“A truth spell,” said Lip Scar. “We’ve reason to believe this man may be a spy. He’s been posing as a slave in the Imperial Garden, but the slave overseer doesn’t know him and says he’s not on the books. He also says this man attacked him last night.”
Rhianne scrutinized Janto’s face as if she’d never seen him before. “He’s clearly been in a fight.”
“Yes,” said Lip Scar. “That’s not important. I want to know whether he’s a spy.”
“I’ll find out.” She turned and stared at Janto imperiously. “Slave,” she said, “give me your hand, and do not be afraid. This won’t hurt.”
Janto’s palms were sweating. He wiped his hand on his slave tunic and offered it to her. She took it with an expression of distaste, which he hoped was feigned.
An electric sensation crept up his hand—her mind magic, invading him. He stared at her hand on his, the point of entry, but it was all happening invisibly, in the spirit world: a breach of his soul. As the tendrils of her magic seeped through and enveloped him like a fog, he felt his own magic screaming rebellion, gathering to repel the foreign magic. But he held it in check and allowed her truth spell its nauseating hold. He could see no way out of this except to put his faith in Rhianne. She had a quick mind and a kind heart. He had a feeling she would not let him down.
“We’re ready,” said Rhianne.
Lip Scar leaned forward and spoke to Janto. “Who and what are you?”
Apparently this man wasn’t the type to ask a few warm-up questions first. “My name is Janto. I’m a slave assigned to the Imperial Garden.” His voice sounded strange inside his own head. There was an echo within, some sort of rumbling overtone.
Lip Scar glanced at Rhianne.
A moment’s infinitesimal hesitation. Her eyes met his. “Truth,” she reported.
“Are you controlled by a death spell and under the oversight of Micah?” asked Lip Scar.
“Yes,” said Janto.
Lip Scar’s eyes went to Rhianne.
“Truth.”
Gods, she was lying for him. He owed her a debt, and he would never be able to repay it.
“Are you a spy?” asked Lip Scar.
“No,” said Janto.
“Truth,” reported Rhianne.
“Is Micah remiss in his responsibilities regarding paperwork and keeping track of slaves?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Truth,” said Rhianne.
“Did you assault Micah because he attacked a slave woman?”
“Yes.”
“Truth,” said Rhianne.
Lip Scar sat back heavily. “Your Imperial Highness, please release him from the spell. I’ve no further need for this man.”
Janto closed his eyes in relief. The fog of the truth spell dissipated within him like the smoke of a discharged pistol, and Rhianne dropped his hand.
“I’m pleased to help,” said Rhianne. “Slave, I’ll write you a chit to explain your absence from work.” Rhianne took a blank sheet of paper from the table, scribbled a few words on it, folded it, and handed it to Janto.
Puzzled, he took the paper. Later, walking back to the garden, he opened the note. It read
11
Janto thought hard about whether to meet with Rhianne as requested. In the end, he decided his honor demanded it. She had rescued him. She knew exactly what he was and had covered for him, an act her people would consider treason. If she’d stuck her neck out for him to that extent, he owed her some sort of explanation.
The Bow Oak Bridge spanned a gravel-strewn creek just northwest of the Imperial Palace’s service entrance. Every morning and every evening, hundreds of slaves trod its ancient oaken planks smooth on their way to and from work. Farther north was the larger bridge, the one wide enough for carts and carriages. The Bow Oak Bridge served foot and horse traffic only, and, for the purposes of his “tame Kjallan,” was more private.
In the darkness, Janto heard the water chattering to itself and smelled its dampness, but he could not see it. He crossed the bridge shrouded from the slave side to the palace side, not wanting his footsteps to echo hollowly on the wood, but as he stepped off the bridge onto the dirt footpath, he dropped the shroud, leaving only Sashi invisible. He slowed his steps, looking for Rhianne on the path ahead and among the trees on either side.
“Stop there,” called Rhianne’s voice. “Are you alone?”
He turned in the direction of the voice and found her just off the path, dressed in dark colors to blend with the night and half hidden behind a great oak. “Of course.” Was she alone? He supposed she might have that bodyguard with her.
He kept his expression carefully bland.
“Come here,” she called. “Into the trees.”
Wary but still inclined to trust her, Janto headed toward her. He’d never seen Rhianne in the dark. Darkness did interesting things to a woman—reduced her to essentials, as it were. If she wore her fine imperial trappings, they did not show in the dim moonlight. Only her outline, her face, and her hair, rendered in shades of silver.
Her beauty was undiminished. Indeed, he might say it was enhanced. She was but a woman, pure and simple and enchanting. The curve of her throat, lit by a patch of lustrous sagelight, was so lovely it was all he could do not to reach out and touch it.
So much for the magic of a beautiful woman in the dark.
Rhianne took his hand and spoke in a voice that was barely more than a whisper. “I committed treason to save your life. For that, I want some assurances from you.”
“What assurances?”
“I want the truth.”
The electric feeling crawled up his arm again—her truth spell. As it seeped through and enveloped him, once more his magic rebelled against it, but again he held it in check, permitting the invasion. A gun on him, three gods. He swallowed. “You shall have it.”
“You are a Mosari spy,” she prompted.
“Yes,” said Janto.
“What do you seek in Kjall?”
“Information to help us win the war,” he said. “And another spy we lost touch with.”
Rhianne nodded. “Anything else?”
“No.”
She sighed, and tension melted from her face and shoulders. “Are you armed?”
“No.”
“Are you magical?”
Janto winced. He’d hoped she wouldn’t ask that. “Yes.”
Her eyebrows rose. “What sort of mage are you?”
