Spy's Honor (5 page)

She felt sick to her stomach. “So I won't be here tomorrow or the day after. We can meet again in three days.”

Janto nodded, and they began their language work.

They weren't far into it before Rhianne began to regret her choice of book. The first mythological tale was an adventure story in which the three gods, portrayed as brothers, overcame a series of trials by relying on their separate strengths. First, the Soldier defeated a giant serpent by stabbing it with his pike. Then the Sage negotiated with an evil rhinoceros and helped it by solving a problem with a polluted water supply; afterward, it allowed them to pass. The Vagabond got them past a troll by challenging it to a boasting game. The story was clever, but . . . “This is offensive,” she told Janto.

“Offensive?” said Janto. “How?”

“It portrays the gods as equals,” said Rhianne. “The Sage, in this story, is just as effective as the Soldier, and so is the Vagabond, while in reality—”

“That's the whole point,” said Janto. “The story demonstrates that peaceful negotiation or trickery can accomplish as much as brute strength.”

“Yes, yes, well done, but in so doing it portrays the Sage and Vagabond as the equals of the Soldier, when in fact the Soldier is the primary god and the Sage and Vagabond are his subordinates—”

“Only Kjallans believe that,” said Janto. “Surely you know that belief is not universal. It's not shared by Riorcans or Sardossians or Inyans, and it's certainly not shared by my own people. We consider the gods to be equals. Brothers, in fact.”

She wrinkled her nose. “That's sacrilegious.”

“To us, it's offensive for you to elevate the Soldier above the other two gods.”

“Well.” She glanced at him. “Perhaps your country—and Riorca—are losing to our forces because your sacrilege offends the gods.”

Janto went very still, and a flush of anger crept up his cheek. “We are losing, and Riorca has already lost, because your forces outnumber ours ten to one.”

Rhianne bit her lip. It pained her to torment him, but he sat there pitying her, as if he were
superior
. How could he be so calm, so proud, so secure in himself, when he was a slave and his country was about to be conquered? Shouldn't she be the one pitying him and explaining to him the error of his ways? “Kjall was not always a large country, you know. Long ago, my ancestors occupied only the southwestern corner of the continent—
this
corner, where Riat sits now. We conquered our neighbors. We grew and became prosperous because the gods willed that we should. I forgive you for your anger, because you've been taken from your homeland, and I can only imagine how painful that must be. But like it or not, the Soldier demands that strong nations should rule weak ones, as the Soldier himself rules over the Sage and the Vagabond.”

“And your emperor,” said Janto. “Did he attack Mosar because the Soldier told him to or because he coveted our sugar crop?”

“It's not my place to question the emperor.”

“I wonder, do you support this philosophy yourself? Larger nations should rule smaller ones?”

“I said stronger nations should rule, not larger nations.”

“But it is Kjall's size that gives it the advantage over Mosar.”

Rhianne shook her head. “Not only size. Our military tactics and training are superior.”

“How can you know, when you know so little of Mosar?”

She gave him a sour look.

“You are a woman,” continued Janto. “Do you believe women should be ruled by men because men are physically larger?”

“That's . . . not the same thing.”

“I fail to see the difference. I think the Soldier as envisioned by your people is something of a bully.”

“Stop it!” He hadn't even raised his voice, yet his words were like knives. Her family had ruled Kjall for generations. He was wrong. Biased. Of course he was; he was Mosari. “You're twisting my words around! At least on Kjall we don't engage in unnatural practices like casting our souls into animals.”

“I assure you, on Mosar we find it equally strange that you cast your souls into inanimate objects.”

“Gemstones,” corrected Rhianne.

“Last I heard, gemstones were inanimate objects,” said Janto. “Our scholars have researched the origins of magic, and we have reason to believe that the first mages used animal familiars, that the type of magic we practice on Mosar is the oldest and most time-honored and is what the gods intended us mortals to use. Your riftstones are, we believe, an aberration—a means of gaining the magic through an unintended and inappropriate pathway, and one that lacks some of the benefits of soulcasting. After all, you can have no telepathic bond with a gemstone.”

