A tribune raised his wooden pointer and indicated a red flag that marked the town of Old Veshon, just north of Riat. “We know she was here around midnight. She visited a Healer for the wounds on her back. Then she sold her white mare and a substantial amount of imperial jewelry.”
“After that?”
“The trail runs cold,” said the tribune. “We’re pretty sure she bought another horse. A stableman reports he sold someone a bay gelding during the night, but he can’t remember details such as the exact time or whom he sold it to.”
“Almost certainly that was her. She used a forgetting spell.”
“We assumed as much.” The tribune pointed to a semicircle of white flags marking the towns north and east of Old Veshon. “We figure she’s in one of these places by now, most likely one of the northern ones.”
“Why north?” asked Lucien.
“She rode north to begin with, and it’s likely she began her journey in the direction of her ultimate destination,” explained the tribune. “If she wanted to go east, why start by riding north to Old Veshon?”
“Because she was deliberately deceiving you. You’re underestimating her. The radius of your search is too small—you’ve marked villages only twenty miles out. If she departed Old Veshon as early as midnight, and it’s midmorning now, she could easily be a hundred miles from here.”
Florian stepped into the crowd around the table. “Not likely. Rhianne is unaccustomed to travel.”
“Doesn’t matter,” said Lucien. “She has a pile of money from Old Veshon—I assume she got good prices, with her mind magic?”
“She did,” said the tribune.
“We must assume she rode hard all night, trading horses every ten miles at post stations or anywhere she could sell the old horse and buy a fresh one. Buying and selling are easy for a mind mage, even in the dead of night. She’s skilled in the saddle, and she’s desperate. We should assume she rode until she dropped—and she might still be riding.”
Florian frowned, clearly unhappy with this characterization of his niece. “So what’s your strategy for finding her?”
“I advise three strategies,” said Lucien. “First, we track her through the horse. She bought a bay gelding in Old Veshon, and I’ll bet she sold or abandoned it ten to fifteen miles from where she bought it. We pick up the fellow who sold it to her and take him to all the post stations within range; see if he can identify the animal. If we find that horse, we’ll find the next one she bought, and so on. With luck, we can track her progress across the country.” Lucien paused and looked around the room. He had everyone’s attention now.
“Second, we use our signal network and notify the authorities of every town, village, and city within our search radius to be looking for her. Rhianne is clever, and her magic is powerful, but she has no skills for roughing it in the wilderness. She’ll have to venture into civilized areas for food and other supplies, and as an attractive young woman, she’s conspicuous. Forgetting spells are only worth so much. She may be seen from a distance by people she doesn’t even notice, and of course mages are entirely immune to her magic. Have the towns mobilize search parties, and make sure every search party includes a mage. Offer rewards for information and for successful capture. And make it clear that there’s a stake waiting for anyone who harms or despoils her.”
“Third, mobilize any battalions stationed within the search radius and have them patrol the roads. A young woman traveling alone is a rare sight. If they see her, and they’ve got a mage in the party to ward off her defenses, they won’t fail to recognize her.”
Florian nodded his grudging approval. “Tribune Murrius, you’re in charge of tracking the horses. Tribune Orosius, get on the signal network and organize the city authorities. Tribune Auspian, you’ll organize the battalions. Move.”
24
In the middle of the night, refreshed from a long midday sleep and a stolen supper, Janto reentered the hypocaust.
Rhianne had now been gone a full day. How was she faring? She hadn’t been captured. He knew that much from the way the officers in the north dome were still dashing about the palace with gritted teeth and wrinkled brows. But she had to be frightened all by herself on the road. What sort of life would she find out in the Kjallan countryside, assuming she succeeded in her escape from Florian? Janto wanted her to be happy, but the thought of her eventually marrying some other man—even if it wasn’t Augustan—bothered him, and the more he thought about it, the worse he felt.
Yet it was too late for regrets. He’d made his decision, and he would have to live with it.
He’d found Lucien’s rooms aboveground. Now he just needed to locate the trapdoor, if it existed. He pulled out his hypocaust maps, which now sprawled over a dozen pages, and laid them on the floor, connecting them end to end. In his head, he projected the big structure of the palace onto the hypocaust and worked out which unmapped tunnel he needed to start working his way down. Two hours later, he’d mapped his way to the spot which, by his calculation, should be directly underneath Lucien’s rooms.
He searched the ceiling with his magelight. There was nothing marked to suggest a trapdoor. He pressed upward, lightly, on each wooden square. All were quite firm—until he came to one that wobbled. Janto smiled. He pushed on the square again. It was loose, but there was resistance—probably a rug on top of it. He extended his shroud over the square to muffle any noise and pushed hard. The square rose enough that he could see that yes, he was lifting a rug. He slid the wooden square sideways, still beneath the rug, but away from the opening. Now only the rug blocked him. He reached up, probed for the nearest edge with his fingers, and folded it back. Through the gap, he felt a welcome draft of cool air. Sashi leapt through.
He dismissed his magelight and climbed up and out of the hole. He rested a moment atop the silk rug, letting his eyes and ears adjust to the new surroundings. Goose bumps pricked his arms. Sashi scouted silently, sniffing about the furniture.
Slow, rhythmic breathing emanated from a high four-poster bed. A crutch leaned against a bedside table.
Janto replaced the parquet square and opened the bedroom door, shrouding it to muffle noise. Through the door was the sitting room. He spotted Lucien’s desk and hurried to it. He settled into the plush chair and opened the first drawer.
Inside were Lucien’s personal letters. Skimming them, Janto discovered Lucien had several correspondents at the northern front with whom he discussed military strategy. The letters were detailed, going on about fine points such as supply lines and the locations of cannons.
They were useless to Janto, since they were a couple of years old and about Riorca. In each case he had only one side of the correspondence, but through careful reading he could piece together much of what Lucien had penned. What he saw confirmed his opinion of the Kjallan heir. The young man was a smarter strategist than his father—more rational, more detail oriented, and more innovative. Some of his ideas seemed to be controversial; at least, his correspondents reacted as if they were so.
Second drawer, more letters. One packet was from Rhianne, and when he saw her signature at the bottom—a signature he’d never before seen—something twisted inside him. He had nothing to remember her by. All they’d ever given each other were intangibles: conversation, love, and memories. He hadn’t thought it important before, but now all of a sudden it mattered a great deal. He wished he had some sort of memento from her and that she had one from him.
She’d written the letters when Lucien was in Riorca. Their contents had no strategic value whatsoever, but Janto read out of curiosity, smiling at the flamboyant loops and whorls of Rhianne’s handwriting. Then he stopped and set them aside, feeling as guilty as a kid caught listening behind his parents’ door.
Third drawer, a treatise on military strategy that was interesting reading but entirely theoretical, with no specifics about Kjall. He set it aside. Below it, a three-day-old readiness report covering the entire Kjallan military.
