Spy's Honor

by Amy Raby

  He found a quiet corner where he could watch the proceedings without being bumped into or trodden on. The officers took up places behind the pillars, leaving the aisle clear. When everyone was inside and settled, Augustan entered the end of the hall opposite Florian, escorted by two burly officers and two servants carrying the wooden boxes Janto had seen during the parade.

  All fell silent, and Augustan strode down the aisle, his entourage a few steps behind him. He stopped just shy of the gray platform.

  Emperor Florian spoke in a deep, commanding voice. “Report, Legatus.”

  • • •

  Rhianne shifted subtly on her feet, relieving a muscle in her back that was beginning to cramp. She’d been too long motionless. She watched as her husband-to-be, instead of responding succinctly to Florian’s order, turned to acknowledge one side of the aisle and then the other.

  “My fellow officers . . . Princess . . . Your Imperial Highness . . . my illustrious Emperor.” He inclined his head at Florian and addressed the crowd. “Today is a glorious day for the empire. When first we set sail from Kjallan shores nine months ago . . .”

  Rhianne suppressed an eye roll. Was he going to turn this into a long speech? Of course he was; it was his moment of glory. If one could call it glory, murdering innocent people to take their land and wealth. The whole affair sickened her. Not to mention she had to stand in front of everyone looking ridiculous in a dress white as cuttlebone because Florian had this notion that the royal family should dress as the gods. As if that wasn’t going to offend anybody. And he had her and Lucien backward. If anything, he should have dressed wise Lucien as the Sage and her as the rebellious Vagabond, but that was classic Florian. He’d never truly known his family.

  Was Augustan building up to a point? It sounded like it.

  “. . . And so, thanks to the courage of our fighting men and the leadership of the officers you see before you, I report triumphantly that Mosar has been brought to heel. We have accepted Mosar’s unconditional surrender, and Kjall takes the former nation as its vassal state.”

  The audience hall erupted in cheers, and Florian stepped to the edge of the platform to clasp wrists with Augustan. From there, Florian pulled him up onto the platform. “Legatus Augustan Ceres, you are a credit to your forebears and to the Kjallan Empire. I am pleased to offer you the governorship of Mosar, beginning immediately, and I welcome you to the imperial family as my son-in-law.” He gestured to Rhianne.

  This was her cue to step forward and kiss Augustan. He approached with a cocky smile. She managed not to recoil when he wrapped an arm around her and pulled her close. She had to rise on her tiptoes to reach his lips, and he didn’t help her by bending down, so she didn’t feel guilty when she gave him only a peck. Even then, she wanted to wipe her lips afterward, but she knew better than to do that in front of her uncle.

  The crowd cheered their pathetic kiss.

  “I have something else to present, Your Imperial Majesty,” said Augustan.

  “The floor is yours, Legatus,” said Florian.

  He gestured to the servants carrying the wooden boxes. “Part of the task I was assigned on Mosar was to exterminate the existing royal family. That job is not complete. Some of the royals have, as one might expect of Mosari cowards, gone to ground. As the Mosari governor, I shall make it one of my first priorities to flush them from their hiding places. Nonetheless, progress has been made. Your Imperial Majesty.” He swept his hands toward the servants, as each pulled from his box a severed head and held it high for all to see. “The former king and queen of Mosar.”

  A hush fell over the room.

  Rhianne recoiled in horror. She’d had no idea those boxes contained anything so grisly. She’d expected stolen relics, perhaps artwork or jewelry. The heads were not badly decomposed, and they smelled more of brandy and camphor than of rot, but how was she supposed to react to such a sight? Never mind the grisliness of it; her stomach could handle that, as long as she didn’t put anything in it for a while. But these had once been people, and they hadn’t done anything to deserve this fate. Augustan was a murderer, showing off his crime as if proud of it, and her own uncle Florian was the man who’d ordered him to commit it.

  “Well done, Legatus, well done,” said Florian.

  The officers in the room broke into polite, subdued applause.

