Spy's Honor

by Amy Raby

  “Well . . . yes. For her to take a step this desperate, she must really hate the idea of this marriage. She’ll never cooperate.”

  “I handpicked him for her,” said Florian.

  “She seems to disagree with your choice,” Lucien murmured, discouraged.

  Florian folded his arms, frowning. “Are you quite finished?”

  Flinching from the contempt in his father’s eyes, Lucien nodded.

  “You speak as if I had a stable of imperial princesses to choose from and could simply swap another into Rhianne’s place,” said Florian. “I have only Rhianne and Celeste, and Celeste isn’t of marriageable age. Rhianne will marry Augustan. And you will find her for me. Unless you’d prefer to face a treason charge for abetting her escape.”

  Lucien dropped his eyes to the floor. It appeared he had no choice but to drag his cousin back to this hated marriage, if he could possibly manage it. She’d never forgive him. “I’ll find her.”

  • • •

  Lucien stepped into the war room, followed by his father. He’d been here many times, but never in an advisory capacity. Always he’d been told to keep his head down and his mouth shut. For the first time, he would actually be dictating tactics. Too bad the circumstances were so unfortunate.

  Officers and their lackeys crowded the room, some grouped together and speaking in low voices, others poring over a map spread on a marble table. There was something ironic about seeing all these men putting their heads together to work out a strategy not for winning a war but for capturing a runaway princess.

  “Men,” said Florian, “I want you to give Lucien your full attention. He knows Rhianne better than anyone, and I’m putting him in charge.”

  Some of the officers eyed Lucien sidelong as he limped to the table. “What have you got so far?” he asked. “She escaped through the hypocaust. What else do we know?”

  A tribune raised his wooden pointer and indicated a red flag that marked the town of Old Veshon, just north of Riat. “We know she was here around midnight. She visited a Healer for the wounds on her back. Then she sold her white mare and a substantial amount of imperial jewelry.”

  “After that?”

  “The trail runs cold,” said the tribune. “We’re pretty sure she bought another horse. A stableman reports he sold someone a bay gelding during the night, but he can’t remember details such as the exact time or whom he sold it to.”

  “Almost certainly that was her. She used a forgetting spell.”

  “We assumed as much.” The tribune pointed to a semicircle of white flags marking the towns north and east of Old Veshon. “We figure she’s in one of these places by now, most likely one of the northern ones.”

  “Why north?” asked Lucien.

  “She rode north to begin with, and it’s likely she began her journey in the direction of her ultimate destination,” explained the tribune. “If she wanted to go east, why start by riding north to Old Veshon?”

  “Because she was deliberately deceiving you. You’re underestimating her. The radius of your search is too small—you’ve marked villages only twenty miles out. If she departed Old Veshon as early as midnight, and it’s midmorning now, she could easily be a hundred miles from here.”

  Florian stepped into the crowd around the table. “Not likely. Rhianne is unaccustomed to travel.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” said Lucien. “She has a pile of money from Old Veshon—I assume she got good prices, with her mind magic?”

  “She did,” said the tribune.

  “We must assume she rode hard all night, trading horses every ten miles at post stations or anywhere she could sell the old horse and buy a fresh one. Buying and selling are easy for a mind mage, even in the dead of night. She’s skilled in the saddle, and she’s desperate. We should assume she rode until she dropped—and she might still be riding.”

  Florian frowned, clearly unhappy with this characterization of his niece. “So what’s your strategy for finding her?”

  “I advise three strategies,” said Lucien. “First, we track her through the horse. She bought a bay gelding in Old Veshon, and I’ll bet she sold or abandoned it ten to fifteen miles from where she bought it. We pick up the fellow who sold it to her and take him to all the post stations within range; see if he can identify the animal. If we find that horse, we’ll find the next one she bought, and so on. With luck, we can track her progress across the country.” Lucien paused and looked around the room. He had everyone’s attention now.

