Spy's Honor

San-Kullen looked offended. “I mean someone willing. Since we freed the palace women, some of them have been, uh, friendly to the officers. I think we strike them as exotic. And they like our familiars. I won’t have any trouble at all finding someone who wants to sleep with the king of Mosar.”

San-Kullen was probably right; rank had its advantages. And it would do him good. On the other hand, a Kjallan woman would surely remind him of Rhianne—and that would cause him grief. And in the mood he was in, he wasn’t fit for company. “Thank you, San-Kullen. Not tonight.”

San-Kullen saluted. “I’ll see you in the morning, sire.”

The door shut, leaving Janto alone in his room. He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to relieve some tension. His supper tray sat on a nearby table. He passed by it without interest and stepped out onto the balcony.

An evening breeze ruffled his hair. The loading of the ships was still in progress. He could see it from here, trails of blue magelight on the water, some gliding toward him, others away. The ships’ masts and rigging, outlined by glows and magelight, glittered like spiderwebs at dawn.

All three moons were out, which was unusual. The Vagabond would be full tomorrow. He’d have to produce enough spirits for everyone on board to deliver the customary toast. Great one, pass us by. He snorted. As if that ever worked.

You’re in a mood, commented Sashi.

Sorry, he said. This has been harder than I expected.

Sashi’s tail flicked over his neck in sympathy.

“Sire.”

He jumped at the quiet voice. “I said no visitors!”

“I’m sorry, sire,” mumbled the door guard. “But it’s the Imperial Princess.”

* * *

Rhianne fidgeted anxiously outside Janto’s door. What if he wouldn’t see her? The guard had refused her at first. She’d pulled rank and argued, saying she was the Imperial Princess and she absolutely had to speak with Jan-Torres tonight. After all, he was leaving tomorrow and wouldn’t be back for years. The door guard held his ground for a little while, but when she’d persisted, he’d grudgingly agreed to see if Jan-Torres would make an exception for her.

Now the guard was returning, at an aggravatingly slow pace. His expression was bland; she couldn’t tell from looking at him what his answer would be.

He trudged up to her. “King Jan-Torres will see you.”

She let her breath out in a rush. “Thank you.”

The guard stepped aside, and she hurried into the room. There was no sign of Janto. “Where is he?” she called over her shoulder.

“Balcony,” the guard answered.

Odd that Janto had not come to meet her. Well, she was not at all certain how he felt about her. She hadn’t treated him well for the past several days.

It appeared he’d installed himself in the rooms of one of Florian’s advisers. She looked the place over, noting an untouched supper tray, and a pile of clothes and assorted items laid out on a chair. A light silk curtain, ivory in color, covered the entrance to the balcony, shimmering as the evening breeze tickled its edges. She pushed it aside and stepped out into the night air.

Janto leaned on the marble railing, watching the ships in the harbor. He turned, briefly, to acknowledge her presence. Then the harbor lights seemed to captivate him again—or perhaps he couldn’t bear to look at her.

It stung that he didn’t even smile in her direction, but she couldn’t blame him. He’d tried so hard to win her over, even proposing marriage, and she’d rebuffed him. She swallowed. “You’re leaving tomorrow.”

He nodded. “On the tide.”

She stepped to the railing beside him and looked out into the harbor. “I couldn’t let you go without saying good-bye.”

The lump in his throat bobbed. “If that’s what you’re here for, you’d best leave. I’ve said good-bye already, and I can’t bear to do it again.”

Pox, she was fouling this up. Why had she even said that? It was so cowardly, and it didn’t remotely hint at her real intentions. “That’s not what I’m really here for.” She didn’t like the way he looked, tense and unhappy. His hair was a little mussed, and she wanted so badly to run her fingers through it. “I haven’t seen you this quiet since the day we met. You don’t look yourself at all.”

“Bad day,” he mumbled, staring at the harbor.

She slipped her hand into his. “How so?”

He stiffened, but then curled his fingers around hers and leaned closer, relaxing a little. “Do you remember the Riorcan fellow at the negotiations?”

“Admiral Durgan. Of course.”

“I offered him and his people asylum in Mosar. Seemed a harmless thing to do, a bit of basic human decency, but now my brother’s giving me a hard time about it, saying they’re going to be trouble, and this is Silverside all over again.” He exhaled forcefully. “I know it sounds trivial—nothing I should get out of sorts over— but it’s always like this with Kal. I’m not good enough; my judgment is faulty; I should step aside and let him be king.” He shook his head. “There was more, but I won’t share it. Ugly stuff.”

Rhianne slipped an arm around his waist. In response, he wrapped an arm around her shoulder. She leaned into him. It felt good to touch him again.

“I hesitate in telling you about the Riorcans,” added Janto. “You’re Kjallan. You see things differently where Riorca is concerned.”

“The way we treat the Riorcans is wrong,” Rhianne said softly. “I’m not blind to that. But Lucien has no choice. If he can’t make a decisive show of strength following this humiliating invasion, he’ll be challenged by a usurper, or several of them. We could have civil war.”

“I know.”

Dear Janto. Or was it Jan-Torres? Now that her anger had calmed and she was paying more attention to the way he’d handled the invasion and its aftermath, she realized it made no difference; he was the same man, and he was always trying to do the right thing, even when it cost him. Maybe she could help, in her small way. She slipped her hand under his shirt and found back muscles knotted tight with accumulated stress. “You’re tense.”

He nodded, groaning dully as her hands worked their way up to even tighter shoulders.

She removed her hand from his shirt and pointed at a wrought-iron chair, one of two that flanked a marble table on the balcony. Switching from diplomatic to the command form of the Kjallan language, she ordered, “Sit.”

His eyes crinkled with amusement. “Yes, Your Imperial Highness.” He sat in the chair.

She stood behind him, caressing his neck, but his collar was in the way. She tugged at his Mosari outer tunic. “May I take this off?”

He helped her remove it, and her hands went to work on his shoulders, massaging and kneading. She was no professional, but it didn’t seem to matter. His knotted muscles untangled anyway, melting to smoothness beneath her fingers. When she finished, he slumped groaning in the chair, his eyes half lidded—but he seemed in no danger of falling asleep. He eyed her over his shoulder. “Rhianne, are you seducing me?”

Her eyelids dropped, and her cheeks warmed. “Maybe.”

He held his hand out to her.

After a moment’s hesitation, she accepted it. He guided her to the front of the chair, pulled her into his lap, and hugged her. She wrapped her arms around his bare back and buried her head in his shoulder. Gods, she’d missed this. She’d been lonely without her Janto. “I’m so sorry. I assumed the worst of you, and I’m ashamed of the way I’ve been treating you.”

“The blame’s as much mine as it is yours.” Janto pulled her closer. “Vagabond’s breath, why did I think it necessary to lock up the woman I loved and trusted more than anyone in the world? No wonder you thought poorly of me—I was an absolute fool. Shall we forgive each other and never let it happen again?”

“Yes,” she whispered.