  Rhianne couldn’t take any more of this farce. She turned on her heel, stepped off the platform, and left the audience hall.

  • • •

  The former king and queen of Mosar.

  Janto had been too far away to see the heads clearly, but those words sent him reeling. He wanted to rush the platform, to slay Augustan and Florian where they stood in recompense for this unspeakable crime, but he was unarmed and surrounded by enemies. It wasn’t possible. He scrambled for the exit.

  Three gods, three gods, three gods. His mother and father were dead, murdered by Augustan.

  Several heads turned in his direction as he raced invisibly down the center aisle. In his mad rush, he wasn’t being careful. He was creating a breeze, maybe even brushing some people with the edges of his cloak. He didn’t care.

  Nobody followed him out into the corridor, where he fell upon his knees in a paroxysm of grief. He thought of the heads again, the heads of his parents. He emptied his stomach.

  I’m sorry, su-kali, said Sashi, clinging to his shoulder. We will kill them for what they’ve done.

  We’ll do what we can.

  Which, so far, had been a whole lot of nothing.

  Back in the audience hall, the officers were applauding. Kjallan filth! Rhianne was the only decent human being among them. He’d watched her kiss Augustan at her uncle’s bidding, her movements stiff and unyielding, every cell of her body screaming abhorrence. The Kjallans had applauded that too. Was there no horror they wouldn’t celebrate?

  The officers in the audience hall sounded restless, and he suspected they were about to be dismissed, probably to the feast. He hoped the sight of the heads had diminished some appetites. Clutching his stomach, he straightened and hurried along the corridor, heading for the slave entrance. While this might be a good opportunity for spying, he was in no condition for it, and given the circumstances, what was the point? Mosar was lost. As for seeing Rhianne, he had a feeling he was no longer welcome. She didn’t want Augustan, but she was committed to going through with her marriage, and there was nothing he could do to help her.

  He was out of the Imperial Palace and halfway to one of his bolt-holes when he realized that some days ago, when Augustan had murdered his father, Janto had unknowingly ascended the throne—for whatever that was worth. He was now king of Mosar. It was almost funny.

  21

  Rhianne sat quietly in her receiving room, still in her ridiculous white gown, waiting for the maelstrom that was certain to arrive as soon as Florian extricated himself from the remainder of the ceremony. She hadn’t planned on walking out. It had just happened. Morgan had said she’d had choices. It appeared that for better or for worse, she’d just made one. Probably for worse. She’d rebelled against Florian in dozens of clandestine ways over the years, but never had she challenged him openly. She could envision no scenario in which this worked out well for her.

  A thump and a grating noise outside her door told her the bar was sliding back, granting someone entrance to her chambers. She swallowed. The door opened, and, no surprise, Florian stepped through, looking angry as a harassed hornet.

  She leapt to her feet, a gesture of respect that had become as reflexive as blinking, aware of the irony after she’d shown him the disrespect of walking out of the ceremony. Perhaps it would appease him a tiny bit.

  He strode toward her, stepping so close she was tempted to cower. She held her ground, trembling, as he towered over her.

  “I was raised not to strike a woman in anger,” Florian grated through his teeth.
“That’s for the lower families. But never have I been so tempted.” He pointed at a chair. “Sit.”

  Wordlessly, Rhianne sat.

  Florian took the seat across from her. “This morning’s ceremony was to be Augustan’s moment of glory, after nine months of hard campaigning. You spoiled it with your childish behavior. You shall immediately make amends. You shall sit down at your writing desk and compose a brief speech of apology. This you will show to me, and after I approve it, you will go to Augustan and, in front of his servants and top-ranking officers, humbly beg his forgiveness for the insult you delivered him in the hall this morning.”

  “Uncle—”

  “This is not a negotiation,” said Florian. “I am giving you orders. We will follow your apology with a gift. I was thinking—”

  “Uncle—”

  “Stop interrupting, girl! Must I call the guards and order you beaten for your intransigence?”

