by Amy Raby
“No! That is not possible.” She tried to pry his fingers off her arm, without success. “He could not have known! We used a forgetting spell on him and exiled him to Dori. There was no danger of—no, it could not have happened.”
“It did happen. In all likelihood, your pet spy is in the midst of that army right now.”
Rhianne looked out the window again. Was Janto somewhere in that blackness? Was it wrong of her if she hoped he was? Better that than dead or stranded on gods-cursed Dori. But she was not a traitor. Lucien had taken precautions.
“Perhaps he’ll spare your life,” Augustan sneered. “Perhaps he’ll make you his mistress when all is said and done. Think he’ll keep you to himself or share you with the rest of the army?”
She stared at him, shocked. He didn’t know Janto at all.
“Fear not, Princess,” said Augustan. “I won’t let it happen.” He hauled her to the bed and shoved her down onto it. She struggled furiously, but he climbed atop her, pinning her arms.
She looked up at him with a sinking feeling. “What are you doing?”
“Administering a little justice,” he said grimly.
She gave her pinned arm a wrench and tried to twist away from him, but he was bigger and stronger. She couldn’t break his grip.
“It must be done,” said Augustan, running his eyes over her. “You’re a traitor, and none of us are getting out of this alive—least of all you. Consider this the first and last of my husbandly duties.” He brought a hand to her throat. “Wish I could make it last, pretty one, but I’m needed back at the front.”
“Augus—!” His hand began to squeeze, and she could not finish the word. Or breathe.
Augustan’s face became very intent.
Her chest heaved in short, unfinished gasps that brought little air. She writhed and struggled, clawing at him with her free hand. Before long, her lungs burned. As she weakened, Augustan moved his other hand from her arm to her throat, adding to the pressure. Her vision blackened around the edges.
It was only after the blackness was complete that she heard the pistol fire.
32
When Augustan’s sword scraped from its sheath, Janto knew he’d missed. He dropped the spent pistol and drew his own blade, then glanced at Rhianne, who lay coughing and gasping on the bed.
Augustan pointed his sword at Janto and walked toward him through the tendrils of smoke. “Can’t see you. But I know you’re there.”
He could escape Augustan if he wanted to. The man couldn’t see through his shroud; he could only, through his war magic, sense impending danger. As long as Janto was a threat to him, Augustan would know his location. If Janto ceased to be a threat, Augustan would cease to know.
Then, of course, he would finish killing Rhianne.
Janto shook with rage. Augustan hadn’t just put his hands on Rhianne; he’d been trying to strangle her. And he’d nearly succeeded. Somehow Janto had to keep Augustan engaged long enough to allow her to escape, and at the moment she looked too weak to stand.
He backed away slowly, holding his sword at the ready, and glanced behind him at the archway. In the sitting room, there would be more room to maneuver.
Augustan followed, leering. “Janto, is it? Our Mosari spy, who returned with an army at his back? I’m glad you came. Now we can settle this in person.”
Janto slipped through the archway into the sitting room. Jump clear and hide, he ordered Sashi. The ferret leapt from his shoulder and scampered beneath a settee. Looking around, Janto constructed a mental map of the place—where the furniture was, and anything else he might trip over—and made a tentative lunge at Augustan.
Augustan parried the blade with a laugh. “Slow. Terribly slow.”
Janto circled around to the side and tried again.
Augustan, turning to orient on him, batted away the invisible blade as easily as swatting a gnat.
The opening sallies had told Janto enough. War mages nearly always outclassed him; he’d sparred with enough of them to know. Besides always knowing where the blows were coming from, they possessed preternatural strength and speed. Still, some war mages harnessed the magic better than others, and some were lazy in training. Janto could occasionally defeat a weak, inexperienced war mage, but never one at his peak. He had an idea now which category Augustan was in.
