Spy's Honor hat-2

by Amy Raby

  Spy's Honor

  ( Hearts and Thrones - 2 )

  Amy Raby

  Rhianne, mind mage and Imperial Princess of Kjall, cannot openly challenge the emperor. Instead, she acts in secret to aid the victims of his worst excesses. But now the emperor plans to wed her to the cruel Augustan, the man leading Kjall’s attack against the nation of Mosar. Soon she will be torn from her supporters and shipped overseas, where she can help no one.

  Mosari crown prince Janto is desperate to save his country from invasion. When one of his most trusted spies disappears while gathering intelligence at the Kjallan palace, Janto takes his place and continues searching for information that could save his people. But falling for the Imperial Princess was not part of his plan. Nor was having his true identity revealed…

  Now Rhianne must make a choice—follow the path of tradition or the one of the heart, even if it means betraying her own people.

  Spy's Honor

  Hearts and Thrones - 2

  by

  Amy Raby

  To Mom and Dad, who sent rockets into space and also launched a daughter

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  First, thank you to my editor, Claire Zion, and my agent, Alexandra Machinist, for believing in these books and for making them so much better.

  Working nearly three thousand miles away, on the opposite coast, I don’t have the privilege of personally meeting everyone, so thank you to all the wonderful people at Penguin and at Janklow & Nesbit. Collectively, they transformed a gangly collection of bits from my computer into a finished, polished novel.

  To my family: sorry for always making you turn off your videos so I can write without distraction. You don’t need to watch those videos anyway!

  To Angie Christensen: thank you for the myriad ways you’ve been helpful. You made it possible for me to keep up with the kids’ activities and still meet my deadlines. And to JoAnn Ten Brinke, thank you for being my walking buddy and motivating me to get out of the house every morning.

  This book has been through multiple incarnations, each time critiqued by a different set of beta readers. Thank you to my first readers, Jessi Gage and Julie Brannagh of the Cupcake Crew, for your insightful critique, lovely conversation, and valued friendship.

  Thank you also to my second readers, from Writer’s Cramp: Barbara Stoner, Mark Hennon, Kim Runciman, Stephen Merlino, Steven Gurr, Tim McDaniel, Amy Stewart, Thom Marrion, Janka Hobbs, Marta Murvosh, Michael Croteau, Kirsten Underwood, and Courtland Shafer. Each person in this group brings a different strength, whether it’s structural editing, line editing, or detailed knowledge about some specific subject. Nothing gets past Cramp!

  And to my online critiquers: Marlene Dotterer, Bonnie Freeman, Kelly Jones, Olivia Fowler, Lisa Smeaton, John Beety, Tara Maya, Heidi Kneale, and Jarucia Jaycox Narula—thank you all for making this a better book.

  1

  The guards dragged open the double doors, and Rhianne swept into her cousin’s sitting room. “Is the council over? I need your fifteen tetrals.”

  Lucien whirled on his wooden leg, jumpy as a winter partridge. He wore his imperial garments, the silk syrtos and thin jeweled loros that marked him as the son and heir of the Kjallan emperor. His dress suggested he’d only just returned from the council or was about to head out again, since he never wore the loros in his private chambers except to receive important visitors. Rhianne could not blame him. As the emperor’s niece, she possessed a similar garment and found its weight onerous. Lucien, whose left leg had been amputated below the knee and who walked with the aid of a crutch, probably liked it even less.

  He glanced at the door. “This is a bad time.”

  She could see that it was. Lucien had neither retreated to his Caturanga board for a war game nor settled on one of the many chairs and couches in his finely appointed sitting room to read one of Cinna’s treatises on battle tactics. He was standing in the middle of the room and seemed to be waiting to receive someone, and she was not that someone. She glanced back at the door, but aside from the guards, she and Lucien were alone. “I only need the tetrals. Hand them over and I’ll go. We can talk later.”

  Lucien frowned. “This business with the money—it has to stop.”

