Windio’s eyes narrowed, and Tor was glad because a man who gave his word lightly wasn’t a good man in a war.
He waited, letting Windio think and study him.
Gaspart chomped away, and the birds chirped.
Finally, Windio blew out his cheeks. “I’ve seen you in battle.”
“As I’ve seen you.”
“Do you lead like you fight?”
Tor thought about Jasto’s death, and the other men he’d lost on Araa-Ara. Men he’d lost, men he’d failed. “I do not.”
Windio’s brows drew together.
“I’m more cautious with the lives of the men I lead.”
“Then I don’t need to know anything else.” Windio stood. “If you need me and my men, we’ll be there.”
They clapped hands and said goodbyes. Tor walked him out and then came back to perch on the edge of a chair, not wanting to sit on it again in the short togata. He eyed the seat where his dad had sat every day of his life, his wrinkly old balls resting right on the leather.
Gaspart made a big show of sucking on his teeth. “Well done.”
“I want a new chair,” Tor said.
“Talk to a steward.” Gaspart tilted his head. “You fuck your wife yet?”
It took effort not to get pissed. “My relationship with my wife is not open for discussion.”
“Then you’ll lose Tamminia. If you think Pijuan isn’t asking questions, you’re being blind. What is it? She doesn’t like you?”
“My relationship with my wife is not open for discussion.”
“Fine. Don’t discuss it with me. But you need to discuss it with her. Does she know the way she smells could destroy a country?”
He rotated his jaw. “No.”
“Maybe she’d like to know.”
“Don’t tell her.” Tor stalked to his desk. He’d be goddamned if he’d get her to want him that way. He stabbed his finger at the digi and stared down at his growing list of shit to do for a country—and a planet—he’d never thought he’d come back to.
“Who killed Father?”
Gaspart smirked and pushed back from the table, spreading his arms across the sofa back. “I think you should be asking why they did it. Maybe they just have a problem with regios?”
Tor smiled. “You think they’re coming after me?”
“I don’t know, but I know they’re willing to kill.”
“Pijuan?”
“No.”
Tor tapped his foot. He knew Gaspart well enough, even after a decade apart, to know the man had a theory. “Who?”
“Mother,maybe. Or Sanger. A noble who crossed him. A disgruntled cassia servant, a pissed off felana, a mother angry that he kept sending her son off to war. You name it. I could name a hundred people without even breaking a sweat who wanted him dead, including me. And you.”
The list was good. Sanger was the option Tor preferred. There wasn’t a person on Vesta with more motive to kill his father than Sanger, the illegitimate Prime son he’d raised, promoted, and then slapped down. Sanger had risen the ranks in the army faster than anyone, commanding loyal followings. He was Vintalliana, a man who loved the battle, the fiercest fighter Tor had ever seen. He’d commanded a thousand men, and when they went to one battle too many, lost a few lives too many, Sanger had spoken out against the constant raids, the meaningless war. His father had retaliated with grim, cold resolution. Sanger’s sister, father’s own illegitimate daughter, had been sold as revenge, and Sanger’s wife had been taken.
Tor’s father had ordered Tor to revenge-breed his own brother’s wife.
Tor had always known it was an act worthy of murder, but never before had he had a wife of his own. Imagining what it must have felt like for Sanger when his father had taken his wife and fucked her through a heat. It made him snarl. Imagining another man taking Klym from him, claiming her, fucking her to punish him, stirred some place inside him. A low growl sounded in his throat.
Sanger had played a role. He had no doubt, but he’d have needed help from somewhere to get into the cassia.
But for one.
“Mother? She loved that miserable bastard.”
“She did.” Gaspart used his thumb to pick at a molar. “She loved Dillan too. Sanger had more motive than anyone. But how’d he get in?”
Tor couldn’t help but smile. If Sanger wanted to get in, he’d have gotten in. “And Pijuan? If he did it?”
“He’d have paid someone. And he wanted it. If you hadn’t come back Pijuan would have taken over the Roq in a matter of weeks. But the same question holds. How did they get in?”
“There are ways. Climb the cliff. Override the sensors.” He crossed his arms. “I don’t really care why father’s dead. I’m glad he’s dead. I’m more concerned about you and that woman of yours who isn’t actually yours. Take my advice, Tor. Claim her tonight. So, if Pijuan comes tomorrow, anyone within a thousand miles will be able to smell it.”
26
Over my shoulder
BY THE WEEK’S END, Klym could attest that slippers designed for the noblewomen of Tamminiawere no better than those designed on Argentus.
By day she learned of Vesta, touring the halls of the cassia, meeting with stewards, members of the household, the cleaners and the cooks, the gardeners, and by night she begrudgingly learned of Tor.
He behaved as if he could simply orgasm her into staying on Vesta. He offered her no choice on that front.
He pleasured her comatose, ensorcelled her with illusions of love and safety, and marked her in the mornings. It had become a strange sort of ceremony. It was the only time he took pleasure and didn’t return it, which left her confused and strangely aroused by the possessive, dominant gleam in his eyes as he stared down at her, holding her neck in his hands, muscles tightening and clenching with every thrust of his fist.
It had to be deliberate.
And she couldn’t entirely say it wasn’t working. Every day, the allure to stay grew.
She called home daily, but all she achieved from her father were demands that she get to a peace planet.
She had