Augustan came at him so fast he was a blur. Janto whipped up his sword to intercept. Steel clashed inches from his neck, although Janto knew Augustan couldn’t see how close he’d come to cutting him. He sucked in a breath of air, and Augustan’s blade came at him again. He leapt back and parried, only to see steel lashing toward his chest. He swung his sword as fast as he could, beating off the attacks. He lost ground with every exchange. He unshrouded and shrouded himself, flashing in and out of visibility. It was the only technique he’d ever found that worked against a war mage, just because it was so disorienting to them.
Augustan hesitated, his timing thrown off by the flashing. Janto slipped in his blade and grazed Augustan’s wrist, leaving behind a thin line of blood.
“Gods curse you,” growled Augustan. He leapt forward.
The attacks came so fast Janto could barely see the flying blade; he backed away rapidly, stepping over a table, stumbling over the back of a settee, flashing visible and invisible. Augustan was adapting to the flashing. Janto knew beyond a doubt he could not win this fight. He lowered his weapon, removing the threat so Augustan could no longer sense him, and fled, invisible, to the other side of the room.
Augustan looked around, perplexed. “Have I beaten you so quickly? Did you run away? Or have I struck you down?” He turned to the still-closed suite doors. “You’re still here, somewhere. You take a breather, then. I’ll finish killing the traitor.” He strode toward the bedroom.
No! Janto flung a shroud over Rhianne, who still lay gasping on her bed. But the shroud wouldn’t stop Augustan—not for long. He would find her. And she was in no condition to run.
“Stop!” he cried, unshrouding himself. “I’ll fight you.”
Augustan turned back, grinning. He raised his sword and lunged at Janto.
Janto parried the furious attacks, again flashing in and out of visibility. His arm burned with fatigue. Augustan’s sword strokes were not only fast but powerful. It took all of Janto’s strength to block them, yet Augustan did not seem to be expending much effort.
Then Augustan’s left arm drew back and flung something. A glass bowl struck Janto, shattering on impact. He drew in a sharp breath, choked, and coughed violently. The air was full of smoke. No—face powder.
“Now you can’t hide!” Augustan’s furious sword swings backed Janto into a corner. The war mage smiled. He knew he’d won. Janto glanced at the bedroom door. Maybe Rhianne was too far gone. Maybe she would not recover.
Kill!
Augustan shouted in pain and twisted away from Janto. Sashi clung to his leg, hanging on by his teeth.
Janto leapt out of his corner and lunged, powder flying off him in clouds. When it wore off, his shroud would be effective again. Augustan knocked his blade aside distractedly, then grabbed the invisible ferret, yanked its teeth out of his flesh, and flung the creature against the wall. Sashi screamed.
Janto checked the link. The ferret was injured but alive. Seeing a gap in Augustan’s defenses, he swung his blade. Augustan blocked him and counterattacked furiously, stabbing at Janto’s heart. Janto flung himself to one side.
The blade caught him in the shoulder. He cried out, nearly dropping his sword. Blood welled from the wound. Distracted by the pain, he lost his shroud, and Rhianne’s.
Augustan advanced. “Shall I kill you slowly or quickly? Or perhaps I should finish Rhianne first.” He began to smile. Then his eyes widened in alarm, and he flung himself to the side. A pistol cracked.
Rhianne stood in the bedroom doorway, holding the weapon
in both hands. Janto recognized it as the one he’d dropped—she must have reloaded it. Smoke rose from the barrel.
Augustan chuckled as he rose to his feet, unharmed.
“Rhianne!” Janto cried. “Run! You can’t save me. Just go!”
She hesitated.
Damn her. What was the sense in both of them dying? He tried another tack. “Go to the Mosari army—give them the name Jan-Torres, and they will not harm you. Have them send help!”
She glanced at the door but didn’t move. He couldn’t fool her; she knew any help would arrive too late.
“Go!” he cried in desperation.
Her eyes lit as if with a sudden realization, and she disappeared into the bedroom again.
Augustan swung his sword lazily, toying with Janto as he backed him into a corner. “That’s the trouble with women,” he drawled. “Too foolish to take orders, even when it’s for their own good.” He pointed his blade at Janto’s heart.
