Spy's Honor

by Amy Raby

  Kal shrugged. “A rudimentary one. But they’re all we’ve got. The Sardossians won’t help. I’ve asked. They fear the attack on Rhaylet was a feint, and Sardos itself may be the next target. They’re returning home immediately.”

  “What do you know of the Sardossian fleet commander? What’s his name?”

  “Admiral Llinos. He’s a decent sort. Solid, reliable, and conservative.”

  “How can we motivate him?”

  Kal shook his head. “No way to do it, Brother. He’s Fifth Circle. Another promotion will move him to Fourth, which gains him a third wife. He talks often about that hypothetical wife—I think he’s got someone specific in mind.”

  “Damned hive breeders,” grumbled Janto.

  “I don’t care for them either, but the point is he’s not going to disobey orders when he wants that promotion, and you can’t blame him for putting his country’s needs first. Count the Sardossians out. I figure with the help of the Riorcans and your shroud magic, we can take one of the Mosari harbors. I can have Gishi scout for the one that’s least defended, now that the Healer has repaired his wing.”

  Janto shook his head. “No point. Even if we take the harbor, we’ll lose the land battle. There are three battalions of ground troops on Mosar.”

  “So many. Are you sure?” Kal’s brow wrinkled. “We can free slaves as we go and build up our forces before we engage them.”

  “An untrained, disorganized force of freed civilians will have no chance against a disciplined Kjallan battalion.”

  Kal snorted in exasperation. “What would you have us do, Jan? You walk in here and take command, and for what? To have us sail around aimlessly, doing nothing, while the Kjallans loot our country and exploit our people?”

  “Be easy, Brother. We will take back what is ours. But we will not accomplish it by invading Mosar.”

  Kal spread his hands. “How can we recover Mosar without an invasion?”

  “There will be an invasion. It just won’t be on Mosar.”

  “If not on Mosar, where?”

  Janto smiled grimly. “Kjall.”

  29

  Janto stood with Kal-Torres in the middle of the deck, with the ship’s officers fanning out on either side of them, to receive the Sardossian admiral as he came over the side. Admiral Llinos was a heavy man, big in all directions, with a tousled mop of dirty blond hair and bushy eyebrows. He bowed to Janto. “King Jan-Torres. I am sorry for your loss.”

  “I accept your condolences, Admiral. May I congratulate you on your victory?”

  Llinos beamed. “You certainly may, though without your brother’s assistance, we’d never have caught them.” His smile faded. “Their quick retreat makes me think the attack was a feint.”

  “I know for a fact that it was,” said Janto. “Shall we step over to the quarterdeck and I will explain?”

  Kal had suggested holding the meeting belowdecks, in the captain’s quarters, but Janto, knowing he was more likely to get sick belowdecks, insisted on clearing the quarterdeck instead. Gesturing at Kal and two of his brother’s key officers, he led the way abaft the mainmast to the upper deck. Chairs and awnings had been installed there. He bade them sit.

  Admiral Llinos spoke. “Your brother has already asked for my assistance in retaking Mosar. While I’m sympathetic to your situation, I must decline. We think it likely the Kjallans are mounting an attack on Sarpol, and I’m under orders to return there upon securing Rhaylet. We are finishing critical repairs to our ships and will depart at daylight.”

  “The Kjallans are attacking Sarpol,” said Janto. “Very likely the attack fleet has already sailed.”

  Llinos looked grim. “Then I haven’t a moment to lose.”

  “You will not make it in time.”

  “If sailing conditions are good—”

  “You will not make it,” insisted Janto.

  Llinos shrugged. “I am under orders, so I must try.”

  “Is there any situation in which your proper course of action would be not to follow orders?”

  “Your Majesty, I am aware that your country is in desperate need, but I cannot offer help when my own country is threatened.”

  Janto scooted forward to the edge of his seat. “What if I said you could stop the attack on Sarpol completely? Avert all bloodshed and sidestep a costly invasion. Then would you consider not following orders?”

  Llinos frowned. “Such a thing is not possible.”

