Spy's Honor hat-2

by Amy Raby

  “Yes.” Her eyes gleamed. “When’s the soonest we can do this? Tomorrow night?”

  “Tomorrow night.” And then he would leave the country.

  Maybe.

  15

  Janto, invisible, waited for Rhianne by the well, his stomach churning with a familiar mixture of excitement and nerves. The sackcloth treatment. While the plan was a little frightening to carry out, at least he was doing something. The end result might be good or it might be bad, but at least he’d make a difference. This wouldn’t be like his fruitless search for Ral-Vaddis.

  Branches rustled as someone approached through the trees. Janto moved toward the sound and released his shroud. “Alligator?” he called.

  Blue magelight flared in the distance. The odd-shaped figure it illuminated looked unfamiliar at first, but he soon sorted out that it was Rhianne with a bulky sackcloth bag thrown over her shoulder. He ran forward to take the bag from her.

  Rhianne grunted her thanks. The chamber pot at the bottom rattled as it bumped against the wooden staves. “I forget how handy the Legaciatti are when it comes to hauling heavy things,” she said. “I hope I’m not late.”

  Janto shook his head. “See that light through the trees?”

  Rhianne nodded.

  “That’s the men’s slave house. The door has opened a few times, but Micah hasn’t come through it yet.”

  “So we wait?”

  Janto nodded, shrouding both of them.

  “Where’s your ferret?”

  “Hunting.”

  “What does he hunt?” said Rhianne. “I saw him when you had him in my rooms, but only for a short while.”

  “I’ll bring him back so you can see him.” He called to Sashi through the link. The ferret dashed back through the leaves and scurried up Janto’s arm. Rhianne wants to see you. Be nice, will you?

  Sashi chittered his irritation. He didn’t like socializing.

  No biting, Janto reminded him, and placed the ferret in Rhianne’s arms.

  She stroked Sashi like she would a cat. “He’s lovely. His fur’s stiff along his back, but soft everywhere else.”

  I want to bite her, said Sashi.

  Janto took the ferret back. “His coloration is atypical, the strawberry and white. Most ferrets are brown or gray. His color might have made it harder for him to hunt if not for our shared magic. He hunts invisibly.”

  It is all skill, said Sashi. I could do it without the magic.

  “I never realized that,” said Rhianne. “That your magic was shared. Wait. Janto!” Her hand fell upon his arm: he felt it as a rare, electric touch. “The door’s opening.”

  Janto delayed a moment, wanting her hand to stay where it was. But he watched the door and said, “That’s Micah.”

  Two routes led from the men’s slave house to the women’s. The first and more direct was a forest path that snaked through the trees. The second route was somewhat more circuitous but wider and brighter in the moonlight, taking a short trail to the paved road, following it for a while, and then taking another trail to the women’s slave house. Micah was heading for the paved road. Janto grabbed the bag of gear and hurried after him. He had to rush. Micah, huge and athletic, moved without hesitation or uncertainty, covering the distance with long, swinging strides.

  “He must make this trip a lot,” Janto whispered to Rhianne as they turned from the road onto the second trail.

  At the women’s slave house, Micah went straight up the steps and through the door.

  They waited several anxious minutes. “He’ll come out, right?” asked Rhianne. “He’s not going to just attack someone inside?”

  “He should come out,” said Janto, though he was wondering the same thing.

  Micah emerged, dragging a woman by the arm. She wasn’t fighting, but she didn’t look happy. The pair descended the steps.

  “All right,” said Janto. “Spell him.”

  Rhianne jogged toward Micah. Janto could not help but tense as his princess approached a man twice her size, but she moved without fear. Either her mind magic gave her confidence, or she trusted Janto’s invisibility shroud. His fists clenched helplessly as she reached out and touched Micah’s arm. Micah brushed at the spot, as if a leaf had fallen on him. And he changed. The fire drained from his eyes, leaving behind a dull, glassy stare. His shoulders drooped into an apathetic slump. The woman he’d been dragging yanked her arm from his loosened grip and pelted back into the slave house, slamming the door behind her. Rhianne grinned at Janto. She led Micah by the hand, and he followed, tripping over roots and branches.

