by Amy Raby
Kal-Torres blinked at him. “I just think that under the circumstances, a death sentence seems excessive—”
“I know it’s excessive. I’m setting an example! The men will hear of this, and they’ll know I mean what I say. Kal, if I’m lenient on this first incident, we’ll have another dozen by tomorrow morning.”
“Brother—” Kal glanced around at their escort. San-Kullen, Mor-Nassen, and the guards were staring at them, stunned. “May I speak with you privately?”
Janto growled assent. He signaled the escort to stay put and walked with Kal down the hallway.
Kal rounded on him. “Whose side are you on, ours or theirs? You’re sounding like a Kjallan sympathizer.”
Janto rolled his eyes. “Kal, we’re going to have to negotiate with these people, and that means not only delivering them a few humiliating military losses to force them to take us seriously, but finding common ground with them and demonstrating that our intentions are to establish peace.”
“Common ground? They attacked us.”
“I know that. The Kjallans’ thinking must change, and for that to happen, we must set the example. As to whose side I’m on, I’m on the side of peace and prosperity for Mosar. Are we done here?”
Kal looked away. “I suppose we must be.”
Janto beckoned to San-Kullen and the escort.
As they approached, Kal gave him an odd look. “You’ve changed, Brother.”
“War does that to a man.”
They left the palace and set out on the long walk to the slave house that Janto knew so well. As they traveled, Kal enumerated the details of the fleet’s status—damage to the ships, casualties, stores of gunpowder and spars and sailcloth. His report was thorough, but his tone was flat. He was clearly still angry.
When they arrived, the slave house was in chaos, but it seemed a happy chaos. The room was more crowded than ever, containing now both men and women. Apparently the two houses had mixed. Janto spied a few couples exchanging kisses in the back of the room, and one pair who’d gone considerably beyond that. The others were talking animatedly in mixed-gender groups. Many of the men were missing—the presence of the women had fooled him into thinking everyone was present. Perhaps some of the slaves had been in the palace when the fighting began. They might have surrendered to the Mosari troops and had their death spells removed. Others might have been killed.
Conversation ceased as he and his entourage marched in the door. The slaves took in his soldier’s uniform and makeshift carcanet, as well as the uniforms of the men who surrounded him, and stared expectantly. Not one of them seemed to fully recognize him, though a few of the women cocked their heads as if trying to figure out where they’d seen him before.
“Attention,” called San-Kullen. “Jan-Torres, king of Mosar, wishes to speak.”
Janto stepped forward. “Where are Iolo and Sirali?”
“Here, sire.” Iolo shuffled out from within a crowd of men. He seemed uncertain what to do with himself—approach, bow, or ask the questions that lay heavy on his mind. Sirali, across the room, stepped out from a group of people and just stared.
“Well, come up here, both of you!” cried Janto.
Iolo and Sirali walked to the front of the room, their eyes on San-Kullen’s brindlecat. Iolo started to kneel, but Janto seized him about the shoulders and pulled him into a hug.
“I’m glad I found you.” He released Iolo and embraced Sirali, who submitted somewhat stiffly to the attention. “Stand here by my side.” He raised his voice to address the crowd. “As of this day, you are free men and women, Riorcans and Mosari and Kjallans alike.”
A great cheer went up from the slaves.
“I have brought a Healer to remove your death spells.” Janto indicated Mor-Nassen, who stepped up beside him. “Line up, please, behind Iolo and Sirali.”
The slaves scrambled into a line.
“When your spells are removed, you may accompany us to the palace, where we have food and drink for you, and a safe place to berth. Now, there is more fighting to come, and we need every soldier we can get. Those of you who are able-bodied and willing shall be armed and assigned to a commander. If we succeed in the upcoming battle, ships will be available to return us all to our homelands.”
The slaves cheered again.
Janto stepped aside to let Mor-Nassen do his work. Iolo and Sirali rejoined him after their death spells had been removed.
“Stay with me,” he told them. “I want the two of you by my side, now and for always. When we return to Mosar, you’ll be among my advisers in the palace, if that suits you.”
San-Kullen edged toward him. “Where’s the man you wanted me to arrest?”
“I haven’t seen him yet.” He turned to Iolo and Sirali. “Where’s Micah?”
“No sign of him in a while,” said Iolo.
“Right, and I know where he is,” said Sirali. “I had nothing to do with it.”
Janto and San-Kullen exchanged a look. “Nothing to do with what?” said Janto.
“Right, and you’ll see.” Sirali headed for the door. Janto followed her, accompanied by Kal-Torres, San-Kullen, and Iolo.
Sirali led them a short way into the forest, past the well. She paused at a clearing. “There.”
Janto looked into the clearing. A shape lay on the ground. He advanced tentatively. Sashi wrinkled his nose. It was Micah’s very dead, very mutilated body.
34
Janto stood outside Lucien’s door, steeling himself for the encounter to come. The young heir was clever and would be more slippery to deal with than his father. Furthermore, this conversation actually mattered. Florian would never rule Kjall again, but Lucien might. Janto had some negotiating power now, and he would have still more if his forces managed to destroy the returning Kjallan fleet. He just had to convince Lucien that it was in Kjall’s best interest to withdraw from Mosar.
