Spy's Honor hat-2

by Amy Raby

  “His feelings will not change. He views me as . . .” She made a face. “As damaged goods.”

  “Why would he think that? Unless . . . well, because of me and you. But that was later.”

  “He has a reason. It’s a stupid reason, but in his mind it makes sense. Do you know my history?”

  Janto shrugged. “You’re Florian’s niece. You were raised in the palace. I’m missing a lot of details.”

  “A great many,” said Rhianne. “My mother was Florian’s younger sister. I guess they were close when they were children—so Florian tells me. Many years ago, before I was born, she was engaged to, I don’t know, some nobleman. But she must not have liked him, because she ran off and eloped with an upholsterer.”

  “An upholsterer?”

  Rhianne stiffened. “Yes, an upholsterer. Does it bother you to find out my father works in trade?”

  Janto threw up his hands. “Not at all.”

  “They fled east to the city of Rodgany, and then I was born. Florian wasn’t emperor yet. His father, Emperor Nigellus, was. When Nigellus died, Florian succeeded him, and I don’t know how he did it, but he tracked my mother down. He came to Rodgany. I was three years old, and Florian took me from my parents. It’s the earliest memory I have, Florian carrying me to the imperial barouche while I screamed and kicked, and my parents looking on, crying, but saying nothing. In the carriage, Florian held me and told me everything would be all right. I fell asleep in his lap.”

  “They knew they couldn’t oppose him,” said Janto. “What did he do to them? Anything?”

  “Aside from taking me, I believe he left them alone. He won’t talk to me about them.”

  “They might have had more children. Do you suppose you might have brothers or sisters?”

  “I often wonder that,” said Rhianne. “I heard they went deeper into hiding after Florian took me, so if there are more children, there’s no telling where they are now.”

  “What a thought. Your parents are alive, and you might have brothers and sisters!” Janto shook his head in wonder. “I’d assumed they were dead.”

  “From my perspective, they might as well be. And Florian’s greatest fear is that I’ll run away like my mother did. Either I’ll run off to find her, or I’ll run away with some . . . some . . .”

  Mosari spy? Janto wondered.

  “Upholsterer,” she finished lamely. “You have to understand. Florian’s not a cruel man—”

  Janto snorted. Emperor Florian had authorized the wholesale slaughter of his people.

  “But he likes to own things. Possess things. I’m his possession, and he is determined to keep me under his control. Or Augustan’s control, which amounts to the same thing.”

  “I have no sympathy for him. He wants to possess my entire country,” said Janto.

  “He does,” agreed Rhianne. “I’m sorry.”

  Janto looked at her with a terrible sadness. If only Kjall had not gone to war with Mosar, if only Kjall were not so terribly insular in its patterns of marriage, he might be the one engaged to Rhianne right now instead of Augustan. As the heir to the Mosari throne, he should have been eligible to court her, and he would never have considered her damaged goods. Had he courted her in the ordinary way, as a visiting prince, he would have fallen in love with her as surely as he was doing now.

  The thought did not surprise him. He did not doubt that he was falling in love. He loved Rhianne’s liveliness of mind, her compassion, her bravery. Before Kjall had invaded Mosar, he’d been in a situation similar to hers, though less extreme. He’d known he would have to marry for the good of his country, almost certainly to a stranger and probably not someone greatly to his liking. He was luckier than she in that he was the man, the more powerful party in the marriage. While a hateful wife could make his life unpleasant, there were certain things he didn’t have to worry overmuch about, whereas Rhianne could not ignore these concerns. Would Augustan beat her? It was his deepest fear for Rhianne, that Augustan, who did not value the unique and precious creature Janto had made love to last night, would use his fists on her, brutally trying to shape her into something she was not.

  Augustan could destroy her.

  Rhianne nudged him. “You’re thinking about something.”

  “I was thinking,” said Janto, “that if Augustan cannot love a woman as kind and honest and courageous as you, it is his own failing. If he does not love you, then love lies beyond his capabilities.”