Janto raised his own sword. His arm shook with fatigue. He didn’t have the strength to resist the death blow. His eyes went to the bedroom door. Why wouldn’t she run? She couldn’t save him, but he could have saved her.
He heard the clank and grate of an iron door opening, and a furious snarling that made his hair stand on end.
Whiskers?
A brown and black streak flew out the bedroom door and tore across the room. Augustan hesitated, half turning to face the new threat. Janto used the last of his strength to fling a shroud over himself, leaving only Augustan visible. He thrust his blade at Augustan, forcing the man to engage his war magic and dodge the blow.
Whiskers slammed into Augustan, knocking him to the floor. Augustan screamed, and the brindlecat tore out his throat.
• • •
Janto hurried through the hallways of the Imperial Palace, clutching Rhianne’s hand, cocking his head to listen for shouts and gunshots. The battle was getting closer. He heard a voice he thought he recognized and turned into a side hallway.
The hallways were as deserted as the city streets had been before. Nearly all the doors were shut. Probably locked too, as those not equipped to fight hid themselves as best they could.
From within his shirt, Sashi made a sad mewling noise.
I’ll get you help soon, Janto told him. The poor creature had a broken leg. He’d wrapped it as best he could, and Rhianne had wrapped his bleeding shoulder. They’d tried to coax Whiskers back into her cage, but she had ignored them utterly, consuming her kill. In the end, they’d had no choice but to leave her there; they certainly didn’t want to become her next dinner. Janto wrote a note in multiple languages and pinned it to the door, explaining to his soldiers what was inside so they didn’t burst in on a wild, battle-crazed brindlecat.
“You’re bleeding through the bandage,” panted Rhianne. Her voice was hoarse, and she was having trouble breathing. “Look at the floor.”
Janto slowed to look, and grimaced. He was leaving a trail of blood.
She squeezed his hand. “You need a Healer.”
“We’ll find one.” His eyes lingered on her. The red marks on her throat were going to develop into some truly spectacular bruises if they weren’t dealt with soon.
She rubbed her neck, as if in response to his scrutiny. “Janto, you’ve got to speak to your commander. This attack on Kjall is beyond foolish. It can accomplish nothing and will only bring about a brutal retaliation. What are your people after? It is just vengeance?”
“Not vengeance.” He turned away, frowning. She didn’t know he was in charge. Of course she didn’t. He’d been so careful not to tell her who he was.
She laid a hand on his shoulder. “I know you. You don’t want bloodshed any more than I do. You’ve got to convince your commander to call this off. Do you know how Florian responded to the fish riots in Riorca? And that was nothing compared to this!”
He grimaced. She believed he was a hapless participant in this attack. What would she say when she learned he was the man who’d orchestrated it? As he looked into her earnest, worried face, a confession half rose in his throat. But his courage failed him, and he swallowed the words. He’d tell her later. First he had to get her to safety.
Up ahead, a pair of Mosari soldiers stood guard at the end of a narrow corridor. Thank the gods. Still shrouded, he ran past them with Rhianne into a larger hallway that lay beyond. He saw a familiar face.
“San-Kullen,” he called, releasing the shroud.
The war mage and the group of soldiers he’d been speaking to started, their gear and weapons jangling as they took in his unexpected presence. They looked equally surprised at seeing Rhianne.
San-Kullen dipped his head and came forward. “Jan-Torres. Sire.”
Rhianne’s hand tensed within his own. She knew a fair bit of the Mosari language and had not failed to note the significance of the title. Or perhaps it was the name. Janto kept his eyes on San-Kullen, afraid of what he might see on Rhianne’s face if he looked at her now.
“You’re wounded,” said San-Kullen, his curious eyes moving from Rhianne to Janto’s blood-soaked shoulder. “You need a Healer.”
“So does she,” he said, indicating Rhianne, “and Sashi. How goes the battle?”
“The worst fighting was at the southern gate, where we ran into soldiers in orange uniforms with a sickle and sunburst on them—”
“The Legaciatti,” said Janto.
