when he lied. One way or another, he faced torture and death. Iolo had been right. Unless he could talk his way out of this, the best he could hope for was to take his poison pill.
“Tell me,” said Lip Scar, speaking Mosari. “How is it that we have an Imperial Garden slave with no paperwork, who is unknown to the overseer?”
“Sir, I believe you need a better overseer.”
Lip Scar snorted. “Oh?”
“The overseer spends his time ravishing the slave women. He has no interest in learning the names of the male slaves, or in keeping his paperwork up-to-date.”
“He says you attacked him.”
“He assaulted a woman,” said Janto. “It was an unfair fight, so I evened the odds.”
“You are not to assault your overseer under any circumstances,” said Lip Scar. “But disciplinary matters among slaves are not my concern. We’ll see how your story holds up when the mind mage gets here.” He shuffled through some papers, initialing a couple of them.
Your tame Kjallan is at the door, said Sashi.
Janto blinked. Tame Kjallan?
The door opened. “I heard you needed a mind mage.”
Janto turned and stared. It was Rhianne. The second Legaciattus followed her into the room.
Lip Scar leapt to his feet. “Your Imperial Highness! I requested a mind mage, but I would never have presumed to trouble you.”
Rhianne flashed him a dazzling smile. “It’s no trouble at all, Bruccian. I ran into your partner outside, and he said you were looking for one, and it happens I’ve no other obligations this morning. What sort of spell do you need?”
“A truth spell,” said Lip Scar. “We’ve reason to believe this man may be a spy. He’s been posing as a slave in the Imperial Garden, but the slave overseer doesn’t know him and says he’s not on the books. He also says this man attacked him last night.”
Rhianne scrutinized Janto’s face as if she’d never seen him before. “He’s clearly been in a fight.”
“Yes,” said Lip Scar. “That’s not important. I want to know whether he’s a spy.”
“I’ll find out.” She turned and stared at Janto imperiously. “Slave,” she said, “give me your hand, and do not be afraid. This won’t hurt.”
Janto’s palms were sweating. He wiped his hand on his slave tunic and offered it to her. She took it with an expression of distaste, which he hoped was feigned.
An electric sensation crept up his hand—her mind magic, invading him. He stared at her hand on his, the point of entry, but it was all happening invisibly, in the spirit world: a breach of his soul. As the tendrils of her magic seeped through and enveloped him like a fog, he felt his own magic screaming rebellion, gathering to repel the foreign magic. But he held it in check and allowed her truth spell its nauseating hold. He could see no way out of this except to put his faith in Rhianne. She had a quick mind and a kind heart. He had a feeling she would not let him down.
“We’re ready,” said Rhianne.
Lip Scar leaned forward and spoke to Janto. “Who and what are you?”
Apparently this man wasn’t the type to ask a few warm-up questions first. “My name is Janto. I’m a slave assigned to the Imperial Garden.” His voice sounded strange inside his own head. There was an echo within, some sort of rumbling overtone.
Lip Scar glanced at Rhianne.
A moment’s infinitesimal hesitation. Her eyes met his. “Truth,” she reported.
“Are you controlled by a death spell and under the oversight of Micah?” asked Lip Scar.
“Yes,” said Janto.
Lip Scar’s eyes went to Rhianne.
“Truth.”
Gods, she was lying for him. He owed her a debt, and he would never be able to repay it.
“Are you a spy?” asked Lip Scar.
“No,” said Janto.
“Truth,” reported Rhianne.
“Is Micah remiss in his responsibilities regarding paperwork and keeping track of slaves?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Truth,” said Rhianne.
“Did you assault Micah because he attacked a slave woman?”
“Yes.”
“Truth,” said Rhianne.
Lip Scar sat back heavily. “Your Imperial Highness, please release him from the spell. I’ve no further need for this man.”
Janto closed his eyes in relief. The fog of the truth spell dissipated within him like the smoke of a discharged pistol, and Rhianne dropped his hand.
“I’m pleased to help,” said Rhianne. “Slave, I’ll write you a chit to explain your absence from work.” Rhianne took a blank sheet of paper from the table, scribbled a few words on it, folded it, and handed it to Janto.
Puzzled, he took the paper. Later, walking back to the garden, he opened the note. It read Bow Oak Bridge, midnight.
11
Janto thought hard about whether to meet with Rhianne as requested. In the end, he decided his honor demanded it. She had rescued him. She knew exactly what he was and had covered for him, an act her people would consider treason. If she’d stuck her neck out for him to that extent, he owed her some sort of explanation.
The Bow Oak Bridge spanned a gravel-strewn creek just northwest of the Imperial Palace’s service entrance. Every morning and every evening, hundreds of slaves trod its ancient oaken planks smooth on their way to and from work. Farther north was the larger bridge, the one wide enough for carts and carriages. The Bow Oak Bridge served foot and horse traffic only, and, for the purposes of his “tame Kjallan,” was more private.
In the darkness, Janto heard the water chattering to itself and smelled its dampness, but he could not see it. He crossed the bridge shrouded from the slave side to the palace side, not wanting his footsteps to echo hollowly on the wood, but as he stepped off the bridge onto the dirt footpath, he dropped the shroud, leaving only Sashi invisible. He slowed his steps, looking for Rhianne on the path ahead and among the trees on either side.
“Stop there,” called Rhianne’s voice. “Are you alone?”
He turned in the direction of the voice and found her just off the path, dressed in dark colors to blend with the night and half hidden behind a great oak. “Of course.” Was she alone? He supposed she might have that bodyguard with her. Is anyone with her? he asked Sashi.
I smell another, answered his familiar.
He kept his expression carefully bland. Find the other person and tell me who it is. The creature chittered acknowledgment and scampered invisibly awa
y.
“Come here,” she called. “Into the trees.”
Wary but still inclined to trust her, Janto headed toward her. He’d never seen Rhianne in the dark. Darkness did interesting things to a woman—reduced her to essentials, as it were. If she wore her fine imperial trappings, they did not show in the dim moonlight. Only her outline, her face, and her hair, rendered in shades of silver.
Her beauty was undiminished. Indeed, he might say it was enhanced. She was but a woman, pure and simple and enchanting. The curve of her throat, lit by a patch of lustrous sagelight, was so lovely it was all he could do not to reach out and touch it.
There is a man back here, said Sashi. He points a gun at you.
So much for the magic of a beautiful woman in the dark. Legaciattus? asked Janto.
Not in uniform.
Warn me if he looks like he’s about to shoot, said Janto.
Rhianne took his hand and spoke in a voice that was barely more than a whisper. “I committed treason to save your life. For that, I want some assurances from you.”
“What assurances?”
“I want the truth.”
The electric feeling crawled up his arm again—her truth spell. As it seeped through and enveloped him, once more his magic rebelled against it, but again he held it in check, permitting the invasion. A gun on him, three gods. He swallowed. “You shall have it.”
“You are a Mosari spy,” she prompted.
“Yes,” said Janto.
“What do you seek in Kjall?”
“Information to help us win the war,” he said. “And another spy we lost touch with.”
Rhianne nodded. “Anything else?”
“No.”
She sighed, and tension melted from her face and shoulders. “Are you armed?”
“No.”
“Are you magical?”
Janto winced. He’d hoped she wouldn’t ask that. “Yes.”
Her eyebrows rose. “What sort of mage are you?”
“I’m a shroud mage.”
Understanding dawned in her eyes. “Are you an assassin? Do you intend harm to me or anyone in the palace?”
“No and no.” The gunman? he inquired of Sashi.