  Rhianne straightened her shoulders. He’d never balked over this before. “We agreed to it. Fifteen tetrals from each of us. And besides—”

  “There are more important things going on right now.” Lucien’s eyes went anxiously to the door. “And I can’t afford to upset him any more than I already have.”

  “Who? His Royal Unreasonableness?”

  Lucien grimaced. “We should stop calling him that.”

  Rhianne smiled sadly. Lucien was trying so hard to grow up, and he seemed to forget sometimes that she, three years senior to his tender seventeen, already had. And she wasn’t leaving without her tetrals. “How am I supposed to come up with the full amount if you don’t pay your share? When you’ve got an obligation to somebody, you don’t walk out on that obligation because something else comes up—”

  “It’s not just me,” snapped Lucien. “Your name came up at the council meeting.”

  She couldn’t imagine why. It was a war council, and why should anyone, in the context of talking about the war with Mosar, bring up the emperor’s niece? She was royal, but from a side branch of the family with a somewhat questionable pedigree. She wasn’t important the way Lucien was.

  “Well,” thundered a voice from the doorway. “If it isn’t our yapping dog from the War Council.”

  Rhianne, recognizing the deep tones of her uncle the emperor, sank into a welcome-curtsy. She glanced at Lucien long enough to see him steel his expression and bow to his father.

  “Emperor,” said Lucien coolly.

  Now she understood why Lucien was off-color. He and Florian were about to have a fight, and in these frequent and unavoidable conflicts, the son always fared worse than the father. She ought to have left when Lucien told her to. “I’m sorry to intrude,” she said. “I’ll leave you to your privacy.”

  “No, no,” said Florian, his eyes on Lucien. Though the emperor and his heir were cut from the same cloth, the resemblance one noted on first glance was superficial. They shared the same black hair, black eyes, and aquiline profile, but Florian was broader, and taller by several inches. Florian reminded Rhianne of an eagle, with his sharp eyes, craggy nose, and severe face. His two elder sons might have been stamped woodcut copies, their resemblance to Florian was so strong, but Lucien and his sister, the two youngest, with their slighter builds and finer features, took after their late mother. Lucien was handsomer and smarter than his father, but Florian had never forgiven him for losing his leg to a trio of Riorcan assassins or for becoming his only choice of heir when the assassins had also murdered Lucien’s elder brothers.

  “Stay,” Florian now said to Rhianne. “I should like to hear your opinion of a son and heir who openly criticizes his father in a council of war.”

  Rhianne winced. “Well, without knowing the particulars—”

  “Father,” Lucien broke in, “it is a private council, and its purpose is the discussion of strategy. If the council members cannot speak their minds—”

  Emperor Florian backhanded him, hard, across the face. Lucien cried out, and his crutch clattered to the ground. Bodyguards, both Florian’s and Lucien’s, stiffened, ready for action, but nobody touched the pair.

  “The legati are there to speak their minds,” hissed Florian. “You are there as a courtesy. Your purpose on the council is to agree enthusiastically with everything I say. Is that clear?”

  Lucien nodded. Limping on his wooden leg, he recovered his crutch and straightened his syrtos. His hand moved instinctively to his face, a protective gesture, but then dropped ba
ck to his side. Florian tolerated nothing he could interpret as a sign of weakness.

  “Rhianne understands—don’t you, my dear?” said Florian. “We have enemies, and to protect ourselves, we must present a united front. Family solidarity. Isn’t that right?”

  “Absolutely,” said Rhianne. “But when Lucien led White Eagle battalion in Riorca, he was regarded as a brilliant military tactician. If the War Council isn’t the right place for his ideas to be heard, perhaps there is another place?”

  Florian laughed. “You were right the first time, when you said you needed to know the particulars. This idea of your cousin’s was practically treason. He wants us to call off the war with Mosar.”

  Rhianne turned to Lucien, who grimaced without meeting her eyes.

  “I don’t call that brilliance. I call it cowardice,” said Florian, turning to Lucien. “And I will not hear it from you again. Is that clear?”

  Lucien nodded.