“Fierce, fierce fighters,” said San-Kullen, shaking his head. “We lost a lot of men, but we overcame them. There was some ugly fighting at the servants’ entrance, but that’s over now, and resistance is scattered. There’s a team securing the north wing. We’re waiting on reinforcements, and then we’ll start on this one.”
“Have you got the emperor?”
“We do,” said San-Kullen cheerfully. “And unharmed. His guards didn’t put up much of a fight. I don’t think they’re very fond of him. We’re still looking for the son, the daughter, and the niece. Also, there’s a group of Kjallans who’ve barricaded themselves behind a door upstairs.”
Janto nodded. “This is the niece, so you can stop looking for her. I’ll—”
Rhianne’s hand slipped out of his own. He turned to see her flying from him, her syrtos billowing around her ankles, heading back in the direction they’d come.
“Rhianne!” he cried. Then to the guards, “Stop her!”
The guards shifted position to block her from the corridor. She did not slow but ran straight for them. They stumbled off to either side, allowing her through. Janto was perplexed and furious until he saw the guards’ faces and recognized that dazed look he’d seen on Micah.
He ran after her himself, but after a few steps, he stumbled, too weak from his injury to catch up, and stared helplessly at her retreating figure. Images formed in his mind: Rhianne shot by one of his overzealous guards at the back gate; Rhianne caught by a band of troops, dragged into a room and raped.
A hand settled on his shoulder. “I’ve got her,” said San-Kullen. A brown and black streak flew after her in pursuit.
“Don’t let your cat hurt her.”
“Don’t worry,” said San-Kullen. “Marci velvets her claws.”
Janto clenched his fists.
The cat leapt past Rhianne, turned in midair, and landed facing her, hackles up, claws out, lips drawn back to reveal long, gleaming fangs.
Stop there, Rhianne, pleaded Janto.
Rhianne skidded to a stop and froze before the snarling feline.
San-Kullen’s eyes were bright with affection for his familiar. “Nothing to it.” He walked toward the pair, leisurely and unthreatening. He returned, gripping Rhianne’s arm. The cat, now calm, padded along behind them.
As Rhianne entered the larger hallway, Janto ran to her. “Rhianne, I can ex—,” he began.
“You gods-cursed liar!” she c
ried hoarsely, twisting in San-Kullen’s grip. Grimacing, San-Kullen moved behind her and seized both her upper arms. But that didn’t stop Rhianne from raging at Janto. “Augustan told me you were responsible for the attack. What a fool I was not to believe him. You made a traitor out of me!”
Horror trickled through him. Could he ever make her understand why he’d done this? “Rhianne, I—”
“I sold myself,” she hissed. “For the price of your life, I would have gone to the marriage bed with Augustan. And you came here with an army at your back to murder and pillage everything that matters to me?”
He blinked, trying to formulate a satisfactory answer. He didn’t have one.
“I’ll kill you!” she shouted, wrenching one of her arms loose from San-Kullen’s grip. “In the Soldier’s name, I swear I’ll kill you!” She lunged for him.
San-Kullen twisted Rhianne’s other arm until she cried out in pain, and neatly recaptured the first. He twisted both until she gasped and stopped struggling.
Janto shook his head firmly. “San-Kullen, don’t do that. She won’t hurt me.”
“The hell I won’t!” Rhianne cried.
There was a hitch in her breathing that suggested she was hurting somewhere. Janto longed to go and comfort her, but he didn’t dare.
“What shall we do with her?” asked San-Kullen.
Footsteps approached at a run. Tensing, Janto turned toward them, along with every other soldier in the room, but they were only fresh Mosari soldiers. “Looks like your reinforcements are here.”
“Good,” said San-Kullen. “And the prisoner?”
He looked sadly at Rhianne. Prisoner. He supposed she was. He could not explain himself to her now. The palace was not yet secure, and he was losing blood.
The new soldiers stared at Rhianne with predatory interest.
“You have rooms set aside for prisoners?”
San-Kullen nodded.
“Prepare one for her. I want a guard on her day and night—”
“I want to be that guard,” someone muttered behind him.