  Rhianne squeezed her eyes shut, as if his words caused her physical pain. “Why did you have to be born Mosari?”

  “Why did your country have to invade mine?”

  She sighed. “Let’s not waste the little time we have arguing about things we can’t control.” She dropped a bundle of fabric into his lap. “I brought a blanket.”

  “I’m developing a fondness for blankets.”

  “The thing is”—she winced—“I’m sore today.”

  “I feared you might be,” said Janto.

  “Is it normal?”

  “Yes. It shouldn’t last long.”

  She let her breath out in a rush. “Gods, that’s a relief. I was afraid something might be wrong with me.” She unfolded the blanket. “Aren’t there other things we can do? Things that won’t hurt when I’m sore, that will satisfy you as well as me?”

  “There certainly are.” He took an end of the blanket, helping her to spread it on the ground.

  “And will you show me?”

  “I certainly will,” said Janto.

  18

  Rhianne wriggled out of her clothes and slipped into her lover’s embrace, marveling at his easy strength as he lowered her to the ground. As Janto sought her mouth, she twined her legs round his. She felt herself melting into him, as if the nooks and crannies of their bodies were interlocking pieces, designed to fit just so. A popper exploded above them, dusting them lightly with pollen. Janto seemed not to notice or care.

  He stroked the side of her face, touching her forehead, her cheek, her ear. She reached up and did the same to him, closing her eyes so her fingers could learn what her eyes already knew. Given time, she would memorize every inch of him in the most intimate detail—though perhaps they did not have that kind of time. She would learn what she could and treasure the memories.

  With a groan of impatience, Janto captured her wrists and pushed them down to the blanket. She struggled experimentally, but he held her fast. A little jolt of excitement ran through her. It was a little like fear, and yet it wasn’t, because with Janto she always felt safe.

  “Do you trust me?” he whispered.

  Rhianne swallowed. “Yes.”

  He took her breast in his mouth. Unable to move her arms, she arched her back and moaned. So good, so painfully good. He circled her nipple with his tongue, teased her, kissed her on her neck and chin until she craved his mouth on her nipple again. Then he tortured her again.

  “Tell me you are mine,” he said.

  “I’m yours,” gasped Rhianne, wishing it could be true forever.

  Janto grinned. He released her wrists and moved downward.

  “Wait.” She craved that wicked tongue of his, but she had a different plan in mind. “You first tonight—you said you would show me what to do.”

  He paused, then settled beside her. “All right.”

  As he pulled her into his arms, resting his cock against her thigh, she asked, “What do I do? Can I touch it?”

  Her took her hand and guided it. Though his cock was hard underneath, the skin on the outside was silky as down. She stroked it gently.

  Janto placed his hand over hers and pressed harder, demonstrating. “It wants a firm touch,” he explained. “And gods, that feels good.”

  “It’s better if I do it with my mouth, though. Isn’t it?”

  He made an involuntary noise of longing. “Yes, I like that better. If you want to try it.”

  It took some time to find a comfortable position, and a bit longer to figure out exactly wha
t to do with her mouth and tongue. Janto gave her some suggestions—the most important seemed to be not to use her teeth—but she found she learned best by experimenting. Running her tongue over one particular spot around the head seemed to be Janto’s favorite; it reduced him to panting and incoherent moaning. She was no expert, but it didn’t seem to matter. By the look on his face and the sounds he made, she could tell he was enjoying what she was doing.

  Now she understood why Janto took such pleasure in pinning her arms and torturing her with his mouth. She felt powerful. He was bigger than she and far stronger, yet when she put her mouth on him, she was the one in control.

  “Gods,” he said. “Rhianne, I’m—I’m . . .” He gasped and pulled away. With a great cry, he shuddered through his climax.

  Rhianne kissed him, rubbing his back as he caught his breath and came down from the high. “I could have stayed with you through that.”

  “Your first time,” he panted. “Didn’t want to startle you. But next time . . .”

  “I want to,” said Rhianne.

