Spy's Honor

Rhianne raised her eyebrows. “What a strange argument you make, Uncle. Do you imply that waging war and dancing are equally important?”

“Augustan will only be here for a couple of days, and the empire needs this match.”

“He’s not going to walk away because I refused his disgusting tea or didn’t feel like dancing one evening. I’m your niece. He’d marry me if I had two heads and tentacles.”

“It’s not heads or tentacles I’m concerned about, but your tongue, which is excessively sharp.”

“Augustan, by the way, hasn’t expressed the slightest bit of concern for my condition.”

“Neither have I.”

“From you I have given up expecting it.”

“No more excuses,” said Florian. “Go and dance with him, or your head won’t be the only part of your body that hurts.”

“I’m going.” With a sigh, she stood. The throbbing in her head accelerated to match her pulse. Draining the dregs of her wineglass, she searched the room for Augustan. There he was, speaking to Taia Livia and two young women Rhianne did not know. All three women were simpering in his presence. Great, she thought, shooting a look of exasperation at Florian. Now Augustan will think I changed my mind out of jealousy.

The conversation ceased at her approach. Taia and the two younger ladies dipped into curtsies, murmuring, “Your Imperial Highness.”

“Taia,” she answered. Best to get the moment of humiliation over with as quickly as possible. She turned to Augustan. “Legatus, would you do me the honor of dancing with me?”

A corner of his mouth quirked. “Feeling better, are you?” He offered her his hand.

“No. But I’ll dance anyway.” Deep in her gut, she knew that handing him even this small victory was a mistake. It would only encourage him. But what choice did she have? She had another day of this to endure, and when the war in Mosar was over, a lifetime. Gritting her teeth, she slipped her hand into his.

8

Rhianne cradled the cat in her arms as she walked, trying to make it comfortable, but it squirmed, and one of its needlelike claws poked through her syrtos. She winced and removed it.

“Your Imperial Highness,” said Tamienne from behind her. “Perhaps we should leave the animal in your rooms?”

“No, I want Janto to see it.” She couldn’t wait to see him again. She’d survived two horrid days of Augustan, including the world’s most tedious betrothal ceremony, which had lasted a mind-numbing three hours. She’d finally seen him back to his ship, waving prettily as he set sail and praying that the war lasted another fifty years. If he lost the war entirely, might the marriage be called off? Gods, she was thinking the most horrid thoughts lately. Janto and Morgan and Lucien, with their treasonous ideas, must be wearing off on her.

She sat on her usual bench beneath the Poinciana.

Janto arrived soon after and spotted the cat in her arms. His eyes went wide.

“Please tell me you’re not afraid of cats.” Rhianne patted the space next to her.

“House cats, no,” said Janto. “But, three gods, that is a brindlecat.”

She laughed. “How can it be a brindlecat? They’re ten times this size. And do you see any brindling?” She held up the cat to display its plain brown coloration. It had no stripes at all.

Janto sat beside her. “Brindlecats are born without stripes, and what you have is a kitten. Watch the ears over the next few days—that’s where they’ll appear first. Do you see the claws?” He picked up one of the cat’s paws. “They don’t retract. This is not a house cat. Where did you get this animal?”

“Augustan gave it to me.” She studied the cat—kitten—with chagrin. Maybe it really was a brindlecat. Augustan had said it came from Mosar, and brindlecats were native to that island. He’d probably had no idea what it really was.

Janto recoiled. “Is he trying to kill you?”

“Well, honestly, it doesn’t look dangerous. Can you tell if it’s a boy or a girl?”

Janto inspected the cat. “It’s a girl. Princess, you have to cage this animal. She may not be dangerous now, but if you feed her properly—and it would be cruel not to—she’s going to grow quickly. Within a month, she will be deadly.”

“I can’t imagine.” However, Rhianne could see a little of what he was talking about. The kitten’s claws and teeth were larger than she’d seen before, and the animal wasn’t exactly sweet-natured. “Don’t you think I could make a friend out of her? If I handle her every day?”

Janto looked horrified. “Absolutely not. Brindlecats are wild animals. If you’re the one who feeds her, she’ll probably refrain from clawing you to pieces. But she’ll make a mess of your floors, she’ll shred your furniture, and she’ll play so rough she leaves gashes in your arms. This is not a pet.”

“Three gods,” said Rhianne. “I don’t think Augustan had any idea.”

“I should hope he didn’t.”

Rhianne stroked her brindlecat kitten. Janto was probably right that the animal would grow dangerous quickly, but she would enjoy her while she could.

“Didn’t you bring a book today?” asked Janto.

“No,” said Rhianne. “I thought we could just talk. I want to learn more about Mosar—your customs, your way of life. Is it true your people live in caves?”

Janto’s eyes narrowed. Perhaps he thought she was insulting him. “It depends what you mean by caves. In the Mosari language, we have two words meaning cave. The first is lerot, a beast cave, naturally occurring, usually rough and inhospitable. The second is usont, a man-made cave carved into the mountain by one of our stoneshapers. We live in usonts.”

“And what’s an usont like?”

“Like any indoor space, except carved of stone. Our stoneshapers’ magic can make the walls, ceilings, and floors flat and the corners right-angled, like your Kjallan houses built of wood. But stoneshapers can also make graceful curves, undulations, strange textures, rooms that are perfectly round. Parts of the Mosari palace would astonish you.”

“It sounds interesting. But why do you live in caves rather than houses?”

“Because of the storm season. During the late summer and fall, Mosar is battered by storms so severe that they would rip apart the sorts of houses you build here on Kjall. During the storm season, we send our ships to safer waters and retreat into our usonts for safety. The rest of the year is our growing and building season, and we erect some temporary structures then. But there’s not much wood on Mosar. What we have, we wouldn’t waste on houses. We use it for ships.”

“Does it not drive you crazy, sitting in a cave all through the storm season?”

Janto raised his eyebrows. “Does it not drive you crazy, sitting in the Imperial Palace all year long?”

Rhianne bit her lip. She sneaked out on a regular basis. But he didn’t know that.

“In answer to your question,” said Janto, “no. Our usonts make up entire cities. There is much work to be done indoors, whether it’s more building, or artwork, or scholarship, or magical training.”

“Tell me something else,” said Rhianne. “What’s something Mosari people do when it’s not the storm season? Something fun.”

Janto shrugged. “Lots of things. We hunt lorim eggs.”

“What’s a lorim?”

“A seabird. They nest by the millions along our cliffs in spring and early summer, just before the storm season. You can hardly hear for their squalling, and when they fly, their wings darken the sky. Mosari youngsters —boys and young men, mostly, but some of the girls get in on the fun—like to climb up the cliff face and harvest the eggs. We’ve a law that you must leave two eggs in each nest, so by late season, the easy eggs have been