  “I’m not marrying Augustan.”

  For a moment, he was actually speechless.

  Rhianne leapt into the opening of his stunned silence and spoke in a rush. “I hate him, and he doesn’t care for me either. I cannot marry him. I’m sorry to disappoint you.”

  Florian remained silent. A muscle bulged at the back of his jaw. After a moment, he turned his back on her, pacing the room. “Let me make something clear to you. Do you see all the fine things in here?” He swept his arm to indicate the furnishings.

  “Yes,” she said softly.

  “Take a moment to recall the other fine things you’ve had. Your horse and magical training, fine clothes, fine food, the imperial baths, the guards who protect you—”

  “Guards who spy on me.”

  “For your protection,” said Florian. “Do you think I give you those things out of the goodness of my heart? No. You are here to serve a purpose, just as I serve a purpose, as Lucien serves a purpose. Your purpose, Rhianne, is marriage. Marriage to the right man, to strengthen the family line and strengthen the empire through the governance of a new vassal state.”

  Rhianne drew up her knees and clutched them beneath her gown. What he said was true. She harbored no illusions about her role in the imperial family. And yet. “I never asked for these things. I never asked for this life. You took me. You brought me here, without my parents’ consent—”

  His nose wrinkled in a snarl. “You were always meant for it, even if my sister, your mother, shirked her responsibilities.” He pointed at her. “You shall not shirk yours.” After a moment, he blinked and sighed, rubbing his face. In a gentler voice, he continued. “Why did you walk out on the ceremony? Was it because of the heads?”

  Rhianne nodded. “Uncle, it’s not right. Those were innocent people Augustan murdered for no reason except that they were in his way. I cannot love a man who thinks he should be praised for such a thing.”

  Florian smiled sadly. “He should not have brought the heads to the ceremony—not with a lady present. I’ll speak with him about it, and that will pave the way for your apology. He was impolitic, but you were rude. Both of you were at fault. You must understand he has been at war a long time, and solely among men. He forgets that women are sensitive and have no stomach for war, especially its gruesome side.”

  Florian didn’t understand. It wasn’t the gruesomeness of the heads that bothered her, but what they represented. Her country had done something horrid, and it shamed her. She couldn’t write the apology he asked from her, because it would make her complicit in those crimes. Crimes against Janto and his people.

  “Still,” said Florian sternly, “this nonsense from you must cease. Augustan killed those people on my orders, and I gave those orders for the good of the empire. I do not expect you to understand why I make hard decisions that you find unsavory, but it is not your place to question my commands. It is your place, as it is Augustan’s, to obey them. Therefore I expect your written apology, for my review, within the hour.”

  Rhianne blinked back tears. She couldn’t do this. “I’m not writing it.”

  His expression darkened. “Do not try my patience. Wedding plans are under way, and I’ve no time to indulge your childish whims. I was raised never to strike a lady, but I will not hesitate to order you beaten if that’s what it takes to convince you of my seriousness.”

  “Cancel the wedding,” said Rhianne. Gods, he was going to destroy her for this. “Forced marriages are illegal in Kjall.”

  “My dear.” Florian’s eyes narrowed. “I’m the emperor. Do you think you can tell me what is and isn’t legal?”

  Rhianne shivered. “The law applies to everyone.”

  Florian laughed. “Your written apology. Until I have it, you are confined to your rooms. You will have no visitors, attend no events, and have nothing brought to you until you think better of your foolishness. And if you think these are the worst things that can happen to you, think again. My forbearance will last only so long.”

  • • •

  Iolo and Sirali looked downcast when Janto met them in the usual spot beneath the trees. He supposed all the Mosari must feel as he did, though perhaps with less personal grief. Most of the others did not know the fates of their families back on the island.

  “Is it true?” Iolo said softly. “The rumors about the king and queen?”

  “They’re dead,” said Janto.

  “I’m sorry,” said Iolo. “That makes you king, doesn’t it?”

  Janto nodded.