  “I will tell you how it can be done. I was recently on Kjall gathering intelligence. I know the Kjallans’ strengths and weaknesses. They are vulnerable right now, like a turtle rolled on its back. We’ll stop the invasion at Sarpol, and you will be a hero to your people.”

  Admiral Llinos looked skeptical, but he cocked his head, ready to listen.

  Janto unrolled one of Kal’s nautical maps and began to explain.

  • • •

  “Legatus,” Rhianne greeted her fiancé as he strode into the fitting room, draped with the silk syrtos he would wear at their wedding ceremony. It was unfinished, with pins marking the locations where alterations would be made and adornments attached.

  “Princess.” He looked her over briefly and turned away, allowing the tailors to converge on him.

  Rhianne, by now, was also a veritable pincushion. The seamstresses had been at work on her gown for an hour already, and they weren’t close to finished. One of them gently tapped her arm, and she raised it so the seamstress could pin something beneath it.

  Since agreeing to the marriage, she’d seen astonishingly little of Augustan, which worried her. Lucien had warned her that through her rebellion she was offending the man, and now that she’d finally succumbed, she was facing a very difficult marriage indeed. She had never liked her fiancé, but at least when she’d first met him, there had been some pretense of friendliness between them. That was gone. But she was trying to make up ground. If the marriage was inevitable, she had to make the best of it.

  “Are you looking forward to the ceremony?” she ventured.

  He snorted. “Do not trouble me with your small talk. You have made your feelings about this wedding clear to everyone.”

  She swallowed. Perhaps she would have to make a more serious attempt. “Do you remember the Mosari cat you gave me?”

  “A cat.” His voice was scornful. “I vaguely remember.”

  “She turned out to be a brindlecat. Did you know?”

  “A brindlecat?” He turned and stared at her. “It had no stripes.”

  “She has them now,” said Rhianne.

  “I had no idea. Thought it was a Mosari house cat.”

  A seamstress knelt at Rhianne’s feet, pinning up the hem to her gown.

  “Get out,” Augustan snarled at the seamstress.

  Startled, the seamstress dropped her pincushion. “Sir?”

  He raised his voice. “All of you servants, get out. I want five minutes alone with my fiancée.”

  The servants froze in surprise, then filed out of the room.

  “Close the door behind you,” Augustan boomed. When it was closed and he and Rhianne were alone, he said more softly, “There are rumors about you.”

  Nervous at this unexpected tête-à-tête, Rhianne turned away. “In the Imperial Palace, rumors abound.”

  “Very specific rumors,” said Augustan. “For a long time, you were dead set against this marriage. Now, suddenly, you are all compliance and friendliness. Why? Some say a deal was struck, and it had something to do with a Mosari man in the imperial prison.”

  Goose bumps pricked on Rhianne’s arms. “Who says such a thing?”

  “Though it may shock you, I do have friends here,” said Augustan. “Did you dodge a treason charge, Princess?”

  “What a ridiculous accusation!”

  “I don’t think so,” said Augustan.
“That Mosari man was flesh and blood—several sources have confirmed to me that they saw him. But if you check the records, he doesn’t exist. No references to him whatsoever. There’s been a cover-up, and I have a feeling you were at the center of it.”

  She could throw his own misdeeds back at him—the war crimes he’d committed, the people he’d enslaved, the lives he’d taken. What good was loyalty to emperor and country when loyalty led him to do such things? Could he really shame her, when all she’d done was save a man’s life?

  But she would say nothing. She was supposed to marry this man, and it was no good fighting with him.

  “Don’t think I don’t know what my place is in all this,” said Augustan bitterly. “I thought when Florian offered me his niece, he was presenting me with a reward for my faithful service in Mosar. How naïve! You are no prize. You’re the bad seed, Rhianne. The family member he needs to send as far away from the palace as he can. And my job in the battalion, before I became a legatus, was to reform the troublemakers.

  “Well, I’ll do it,” he said resolutely. “The emperor wants my service, and he’ll have it. I’ll reform his problem niece on the distant island of Mosar. And I don’t expect you to appreciate it, though it’s for your own good. But let’s not bother with the small talk.”