  Janto pulled her into his arms. He rested a short while, idly kissing and stroking her, and when he was ready, he took her to paradise.

  * * *

  Later that afternoon, Rhianne led Dice into Morgan’s tiny stable. The slave boy hurried forward to take the reins.

  “You’re late,” said Morgan from the doorway. “Was starting to worry about you.”

  “I’m sorry. I hope you didn’t run short of money.” Rhianne climbed the short stairway from the stable to the house and handed him the tetrals. “I’ve been busy. Augustan came for a visit, and . . . well, other things have happened.”

  “Augustan!” Morgan’s eyebrows rose. “Are you engaged? Was there a big to-do?” He headed into the kitchen.

  “Yes and yes.”

  “We’ll open a bottle of wine.” He went to a chest and pulled out a bottle. He worked at the cork a bit and winced.

  Rhianne took it from him and uncorked the bottle.

  Morgan grunted an apology about his feeble fingers, grabbed two mismatched cups, and poured. Rhianne trailed after him into the sitting room, where he took a seat and sipped his wine. He gestured at the chair across from him. “So, tell me about your fiancé.”

  “I hate him,” said Rhianne.

  Morgan choked on his wine and smacked his chest, coughing. “Not what I expected you to say.”

  “Wouldn’t you think that a man who came to the palace to court his future wife would be on his best behavior?” said Rhianne. “Even if he were by nature mean and nasty, he should be perfect for those two days, because anyone can fake it at least that long, right?”

  “I would think so,” said Morgan. “Depends how aware he is of his behavior and how it’s perceived.”

  “Augustan yelled at the servants and wanted them beaten for trivial mistakes, he was nasty to me when I wasn’t feeling well, and he insulted me to my face. If that was his best behavior, what’s he going to be like when the emperor isn’t looking over his shoulder?”

  “He insulted you?”

  “Right to my face!”

  “What did he say?” Morgan’s forehead wrinkled. “What fault could he find in you?”

  Rhianne laughed. “You’re sweet. I have many faults. Ask my cousin, and he’ll provide you with a list. But in this case, Augustan referred to the shame of my birth.”

  Morgan rolled his eyes. “Because of your mother.”

  “Yes, and my father being a tradesman.”

  “Clearly this fiancé of yours is a vile human being.” Morgan pointed to her wineglass. “Drink.”

  Rhianne drank. “He is vile, and I have no choice but to marry him.”

  Morgan peered into his empty cup, swirling the dregs as if they had a story to tell. “You always have a choice, Rhianne.”

  She shook her head. “If I run away, Florian will catch me. He’s got the whole army at his disposal. My mother didn’t outwit Nigellus. He let her go.”

  “Perhaps you underestimate yourself.”

  Rhianne sipped her wine. She didn’t think Morgan truly understood Florian, even after everything the emperor had done to him. Her uncle was tenacious as a badger; if she fled from him, he’d never stop hunting for her. Besides, she had to be realistic. For all that she might dream of running away with Janto, her Mosari lover remained fanatically loyal to his people and to his mission, whatever that was. And Florian needed her to help govern Mosar. Part of her hoped that Augustan wouldn’t be so awful, that over time she’d win him over, and while their marriage might not ever be wonderful, it might at least be tolerable.

  “Consider this,” said Morgan. “Running away and marrying Augustan aren’t necessarily your only two choices. Also, what Augustan said wasn’t a slip of the tongue. One doesn’t become a high-ranking legatus by being a fool. He said it deliberately.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Morgan set his wineglass on the table. “I’ve known men like this before. Augustan feels threatened because you outrank him. You are an emperor’s niece and adopted daughter; he is merely a legatus and soon-to-be provincial governor. Most men would be proud to make such a distinguished marriage, but Augustan is clearly frightened by a wife who is more powerful than he is. He wants to diminish your power by shaming you, so that you feel that you’re a fraud, that you’re not a true member of the emperor’s family.”

  “I never thought of it that way,” said Rhianne.