  “Second, we use our signal network and notify the authorities of every town, village, and city within our search radius to be looking for her. Rhianne is clever, and her magic is powerful, but she has no skills for roughing it in the wilderness. She’ll have to venture into civilized areas for food and other supplies, and as an attractive young woman, she’s conspicuous. Forgetting spells are only worth so much. She may be seen from a distance by people she doesn’t even notice, and of course mages are entirely immune to her magic. Have the towns mobilize search parties, and make sure every search party includes a mage. Offer rewards for information and for successful capture. And make it clear that there’s a stake waiting for anyone who harms or despoils her.”

  “Third, mobilize any battalions stationed within the search radius and have them patrol the roads. A young woman traveling alone is a rare sight. If they see her, and they’ve got a mage in the party to ward off her defenses, they won’t fail to recognize her.”

  Florian nodded his grudging approval. “Tribune Murrius, you’re in charge of tracking the horses. Tribune Orosius, get on the signal network and organize the city authorities. Tribune Auspian, you’ll organize the battalions. Move.”

  24

  In the middle of the night, refreshed from a long midday sleep and a stolen supper, Janto reentered the hypocaust.

  Rhianne had now been gone a full day. How was she faring? She hadn’t been captured. He knew that much from the way the officers in the north dome were still dashing about the palace with gritted teeth and wrinkled brows. But she had to be frightened all by herself on the road. What sort of life would she find out in the Kjallan countryside, assuming she succeeded in her escape from Florian? Janto wanted her to be happy, but the thought of her eventually marrying some other man—even if it wasn’t Augustan—bothered him, and the more he thought about it, the worse he felt.

  Yet it was too late for regrets. He’d made his decision, and he would have to live with it.

  He’d found Lucien’s rooms aboveground. Now he just needed to locate the trapdoor, if it existed. He pulled out his hypocaust maps, which now sprawled over a dozen pages, and laid them on the floor, connecting them end to end. In his head, he projected the big structure of the palace onto the hypocaust and worked out which unmapped tunnel he needed to start working his way down. Two hours later, he’d mapped his way to the spot which, by his calculation, should be directly underneath Lucien’s rooms.

  He searched the ceiling with his magelight. There was nothing marked to suggest a trapdoor. He pressed upward, lightly, on each wooden square. All were quite firm—until he came to one that wobbled. Janto smiled. He pushed on the square again. It was loose, but there was resistance—probably a rug on top of it. He extended his shroud over the square to muffle any noise and pushed hard. The square rose enough that he could see that yes, he was lifting a rug. He slid the wooden square sideways, still beneath the rug, but away from the opening. Now only the rug blocked him. He reached up, probed for the nearest edge with his fingers, and folded it back. Through the gap, he felt a welcome draft of cool air. Sashi leapt through.

  Clear? he asked his familiar.

  All clear, replied Sashi after a moment. The Imperial Heir sleeps.

  He dismissed his magelight and climbed up and out of the hole. He rested a moment atop the silk rug, letting his eyes and ears adjust to the new surroundings. Goose bumps pricke
d his arms. Sashi scouted silently, sniffing about the furniture.

  Slow, rhythmic breathing emanated from a high four-poster bed. A crutch leaned against a bedside table.

  Janto replaced the parquet square and opened the bedroom door, shrouding it to muffle noise. Through the door was the sitting room. He spotted Lucien’s desk and hurried to it. He settled into the plush chair and opened the first drawer.

  Inside were Lucien’s personal letters. Skimming them, Janto discovered Lucien had several correspondents at the northern front with whom he discussed military strategy. The letters were detailed, going on about fine points such as supply lines and the locations of cannons.

  They were useless to Janto, since they were a couple of years old and about Riorca. In each case he had only one side of the correspondence, but through careful reading he could piece together much of what Lucien had penned. What he saw confirmed his opinion of the Kjallan heir. The young man was a smarter strategist than his father—more rational, more detail oriented, and more innovative. Some of his ideas seemed to be controversial; at least, his correspondents reacted as if they were so.

