Spy's Honor

Janto held up a hand to stay the man. “He called you sire. But Mosar already has a king.”

The crew fell silent, leaving no sound but the wash of the waves and the creak of the rigging.

“You were away,” said Kal. “Unable to take on the responsibility. So of course—”

Janto nodded. “You held the title during my absence. Now that I’ve returned, I reclaim it.”

There was a moment’s uncomfortable silence. Kal placed an arm on Janto’s shoulder as if to guide him belowdecks. “You are ill, Brother. Let Sapo tend to you. Get your strength back, and we’ll discuss this when you are well.”

Janto took a step back, plucking the hand off his shoulder. “There is nothing to discuss. I am Jan-Torres, your king. To treat me as anything else would be treason.”

Kal’s cheeks flushed with anger. “I rescued you from that ship. A Kjallan ship. You would have died, else. And these men.” He indicated the officers at his flank and the enlisted men behind them. “Do you think they will follow a stranger over the leader they know?”

Janto’s gaze darted over the crowd. The sailors dropped their eyes. They knew he was the rightful king. Yet there was no doubt they would stand behind Kal if forced to choose.

Do not back down, said Sashi. You are king. He is not.

“You are not the king of Mosar, Kal-Torres,” said Janto. “To pretend otherwise violates our country’s tradition of peaceful succession. It insults the memory of our mother and father.”

Kal straightened, emphasizing his slight advantage in height. “You’re not fit to rule. At Silverside, your error in judgment cost us a dozen mages—”

“Ridiculous,” Janto snapped. “You’ve always envied my crown. If our father wanted to replace me as his heir after that incident, he would have. But he didn’t. Do you question his judgment? While you sat out the war, repairing your damaged ships after fleeing in the very first battle, I fought on the front lines in Mosar, and when the tide turned against us, I went into the heart of enemy territory, seeking intelligence that might help—”

“You left Mosar to get out of harm’s way,” snarled Kal. “You probably spent the whole time on Kjall cowering under your invisibility shroud—”

Kill! Sashi launched himself from Janto’s shoulder with a chitter of rage and smacked into Kal’s seabird. The familiars tumbled to the ship’s deck in a ball of fur and feathers and flapping wings.

Kal’s mouth fell open. “What the . . . Stop him, Janto!”

A chill ran up Janto’s spine. He did not stop his familiar. He knew, at least from stories, the Mosari tradition of quanrok. Loosely translated from the old tongue, it meant “gods decide.” More practically, it meant settling a dispute between two zo by allowing their familiars, the gifts and occasional mouthpieces of the gods, to fight for supremacy. Had Sashi invoked the old tradition? He took a step back, giving the creatures room.

Sashi had broken Gishi’s wing with his initial leap, grounding the bird. The two of them grappled viciously on the ship deck, hissing and spitting and biting. Though injured, the bird was large and powerful. Neither animal had an obvious advantage.

Sailors and officers leapt out of the creatures’ way as the familiars chased each other around the deck, the seabird thrusting powerfully with its beak and buffeting with its good wing. Sashi’s lithe body flowed like water as he ducked in and out, skittering sideways to avoid blows and leaping in for a quick bite with needle teeth. The bird’s blows were heavy, knocking Sashi across the deck when they connected, but the ferret shook himself off and reentered the fray as lively and fierce as before, while the bird grew slower. Gishi was weakening. The seabird reeled, unbalanced, and Sashi leapt like a striking snake, bowling him over and pinning him with a bite to the neck.

Make Kal-Torres yield, said Sashi, or his familiar dies.

“Get him off!” cried Kal. “Your ferret’s killing Gishi!”

“Do you yield?” asked Janto.

“Do I yield?” Kal sputtered. “What are you talking about?”

“Quanrok. The gods have chosen. Do you acknowledge me as king of Mosar?”

Kal’s eyes blazed fury. Slowly, as if it caused him physical pain, he folded his body and knelt on the deck. “Men, honor your king.”

Sashi released the wounded seabird. All around Janto, the sailors lowered themselves to their knees.

* * *

An hour later, Janto watched a Sardossian boat row toward the Sparrowhawk as it rose and fell with the waves. He leaned on the rail to conserve his strength.

Kal, who’d been overseeing some detail of sail trim, walked up and leaned on the rail next to him. “Well, sire, perhaps you could tell me your plans for the fleet.”

“Answer some questions for me.” Janto pointed toward the distant lights that had to be land. “That’s Rhaylet, is it not?”

“It is,” said Kal.

“Here’s what I think you’ve been up to. First, Kjall attacked Rhaylet and captured it with six light ships. Sardos sent a fleet to recapture the port, going the long way, south around Dori, since they cannot use the Neruna Strait. The Kjallan ships made no attempt to defend the port but fled the moment the Sardossians arrived.”

Kal’s eyebrows rose. “How did you know?”

“The time I spent on Kjall was not wasted. The Kjallan ships planned escape into the Neruna Strait, but then you arrived. You pinned the Kjallans between yourself and the Sardossians and destroyed their small fleet. Am I right?”

“Yes.”

“It was an excellent maneuver, worthy of the Vagabond himself,” said Janto. “You may have saved Mosar with it. But there’s one thing I don’t understand. Those two ships there.” He pointed to the pair that had attacked the Lynx. “They are obviously of Kjallan make, so I take them to be prizes. But why do they fly a flag that is neither Mosari nor Sardossian?”

Kal grinned. “That’s my favorite part. When we attacked the Kjallans, only four ships fought back in earnest. The other two fired sporadically, often at nothing at all. We gathered that their crews were in mutiny and left them alone. By the time we’d dealt with the other four, the two mutinous ships had raised the Sage in surrender. It turned out both ships had been manned with Riorcan slaves, who rose up against their Kjallan officers in the chaos of battle and tossed them overboard. They had to plead our assistance after the battle—they were under the influence of death spells that would kill them if a Healer did not take them off, and the Kjallan Healers were among those they’d flung over. So we removed those spells with our own Healers, who also tended to them, and they’ve joined the fleet for the time being. Those flags they’re flying are makeshift Riorcan flags.”

Janto looked out at the two ships with new respect. How long had it been since a ship had flown a Riorcan flag? Decades. History was being made.

“Just so you know, they’re rather bloodthirsty,” added Kal.

“I noticed. They wouldn’t accept the Lynx’s surrender.”

“Their hatred of Kjall runs deep,” said Kal. “I think all they really want is to kill Kjallans, as many as possible. Because of that, they may be willing to help us retake Mosar.”

“I’m not sure I want their help. They sound like savages who won’t take orders. Do they have a command structure?”

Kal shrugged. “A rudimentary one. But they’re all we’ve got. The Sardossians won’t help. I’ve asked. They fear the attack on Rhaylet was a feint, and Sardos itself may be the next target. They’re returning home immediately.”

“What do you know of the Sardossian fleet commander? What’s his name?”

“Admiral Llinos. He’s a decent sort. Solid, reliable, and conservative.”

“How can we motivate him?”