  “You can’t marry this man, because insults are only the beginning,” said Morgan. “Men of this sort can’t tolerate anyone else having power, especially their wives, and also their children. He’ll mistreat the children you’ll have someday, Rhianne. Have you thought of that? If you won’t stop this marriage for your own sake, do it for theirs.”

  * * *

  At a seaside cliff several hours’ walk from the Imperial Palace, Janto summoned a ball of flickering blue magelight, sent it through a series of orchestrated movements, and dismissed it. He sat and waited, shivering in the darkness. Beneath him the breakers rolled in, each one crashing against unseen rocks and retreating with a disappointed hiss. The ocean was a wall of blackness broken only by a field of stars that demarcated where water ended and sky began.

  In the blackness, a blue light appeared. Janto froze, watching its movements carefully. Up, to the right, a circle. Left. Another circle. It was the answering signal of his spy ship.

  Once he transmitted his message to the ship, it would need four to six days to relay its coded message to the next signal station and return. That was four to six days he would be stranded on Kjall. Also four to six days during which time, if he found a better piece of intelligence, he would have no way to transmit it. But given the number of lives he might save with the information Rhianne had given him, and its urgency—his people on Mosar might not hold out much longer—he’d decided he had no real choice but to send it and hope for the best.

  He’d coded his message earlier in the day and had only to put his magelight ball through its paces: up and down, side to side, around in circles, winking in and out. Ral-Vaddis killed in action. Kjallans to purge Mosari ruling class as they did in Riorca. Relay immediately and return.

  He dismissed his magelight and waited for the answering signal. It came, and, to his surprise, it was not a simple acknowledgment. The spy ship had intelligence to relay to him as well. He’d brought paper and a quill in anticipation of this possibility, and as the signals came, he transcribed them. Professional signalers could decode as they watched, but he wasn’t experienced enough for that. When the signal ended, he decoded it with quill and paper. Kal-Torres’s fleet sighted off Bartleshore.

  Now that was interesting. Kal-Torres, his younger brother, was First Admiral of the Mosari Navy. It was tradition on Mosar that the king should command the island’s army while one of his close relatives commanded its navy. Janto, since he was a shroud mage, was in charge of Mosari Intelligence, a small command his father had hoped would prepare h
im for the larger command he would inherit later—if, after the war, there was anything left to inherit.

  Kal-Torres, similarly, had been captain of a single ship in the Mosari Navy. But when the Mosari and Kjallan fleets had clashed at the beginning of the war, most of the Mosari ships had been sunk or captured, and the First Admiral, Janto’s uncle, had been killed in action. Kal-Torres had broken away and escaped with a small fleet of wounded ships. It was believed they were repairing and refitting at an unknown location. Kal-Torres was promoted to First Admiral in absentia. Apparently now his little fleet was back in action, although what good it might do at this late date, Janto could not say.

  He signaled acknowledgment and dismissal to his spy ship, glad to have dispatched his intelligence but anxious about being stranded for a minimum of four days, and began the long walk back to the palace.

  * * *

  Rhianne’s attendants were just leaving when the morning breakfast tray arrived. She wasn’t usually hungry in the morning, but having gone for an early swim in the baths before getting dressed, she had worked up a bit of an appetite. She grabbed one of her Mosari books so she could study while she ate, watching as the last of the servants trailed through the door and left her blessedly alone. Then she sat.

  A bit of movement caught her eye. Whiskers? Surely the brindlecat had not escaped her cage.

  A strawberry and white ferret leapt onto her blue damask settee at the side of the room, chittered briefly, and curled up to sleep.

  Rhianne stared at the ferret, her heart throbbing, all her muscles tensed for action. That was Janto’s familiar. Was Janto here? Perhaps he had sneaked into the room invisibly when the servants were moving in and out, but he hadn’t revealed himself. She looked slowly about the room, searching for signs of his presence.

  “Janto?” she called softly.

  No answer.

  With shaky hands, she reached for one of the covers on her breakfast tray and picked it up. Then she shrieked as the cover was pulled from her hand and replaced on the tray.