  “Speaking of family, it’s time to expand it,” said Florian. “Rhianne, you shall marry.”

  A shiver crept up her spine. Marry? Most of the men were away at war. She hadn’t met anyone she desired to marry. And there were practical considerations. Marrying would almost certainly take her away from the Imperial Palace, and then who would deliver the tetrals? Certainly not Lucien, the way he’d been talking. “Did you have someone in mind?”

  Emperor Florian nodded. “Augustan Ceres, commander of our forces at Mosar. When he finishes the military operation, I plan to offer him the governorship of the island, and you shall be his bride.”

  “I’m to be a war prize?” She glanced sidelong at Lucien, whose eyes were downcast. He’d already known.

  “Not a war prize, a governor’s wife!” said Florian. “You’ve always wanted to travel to foreign lands. Now you shall, to Mosar.”

  “I’ve never met Augustan.”

  “Easily remedied,” said Florian. “I shall summon him back to Kjall long enough for a brief engagement before he returns to the front.”

  “And if I don’t like him?”

  “You will,” said Florian.

  And if she didn’t, he’d smack her like he had Lucien until she changed her mind.

  “Now, if you’ll run along, I have a few more things to discuss with your cousin,” said Florian.

  Rhianne walked numbly toward the door.

  “One moment,” called Lucien, swinging rapidly toward her on his crutch and wooden leg. When he reached her, he whispered, “We’ll talk later,” and slipped something into the inside pocket of her syrtos. She could tell by the clinking sound that it was the fifteen tetrals.

  * * *

  What perplexed Jan-Torres, Crown Prince of Mosar, about the slaves of Kjall was that they had so much freedom of movement. He’d been watching them, concealed beneath his invisibility shroud, from outside the slave house on the grounds near the palace for much of the evening, and as far as he could tell, they were unfettered.

  Where are the chains? He posed the question to Sashi, his animal familiar, through their telepathic link. Why do they not run away?

  Perhaps they will starve if they run away. The ferret, perched on his shoulder, turned his head to watch a yellow-haired Riorcan exit the slave house and head off into the trees. Janto had discovered a well there earlier, and a latrine. The men had trodden a well-worn path to each.

  Now Janto frowned. Hunger alone would not enslave a man. There had to be another answer, and he needed to learn it if he was going to pass successfully as a palace slave. He couldn’t hide under his invisibility shroud forever, not if he was going to track down his missing spy. And finding the spy was imperative. That was why he’d left the battlefield in Mosar to come here. He needed the information the spy possessed.

  You will find him, said Sashi.

  He is probably imprisoned or dead, said Janto. But I appreciate your faith. Even in peacetime, Janto hadn’t been a popular prince. His people preferred warriors, not scholars, as their leaders, and the shame of the tragedy at Silverside Cavern still hung over his head. But none of that mattered now. The threat of losing Mosar to the Kjallans overshadowed all. He had a spy to find and a secret to uncover. I’m going to look inside, he told Sashi. Stay close, and stay hidden.

  With a chirp of acknowledgment, Sashi scampered down Janto’s sleeve, leapt to the ground, and disappeared into the darkness alongside the slave house. Janto waited for a group of slaves to return to the house, then, still invisible, slipped through the door with them.

  The muffled conversation he’d heard from outside became a roar. Light spilled over him, along with the smell of food—something foreign and not very appetizing. Six long tables just inside the door were crowded with people eating supper, all of them men. Beyond the tables, a partially enclosed sleeping area was crammed so tightly with canvas pallets that there was barely room to walk between them. Warmth poured off the heat-glows mounted on the wall.

  Looking back at the tables, Janto saw that the men were divided into three groups. About a third were Mosari like himself. Another third were Riorcans, and another third unidentifiable—Kjallans, he supposed, from conquered provinces. Though no barrier separated them, the groups did not mingle.

  He walked past one of the Mosari tables, looking closely at each man’s face, careful not to touch anybody or otherwise reveal his presence. It had been years since he’d last seen Ral-Vaddis, his missing spy, but surely the man hadn’t changed much. Janto would recognize him.

