Spy's Honor

“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.”

“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