“Telepathic bond?”

“Do you not know?” said Janto. “A Mosari mage shares a telepathic bond with his animal familiar and can speak to him through the bond.”

She blinked. “But what would you have to say to an animal?”

“After soulcasting, it's not an ordinary animal. It carries part of one's soul, and it's sentient. It will be one's companion for the rest of one's life. How can a lifeless riftstone compare to that?”

Rhianne looked at him sharply. He spoke with such conviction that she could swear he had once been a mage himself. “You know an awful lot about it for a palace scribe.”

“The Mosari palace is full of mages,” said Janto. “Just like the Imperial Palace.”

Rhianne reached for the gold chain that hung around her neck and withdrew, from beneath her syrtos, a glowing purple amethyst. “Our riftstones aren't exactly lifeless.”

Janto stared. “Is that your riftstone? What sort of mage are you?”

“A mind mage,” she said.

“Confusion and forgetting spells? That sort of thing?”

“Also truth spells and suggestions. It's boring, I admit,” said Rhianne. “All the women in my line are mind mages, and all the men are war mages. You'd think we might be more creative. But it's tradition. And mind magic is protective. It allows me a little more freedom than I would otherwise have.” She slipped the amethyst back beneath her clothes. “Janto, what you said before about the Soldier. That's not what we believe. The war is not about one nation
bullying
another. The Soldier desires to bring order to the Five Nations, bring them under one banner, put an end to war and strife. For now, there may be some pain, some suffering, but in the long run it's for the good of all. It is the Soldier's will, as inevitable and unstoppable as his long march through the skies.”

“Imperial Highness,” said Janto, “do you know what your Kjallan army does when it captures a Mosari village?”

“No.” Her heart sank. She knew it couldn't be good. Why did he have to tell her these things when she liked him so much,
wanted
to like him, and he obviously hated her people? He probably hated her too. No wonder he wouldn't touch her.

“They kill the children.”

Her eyes met his.

“For the slave ships, your people want young, able-bodied men and women,” said Janto. “The old and the very young they have no use for. They line them up on the beach and slaughter them.”

She looked down at her book. This was how he saw her, as the offspring of mass murderers.

“Is this how your people put an end to war and strife? By slaughtering children? Princess, this is a horrific corruption of the Soldier's purpose. The Soldier stands for courage and strength, not brutality and aggression.”

“War is an unpleasant business, but it's not—it's not for me to judge the methods . . . ,” she stammered.

“You've never
seen
the methods, have you?” said Janto. “War is abstract for you. You don't know what your soldiers actually do.”

She gave him an odd look. “No, because Florian never lets me go anywhere. How can I know?”

“Ask questions and learn,” said Janto. “You're a smart woman. You know more now than you did half an hour ago.”

R
hianne
sighed as her attendants fussed over her, making every fold of her gown lie flat and even and every curl in her hair fall in just the right place. It was ridiculous. She was going riding, so in no time at all it would be a mess.

Augustan's ship had arrived during the night. He'd been escorted up to the palace and ensconced in a stateroom, so she had been told. She was due at the audience chamber, midday, for their formal introduction.

The gown was one of her favorites, green and ivory with gold accents, attractive but reasonably practical; she could wear it in the sidesaddle. Florian had tried to convince her to wear the imperial orange, but with her coloring she simply could not wear orange and come off looking like anything but a butternut squash.

A knock came at the door.

“Tami?” called Rhianne.

The door cracked open. “It's time.”

Rhianne hopped off her chair and headed for the door, trailed by her entourage, eager to get this frightening business over with. She straightened her shoulders as she walked down the hallway. Perhaps if she could muster the outward appearance of confidence, it would stop her hands from trembling.

