by Amy Raby
Janto whirled, only to see carefully schooled expressions of innocence on all the soldiers’ faces. “Two guards,” he amended. “The most trustworthy men you have. This lady is the emperor’s niece, a Kjallan imperial princess. It is essential to our plans that she not be harmed.” He looked around the room, meeting the eyes of every soldier. “If any man harms this woman, despoils her in any way, or even threatens her, he shall be hanged. Is that clear?”
“Understood, sire,” said San-Kullen. “Is she zo?” He glanced at the dazed guards, who were beginning to recover their wits.
“She’s magical, yes. A mind mage.”
“Then we have to take her riftstone. Unless you intend to guard her with zo.”
Janto sighed. “We can’t spare zo. We’ll have to take the riftstone.”
San-Kullen shifted his grip so he was holding both her arms in one hand. Then he reached for the chain around her neck. Rhianne arched away, avoiding him, and aimed a backward kick at his groin. San-Kullen blocked it with his knee and twisted her arms again until she winced and was still.
Janto couldn’t stand it. “Release one of her arms,” he ordered.
San-Kullen pursed his lips in disapproval but obeyed.
Janto stepped forward and spoke softly to Rhianne. “If you want to hit me, go ahead. I won’t stop you, and I won’t hit you back.”
Rhianne glared at him, furious, but did not move. After a moment, she lowered her eyes.
He nodded, a little sad. He’d thought as much—she didn’t really want to hurt him. “I need your riftstone. It’s only for a little while. I promise you’ll get it back.”
Something seemed to break inside her. Her eyes closed, and her face crumpled. A fat teardrop rolled down her cheek.
“Please,” he added.
She removed the chain from around her neck and handed it to him.
He cradled the precious object in his hand. “Thank you. I swear this is not a betrayal. I’ll explain everything later.”
Rhianne stared at the floor.
He turned to San-Kullen. “When the fighting is over, she is to have anything she asks for, within reason. Food, drink, books—whatever, as long as it’s not something she can hurt herself with.”
“Yes, sire.”
“While we’re waiting on the room, show us to the Healers,” he said.
33
Rhianne found herself hurried along through the hallway, her arm gripped firmly by the Mosari war mage. His brindlecat loped on her other side, cutting off any possibility of escape. Her windpipe still burned from what Augustan had done to her, and as her breathing grew heavy from exertion, she gasped, unable to take in enough air.
“Stop!” cried Janto. “Look at her. She can’t breathe.”
The war mage stopped and had her sit, her back against the wall. She tried not to panic, and forced herself to breathe shallow and slow.
Janto approached, studying her, his eyes full of concern. “Can you bring the Healer here?” he asked the war mage.
“No need,” said Rhianne. “I’m getting better.” Her breathing was approaching normal, though every inhalation pained her.
“I could carry her,” said the war mage.
“I can walk,” Rhianne snapped, rising to her feet. The last thing she wanted was some strange Mosari soldier’s hands all over her. “Just don’t go so fast.”
They continued at a slower pace, with Janto turning back frequently to check on her. Not Janto. Jan-Torres.
Augustan had been a nasty, evil man, and she did not regret his death after what he’d tried to do to her, but he’d been right about one thing. She was a traitor. She’d freed this man, not knowing who he truly was, and he’d come back and invaded her homeland, killing who knew how many people she cared about. What was going to happen to Lucien, to Celeste, to Marcella, to the Legaciatti who protected her, the servants and slaves, the soldiers defending the palace? How many women in the palace were going to be raped tonight because of her foolish decision? And what about the citizens of the city of Riat? Janto’s—Jan-Torres’s—army had marched through there on its way to the palace.
Even Florian, whom she hated sometimes, she did not want to see executed. But Florian had ordered the death of Janto’s parents. Gods, what a horror! Janto had seen his own parents’ heads that day in the audience hall! It was understandable he should want to take his vengeance. But she would never forgive herself for the part she had played in allowing it to happen.
Gods, she was crying again. She swiped her free hand across her face.
Jan-Torres, staring back at her, looked as sad as she’d ever seen him. “Rhianne . . .”
“Say nothing.” She blinked furiously.
“We’ll have a long talk when this is over. I’ll explain everything.”
He’d talk to assuage his guilty conscience. Of course he would. But she understood already. He’d lied to her and betrayed her in order to save his country, or at least to take his vengeance on Florian and Augustan. He hadn’t hurt her deliberately; she knew that. But she couldn’t help feeling horrifyingly used. She’d slept with this man. She’d thought she loved him!
They’d arrived at a makeshift infirmary the Mosari and Sardossians had established in the Epolonius Room. The war mage directed her to an unused mattress on the floor while Jan-Torres disappeared into the crowd.