  Second drawer, more letters. One packet was from Rhianne, and when he saw her signature at the bottom—a signature he’d never before seen—something twisted inside him. He had nothing to remember her by. All they’d ever given each other were intangibles: conversation, love, and memories. He hadn’t thought it important before, but now all of a sudden it mattered a great deal. He wished he had some sort of memento from her and that she had one from him.

  She’d written the letters when Lucien was in Riorca. Their contents had no strategic value whatsoever, but Janto read out of curiosity, smiling at the flamboyant loops and whorls of Rhianne’s handwriting. Then he stopped and set them aside, feeling as guilty as a kid caught listening behind his parents’ door.

  Third drawer, a treatise on military strategy that was interesting reading but entirely theoretical, with no specifics about Kjall. He set it aside. Below it, a three-day-old readiness report covering the entire Kjallan military. This, he realized as he paged through it, was gold. It named the location and destination of every ship and every battalion of soldiers, as well as status information such as the numbers of sick and wounded, stocks of provisions and ammunition, recent disciplinary problems, and the experience levels of the troops and their commanders. Janto put the other papers back in the desk.

  He hadn’t seen everything in the desk, but now that wasn’t necessary. This was all he needed. He glanced at the bedroom door. How long could he risk staying here before Lucien woke? Maybe an hour or two. Or could he take the report with him?

  No, it would be missed. He’d have to copy it.

  The report confirmed that the Kjallans were sending a fleet to attack Sarpol. Twelve warships were involved, not just the three he’d already known about. The Meritorious was bound for Mosar—at least it had been three days ago, when the report was written—and Mosar itself had a garrison of three battalions and four warships. Janto winced. That was more than he would like to face in an uprising. Well, at least he knew.

  Another six ships were bound for the port city of Rhaylet, which was odd.

  Rhaylet was located on Dori, but Sardos controlled it. An attack on Rhaylet was an attack on Sardos and would certainly pull forth a defensive fleet. But a Sardossian fleet could not sail through the Kjallan-held Neruna Strait. It would have to go the long way around. Such a lengthy sail would leave it unable to render assistance in the defense of Sardos itself.

  In terms of numbers, the feint seemed to give Kjall no material advantage. They could fight the Sardossian ships at Sarpol or they could fight them at Rhaylet; what did it matter? But in practical terms it mattered a great deal. Sarpol had ground-based defenses that gave them an advantage and rendered light ships useless. Anything Kjall could draw off was a win for them.

  Janto shook his head in frustration. If only he could get word to the Sardossians! Then maybe they’d have a fighting chance at Sarpol. If the Sardossians could give Kjall a smashing defeat there, it would help Janto’s cause on Mosar.

  He read the document thoroughly and copied it onto his own paper, writing down even the small things, like the numbers of sick and wounded. Battles could turn on such details.

  When he finished, he returned everything carefully to its place and went back to the bedroom. Lucien was still snoozing. Janto crawled back into the trapdoor. He pulled the rug over the wooden square and gently lowered both of them back into place.

  • • •

  About a mile outside the village of Hodboken, Rhianne’s horse stumbled and went lame, nodding her head with each uneven stride. Rhianne pulled up and swung down from the saddle. The mare had thrown a shoe. Sort of. It was hanging on to her hoof by a couple of nails, clanking as the horse moved.

  Rhianne clucked in sympathy—that had to be frightening and uncomfortable. She circled to the offending foot, the right fore, and picked it up. Lifting the hoof didn’t tell her much that she didn’t already know. The shoe had come loose and was hanging by two nails. It didn’t seem possible to hammer the shoe back in without tools. Instead she pried it off, using the shoe as leverage against its own nails. Surely the mare would be happier with an absent shoe than with one that was half on, half off.

  Tossing the useless shoe into the grass alongside the road, she led the mare forward experimentally, hoping the animal would be sound enough to ride. But the mare still walked unevenly, nodding her head.

