Spy's Honor

by Amy Raby

  She shrugged. “I used a lot of forgetting spells.” She offered him the reins to the dapple gray. “This is Flash. He’s big and—well, flashy. He picks up his feet when he trots, which means he’s kind of bouncy to ride. But he’s quiet and sensible, and if we don’t go too fast—”

  “I’ll be fine. I’ve done a lot of riding.” Janto took the reins, put his foot in the stirrup, and swung up onto Flash. “Where are we going?”

  “I want to show you something. It’s a surprise.” She turned the mare and sent her into a canter.

  Janto gathered Flash’s reins and sent him after her, noting with pleasure how the animal arched his neck and moved up to the bit without being asked. They cantered in single file along a soft-dirt avenue. Passing through a pair of marble gates, they left the Imperial Palace grounds.

  The road sloped downward as they traveled inland, away from the city and the harbor. Smoke rose from the chimneys of distant cottages. Farmland in the distant hills, dotted with pockets of trees, checkered the landscape in green and yellow.

  Janto clucked to Flash, who responded with an instant burst of speed and surged alongside Rhianne’s mare. “How far?”

  “Just ahead.” She pointed to a forest that lay cradled in the next valley. “Bow oaks. They’re in season.”

  He’d heard of bow oaks, valuable trees for shipbuilding, much coveted on Mosar, where they did not grow. Bow oaks provided “compass timber”—wood with a natural curve used to form the rounded frame of a ship. Such trees were of great economic and military importance, but he wasn’t sure why Rhianne would want to show him a forest.

  They veered onto a side road, downhill into the valley. One moment there were fields on either side of them, and the next moment there were trees. Big, fine trees, obviously cultivated. Each tree leaned over to one side or the other, its trunk forming a shallow arc.

  The path dwindled away to nothing, and as the trees pressed closer around them, they slowed their horses to a walk. One of the trees had a symbol marked on it in red paint: a half circle crossed with a slash.

  Janto pointed to the mark. “What does that mean?”

  “That tree has been selected for harvest,” said Rhianne. “It’ll be chopped down and hauled to the shipyards at the end of the season.”

  Spring seemed to have come late to the bow oaks; they were mostly just bare trunks and branches. Up in the canopy were large, ungainly white flowers and some curious growths—enormous fruits or seed pods, perhaps.

  A gunshot went off behind him.

  Janto drove his horse toward Rhianne to shield her from the unknown attacker. He looked around frantically but couldn’t see anyone. At least they were invisible. Rhianne seemed oddly unflustered.

  Another gunshot went off.

  “Where are they?” he cried. “Who are they firing at?”

  “Nobody’s firing anything. It’s the trees,” said Rhianne.

  “What do you mean it’s the trees?”

  “Officially they’re called bow oaks, but sometimes we call them poppers. That sound is the trees popping.” Rhianne’s white mare stood calmly, as did Flash. Apparently the horses knew what was going on.

  He looked up. “The trees are popping?”

  “You see the lumps on the branches, way up there? They explode.”

  “How?” Janto scanned the trees. He heard another gunshot sound behind him. He whipped his head around and caught the end of whatever had happened. A cloud of yellow powder rained down over several of the trees.

  “Some sort of alchemical reaction. It’s how they reproduce. Why don’t we walk a bit and give the horses a rest?” Rhianne dismounted, pulled the reins over the white mare’s head, and set the ends on the ground. “You can leave Flash there; he ground ties.”

  Janto pulled the reins over Flash’s head and tugged them downward to remind him to stay put. Flash flicked an ear back, insulted.

  Rhianne unfastened a bundle from her mare’s saddle and carried it with her. Janto suspected it was another blanket. He walked at Rhianne’s side through the deep carpet of old, decaying leaves, staring at the branches overhead. He was rewarded when a popper finally exploded before his eyes. The strange lump broke open with a bang. It propelled a large yellow bullet shape into the trees, which broke into a stream of powder and rained down. “What do you mean it’s how they reproduce?”

  “You know how with fruit trees, you need a hive of bees in the orchard to pollinate them? These trees don’t need bees. The explosion sends the pollen onto the flowers of other trees.”

  “So it’s like . . . It’s like . . .” He chuckled. “It’s a bit vulgar, isn’t it?”

  Her cheeks colored. “Janto, these are trees.”

  “I know. But I don’t want any of that stuff to fall on me.”

  “So what if it falls on you? It’s pollen. You get pollen on you all the time.”

  “It’s just—I don’t know. Something about the way it’s delivered.” He grinned.

  “Come on, don’t you think it’s interesting?”

  “It’s very interesting,” said Janto.

  “You told me about all the fascinating things you’ve seen on Mosar. I wanted to show you something on Kjall—something you hadn’t seen before. You’ve seen so many wonders, and I’ve seen so few.”

  The anxious look on her face told him this was a bad time to tease her. She craved his approval, and if he didn’t grant it, he’d hurt her feelings. “It’s marvelous. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “Really?” She smiled tentatively.

  “Really.”

  They walked a little farther through the forest. Most of the trees were tall and mature, but there were a few saplings about. One had a red x marked on its trunk.

  “What does the x mean?” Janto asked.

  “It means the tree will be culled,” said Rhianne. “See how its trunk is nearly straight? The shipbuilders don’t want that. They want a curve. They’ll chop it down so a new tree can grow.”

  Rhianne found a bare stump and settled on it. Janto sat beside her and wrapped an arm around her shoulder. A popper went off nearby, startling him. Rhianne did not react at all. Bits of yellow fluff drifted through the tree canopy and landed on their heads.

  “I hate to bring this up, but I’ve been wondering,” said Janto. “You’ve met Augustan now, and you never told me how that went. I take it from what you said last night he didn’t meet your approval?”

  Rhianne looked away and was silent.

  “That bad?” said Janto.

  “I don’t feel that he respects me. Or values me, except as a link to the throne,” said Rhianne.

  Janto wrestled with his conscience. In his jealous heart, he was glad Rhianne hadn’t liked Augustan. And yet Rhianne could never be his. The obstacles that lay between them were insurmountable. She would marry Augustan, and he could not change that. Given that the marriage was inevitable, shouldn’t he wish that she might be happy in it? Even guide her, perhaps, in that direction? “Is it possible you’re asking too much of him too soon?” he said gently. “You’d only just met. He barely knows you.”

  “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.”

&nb
sp; “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 what 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?”