Spy's Honor

12

It took Rhianne less than an hour to track down Janto’s missing spy. The prison archivist had on record a Mosari shroud mage whom they’d caught with an invisibility ward and taken into custody thirty-five days earlier. They had hoped to interrogate him, but he had died suddenly, foaming at the mouth. After his death, a dark gray ferret had appeared and darted for the exit. They had cornered and killed it. They had never learned the man’s name.

With a heavy heart, Rhianne copied the relevant page and hid the copy in an interior pocket of her syrtos to deliver to the bridge later in the day.

Now she was left with the harder task, dealing with the abuse of the slave women. She wished she could take this problem to Lucien, but he didn’t have the authority to act without Florian’s approval. And if Florian and Lucien disagreed—well, she’d just be creating more friction between father and son. Better to go directly to Florian and take the heat herself, if there was heat to be taken. She was in the right on this one, and her uncle was no proponent of the mistreatment of women, but it was hard to say how much he would care about the plight of slaves.

She found him in the Sardossian section of the Imperial Garden, sitting ramrod straight on a stone bench, his syrtos and loros impeccable to the last folds. Wiry trees with butter yellow blossoms formed a rough semicircle around his bench. He spotted her, and his craggy face broke into a smile. He beckoned, and she went to him. Brushing away the fallen blossoms, she sat on the bench.

“I’m glad you came,” said Florian. “I meant to send for you. I’ve heard an interesting story from your bodyguard. Apparently you’ve befriended a Mosari slave in the gardens—these very gardens!” He indicated them with a sweep of his hand. “And later he was arrested on suspicion of being a spy.”

The little hairs prickled on the back on her neck. Tamienne had snitched on her? That duplicitous, ungrateful . . . But she had to stay calm. It would not do to appear flustered in front of the emperor. “I can’t believe Tamienne spoke to you about such a trivial matter.”

“You saw fit to intervene in his interrogation and serve as the mind mage administering his truth spell? That’s irregular.”

“You want to know what really happened? That slave, whom I’d recruited to teach me the Mosari language, was being harassed by an overseer who was raping slave women he’s supposed to be in charge of. The Mosari you speak of tried to stop him. I did administer the truth spell. I know.”

Florian frowned at her.

“This is why I came to speak to you today,” Rhianne continued, still trembling a little from the shock of Tamienne’s betrayal. “The overseer, Micah, rapes a slave woman every night. This—this cannot be good for productivity, and we need to put a stop to it.”

“Melodrama between slaves doesn’t concern me,” said Florian. “This Micah—he’s Mosari?”

“Yes.”

Florian shook his head. “That’s just what those Mosari animals do.”

“Not all of them!” cried Rhianne. “Not the slave who intervened. And, Uncle, it’s wrong. Whether this happens on Mosar or anywhere else, we shouldn’t be allowing it to happen here. No woman, Kjallan or Mosari, slave or free, should have to suffer that.”

“The slave who intervened probably wanted the woman for himself,” said Florian. “These are people who live in caves and soulcast into animals, Rhianne. They’re not like us.”

“That’s entirely untrue, Uncle.”

“I forbid you to meet with this slave again. He’s a bad influence.”

“I’ve no interest in seeing the slave again.” She was sending him away anyhow. What if Florian’s suspicions led him to investigate further and learn that Janto’s name really wasn’t on the slave books? “But about Micah —”

“Leave the slaves to their petty excitements, Rhianne. It’s none of our affair. And you’re not to participate in interrogations at all. It’s beneath you. Dirty work, meant for the lesser families.”

Rhianne wilted. She’d told Janto she would solve this problem because she’d thought it would be easy. Now it didn’t look so easy.

Florian squeezed her hand. “I’ve been pleased to see you in some of our state meetings lately. It’s refreshing to see a pretty face among my grizzled old officers and counselors. I shall miss you terribly when you go to Mosar. It broke my heart when your mother left.”

Rhianne swallowed. She had few memories of her mother, only fragments and scattered images, and hated being reminded of what she’d lost.

He cocked his head at her. “Are you happy, Rhianne?”

She looked away. “Sometimes.”

“Your mother,” said Florian, “she was not happy. Even as a youngster, I saw it. She was restless.” He gave her a probing look. “You remind me of her.”

Rhianne avoided his eyes, not knowing what to say. What she really wanted—freedom to explore, to learn, to make her own choices in life—he would not grant her. And the more she asked for it, the more he would resist. “I’m happy, Uncle. I’m not going to run off like my mother did.”

“You’ll enjoy Mosar,” he said. “You’ve always wanted to see another country. And marriage has a settling effect. It did for me.”

“Uncle, I don’t like Augustan.”

“You barely know him,” said Florian. “He’s a brilliant man. A wonderful strategist, not a speck of cowardice in him.”

“That doesn’t mean he’ll make a good husband.”

“Give him time, my dear. You spent all of two days with him. Get to know him better before you make such strong judgments.”

Rhianne sighed.

“You’ll give Augustan time?” prodded Florian.

“I suppose.” What choice did she have?

* * *

In the late afternoon, Rhianne sneaked out through the hypocaust and made her way to the Bow Oak Bridge. She wished she had a solution for the slave women, but she’d promised Janto information about his missing spy, and at least she could give him that before he left Kjall. Morning clouds had matured into a light drizzle, and she pulled her cloak’s hood over her head as she approached the bridge.

No one was out walking. She had the place to herself, which was good.

Under the bridge, a shallow creek rattled over a bed of pebbles. She wanted her note out of sight and out of the rain, so she followed a rough trail down to the water, looking for a hiding spot beneath the bridge. Possibly she could tuck the note up in the bridge’s supporting beams, but that might be hard for Janto to find.

Something splashed in the creek. She turned, but there was no one there. She stood still, watching. Perhaps a fish had jumped?

A pebble rose of its own accord. Then it fell into the water with another splash. Her heart thrummed against her ribs. Janto? She remembered his promise from the other night, and a warm tingle of anticipation ran through her.

A rock on the other side of the creek dislodged itself from the ground and rolled down the bank. Farther up the bank, grass bent, as if by a stiff wind.

Rhianne ran up the trail and crossed the bridge to the other side. She found the patch of bent grass, which was slowly straightening. In the woods, a pile of dead leaves flew into the air. She hurried to it. Nothing there, but a little farther on, a branch bent on a bush. She ran to the bush. “Janto?” she whispered.

Someone tapped her on the arm.

She whirled, and Janto grinned at her. A weasel-like animal sat on his shoulder.

She pressed a hand to her fluttering heart. “You could have just said something.”