insightful, and his outspokenness meant Iolo would be useful as a long-term ally and adviser, not just a temporary tutor in the ways of Kjallan slaves. But it was also annoying. “You don’t question my courage,” said Janto, “but you question my judgment.”
“If you want me to advise you, Your Highness—”
“By all means be honest with me,” said Janto. “I’ve no use for a sycophant. But don’t dodge the issue; come out with it. You believe my decisions are suspect because of Silverside.”
Iolo winced. “That’s not what I said.”
“It’s what you’re thinking,” said Janto. “Everybody thinks it. I made a bad decision, and we lost a dozen mages. It was a mistake, one with a tragic outcome. But I’ve made good decisions too. No one can be right all the time.”
Iolo nodded, but Janto didn’t feel he looked convinced.
“I need access to the imperials,” said Janto. “And they’re not gods. They’re ordinary people with human failings. Kjallans sequester their noblewomen. That princess has probably never so much as set foot outside the palace walls, and I’ll bet you anything she’s dumber than a clump of seaweed.” As he walked in silence, he decided it was a good thing Iolo wasn’t leaping to take that bet. The princess had been curious, and curiosity often meant intelligence. He’d have to be careful around her. He’d never meant to talk to her so much in the first place, but she was so fascinating. The words had poured almost unbidden from his throat.
“Well, I’ve found something for you,” said Iolo. “I’ve discovered someone who knows Ral-Vaddis.”
“What?” Janto looked up, jolted from his thoughts of the princess. “Why didn’t you tell me right away? This is wonderful news!”
“There’s a woman named Sirali who works in the palace kitchens. She knows him.”
Janto eyed him sternly. “But can we trust her?”
“Don’t worry, I was discreet. And I know the slaves here. We can trust Sirali.”
“Then I need to speak to her right away.”
“I’ve made arrangements,” said Iolo. “She’ll meet with us tomorrow night.”
4
Rhianne dove into the pool with barely a splash, then rolled over and let the warm water carry her to the mist-covered surface. She felt as if she were floating in a cloud of orange-scented vapor. She closed her eyes to deepen the illusion, blocking out the sight of the white marble roof and walls. As she lay there, her friend Marcella splashed by, oblivious to the pool’s comforts and obsessed, as usual, with exercise.
After a moment, the splashing stopped, and a smattering of droplets fell onto Rhianne’s face.
“Are you asleep?” asked Marcella.
Rhianne straightened in the water, treading. “Not anymore.”
“I heard the good news.” She grinned.
“What news?”
Marcella splashed her playfully. “Your betrothal!”
“Oh, that.” Rhianne pushed a stray lock of wet hair out of her face, disappointed there wasn’t actually any good news. “Honestly, I’m not thrilled about it. I’ve never met Augustan.”
“Cerinthus has nothing but fine things to say about him,” said Marcella. “I understand your nerves—I was worried about my marriage too. But it’s all worked out beautifully, and I’ve never been happier.”
“I’m glad things have worked out so well for you and Cerinthus.” Rhianne took a deep breath and dove beneath the surface, swimming down and down until her ears hurt, all the way to the pool’s marble bottom. Cerinthus was a bootlicker. That he praised Augustan, a higher-ranking officer, didn’t mean a thing; he praised anyone who outranked him. While Rhianne hoped his excellent treatment of Marcella stemmed from a deep- seated love for her, her cynical side knew it was at least partly motivated by the fact that Marcella’s father was an influential legatus upon whom Cerinthus’s military career was entirely dependent. She hovered at the bottom of the pool for as long as she could stand it, bubbles streaming from her mouth. When her lungs cried out for air, she swam to the surface.
Marcella took her hands and squeezed them. “I pray Augustan will be as wonderful for you as Cerinthus has been for me. And think of the things we could do, the four of us, when the war is over! We could go hunting together, hawking together. And our children, Rhianne! Our children will grow up as friends—”
Rhianne ducked her head, suddenly sad. “It won’t be that way. Augustan is to have the governorship of Mosar, and I’m to accompany him.”
Marcella’s face fell. “You’re leaving Kjall?”
Rhianne nodded.
“But you’ll be all alone on Mosar!”
“Well,” said Rhianne, trying not to sound bitter, “I’ll have Augustan.”
Later that afternoon, dried off and dressed, she found her cousin Lucien on her fifth visit to his rooms. He was reclining on a couch in his sitting room, his nose deep in one of Cinna’s lengthy tomes. An elderly hound sprawled atop him.
“You’re impossible to find these days.” She gathered up the silk train of her syrtos and settled into a chair across from him.
“Well, here I am.” He scanned a few more lines of Cinna and set the tome aside. “Florian’s always got me busy with something. War councils, meetings with his financial advisers, lunch with the governor of Worich. It never ends. And I’m not allowed to talk, by the way, unless I’m ‘enthusiastically agreeing’ with him.”
Rhianne shook her head. “Sounds like a wonderful time.”
“Asbolos is better company,” said Lucien, rubbing the hound’s ears. “It’s good training, at least. I’m learning a lot, and I
Looking at Lucien, Rhianne couldn’t help thinking how much he’d changed from the boy he had been, long ago, before the assassins had changed everything. As a child, he’d been superfluous like her, a spare family member to be married off someday. Ignored by Florian, the two of them had learned the ways of the hypocaust and sneaked out of the palace on a regular basis, exploring and getting into mischief and riding off into the woods to talk for hours on end. But no longer. Lucien was crippled and couldn’t go crawling around the hypocaust anymore, and now he was heir to the Imperial Throne. He barely had time for Rhianne in between all his responsibilities. He still cared for her; she didn’t doubt that. But it wasn’t the same, and even in his presence she felt the deep ache of loneliness. She was losing him, and she would lose Marcella, and she would lose Morgan too.
Silence stretched uncomfortably between them. “Three gods, you spoil that dog,” she said, just to have something to say.
“No more than you spoil Morgan.”
Rhianne shook her head. “Morgan’s earned what he gets.” It was a similar situation for the dog, however, an ancient animal the houndmaster had intended to drown for being too old to work anymore. Lucien, who’d hunted with Asbolos when the animal had been in his prime, had stepped in and adopted him, much to his father’s annoyance. “Does Florian still give you a hard time about Asbolos?”
“I just shut him in a back room when I’m expecting His Royal Unreasonableness. Not that he doesn’t drop in unexpectedly now and then and chew me out for being too weak and softhearted to run an empire.”
“It’s not weakness,” said Rhianne.
“No,” agreed Lucien. “It’s loyalty. Florian doesn’t realize it, but when he threw Morgan out on his ear, he weakened his position with the Legaciatti. I’m not saying they’d go so far as to depose or assassinate him, but they know now that he doesn’t have their back. And if push comes to shove, they won’t have his. That’s what I learned when I was stationed with White Eagle—your people need to know you’ll stand behind them.”
“Of course they do.” Rhianne eyed the Cinna tome. Lucien was the military strategist, not she. But loyalty to one’s friends seemed such a basic concept. One didn’t need to study thousand-page books to know it was important. “So what do you know about Augustan Ceres?”
“He’s coming here,” said Lucien. “Florian had already summoned him, even before he spoke to you.”
