Spy's Honor

Canary when the Kjallans took it off Bartleshore. But why are you here? I hope we haven’t lost the war.”

“Not yet.”

“Is it not going well?”

“My father’s doing the best he can, given that the Kjallan army is ten times the size of ours,” said Janto. “I’m looking for a man named Ral-Vaddis—”

“Ral-Vaddis is here?”

“You know him?”

“The shroud mage. I know of him.”

“He said he had valuable intelligence for us, that the Kjallan emperor was about to make a critical strategic error, one that could cost him the war. He was going to get back to us with details. But he never did.”

“And you came to find him? Why you? I can see why someone who could turn invisible was necessary, but surely there was another besides the Crown Prince—”

“Casualties have been high. I run Mosari Intelligence, and shroud mages are as rare as albino brindlecats. There was nobody else.”

Iolo’s face fell in dismay. “I wish I could help, but I haven’t seen Ral-Vaddis.”

“But you can help me, nonetheless,” said Janto.

“How?”

“By answering some questions. Why do the slaves in Kjall not run?”

“What do you mean?”

“You have no chains on you. Why do you not run away?”

“Because of the death spell,” said Iolo.

Janto opened his palms in confusion.

“When I was brought here as a slave, a death spell was cast on me, but it has a delayed effect. It doesn’t work right away. Each day, if I do my work and follow the rules, they cast an abeyance spell that delays the death spell by another day. If I run off, I won’t get my abeyance spell. But you could fix that. Couldn’t you?” His eyes lit upon the ferret that was the source of Janto’s shroud magic. “You’re a mage. You could remove my death spell.”

“A shroud mage has no power to remove a death spell.”

Iolo looked at the ground. “Oh.”

“If I could, I’d free all of you,” said Janto. “You work in the Imperial Palace, do you not?”

Iolo nodded. “The Imperial Garden.”

“If you want to help me, teach me to pass for a slave myself, and get me into the palace,” said Janto. “It may not be enough for me just to sneak around and overhear things. I need to be able to talk to people, interact with people—other slaves and maybe even Kjallans. There are things I must learn quickly if I’m to have any chance of finding Ral-Vaddis and discovering what it is he knows.”

“I can do that, Your Highness,” Iolo answered with a smile.

2

As Rhianne crawled on hands and knees through the hypocaust, the palace’s underground heating system, she simultaneously cursed and blessed its existence. It was hot and cramped and ridiculously uncomfortable, yet without it she’d never be able to sneak out of the palace without her escort tagging along after her and reporting her every move to the emperor. Her poor, naive guards believed her to be taking a nap in her bedroom right now, just as they had every other time she’d sneaked out. They must think her a prodigious sleeper.

Brushing a cobweb from her hair, she counted the massive heat-glows spaced at intervals along the floor. Forty-five, forty-six, forty-seven . . . This was where she turned left into the narrow passage. Good thing she wasn’t frightened of small spaces. The hypocaust was sweltering even with only one of every five glows activated, but tempted as she was to deactivate them, she interfered with nothing down here. She would leave no evidence of her passing.

At the end of the narrow tunnel, the crawl space opened vertically into a passageway, allowing her to stand and walk normally for a few steps until it ended at a door, the hypocaust’s lone service entrance. It was guarded, but as long as the guards possessed no magic, Rhianne had nothing to worry about. She opened the door and stepped through it, throwing first a confusion spell and then a forgetting spell over the guards who turned in her direction. She continued on her way.

She proceeded from there to the palace stables and then, on horseback, down the switchbacks to the Imperial City of Riat. When her journey was complete, she led her white mare into a tiny stable adjoining a modest home in the merchants’ district.

“Who’s there?” called a gruff voice as she dismounted and pulled the reins over the mare’s head. The huge figure of an old palace bodyguard appeared in the doorway that connected house and stable, casting a shadow over the straw-filled stall. The voice softened. “Oh, it’s you. The boy will take your horse.”

A Riorcan slave slipped into the stable and took the mare’s reins. Rhianne climbed the stairs and trailed the big man into the house. “How are you, Morgan?” she asked.

“Getting by.”

“I brought your pension.” Rhianne pulled the thirty tetrals from her pocket.

Morgan turned and rocked on his feet, frowning at the coins. Finally he extended a hand, and she poured them into his palm.

“You don’t have to do this,” he said.

“Someone has to,” said Rhianne. “Are you doing those exercises the Healer recommended?”

Morgan nodded. He puttered around his kitchen, searching for a pair of clean mugs. “I don’t know where that boy puts anything,” he groused, reaching for a high shelf but grunting when his arm wouldn’t straighten.

“He puts things away,” said Rhianne. “If you’d just look where they’re supposed to be—I’ll get those.” She pulled two mugs off the high shelf. “You’re not doing the exercises.”

Morgan didn’t answer. He took the mugs and poured a reddish drink from a pitcher into each.

“Do I want to know what that is?”

Morgan grinned. “Try it. You’ll like it.” He gestured at the sitting room. “Have a seat. Catch me up on the palace gossip.”

Rhianne perched on a settee and sipped her mystery drink. It was sweet and fruity and strongly alcoholic. She coughed discreetly. “It has a kick.”

“Fig juice, honey, and gin.” He settled onto a couch across from her.

“Disgusting.” She took another sip.

“So, what trouble has your cousin gotten into lately?”

Rhianne rolled her eyes. “He spoke out against the war in Mosar during a council session. Now Florian’s ready to mount him on the wall.”

Morgan laughed. “Wish I’d been there.”

“It’s not funny,” said Rhianne. “Florian struck him, and it’s not the first time.”

“I mean I wish I’d been at the council meeting. Florian’s not used to having anyone call him on his horseshit, and Lucien’s just enough of a pissant to do it. The problem with those two is that they have only two things in common—stubbornness and pride—and everything else about them is different. Florian’s such a hothead. You know—act first, think later. But Lucien’s so controlled, he can stare at that Caturanga board of his for an hour just contemplating the moves. The two of them don’t value the same principles or see eye to eye on anything. I’ve never seen a father and son who are such opposites.”

“Lucien suffers,” said Rhianne. “He puts a brave face on it, but Florian’s hatred torments him.”

“Of course it does,” said Morgan. “But wait and see. If Lucien survives these years under Florian’s thumb— and I know they are not easy—he will make a fine emperor someday. One of the best.”

Rhianne leaned back in her chair. “You say this, having served his elder brother?”

A shadow crossed Morgan’s face. “I’d have saved him if I could. You know I would have. But Sestius would