  Janto said, “That is the most disturbing thing I’ve seen in a long time.”

  “Let’s get him into the sack,” said Rhianne.

  Janto wrestled the sackcloth over Micah’s head. “How long does the spell last?”

  “As long as I want it to.”

  When Micah was covered head to toe in sackcloth, Janto pulled him to the ground and tied his feet so he couldn’t escape. Rhianne probed the other end of the sackcloth to locate his head and placed the empty chamber pot over it. They stepped back to observe their handiwork.

  “Think that’ll hold him?” asked Janto.

  Rhianne’s forehead wrinkled. “Maybe you should tie a few more knots.”

  Janto tied a few more. No wonder she was concerned. The sackcloth looked scanty and weak for a man of Micah’s size. Still, they were as ready as they’d ever be. He released the shroud over himself but left Rhianne and Sashi invisible. “Make sure he stays spelled for now,” he told Rhianne, and headed for the slave house door.

  Before he could knock, the door opened and Sirali emerged, followed by a dozen women. “Right, and we were watching from the windows how Micah got stuffed in a sack by an invisible man.”

  “Happy to entertain,” said Janto. He stepped back as more women filed out, four or five dozen at least. He picked up the wooden staves and handed them out. Most of the women carried them gingerly and upright, like flag standards; only Sirali gripped hers as if she meant to use it. “He’s got a confusion spell on him right now. That’s why he’s quiet. When we’re ready, I’ll have the spell removed so he understands what’s going on.” He directed the women to surround Micah. They did so, but stood well back from the sackcloth-covered form, and for the first time, he worried the plan would not work. “Ready?”

  The women murmured something that might have been assent.

  “Ready,” said Sirali.

  He nodded to an invisible Rhianne, who gestured with her hand.

  Micah exploded into life. “What in the gods’ names—,” he cried. His fists punched at the confines of his sackcloth prison, and his legs, though tied together, kicked frantically. The chamber pot over his head went flying. He was furious as a badger in a trap, and the trap was no match for the badger. “What’s going on? Who’s out there?” he roared.

  The women backed away, some of them dropping their staves. Even imprisoned in sackcloth, Micah was frightening. He seemed to have discovered the rope that held his feet and was tearing at it, ineffectually since the rope was on the outside of the bag and his hands were on the inside. But he would free himself soon enough if the women just stood around. They had to begin with the staves, or it would be too late.

  Janto grabbed a staff from the forest floor and ran forward. Sirali was closer than he was, and her staff slammed into Micah first.

  Micah cried out, “You fucker!” But before he could renew his struggles, Janto’s staff struck him, then Sirali’s again. Another woman landed a blow, a soft one. Then she wound up and hit him with a resounding thwack. Micah’s efforts to escape grew more frenzied and disorganized. Instead of working out a way to get at the knots, he reacted to the blows and punched back at the sackcloth. The rest of the women stepped forward, bolder. Janto got in a few more blows and handed off his staff to the woman nearest him.

  Sirali handed off her staff. She carefully replaced the chamber pot on Micah’s head, then supervised the women, pa
ssing the hollow weapons from one to another and intervening when one woman used the staff too viciously and when another aimed too close to the chamber pot. Micah continued to curse, but not as loudly. His attempts at escape slowed and then ceased as he curled up to protect his vulnerable parts.

  Janto retreated to where Rhianne waited, below a tree, so he could observe without being in the way. It was less his battle now than the women’s. He rested his back against the tree. Rhianne slipped her hand into his and leaned into him, shivering. Her presence gave him comfort. Instinctively, he put an arm around her.

  “It’s disturbing,” she said, after watching for a while in silence.

  “An unpleasant business,” agreed Janto.

  The women had lost their fear. Some of them looked scary now, their faces contorted with rage as they rained blows upon the sackcloth bag. Micah stopped cursing and began to plead for relief.

  “You think we should let him out?” asked Rhianne.