When she entered the audience chamber, her eyes went everywhere, searching for the man who must be Augustan, but there was no one in the room she did not already know. Florian stood on a raised platform. The marble throne—one of several he used, in multiple chambers—loomed just behind him, but he was not sitting in it today. The jewel-encrusted loros glittered on his chest. Lucien, immediately to his right, stood balanced on his wooden leg, hands tightly interlaced behind his back as if he wished he could sit on them. The other people in the room were Florian's usual set of advisers and Legaciatti.

“You look spectacular, my dear,” said Florian, gesturing to the empty spot on his left.

Rhianne took her place beside her uncle, straightened her gown, and waited.

“Bring him in,” called Florian.

A door opened at the far end of the room and three men appeared, one in front and two just behind him—Augustan and his entourage, Rhianne guessed. All were in military dress. If the man in front was Augustan, he was handsome, at least. The three walked smartly up to Florian and knelt before him, bowing as one.

“Rise,” said Florian. The men obeyed. “Augustan Ceres.” Florian stepped forward and clasped wrists with the foremost man.

“Your Imperial Majesty,” answered Augustan.

As they completed their formal greeting and Augustan introduced his two underlings, Rhianne scrutinized him. She couldn't fault him in the looks department. He was typical Kjallan in many respects: big and muscular, dark in coloration, though his hair was closer to brown than black. He had a pleasing face, although its lines suggested he didn't smile much, and a scar cut a small jagged line across his chin. She supposed one could hardly wage war as long as Augustan had without collecting an occasional such memento of battle.

“I would like to introduce you,” Florian was saying, “to my niece and adopted daughter, Rhianne Florian Nigellus, Imperial Princess of Kjall.”

“Legatus,” said Rhianne, stepping forward and clasping his wrist.

His face broke into what looked like an unaccustomed smile.

She sat through the usual litany of platitudes and welcome speeches from her uncle, which seemed to bore Augustan as much as they bored her, and finally the two of them were dismissed to the stables for their planned ride, escorted by a dozen servants and Legaciatti. The horses were waiting for them, tacked and ready to go, although Rhianne's mare, Dice, was wearing the hunt saddle instead of the requested sidesaddle. The groom, when he spotted Rhianne's gown and realized his mistake, went as white as the mare and led the animal back inside for a tack change.

Augustan swung up on Flash, the dapple gray gelding with a curious tail that was ivory on one side of his body and black on the other. Dice came back wearing the sidesaddle, and the apologetic groom boosted her up and handed her the riding crop. Rhianne hooked her right leg over the saddle horn and smoothed her gown. She preferred riding astride, but Florian had insisted on a formal gown, and he was the emperor, so that was that. The irony was that riding sidesaddle was more precarious and thus more dangerous than riding astride, so, far from being chivalrous, asking a woman to ride sidesaddle demanded more skill from her and asked her to take greater risks than a man. But Rhianne had long given up trying to make sense of it.

She was at no great risk riding Dice. The mare was gentle, with smooth gaits, and her name came from her coloration, not from any tendency toward risky behavior. Dice's natural color was what horsemen called flea-bitten gray—white flecked with black spots—but the stable staff bleached out the spots, having decided pure white was a color more appropriate for the mount of a princess.

Augustan steered Flash alongside her. “You ought to have that groom whipped.”

“Because of the saddle?” She shook her head. “It was a natural mistake. I usually ride this mare with the hunt saddle.”

“Don't permit your staff to be lax and lazy around you. It speaks to a lack of discipline. You are a princess, and they should fear to displease you.”

Rhianne stiffened her shoulders. She liked Dice's groom, who had a close personal connection with the mare and spent hours every day grooming and massaging and exercising the animal, keeping her happy and in top condition. She would not jeopardize that over a tack error. Was Augustan always so rigid and punitive? So far he was fitting bullet-to-bore with his reputation as a stern disciplinarian.

They set off, trotting and cantering down well-worn bridle paths, trailed not so discreetly by their entourage, now also mounted. Rhianne led the way since she knew the lay of the land. South of the Imperial Palace was the city of Riat, but on the other three sides were lands belonging to the imperial family, pastures and plains dotted with lakes, and forests of all types, most of them cultivated, but there were two ancient, old-growth forests that the continent's many wars had miraculously left untouched. Rhianne led her fiancé-to-be on a tour through some of the finest of these lands, and when the horses began to tire, she and Augustan dismounted at the side of a lake and picnicked, their entourage setting out blankets and food.

