Free Spy's Honor by Amy Raby Page A

were typically only placed if there was reason to suspect a shroud mage was in operation, and then only in the immediate areas where the shroud mage was expected to be.
    For the next hour, Janto amused himself daydreaming about Rhianne. What if their countries had never gone to war and they’d met in a routine diplomatic visit? Not that Mosar and Kjall had engaged in much diplomacy before the war. But if they had, he might have met her at a state dinner. Danced with her, maybe. What would they have thought of each other if they’d met in such a way?
    A knocking noise roused him. One of the guards opened a tiny window in the door, looked through it, and nodded. The other unbarred the door. Janto was on his feet, and the moment they had it open to let the other man come out—another guard, as it happened—he slipped inside, turning sideways to avoid him.
    As the door slammed shut behind him and the bar crashed home, he felt a jolt of reflexive terror—would he ever get back out? But of course he would. That door had to open several times a day, if for no other reason than to bring in food and water and swap out the guards.
    The lighting was dim inside the prison, just some faint light-glows mounted sparingly, but he could see well enough. To his relief, the cell doors, though solid iron at the bottom, were barred at the top, allowing him to see in. To his left was a sort of guard room with cots and tables, where two guards sat, chatting quietly. To his right was the first cell, which was empty. He walked on.
    The next cell housed a yellow-haired Riorcan. Beyond it, the prison hallway took a sharp turn to the left.
    Janto soon discovered that the prison was a square that looped back on itself, with the prison cells on the outside of the square. On the inside were interrogation rooms. The complex was smaller than he’d expected and sparsely occupied. There were only four prisoners in residence, and none of them were Mosari. His trip had been a waste of time.
    Ral-Vaddis was not here.
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    Rhianne shielded her eyes from the lights. They made the pain stab like the Soldier’s own pike inside her head.
    â€œ. . . Wouldn’t you say so?” said Marcella beside her.
    â€œWhat?” Rhianne tried to recall the beginning of Marcella’s question. Thank the gods this was the last social event of the day. She’d had all she could stand of constricting gowns, small talk, insincere smiles, and Augustan Ceres.
    â€œWouldn’t you say the pyrotechnics outdid themselves tonight?” repeated Marcella.
    â€œOh yes. Absolutely.” A hideous display. With their magical light show, set to music from the imperial orchestra, they’d reenacted Augustan’s capture of some Mosari stronghold right there in the ballroom. How strange to see brutality and bloodshed in the midst of silk hangings, polished floors, and chandeliers. The scene was ugly enough in its own right, but worse was looking around at the delighted faces of her fellows. Could they really see slaughter and destruction as something to be proud of? She could not help thinking of how the spectacle would make Janto feel, and she was ashamed.
    Marcella’s smile dimmed. “Are you all right?”
    â€œI’m feeling wretched,” said Rhianne, braving the bright lights to meet Marcella’s eyes. Cerinthus, Marcella’s husband, sat beside her, but he rarely said a word in Rhianne’s presence; he seemed intimidated by her rank. “It’s been too long a day for me.”
    â€œOught you not to go up to your rooms and rest? Surely your uncle will understand.”
    â€œHe told me I was attending or else.” Rhianne smiled grimly and sipped the wine, her fourth glass. At dinner, closely watched by her uncle, she’d abstained, but now Florian was making a tour of the ballroom, introducing her fiancé-to-be to her second and third cousins and the