Spy's Honor

“San-Kullen.”

Rhianne looked up to see Jan-Torres standing above her. His shirt hung loose about him, his arms were folded, and his expression was a dark thundercloud.

The war mage hurried to his side. “Yes, sire?”

“The princess’s room should be ready by now. Take her there,” said Jan-Torres. “We’ve lost enough time already, and we’ve got work to do.”

* * *

Janto watched, uneasy, as San-Kullen and his brindlecat escorted Rhianne out of the infirmary. He wasn’t sure why he’d reacted so strongly to seeing her hug another man. Normally he wasn’t prone to jealousy, even back on Mosar when Kal-Torres, competitive beyond all normal limits, had deliberately seduced his girlfriends, sometimes with success. Janto had been philosophical about it then, theorizing that if a woman chose Kal over him, he was well quit of her.

Somehow it was different with Rhianne, perhaps because that hug was how he’d hoped and expected to be greeted himself. He’d rescued her from Augustan and delivered her from Florian’s tyranny. But instead of welcoming him with open arms, Rhianne was livid about the invasion, and some other man he didn’t even know was getting her tender affection. Vagabond’s breath, why?

He’d have to figure it out later. One of his officers, the war mage Ruhr-Donnel, was striding toward him, clearly with something to say.

“Sire, we’ve got Lucien,” said Ruhr-Donnel. “You were right—he tried to sneak out, but we had men at every palace entrance.”

“I hope he didn’t give you too much trouble.”

“He and his escort gave us a lot of trouble. But we managed.”

“I understand you have Emperor Florian as well?”

“Yes, sire.”

“Bring him in. The emperor.”

Ruhr-Donnel saluted and left.

Feeling better? Janto stroked his ferret, who lay cradled in his arms, uncharacteristically timid. The Healer had repaired his broken leg, but Sashi had never been seriously injured before and seemed to need a little reassurance that all was well.

The pain is gone, said Sashi.

Are you ready to get back on my shoulder?

After a moment, Sashi extracted himself from Janto’s grip and scampered carefully up to his rightful place.

The thump of boots echoed from down the hallway, and six soldiers entered the infirmary, escorting a furious Emperor Florian. The emperor wore his imperial syrtos and loros, but his riftstone had been taken and his wrists were manacled behind his back.

Florian’s eyes fixed on Janto. “You,” he said coldly.

Janto smiled. “A pity we keep meeting in such unfortunate circumstances.”

“You will die for this, spy—”

“Your Majesty,” corrected Janto. “I am Jan-Torres, king of Mosar.”

Florian paused a moment to process that. “Do you know why we don’t keep a large garrison here, Jan- Torres?”

“Why?”

“Because no one is foolish enough to invade Kjall. When our reinforcements arrive, our retribution will be swift and merciless.”

Janto sighed. “This conversation’s just begun, and already I’m tired of it.” He grasped the jeweled loros draped over Florian’s shoulders, and lifted it over the man’s head. “You are hereby removed from power, now and forever.” He turned to the guards. “Confine him, alone, until we are prepared to render judgment.”

* * *

By dawn, the Imperial Palace belonged to Mosar. The last of the palace doors had been broken open and the last of the Kjallan defenders killed or taken into custody.

Janto yielded to Mor-Nassen’s admonishments and slept for a few hours. When he woke, he felt stronger. With a restored Sashi riding on his shoulder, he led a small, shrouded war band to capture the shore battery on the eastern side of the harbor. Resistance was light; many of the Kjallan defenders had deserted. He and his men took it easily. He then ordered his men to remove all the cannons, load the tower with explosives, and destroy it. By signal, he sent the same orders to the men at the western battery. He had a special plan for those cannons, and the demolished batteries should help him to execute it.

In the afternoon, he returned to the palace. His men had located a large, well-furnished meeting room and established it as command headquarters. He was weary and spent a few hours resting there, listening to the reports from his commanders, while Mor-Nassen tended his scrapes and bruises. Simultaneously with his attack on the battery, the Sardossians had launched an assault on the palaestra, but found it empty of soldiers. They’d returned with only a few terrified clerks.

Since he did not have the Mosari royal carcanet—it was either back on Mosar or lost forever—he’d asked one of the clerks to search the Kjallan jewelry boxes for a temporary substitute. The man returned with a golden three-tiered necklace. It was not as thick or heavy as the royal carcanet, but Janto donned it anyway. Any Mosari seeing it on him would know its intended meaning.

Kal-Torres arrived, trailing an escort of armed guards. “You’re early,” said Janto.

“I thought we might go over some details privately before we meet with the commanders.”

“Very well.” Janto rubbed his hands across his face. “I’m on my way to the slave house. You can walk with me.”

“The slave house? Can’t that wait?”

“I’m afraid not.” Janto beckoned to San-Kullen and Mor-Nassen. “The slaves are under the influence of death spells, like the Riorcans on the Kjallan ships. Their abeyance spells will be wearing off this evening.”

“But you don’t need to attend to them personally.”

“I want to,” said Janto. “I worked with two of those slaves when I was acting here as a spy, and I want to bring both of them back to the palace. Also there’s a man I need to arrest. San-Kullen, bring a few soldiers along.”

They set out into the Imperial Palace hallways. “All of our ships sustained damage,” began Kal. “The Osprey lost its mizenmast—we’re trying to jury-rig one now. More worrisome is the Tern’s broken rudder. My men are working on it night and day. These are time- consuming repairs, and with the Kjallan fleet approaching, we’ve got to get those ships in fighting trim. Damage to the other four is minor. As for the direction of the reserve fleet’s approach—”

“Sire!”

Janto turned in the direction of the voice. A Mosari man, not zo but apparently with some authority, hurried toward him. Behind him were four soldiers and two prisoners in wrist irons, all of them Mosari. “Yes?” Janto said warily. San-Kullen, who’d fallen into the role of his personal bodyguard, took a protective step closer to him.

The soldier bowed. “Sire, I’m the bosun’s mate, Osprey.” He nodded at Kal- Torres, whose chin lifted in acknowledgment. “Commander Kel-Charan said I should speak to you.”

Janto glanced anxiously toward the palace gates and the slave house. “What about?”

“These two men, sire.” He indicated the prisoners. “They were caught assaulting—uh, raping—one of the Kjallan prisoners. The commander wanted to know what he should do with them.”

Janto sighed. This was just the sort of trouble he’d hoped to avoid. He studied the culprits, who avoided his eyes. “Is there any question of their guilt?”

“None, sire. They were caught in the act.”

“Have we sent the victim a Healer?”

The bosun’s mate bit his lip. “I’ll find out, sire.”

“Send one if we haven’t. As for the men, execute them.”

“Execute them, sire?” repeated the bosun’s mate.

The prisoners stared at him in shock, then fell upon their knees. “But, sire!” cried the first. “Kjallans killed