  • • •

  The Sparrowhawk slipped upwind toward Kjall in darkness. Janto climbed the ratlines to the masthead and settled in the crosstrees. Sashi leapt from his shoulder and scampered into the rigging, chirruping with pleasure; he was fond of heights. Janto shook the rainwater off his boat cloak, pulled out a spyglass, and studied the Kjallan harbor. Up in the tops, the natural motion of the ship was magnified, sending him around in great, nausea-inducing circles. Good thing he’d skipped dinner.

  Kal came up, hooked an arm through the shrouds, and settled next to him. “You can go higher for a better view.”

  Janto glanced at the topmast above him and shuddered. Heights didn’t bother him, but up there the motion would be even more exaggerated. “I can see well enough. Ugly night,” he added.

  Kal shrugged. “It’s barely blowing. And the rain covers our wake.”

  Janto nodded. They’d left the rest of the fleet behind in order to scout the Kjallan harbor. He’d had to shroud the entire ship, something he’d never done before. It wasn’t hard, but there was a dilemma—whether to shroud the part of the hull that lay below the waterline. If he did shroud it, he left a giant ship-shaped gap in the water. If he didn’t shroud it, he left the bottom of the ship visible at the waterline. Either way, an enemy eye could spot the anomaly. Thus they’d chosen to scout at nighttime under cover of darkness. The rain was unplanned, but it helped. He raised the spyglass back to his eye.

  “Well?” said Kal. “What’s the word?”

  “The attack fleet has left. There are only three ships in the harbor.”

  “Good,” said Kal. “No waiting, then. May I?”

  Janto handed him the spyglass.

  Kal stared through it. “Those are seventy-five-gun ships. They outclass ours. If we double up on them, it’ll be a fair fight, or it would be in open water. It’s going to depend on your taking that battery.” He pointed at the tower at the northwest entrance of the harbor.

  “I’ll take it,” said Janto. “You can count on that.”

  “I’d like to have the Riorcans with us, for extra firepower in case things go wrong.”

  Janto shook his head. “No Riorcans in the initial assault. I don’t trust them to show restraint when fighting Kjallans.”

  “Under the circumstances, I’m not sure we can trust our own men to do that.”

  “If we cannot, Mosar is doomed.”

  Kal pursed his lips. “As you command. No Riorcans.” He climbed down from the masthead. Moments later, signals flashed up in silent communication to the crew. Men raced to their positions, some scrambling past Janto toward the topsails. Sashi leapt back into Janto’s shirt for safety, and the ship began ponderously to turn downwind.

  Janto raised the spyglass to his eye and peered closely at the lettering on the stern of each Kjallan ship anchored in the harbor. The Blue Rose, the Reliant, and—gods help him, there it was—the Meritorious. He lowered the spyglass, his stomach tightening with worry. Rhianne had not yet left for Mosar. It was good news, in a way. Her wedding to Augustan might not yet have taken place. But she would be at the palace when his men landed. She would be in the direct path of his invading force, and in the chaos of battle, nobody could control the path of every bullet or the arc of every sword swing.

  30

  Rain sluiced across the black seawater and spattered into the bottom of the boat as it rowed away from the Sparrowhawk. Despite diligent bailing, water had reached the level of Janto’s ankles and was seeping through his boots. Twenty-four men, handpicked for their skill at gunnery, pulled at the oars with muffled grunts of exertion, forgetting, as did most people inexperienced with shroud magic, that there was no need to be quiet. They pulled into the harbor, veered wide around the Meritorious and the Blue Rose, and headed for land.

  Kill, Sashi muttered, his whiskers quivering with anticipation.

  Janto’s stomach clenched at the grim reminder. He’d never liked war.

  The boat ground to a halt against the gravel shore. Janto jumped out, landing knee deep in seawater, and splashed toward dry land. He wobbled on his legs; the solid ground felt funny after so long at sea. The two brindlecats that partnered his war mages leapt gracefully from the bow. Several of the men grabbed the boat by its tow rope and dragged it ashore.

  “Sire, shall we leave someone with the boat?” asked a young man with stubble on his chin.

  Janto struggled to remember his name. “Palo, isn’t it?”

  The man’s eyes lit. “Yes, sire.”