  Iolo inclined his head. “Your Majesty.”

  Janto waved his hand. “It’s meaningless. We have no country, not that I won’t do everything in my power to win it back. How are the slaves taking the news?”

  “Badly,” said Iolo. “There have been suicides.”

  Sirali nodded. “While Mosar held out, we had hope. Now we have nothing.”

  “I came to say good-bye,” said Janto. “I’m leaving Kjall.”

  Their foreheads wrinkled with concern. “Where will you go?” asked Iolo.

  “I’ve a ship that supports me,” said Janto. “I sent it away a few days ago to relay some information, and when it returns, I’m going to have it pick me up and find Kal’s fleet. I’ll join my brother, and we’ll try to retake Mosar.”

  Iolo’s eyebrows rose. “Does Kal-Torres have the men to do that?”

  “I can’t imagine he does, but we’ll sell our lives as dearly as we can. There’s nothing else left for us. I only wish I’d accomplished more here.”

  “Right, and you helped the slave women,” pointed out Sirali.

  Janto nodded. At least there was that.

  • • •

  Rhianne crawled through the hypocaust on hands and knees, ignoring the stifling heat and counting heat-glows as she followed her usual pattern. She wasn’t running away—not yet. That would take some planning. But she had to talk to somebody about her plight, and Morgan seemed the only option. He always talked sense, and Florian didn’t keep a close eye on him the way he did Lucien. Morgan would help her figure out what to do.

  She reached the access tunnel, where the ceiling became high enough to stand. She rose to her feet, approached the door, and eased it open, just a crack. There were the guards at the end of the short hallway.

  Wait—why were they wearing orange? Those weren’t ordinary guards. They were Legaciatti! Magical guards, immune to her spells.

  She pushed the door gently shut, her heart thrumming wildly against her ribs as she prayed they wouldn’t turn and see her. The hypocaust guards had always been ordinary palace guards—never Legaciatti. Why the change? Did Florian know about her secret excursions from the palace? How long had he known?

  She headed back into the hypocaust, dropping onto hands and knees as the ceiling angled sharply downward. There was nothing for it but to return to the prison of her rooms. She was trapped.

  • • •

 
Janto sat on the pier with his back to a post, invisible. Heavily laden boats sliced through the harbor waters, some loaded with supplies, others with troops. A battalion of soldiers massed on a nearby beach, awaiting the boats that delivered them, thirty at a time, to troop ships riding at double anchor.

  A bosun’s shrill voice carried on the wind. “Man the falls! Haul taut singly! Hoist away!” Janto turned to watch the shallow-draft frigate nearest him take sealed casks on board with its water-whip. Other men were up on the yards, doing something to the sails; still others clung to ropes slung over the stern. Across the water echoed the knocks of hammers and the scrape of an adze.

  The fleet was preparing to sail again. He’d assumed they were going to Mosar, since Augustan was returning there with Rhianne, but it was odd they were loading so many soldiers. Why carry them all the way to Kjall just to send them back to Mosar? It didn’t make sense.

  Another thing that didn’t make sense: he’d seen new cargo loaded—things like warm cloaks and blankets. Why would anyone need those things on tropical Mosar?

  No. The troops were going elsewhere. He needed to find out where.

  • • •

  Rhianne lay prone on the settee in her rooms, trying not to move or even breathe too deeply. Florian had waited two days for her to change her mind, and when she hadn’t, he’d made good on his threat. Her back, striped with a whip and still raw, hurt like she couldn’t believe. Never again would she speak casually about someone receiving the lash as a punishment. There was nothing trivial about it.

  She glanced up as the bolt slid back from her door. It couldn’t be food. Florian was sending her prison rations—bread and cheese and water, three times a day—and it wasn’t time for lunch yet. She wasn’t permitted visitors, so it could only be Florian, whose presence she dreaded.

  But it was Lucien! A pleasant surprise. She gritted her teeth and raised herself just enough to make eye contact. “I didn’t think I was allowed to see you.”