  “No,” said Janto. Micah was tough. Halfway measures wouldn’t work. He had to be thoroughly frightened and humiliated.

  The beating continued until the women’s fury had abated and the only sound that came from the bag was Micah’s hoarse, sobbing breath. Janto caught Sirali’s eye and nodded. He hid himself under the invisibility shroud.

  Sirali collected the staves from the women and dropped them on the ground. She tossed away the chamber pot and untied the rope that bound Micah’s feet, then retreated into the circle of women who stood around the bag.

  At first there was no movement from within the bag. Janto worried they’d overdone it and killed him.

  Then the sackcloth moved. Micah backed slowly out of the bag, taking several minutes to extract himself. After freeing his legs and torso, he pushed the lip of the bag over his head with shaking hands. He was wild-eyed, his hair and clothes mussed. He looked up, saw the women surrounding him, and froze, so still it seemed he’d stopped breathing. His head turned slowly as he took them all in.

  As if on cue, they filed back into the slave house. They walked differently than before. Straighter. Prouder.

  Soon nobody was left in the clearing except Micah. Janto and Rhianne watched him from the safety of the shroud. After a while, Micah stood, shaky and bent with pain. He turned and trudged back to the men’s slave house.

  When he was well away, Rhianne let out a sigh. “Gods,” she said. “I don’t know how I feel about that. What an ugly business! But I think it succeeded.”

  “Did you see the look on his face when he came out of the bag and all the women stood around him?” said Janto.

  “That part was an inspiration,” admitted Rhianne. “And I think it will help, as far as deterring future attacks on the women. He clearly didn’t understand how he ended up in the bag. That had to frighten him.”

  Janto nodded. “If he doesn’t know how he was captured, he can’t strategize to find a way to avoid being captured again. The only way is to avoid angering the women.”

  “Janto, look.” Her hand on his arm again. “Is that the woman we saw before?”

  “Where?” He followed her gaze. The door to the women’s slave house had opened, and the woman Micah had dragged out, the one he’d meant to assault in the first place, was heading into the woods. “What’s she up to?”

  “I don’t know,” said Janto. “I think we should find out.”

  He trotted after her invisibly, with Rhianne at his side. The woman ran down the snaky forest path that led to the men’s slave house. Toward Micah? Did she intend to hurt him even more? Or was something else going on? Then she headed into the trees, slowing to a walk and looking all around. She put her hands to her mouth and made a sound like a bird calling.

  Through the trees came an answering call. She turned and jogged toward it, slowing to a walk when she reached a small clearing.

  A man stepped out from behind a tree trunk.

  Janto clutched Rhianne’s hand, instinctively stepping in front of her, though they were both invisible. But the woman they were following seemed to expect this stranger. She ran to him, and they embraced. Then the woman began to talk. Janto was too far away to hear, but from the gestures, it was clear she was describing the events that had taken place at the women’s slave house.

  “Is he her lover?” Rhianne whispered beside him.

  The couple embraced again, their two forms merging to one in the moonlight. Janto knew he’d passed beyond legitimate investigation into voyeurism, and he ought to turn away from watching this private moment, but the sight reminded him of own private yearnings: a homeland and a family he wanted desperately to see again, a Kjallan princess he desired but who was intended for someone else. Something ached deep in his chest. “I believe he is.”

  The distant figures separated just enough to share a kiss.

  “Let’s leave them alone,” said Rhianne.

  Janto nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat. He turned, still holding Rhianne’s hand, and began walking back the way they’d come.

  “I never think about that, you know,” said Rhianne. “That the palace slaves have lives outside of fetching my supper trays. Or if they don’t, they want to.”

  “They’re my people—some of them—so I think about it a lot.”

  “I suppose you must. I feel we’ve done something right for these people tonight. Something good.”

  “I believe we have,” agreed Janto.

  Rhianne nestled against his shoulder as they walked, her warmth delicious in the cool evening air. “Janto, I have something to ask you.”

  “Ask.”

  “Not here. Let’s—let’s get the equipment first.”