  “We’ll not leave anyone behind, Palo. We’re not going back. We’re here to stay.” Indeed, if they failed here, escape would be impossible.

  The men divided themselves into two prearranged squads, each headed by a war mage. Janto gestured toward the steep, craggy shore. “Let’s go.”

  There was no path. They had to scramble up the rocks, gear and weapons jangling on their backs and belts. The tower loomed above them, the gleaming barrels of its cannons peeking out from gaps in the walls. Lights glowed within.

  Janto struggled up the final slope. As they reached the tower wall, one of the brindlecats growled a warning. Moments later, two men in the orange of Kjallan soldiers appeared around the corner.

  Janto drew one of the three pistols he’d stuck in his belt and gestured to the war mage San-Kullen. “On three,” he said, and counted. He and San-Kullen fired simultaneously, dropping both Kjallans. Sashi chittered in triumph. Janto extended his shroud over the dying men to muffle any sound.

  It was possible the tower had been alerted, but not likely. The shroud muffled the sounds of the pistol shots, but not the initial cries of the men. It was a tricky business, knowing just when to extend his shroud to include the enemies. Too early, and the enemies would see him. Too late, and their cries would be heard. He examined the enemy soldiers to make sure they were dead, then shoved the spent pistol back in his belt and drew another. “Come on.”

  They jogged around the tower to the front gate. Two more guards stood there. Janto’s men shot them and entered the tower.

  Inside was a large spiral staircase. Sashi leapt off Janto’s shoulder and raced into the hallway beyond. First door on the left, sleeping quarters, he rattled off. A dozen men in their beds. Second door, five men playing dice. First door on the right, kitchen, two occupants.

  They killed the sleeping men first. To avoid discovery, Janto extended his shroud over the enemies before his men slit their throats. Then they moved on to the men who weren’t sleeping. The Kjallans stared in shock, uncomprehending, as their companions fell, blood gushing from the gunshot wounds in their ch
ests, and then took bullets themselves. They turned to answer the cries of fellow soldiers, only to receive sword slashes to their throats. It was butchery, ugly and without honor. It had to be done.

  Janto was in the kitchen, where a cooking fire burned and a haunch of venison hung from the ceiling, when the upper levels began to rouse. Heavy boots thumped on stone overhead.

  “You and you,” he said, selecting men, “go back and guard the front gate. Kill anyone who tries to escape.”

  Five coming down the stairs, warned Sashi.

  Janto barked a warning, and the remaining soldiers closed around him, shielding him so he could maintain his shroud through the chaos of battle. When the Kjallan squad reached the door, the Mosari met them with a hail of bullets. Men screamed. Bodies dropped to the floor. Smoke filled the room, obscuring the doorway. Janto and his men held their pistols at the ready. Another gunshot rang out, and one of Janto’s men screamed.

  Janto found the faint outline of a man in the smoke and fired. The man dodged the bullet—he seemed to have moved a moment before Janto pulled the trigger.

  “War mage,” Janto guessed. “San-Kullen! Tas-Droger!”

  The two Mosari war mages launched themselves at the Kjallan in the doorway, swords drawn, their brindlecats snarling and bounding ahead of them. The Kjallan ducked out of the room. San-Kullen and Tas-Droger followed. Steel clashed, accompanied by the terrifying growl of the brindlecats.

  “To the stairway,” Janto ordered the rest of his men. “We’ll work our way up. You,” he said, selecting a soldier at random, “help the injured man.” He glanced back at Lago, one of Kal’s time-honored veterans, who sat in a pool of blood, clutching his leg.

  In the stairwell, one of the brindlecats stood possessively over a body. San-Kullen presented Janto with a topaz mounted on a chain, the riftstone of a war mage.

  “Your victory, your token,” said Janto. “Keep it.”

  They worked their way up to the second level of the tower, with Sashi scouting ahead and calling back to Janto with the numbers and positions of their enemies. The ferret’s joy and bloodlust spilled over the link, but Janto resisted the vicarious thrill. He was no ferret who killed to survive; he was human, and these were fellow humans he was slaughtering. Rhianne’s countrymen. No doubt they had families and friends who would miss them.