  “Well, old girl,” Rhianne told the mare, “at least you didn’t do this five miles back.”

  She led the mare up the road to the nearest farm. Some farms ran a cozy side business dealing in horses for travelers, and this one had a sizable-looking stable. She turned into the yard.

  The farmer, when he came out to meet her, spotted the problem immediately. “Lost a shoe?”

  “Back there on the road,” said Rhianne. “I haven’t been riding her since she threw it, and I don’t think she’s lame.”

  “There’s a farrier in Hodboken could fix her up.”

  “Actually, I’d like to sell her and buy a new horse,” said Rhianne.

  He shook his head. “I’ve got animals for sale, but I can’t evaluate the mare until she’s reshod.”

  Rhianne reached out with her magic and embedded a suggestion in the farmer’s mind: I trust you. I want to help you. She hated having to use her magic to win people’s trust, but she had no time to earn it the proper way. “She’ll be sound when she’s shod. And she’s a quality animal—nice paces, well mannered. So safe your children could ride her,” she added, spotting a couple of youngsters peeping through the cottage window. “You could keep her for yourself or turn around and sell her for a quick profit after you get the shoe repaired.”

  The farmer chewed his lip. He checked the mare’s teeth and felt each of her legs. After his examination, he grunted approval. “Perhaps we could work out a deal. You want to look at what I’ve got for sale?”

  Half an hour later, Rhianne was cantering east, this time on a black gelding. While the travel was exhausting and she was sore all over from so much riding, she was, somewhat to her surprise, enjoying herself. She missed Janto, of course, and Morgan and Marcella and even Lucien, whom she supposed she’d eventually forgive for setting those guards at the hypocaust exit, but so far she didn’t feel too lonely. She was meeting people every day, and they were so different from the people she’d known at the palace, so varied and wonderful. She was seeing tradespeople, innkeepers, farmers, housewives, and children.

  She was more than two hundred miles from the Imperial Palace, and she saw now what Lucien had told her, that Kjall was not a wealthy nation. She understood how she’d been fooled. All her life, she’d been confined to the palace, where she’d been surrounded by the nobility in their fine clothes, with all their fine things. Even the nearby port city of Riat had been weal
thy.

  The rest of the country was different. While she encountered pockets of the well-to-do, mostly she traveled past shabby houses, lopsided barns, and grubby inns. Scraggly yards housed the family assets: more often than not, swaybacked horses and skinny pullets. And yet she loved the people she met. Even when she didn’t use her mind magic, they greeted her kindly, gave her directions if she asked, sometimes offered her food or shelter. A few men leered at her, and still others thought of cheating or stealing from her, leading her to plant the suggestion in their heads, I don’t want to have contact with this woman. But they were the exception, not the rule.

  She found herself wondering what Janto would think if he were making this journey with her. As far as she knew, he’d seen only Kjall’s royalty and nobility and their servants. Might he think better of her people if he spent time with the rest of the population, as she was doing now?

  She was going through her hoard of cash faster than anticipated because she could not stop herself from pressing tetrals into the hands of children as she traveled. Twenty years she’d been alive, nearly all of them spent in a single building. How much of the world she’d been missing!

  • • •

  Lucien was crossing the bedroom floor with his crutch under his arm when he stopped short. Was that a white thread on the floor beneath his desk? He leaned down, touched a fingertip to his tongue, and touched the thread to lift it from the parquet square. It was nearly invisible. He had almost walked right by it.

  He opened his desk drawer and pulled out the military’s readiness report, careful not to tip it sideways. He opened it to page seven and chewed his lip. His suspicion was correct. The thread he’d inserted between the pages as an anti-tampering device was missing.

  Who had been looking through his things?

  He sat in his desk chair and went through the drawers, paging through each of his letters and documents. Nothing had been visibly moved, and nothing was missing. He wasn’t dealing with a thief, but with a snoop or a spy. That was disturbing enough. How could a spy get into his rooms? They were warded day and night.