“You are not quite what I expected,” said Augustan, biting into a pigeon tart.

“Oh?” Rhianne looked at him sidelong. “And what did you expect?”

“A more delicate, retiring sort of woman. Don't get me wrong. I'm quite pleased with you.”

Rhianne wasn't sure how to answer this. She was glad he didn't dislike her. On the other hand, he was
pleased
with her? He spoke like a parent praising a child.

“Are you pleased with me?” asked Augustan.

“Legatus, we've barely met.”

“That's fair,” said Augustan. “It was good of the emperor to bring me here so we could get to know each other a little before the marriage.”

Rhianne nodded. “How is the war going?”

“Very well,” said Augustan. “We've nearly wiped out the last pockets of resistance. I expect we'll have it wrapped up soon.”

It was good news, but Rhianne couldn't help but feel a pang for poor Janto. His country was about to fall, and once it did, his people would be enslaved forever. She touched her chin. “How did you get this?”

Augustan mirrored the gesture. “Musket fire. That was years ago.”

“You were shot?”

“Grazed.” He smiled crookedly. “Bullet left its mark, though.”

“You have been many years at war,” said Rhianne.

“Indeed. This governorship of Mosar will be a new adventure for me, commanding people in peacetime. Although leadership is nothing new. I consider your uncle a great example.”

“Do you?” Rhianne raised an eyebrow.

“Absolutely. He's decisive; he's bold. And he can be charitable too, as you must know.”

Florian did have his positive traits, but Rhianne could not, for the life of her, think of a time he had been charitable. “What do you mean?”

“Well, for example, when he adopted you and shielded you from the shame of your birth.”

Rhianne stared, shock rippling through her body as if he'd slapped her in the face. Surely he could not have actually said that. “The
shame
of my
birth
?”

“Don't be coy,” said Augustan. “You know what I mean.”

Her cheeks prickled with warmth. “Legatus, my parents were
married
. I am a legitimate child.”

“Yes, but they eloped, did they not? Emperor Nigellus did not approve the match.”

“He didn't approve, but according to Kjallan marriage law, he didn't have to. The contract was legal.”

“Still,” said Augustan, “when Florian adopted you, he gave you his name so that you carried the imperial name, not your father's.”

“He did,” said Rhianne. “But on the other hand, it was a bit of an insult to my real father, who didn't give me up by choice. I wonder sometimes what my life would have been like if I'd been raised by my parents instead of by Florian.”

“Well, I always considered the adoption a grand gesture on Florian's part.” Augustan wrinkled his brow, as if he found her a puzzle. “You know I would never hold it against you, your father's low birth. You may not appreciate it, but your uncle was right to get you out of that situation. Just because the parents have done wrong doesn't mean the child will.”

“Of course. I never imagined you would hold it against me,” said Rhianne, still stunned. Did he think her damaged goods? If so, why did he want to marry her? For her name, of course—Florian's name—and the governorship of Mosar. Unless she was much mistaken, he had no respect for her as a person. “The horses are looking refreshed. Perhaps we should head back to the palace.”

“If Her Imperial Highness wishes it,” said Augustan, rising to his feet in one fluid motion. “I have some betrothal gifts for you—one-of-a-kind items from Mosar I think you'll find very special.”

“I can't wait,” said Rhianne dully. She didn't mind being challenged by a man. Janto challenged her. Lucien challenged her. Somehow when those two forced her to question her assumptions, she felt herself growing and stretching, becoming wiser and more knowledgeable. Janto disagreed with her often, even grew angry at times, but on some fundamental level he believed in her. Augustan's criticism—and for that matter, even his praise!—made Rhianne feel small. No betrothal gift, no matter how one-of-a-kind or special, was going to make up for that.