Spy's Honor

now also mounted. Rhianne led the way since she knew the lay of the land. South of the Imperial Palace was the city of Riat, but on the other three sides were lands belonging to the imperial family, pastures and plains dotted with lakes, and forests of all types, most of them cultivated, but there were two ancient, old-growth forests that the continent’s many wars had miraculously left untouched. Rhianne led her fiance-to-be on a tour through some of the finest of these lands, and when the horses began to tire, she and Augustan dismounted at the side of a lake and picnicked, their entourage setting out blankets and food.

“You are not quite what I expected,” said Augustan, biting into a pigeon tart.

“Oh?” Rhianne looked at him sidelong. “And what did you expect?”

“A more delicate, retiring sort of woman. Don’t get me wrong. I’m quite pleased with you.”

Rhianne wasn’t sure how to answer this. She was glad he didn’t dislike her. On the other hand, he was pleased with her? He spoke like a parent praising a child.

“Are you pleased with me?” asked Augustan.

“Legatus, we’ve barely met.”

“That’s fair,” said Augustan. “It was good of the emperor to bring me here so we could get to know each other a little before the marriage.”

Rhianne nodded. “How is the war going?”

“Very well,” said Augustan. “We’ve nearly wiped out the last pockets of resistance. I expect we’ll have it wrapped up soon.”

It was good news, but Rhianne couldn’t help but feel a pang for poor Janto. His country was about to fall, and once it did, his people would be enslaved forever. She touched her chin. “How did you get this?”

Augustan mirrored the gesture. “Musket fire. That was years ago.”

“You were shot?”

“Grazed.” He smiled crookedly. “Bullet left its mark, though.”

“You have been many years at war,” said Rhianne.

“Indeed. This governorship of Mosar will be a new adventure for me, commanding people in peacetime. Although leadership is nothing new. I consider your uncle a great example.”

“Do you?” Rhianne raised an eyebrow.

“Absolutely. He’s decisive; he’s bold. And he can be charitable too, as you must know.”

Florian did have his positive traits, but Rhianne could not, for the life of her, think of a time he had been charitable. “What do you mean?”

“Well, for example, when he adopted you and shielded you from the shame of your birth.”

Rhianne stared, shock rippling through her body as if he’d slapped her in the face. Surely he could not have actually said that. “The shame of my birth?”

“Don’t be coy,” said Augustan. “You know what I mean.”

Her cheeks prickled with warmth. “Legatus, my parents were married. I am a legitimate child.”

“Yes, but they eloped, did they not? Emperor Nigellus did not approve the match.”

“He didn’t approve, but according to Kjallan marriage law, he didn’t have to. The contract was legal.”

“Still,” said Augustan, “when Florian adopted you, he gave you his name so that you carried the imperial name, not your father’s.”

“He did,” said Rhianne. “But on the other hand, it was a bit of an insult to my real father, who didn’t give me up by choice. I wonder sometimes what my life would have been like if I’d been raised by my parents instead of by Florian.”

“Well, I always considered the adoption a grand gesture on Florian’s part.” Augustan wrinkled his brow, as if he found her a puzzle. “You know I would never hold it against you, your father’s low birth. You may not appreciate it, but your uncle was right to get you out of that situation. Just because the parents have done wrong doesn’t mean the child will.”

“Of course. I never imagined you would hold it against me,” said Rhianne, still stunned. Did he think her damaged goods? If so, why did he want to marry her? For her name, of course—Florian’s name—and the governorship of Mosar. Unless she was much mistaken, he had no respect for her as a person. “The horses are looking refreshed. Perhaps we should head back to the palace.”

“If Her Imperial Highness wishes it,” said Augustan, rising to his feet in one fluid motion. “I have some betrothal gifts for you—one-of-a-kind items from Mosar I think you’ll find very special.”

“I can’t wait,” said Rhianne dully. She didn’t mind being challenged by a man. Janto challenged her. Lucien challenged her. Somehow when those two forced her to question her assumptions, she felt herself growing and stretching, becoming wiser and more knowledgeable. Janto disagreed with her often, even grew angry at times, but on some fundamental level he believed in her. Augustan’s criticism—and for that matter, even his praise!— made Rhianne feel small. No betrothal gift, no matter how one-of-a-kind or special, was going to make up for that.

7

With Augustan and his entourage in residence, and a betrothal ceremony in the works, the palace was stirred up in the manner of a trodden-on anthill. Janto would not waste this opportunity. With the staff preoccupied, it was time to invade the palace and brave the magical wards that were the bane of a spy’s existence. Sirali had said that the Kjallans didn’t place them in the hallways, only across doorways and probably only in sensitive areas. He prayed she was right.

Just inside the slave entrance was an enormous, bustling hall. Janto twisted sideways to avoid a wheeled cart piled high with laundry, then dodged a pair of burly slaves carrying sacks of flour, his shoes slipping on the polished floor. Though this was only the service wing of the palace, it was striking in its beauty. Vaulted ceilings rose to lofty heights. From them, semicircular light glows hung in alternating colors of orange, blue, and white. Each glow was as large as a man. Silk hangings, bright with color, cascaded down the marble walls.

Fine place, he commented to Sashi, who clung to his shoulder.

Ugly, said the ferret.

I know you’ve no appreciation for stone, but do you not at least like the artwork?

Sashi studied one of the hangings as they walked by, a depiction of the mighty Soldier with his pike. It resembles a man, but he is flat and unmoving. He smells of dust and lye.

Janto smiled to himself. Never mind.

He passed from the first hallway into a larger one flanked by black marble columns. The bas-relief ceiling depicted scenes from Kjallan mythology. He began to sweat beneath the woolen overcloak he’d pilfered from a supply shed. The hallway was warm, but he had yet to see a heat-glow. Where were the Kjallans hiding them?

He counted six hallways on his left, following the mental map Sirali had roughed out for him, and turned into the seventh. Here, alcoves set into the walls displayed artwork: paintings of warships and landscapes and battle scenes. War leaders sculpted in marble or bronze sat proudly atop their prancing steeds with swords upraised. Janto paused before the first nonmilitaristic sculpture he came to, that of a woman holding an infant.

In the alcove next to it, a stone statue of a mythical sea dragon sat on an obsidian table. The lines and style of the work were familiar, and he could swear he recognized the artist: a Mosari woman named Fioni. How had her work turned up here? Was it stolen? There was virtually no trade between Kjall and Mosar.

The gallery wasn’t as crowded as the service wing. Most of the people he maneuvered around weren’t slaves or servants, but Kjallans in syrtoses or military uniforms. He located the final hallway, which was narrow and devoid of decoration. At the end of it, a stairway descended a few steps toward a heavy iron door guarded by two Legaciatti. There would be no going through that without someone opening it for him.

Janto settled invisibly on the stairs. Looks like we wait.

We do a lot of that, said Sashi, untroubled.

The door to the prison might be warded, but he doubted it, since prisoners had to come in and out through