“Shall I come in with you?” asked San-Kullen.
“No, wait outside,” said Janto. “He’s not going to attack me.”
The guards opened the door and admitted him.
Lucien sat on a couch inside, his posture relaxed, his crutch leaning next to him. “Not a mere spy after all,” he said, “but the king of Mosar. And poor Rhianne thoroughly taken in.”
“It was never my intent to take advantage of her,” said Janto. “Only to save my country by any means necessary.”
Lucien narrowed his eyes. “If you think you’ve accomplished that, you are mistaken. How is it we missed your familiar?”
“He was hiding in the hypocaust.”
“Ah.”
Kjallans are fools, said Sashi from his shoulder.
Not exactly. “You underestimate them,” he said to Lucien. “You Kjallans who’ve never known animal familiars. They’re intelligent, like people.”
“My father’s mistress says that about her lapdog.”
Janto felt his ferret’s indignance through the link. He took a seat. “There is not the remotest similarity. Lucien Florian Nigellus, you are now the emperor of Kjall. Allow me to be the first to congratulate you.” He held out the jeweled loros he’d taken from Florian.
Lucien’s face went ashen. He accepted the garment with a trembling hand.
“I don’t mean to shock you,” Janto added. “Your father is alive. I am removing him from power until our council passes judgment on him.”
“I see.” Lucien gathered the loros into his lap, visibly relaxing. “Your arrogance, King Jan-Torres, can hardly be believed. The Kjallan fleet will be here in a matter of days, and our ground troops will arrive not long after. No matter what you do to me or Florian or anyone else in the meantime, my people will overwhelm you. Every last one of you will be staked. As punishment for this rebellion, Kjall will decimate the vassal state of Mosar. Do you know what that means?”
“It’s
not going to happen.”
“One in every ten Mosari will be selected by lot and staked. That will be your legacy, Jan-Torres of Mosar. The suffering and death of thousands.”
Janto swallowed, unnerved by the threat, which was marginally credible, but determined Lucien should not see weakness. “I do not fear the return of the fleet, Your Imperial Majesty.”
Lucien leaned back, folding his arms. “We have thirty ships to your half dozen.”
“An exaggeration. You have twenty-three ships. And I have the shore batteries.” They were heaps of stone, completely destroyed, but he had them.
“With our numbers, it won’t matter.”
“I also think the return of the fleet will be cold comfort for you, young emperor, if you are dead before they arrive.”
“Ah,” said Lucien. “Here we come to the crux of it. You mean to kill me if I don’t cooperate with your demands. What could those demands be?”
Janto smiled inwardly. Lucien was smart but inexperienced. His eagerness belied his attempt at nonchalance. Beneath that façade, he was afraid, and he wanted very much to strike a deal. “I imagine there are many Kjallan noblemen who’d be happy to rule this country in your stead.”
Lucien snorted laughter. “They could not hold on to it! Every weak Kjallan emperor for the last three centuries has been deposed. That’s what would happen to me if I gave in to your demands. What were they again? I only ask for the potential amusement value.”
“Everything changes if your fleet loses the battle,” said Janto. “Here are my demands. First, your troops must leave Mosar, now and forever. You will have no further claim on my nation. Second, we will establish trade agreements to foster peace between our countries. Third, if she consents, I would like to marry your cousin.”
Lucien leaned forward, lowering his brows. “If you touch Rhianne, I will kill you.”
“An empty threat if I ever heard one, prisoner. I don’t need your consent. Only hers.”
He sniffed and leaned back on the couch. “You are not marrying anybody. You will be dead within a week. Your demands are as ridiculous as I thought they’d be. Give up Mosar? Be serious. Here are my terms. You and your men will give up the palace and any other structures you occupy, return to your ships, and sail away. I cannot promise that there will be no punishment for Mosar for the crime of this invasion, but you will be treated as a vassal state and hence your people will have some value to us as slaves. Surely the lives of your countrymen mean something to you.”
“I am not at all tempted by your offer.”
Lucien’s eyes narrowed. “When the fleet arrives, you will wish you had accepted it.”
Janto shook his head. “No. I think we are done here.” He rose to leave.
“King Jan-Torres,” called Lucien. “The Sardossians loaned you ground troops. Did they loan you ships as well?”
“I cannot discuss such details with you.” Turning his back, Janto headed for the door.
“Are you holding them in reserve? How many ships?”
As he opened the door, Janto turned and smiled at Lucien. He had as many ships as he was going to need if he and Kal-Torres pulled off the plan they’d worked out. “Good day, Your Imperial Majesty.”
• • •
Rhianne had requested from the guard, and been granted, a list of known casualties of the invasion. The list was frighteningly long, but after reading through it, she’d realized it was long in part because it included the Mosari and Sardossians as well as the Kjallans. There were a lot of names she didn’t recognize. But she recognized enough, and they shattered her. None of these people would be dead if not for her treachery.