A short while later, he returned with another man at his side. “This is Mor-Nassen, one of our Healers. He’s going to see to your neck injury.”
The Healer studied Rhianne, shook his head, and turned back to Jan-Torres. “She’s stable. Sire, you’re still bleeding from that sword wound—”
“It’s nothing,” said Jan-Torres. “First Rhianne, then me, then Sashi.” He settled onto the mattress next to hers.
Mor-Nassen frowned and returned to Rhianne’s side. “Lie back and relax,” he ordered.
She complied, closing her eyes.
The Healer’s hands cradled her neck. She tensed, remembering the horror of Augustan’s hands there. It seemed ages ago, but now that she thought about it, less than an hour had passed since the attempt on her life.
Mor-Nassen’s touch was gentle, and she forced herself to think of other things. Quiet rides on Dice along tree-lined avenues. Swimming with Marcella in the imperial baths. The warmth of the Healer’s magic flowed into her body, and by degrees her pain began to ease. She had not realized how exhausted she was. Was that an effect of being nearly strangled to death? Her limbs melted into the mattress, and her mind began to drift.
She was vaguely aware of Mor-Nassen patting her and telling her she was going to be fine and moving on to Jan-Torres. She lay where she was, sinking slowly into oblivion. She had some notion that there were other people in the room, other injured soldiers. They were men she didn’t know—Mosari and Sardossians. She picked up disjointed fragments of their conversation, mundane and of little interest.
“Can you move your ankle in a full circle, like this?”
“They told me to leave the knife in. Said I’d lose less blood that way.”
“Is the pain up here, by this rib?”
“You’re going to him next, right?”
“No, it’s a little higher. Up here.”
Rhianne knew that last voice; she’d heard it many times. Was she dreaming, imagining things? No. It was real.
“Morgan?” she cried, opening her eyes and sitting up. She looked around, frantic. Where was he? There, about nine beds over. He looked pale and weak. “Morgan!” She leapt from her bed and made her way across the room, dodging mattresses.
“Rhianne!” shouted Janto.
The war mage and brindlecat intercepted her in an instant, the man seizing her arm and the animal snarling in her face. It was a grim reminder that despite the gentle treatment, she was still a prisoner.
“That’s my friend over there. I want
to see him!” she cried.
The war mage looked questioningly at Jan-Torres, who was lying on one of the mattresses, shirtless. Mor-Nassen sat beside him, closing the shoulder wound.
“Let her visit her friend,” said Janto.
The war mage released her, and she hurried to Morgan’s side. “What happened?”
“I must be dreaming. Is it really you? Got myself shot.” He laughed, a weak sound. “Stewed to the gills, and I saw the invaders. Thought of you up in the palace, undefended with the attack fleet gone, and I turned my musket on them. Would never have done it if I hadn’t poured my wits out with the wine.”
She turned to a nearby Healer. “Why is he so weak? Has he not been healed?”
“He was shot in the streets of Riat,” explained the Healer. “We stopped the bleeding to save his life, but the bullet’s still in him. We’ll have to remove it surgically, which means more blood loss, and he’s lost a lot already. We’re not sure he’s strong enough, but we can’t leave the bullet where it is much longer.”
“Gods, Morgan.” Rhianne flung her arms around him—gently, so as not to hurt him.
“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 lifte
d 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 my wife!”
“Mercy, sire,” cried the second. “We made a mistake. We will not do it again!”
Janto tried to tune out their pleas. He couldn’t afford to relent.
“Jan—,” began Kal-Torres in a tone of protest.
Janto rounded on his brother and snapped, “If I want your opinion, I’ll ask for it.” He turned to the prisoners. “I’m assuming the person you assaulted wasn’t the Kjallan who killed your wife; therefore I fail to see how this is justice. You had strict, specific orders, and you disobeyed them. You knew in advance that the sentence for doing so would be death.” He turned to the bosun’s mate. “Tell Kel-Charan.”
The bosun’s mate nodded, ashen faced, while the condemned men wailed.
“Come on,” snarled Janto to his entourage, and they swept off down the hallway.
For several minutes, nobody dared to speak. Then Kal put a hand on his shoulder. “Jan—”
Janto whirled on him. “Are you going to question my every decision?”
“You have no idea the kind of pressure these men are under—”
“I know exactly what kind of pressure they’re under.” He pointed in the direction of the chamber where Lucien was being held. “Over there sits a young man who has the power to destroy us. As we speak here in this hallway, he dreams of vengeance, and every crime we commit against his people brings that dream closer to his heart. Do you think I want to sacrifice everything we’ve achieved so that those two men can satisfy their lust? Should I give up the whole country for that?”
