Spy's Honor

He broke into a run, heading for a nearby hill where he might have a better view. Pyrotechnic signalers were rare and valued. They were not used lightly, and they transmitted only news of great importance.

From the higher vantage point at the top of the hill, he saw that the yellow starburst had been not a lone pyrotechnic shout but merely the highest in elevation of a flurry of pyrotechnic communications cascading across the harbor. Bright and numerous, they cast the harbor in an otherworldly light. He could see the harbor was full of ships. Some were in the process of anchoring. Others were moving in, signaling frantically, their brown canvas sails round and fat with wind. It was a scene of eerie beauty, yet it sent Janto’s heart plummeting to the pit of his stomach.

Is that the Kjallan fleet, su-kali? asked Sashi from his shoulder.

It is, said Janto. There were only two possible things the fleet’s return could mean. One was that his people had beaten the Kjallans off and they’d come limping home. But Janto didn’t see how that could have happened. Why entertain false hope? The other possibility was the only one that made any sense.

Mosar had fallen.

20

At sunrise, a blast of trumpets summoned the people of Riat to the harbor. The horns played a brief fanfare in a six-beat rhythm. Deep, brassy cornus joined in, followed by snare drums and tympani. Color exploded overhead as the pyrotechnic mages added their visual accompaniment.

Janto, who’d spent a sleepless night observing the fleet and its communications with the Imperial Palace, dropped his shroud, emerged from the dockside warehouse where he’d taken cover, and joined the crowd of civilians watching the spectacle. With so many people around, no one would take notice of him.

The Kjallan pyrotechnics were among the most skilled he’d seen. Any pyro could pull shapes and colors out of the spirit world, but sculpting them into recognizable forms like people and animals required talent. Above the crowd, they had summoned and shaped a brace of cavalry horses. Trumpets sounded the charge, and the illusionary horses reared and galloped forward. The horses faded, and in their place appeared ocean waves. A cadence of drums beat the waves’ undulating rhythm, driving to a crescendo until a ship’s bowsprit crashed through them.

The airborne images began to float away from the harbor and toward the city proper. Janto hurried after them, pushing his way through the crowd toward the parade he knew lay at the center of the throng.

Breaking through the massed civilians, he saw the marching soldiers, a troop of infantry in tight formation wielding orange flags. Behind them plodded draft horses with docked tails and feathered hooves, each hauling a supply cart loaded high with who knew what, probably stolen treasures from Mosar. Tarps covered the bounty. Next marched a cadre of drummers, keeping time with a rolling beat. Along the tail of the procession, Janto saw more soldiers, horses, cannons, and supplies. The pyrotechnics and their images were ahead.

He withdrew into the cover of the crowd and pushed his way through until he spotted the pyrotechnic mages. They gesticulated with agile fingers, their brows furrowed with concentration as they called their complex creations from the Rift.

“There he is!” cried a man from the crowd. “The legatus!”

Janto whipped his head to where the man was pointing. Four men in officer’s uniforms rode in a quadrille, their horses’ paces nearly synchronized. Ahead of them rode four more, and leading them was a single officer, lightly armored, astride a dark bay warhorse frothing at the bit. Janto recognized the rider easily enough: Augustan Ceres. The legatus had come for Rhianne. For Janto’s woman.

Janto stared at the man with such furious hatred, he half expected the back of Augustan’s neck to burst into flames. The legatus turned and scanned the crowd, but his expression was mild, and his gaze passed over Janto without interest. Two men walked on either side of Augustan—servants, by the look of them. Each carried a wooden box. Gifts, Janto decided, for Rhianne or the emperor. More treasures stolen from Mosar, which Augustan would use to secure his theft of Janto’s throne and his princess.

Kill him, suggested Sashi, if he takes what is yours.

Rhianne was never mine, said Janto.

You have mated with her, said Sashi matter-of-factly. If another man steals your mate, kill him.

He is a war mage. Impossible to kill, said Janto. Even were it otherwise, love and marriage are not simple when it comes to my kind.

Your kind makes things too complicated, Sashi scolded.

Janto frowned. His familiar had a point.

* * *

Rhianne awoke to the news she had been dreading. Augustan was victorious. Mosar had been conquered. The war was over, and her fiance was at this very moment marching to the Imperial Palace from the city of Riat to celebrate his victory and claim his bride, who, unfortunately, was her.

She couldn’t stop thinking about Janto. Did he know? How was he taking the news? He seemed to be all alone on Kjall. He would have no one to confide in or seek comfort from as he confronted this new reality. And he could not come to her. It was not possible. She prayed he would not attempt it, not with Augustan in the palace and so many people in and out of her rooms.

Janto was strong. She prayed he would survive this blow and see the necessity of escaping as a refugee to Sardos or Inya. With his language skills, he could start a new life there. No future remained for him on Mosar, and he would never have a future in Kjall.

Today she had her own horrors to face. Augustan had come for her, and her days of relative freedom had come to an end. Her husband-to-be would not dally at the Imperial Palace. He had a vassal state to stabilize and govern. Florian had not discussed details of the wedding, but she knew that under the circumstances, it would be rushed. She would be wedded and bedded and shipped off to Mosar in less than a week. She must say good-bye to all the people she loved: Morgan, Marcella, even Lucien. She would not be able to say good-bye to Janto.

Her lady’s maid slipped into the room. “Your Imperial Highness, shall we get you dressed? Our signalers report that the legatus is at the base of the hill.”

* * *

Janto, concealed within the crowd, followed the procession as it wound its way through the city of Riat. When the parade reached the city gates, a line of guards blocked the civilians and prevented them from following. The soldiers, led by Augustan, filtered through the gates and continued up the hill to the Imperial Palace. Janto, determined to learn what had happened on Mosar, donned his shroud and slipped in among the soldiers as they passed by the guards.

The soldiers marched uphill through switchback after switchback until they crested the peak and the whole of the Imperial Palace came into view. Though they still had some distance to cover, what remained was an easy march on a flat, paved road, shaded by ancient oaks. As they approached, the front gates of the palace were flung wide in welcome. Did the emperor intend to host the entire retinue?

Uniformed officials just inside the gates directed traffic, sending Augustan and the other officers in one direction, the rank and file in another. The smell of roasting meat wafted down the hallway, and Janto guessed that a banquet awaited the hungry soldiers. He hungered for information rather than food, so he followed the officers.

The officers filed into a high-ceilinged, white marble audience hall. Two rows of gray pillars flanked a central aisle. At the far end of the hall stood a raised platform, also gray, upon which three figures awaited them, one dressed in orange, one in blue, and one in white.

Such arrogance, thought Janto, to wear the colors of the gods.

But he did not have to look twice to recognize the figure in white as Rhianne. She stood on the left, and the young man on the right, in blue, was Lucien, the Imperial Heir. The man in the middle, wearing a broad, glittering