She’d tried repeatedly to get an update on how Morgan was doing, but her guard didn’t know who Morgan was and did not attempt to locate him for her.
When her door opened and King Jan-Torres strode in, her heart surged with both hope and trepidation. She was not at all eager to hear his self-serving justifications as to why he’d betrayed her to save his own people. But he was in charge around here, at least until the Kjallan reinforcements arrived. He had information, and what he didn’t know off the top of his head, he could find out.
“Princess.” Jan-Torres lowered his arm, letting his ferret scamper down to the floor. He moved about the room, taking in the furnishings and general surroundings, his eye lingering on the food tray that had been delivered an hour ago. Too grieved to eat, she’d barely touched it. The suite his guards had imprisoned her in, one of the palace guest rooms, was smaller than her own, with two rooms instead of three. Jan-Torres, who’d walked past her to peer into the bedroom, spoke again. “Have you been well treated?”
She twisted to glare at his back from her settee. “I am a prisoner.”
“Are the guards kind and respectful? Have they brought you the things you need?”
“I have no complaints about the guards, save that they do not answer all my questions.”
He turned and faced her. “I want to thank you again for setting the brindlecat on Augustan. I’m sure you saved my life.”
“You saved mine by showing up in the first place.” Her hand strayed to her neck. “On that score, I call us even.”
He strode back and took a seat across from her. He looked so little like the Janto she’d known in the Imperial Garden and at the bridge. He’d exchanged his bland, nondescript syrtos for a colorful Mosari tunic and a gaudy three-banded necklace of gold. But it was more than that—he stood prouder and straighter. Taller, even. He looked more commanding, more kingly.
She frowned. Some women would be impressed by that. Rhianne had seen any number of women fling themselves at powerful men like Florian and Lucien. Power was said to be an aphrodisiac, but Rhianne had spent nearly twenty years enslaved to Florian’s tyranny. If the lure of power had ever been a temptation for her, Florian had long ago stamped out any such inclination. Let other women chase princes and kings and war leaders; the only aphrodisiac she wished for was kindness.
Jan-Torres settled himself on the couch. His ferret, which had been sniffing about the room, came running and leapt into his lap. Jan-Torres idly stroked the animal. “I want you to know that both Florian and Lucien are safe and unharmed. Your younger cousin as well, eight-year-old Celeste.”
“For now. Do you intend to execute them?”
“I didn’t come here to execute people. I came to save my country.”
“If you want to save Mosar, invade Mosar. Why come to Kjall if not to spill blood in vengeance? You cannot hold the palace for more than a few days. Reinforcements are on the way.”
“Please trust that I have thought this through better than that.”
She shook her head. “Florian killed your parents, which was horrible and wrong. I understand your desire to strike back. But what purpose does it serve, answering violence with violence?”
“You’re mistaken about why I came. I’m not going to explain why now, but the fact is that I couldn’t save Mosar with a direct invasion. I needed the support of the Sardossians, and to get that I had to avert the attack on Sarpol.”
Her finger brushed the casualty list that lay on the settee next to her. “Tamienne is dead. Did you know?”
“No. I’m sorry.”
“Cerinthus is dead. You don’t know Cerinthus—he was my friend Marcella’s husband. Justis, Nipius, and Quintilla. All dead.” She touched the paper again. “But perhaps they don’t mean anything to you. They’re just names.”
“They mean no less to me, and no more, than the tens of thousands dead on Mosar.”
She turned away, unable to bear his gaze. “I sent her.”
“Sent who?”
“Tamienne. I sent her to fight at the front gates. That’s why I was alone when Augustan came.”
“I didn’t know.”
She shook her head in sorrow. “They’re dead because of me, J
an-Torres. Because of you. If I hadn’t bargained for your life—”
“Would you rather have sent me to my death?”
“I don’t know.” She stared at her fingers as if they were foreign things. “There was no right answer. There’s supposed to be a right answer!” She shut her eyes, squeezing back tears. She’d always thought that if she just had the courage to make the right choices, even if they were hard choices, then at least she could live with herself, be proud of the person she was. If she had to make choices that made people angry, she could cope with that. But what did one do when there were no right choices?
Jan-Torres leaned toward her, his eyes soft. He tried to place his hand on her knee, the part of her closest to him, but she shifted and moved out of reach. He sat back in his chair, his mouth tightening. “Neither of us wanted this. It’s Florian’s war, not mine. Not yours.”
Rhianne grabbed a pillow from the settee and hugged it to her chest. “I didn’t love Tamienne. She was always reporting on me to Florian, tattling on me. But she was just doing her job. Florian employed her, not I. She was an orphan—all the Legaciatti are. She’d nearly finished her term. She was going to marry when it ended, start a family.”
Jan-Torres was silent.
“And poor Marcella. What must she be going through?”
“When you requested that casualty list”—Jan-Torres pointed at the paper on the settee—“I granted your request, much as it pained me, because from now on, I mean there to be no more secrets between us. Every life lost is a tragedy, but that casualty list is short. We’re counting the dead in the hundreds, and that’s on both sides, my people as well as yours. Do you know how many of my people died on Mosar?”
“No,” she said softly.