  In silence, they returned to the clearing by the women’s slave house. They packed the staves and ropes and chamber pot into the sackcloth bag, and Janto hoisted it onto his shoulder. “Where to?”

  Rhianne looked about helplessly and pointed in what seemed a random direction. Janto shrugged and followed her.

  16

  Rhianne didn’t know the area and didn’t have anywhere specific in mind. She just wanted a private, secluded spot with enough room to spread out a blanket. She found a quiet glade that seemed adequate for the purpose and halted. Janto lowered the bag to the ground and gazed at her expectantly.

  Now for the proposal. “Janto, I . . .” Her breath caught, and she trailed off and looked away.

  “What is it?” he asked gently.

  Her legs felt weak. She looked around for a place to sit, but there wasn’t a stump or log anywhere. She swallowed. Courage. “I was wondering if you would make love to me.”

  Janto drew back, his eyes wary. “Are you certain? Is there—will there be trouble?”

  She blushed furiously. “No one will know. We’re alone out here, and shrouded, and . . . Look. I don’t love Augustan, and I don’t want him to be the first or only man I ever sleep with. I want that man to be you.”

  Janto’s expression softened. He held out a hand. “Come here, Princess.”

  She went to him, her shoulders dropping in relief. He enfolded her in the circle of his arms and kissed her, teasing her mouth open as if testing her, ascertaining for himself whether she truly wanted this. She yielded to the invasion, softening her body against him, surprising even herself as a sound of longing purred from her throat. This was the man she wanted, the gentle scholar who’d bantered with her in the gardens and gently prodded her to a deeper understanding of both of their countries, the spy who’d played games with her at the bridge. Not Augustan, and not some random Kjallan either.

  Heat pooled deep inside her body, a paradoxical mix of pleasure and warmth and dissatisfaction, an unscratched itch that had her pressing closer to Janto, kissing him and wrapping her arms around him, trying to satisfy that unsatisfied place.

  “Hold a moment,” he said, restraining her. “You’ve not been with a man before?”

  “I have not. You don’t mind?”

  “No. Will Augustan expect a virgin on his wedding night?” />
  “Kjallan women seldom go virginal to the wedding bed.” She’d never intended to wait this long; she was just choosy. And with so many men away at war, there had never been a lot of options.

  “Are you nervous?” he murmured in her ear.

  “No.” She wanted this, and she’d chosen the right man. However, losing one’s virginity was supposed to hurt—sometimes there was even blood—and that worried her. Perhaps she ought not to bend the truth. “A little.”

  “We’ll go at your pace,” said Janto. “If you don’t like anything or you change your mind, you tell me to stop, and I will.” He looked around. “I don’t think the forest floor is going to be very comfortable.”

  “I brought a blanket.” She went to the bag and fished out a blue coverlet, which she spread on the ground.

  “You planned this.”

  Her cheeks warmed. Indeed she had. “You’re leaving the country soon, so it’s my last chance.”

  Janto knelt and fingered the blanket, gauging its thickness. “This won’t be as nice as a bed. Especially the sort of bed an imperial princess is accustomed to.”

  “I don’t care.” She sat beside him. “Better you and a blanket on the hard ground than Augustan and all the feather pillows in the world.”

  He flashed her an affectionate smile. “Are you warded? I’ve been away from my people for a while. My own wards might have faded by now.”

  She’d considered that already. “My wards were applied a few days ago. I won’t get pregnant.”

  He held out his arms again. She went to him, and he bore her gently to the ground. He examined her syrtos and fingered its double belts. When the knots stymied him, he gave up on them, straddled her, and removed his slave tunic instead.

  Janto didn’t look Kjallan—not remotely. His chest wasn’t pale but golden, bronzed by the tropical sun of his homeland and dusted with a smattering of light brown hair. He was watching her, she realized, drinking in her admiring gaze. He leaned down and kissed her gently. She felt nervous about touching him, but she sensed he wanted her to, so she raised her hands uncertainly and stroked the sides of his body. As her confidence grew, she let her fingers explore, outlining the muscles on his back and shoulders. He leaned into her touch, yet he looked tense.