  No sign of him at the first table, so Janto moved on to the second. No Ral-Vaddis, but another face caught his eye. Hadn’t that fellow once been a signaler in the palace? Poor man; how had he been captured? He moved on to the third table, and the fourth. His spy wasn’t here. And he couldn’t see any hint, from inside the slave house, of how the slaves were kept under the control of their Kjallan masters.

  He glanced back at the second table. Might the signaler be of some use to him?

  On a table in the corner of the room sat several logbooks, an ink pot, and a quill. Probably the overseer did his bookkeeping there, but he wasn’t in sight now. Janto picked his way to the table and extended his shroud just enough to cover the writing utensils. He tore a piece of paper out of a logbook and wrote the word Outside on it, followed by his royal signature, the letter J atop a T.

  Returning to the table, he slipped the folded paper into the signaler’s hand. The man turned, startled at the unexpected contact, but there was no one for him to look at. Janto headed for the door and slipped outside behind someone heading to the latrines.

  Sashi, he called, lowering a hand to the ground. The ferret came running from out of the shadows, up his arm, and onto his shoulder. We might have company.

  You found Ral-Vaddis?

  Someone else.

  The signaler burst out of the slave house and looked around frantically in the moonlight.

  With an arc of his hand, Janto extended his magical shroud to include the signaler, an act that rendered both of them invisible to everyone else, but visible to each other.

  The signaler jumped as Janto materialized. “Three gods! Is it really you? Your Highness . . .” He started to get down on his knees but thought better of it, glancing about him.

  “We’re invisible. You’re in my shroud. Follow me.” Janto’s shroud concealed their visibility and sound, but it didn’t prevent them from disturbing ground cover or being stumbled into by other people. He led the signaler into the cover of the forest.

  When he halted beneath the branches of a great oak, the signaler dropped to his knees and bowed his head. “Your Highness.”

  See? Your people love you, said Sashi.

  Silverside, Janto reminded him. He’d prefer my father or my brother, but he’ll take what he can get. “Don’t do that; it could get me in trouble,” he said. “And don’t say Jan-Torres either. Call me Janto.”

  “Your family name?”

  “It’s a common name, shouldn’t give me away,” said Janto. “Didn’
t you used to be a signaler in the palace? What’s your name, and how did you end up here?”

  “My name is Iolo.” He stood. “After the palace, I did some work on merchant ships. I was a signaler on the Canary when the Kjallans took it off Bartleshore. But why are you here? I hope we haven’t lost the war.”

  “Not yet.”

  “Is it not going well?”

  “My father’s doing the best he can, given that the Kjallan army is ten times the size of ours,” said Janto. “I’m looking for a man named Ral-Vaddis—”

  “Ral-Vaddis is here?”

  “You know him?”

  “The shroud mage. I know of him.”

  “He said he had valuable intelligence for us, that the Kjallan emperor was about to make a critical strategic error, one that could cost him the war. He was going to get back to us with details. But he never did.”

  “And you came to find him? Why you? I can see why someone who could turn invisible was necessary, but surely there was another besides the Crown Prince—”

  “Casualties have been high. I run Mosari Intelligence, and shroud mages are as rare as albino brindlecats. There was nobody else.”

  Iolo’s face fell in dismay. “I wish I could help, but I haven’t seen Ral-Vaddis.”

  “But you can help me, nonetheless,” said Janto.

  “How?”

  “By answering some questions. Why do the slaves in Kjall not run?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You have no chains on you. Why do you not run away?”

  “Because of the death spell,” said Iolo.

  Janto opened his palms in confusion.

  “When I was brought here as a slave, a death spell was cast on me, but it has a delayed effect. It doesn’t work right away. Each day, if I do my work and follow the rules, they cast an abeyance spell that delays the death spell by another day. If I run off, I won’t get my abeyance spell. But you could fix that. Couldn’t you?” His eyes lit upon the ferret that was the source of Janto’s shroud magic. “You’re a mage. You could remove my death spell.”