Amy Raby - Spy's Honor

The scent of orange blossoms wafted toward him as he neared her. The princess’s voice was soft and liquid as honey, and she was speaking Mosari! Reading it from a book, it appeared. She was misprouncing most of the words, and she had the most atrocious accent he’d ever heard. Poor woman—nice to look at, but it seemed she had dandelion fluff for brains. He listened anyway, mesmerized.

Rhianne could see that the Mosari travelogue she’d found in the library wasn’t going to be much use. It had a single page of helpful phrases for travelers, but if she was going to spend the rest of her life in Mosar, she needed to learn the whole language, not just a few helpful phrases. Still, it was all she had, and until she found better, she’d make the most of it.

“Cona oleska,” said Rhianne to Tamienne, her bodyguard. “Means good morning .” She repeated the phrase under her breath, trying to commit it to memory. “Cona oleska, cona oleska.”

“Cona oleska,” echoed Tamienne.

She sighed and looked up from her book. She noticed the slaves were now working near her in the garden. She wanted to learn the Mosari language, and here she was, surrounded by Mosari men, every one of whom spoke it fluently. The problem was that none of these slaves spoke more than a few basic words of Kjallan. Still, perhaps she could practice a “helpful phrase” or two on them.

One slave was quite close, shoveling mulch. “Cona oleska,” she called to him.

The slave raised his head and, to her astonishment, spoke in fluent submissive Kjallan. “With respect, great lady, you just wished me a ‘good mountain.’”

Tamienne was instantly in motion, cuffing the slave across the face. “Your Imperial Highness,” she growled.

“Leave him be, Tami!” cried Rhianne.

“I beg your pardon, Your Imperial Highness,” said the slave.

Tamienne retreated, glaring balefully at the slave.

“Come closer,” Rhianne ordered him.

Wordlessly, he did so.

Rhianne could not help thinking that there was something distinctly unslavelike about this man. Though not especially tall or imposing, he stood before her with the carriage of a warrior, and his comfort in addressing her suggested his rank in Mosar had once been high. He couldn’t have been in Kjall long because his coloration was still sun touched, his golden hair a shade lighter than his skin but cut short, unlike the Inyans, who braided theirs down their backs. His sea-blue eyes regarded her with more amusement than fear, and she found herself wanting to know his story and maybe touch that lovely bronze skin—not that she was the type to consort with a slave. “What’s your name?”

“Janto.”

“I wished you a ‘good mountain’?”

“You put the stress on the wrong syllable. You said oh-LES-ka . It’s OH-les-ka .”

“OH-les-ka,” she mimicked. “ Cona OH-les-ka . Is that right?”

“Yes. But your accent is atrocious.” He smiled, and she was taken aback by how beautifully his features lit up.

She smiled back. It was so funny to hear him speak words in the submissive grammar that weren’t submissive in their nature at all. Perhaps since he was a foreigner, he was not aware of the irony. “I would fault your Kjallan accent if I could, but I’d be lying. It’s perfect.”

“Thank you,” said Janto. “I had an exacting tutor.”

“I have a feeling you weren’t a gardener back on Mosar.”

“No, Your Imperial Highness,” said Janto. “I was a scribe in the Mosari palace.”

“You’re literate, then?”

“Yes.”

And he spoke with such confidence. If he’d truly been only a scribe, he’d been a valued one. “How did you come here?”

His eyebrows rose. “To the Imperial Palace?”

“Yes. To Kjall.” She realized as soon as she’d said it that it was a stupid question. Obviously he’d been enslaved, and whatever had happened to him, it had been recent, so the pain would still be raw. And he was young—around twenty-five, she guessed, which made his situation sadder still. She was curious, but she should not satisfy her curiosity by poking at fresh wounds.

With a wry smile, he looked around the garden. “Imperial Highness. This is a beautiful place, and you are a beautiful woman. I don’t think you wish to hear my tale of woe.”

Rhianne did, in fact, want to hear his tale of woe, but she accepted this as Janto’s polite way of saying he preferred not to talk about it. Still, if she got to know him a little better . . . but he was a slave. He could be transferred anywhere at any time, at the whim of the overseers. “Your talents are wasted hauling dirt. I would like to give you a new job.”

“Yes, Your Imperial Highness?”

“I’d like you to tutor me in the Mosari language.”

He raised his eyebrows in surprise but didn’t say anything. She supposed she had shocked him, but she couldn’t resist. It had been a long time since she’d met someone who intrigued her as much as this man. A slave, yes, but educated and diplomatic. Obviously well bred. And gods, that smile.

“I’ll be here every morning at around this time, and you can teach me,” she said. “I’ll speak to the head gardener about your absence from your other duties.”

“May I ask why you wish to learn my language?”

Rhianne hesitated. She could hardly tell him it was because she was supposed to help govern his country after it had been conquered. That was just cruel. “I’m . . . supposed to travel there later. I thought it would be good if I knew the language.”

Janto folded his arms. “During the war?”

Rhianne shook her head. If he was going to push for an answer, he was going to get one he didn’t like. “No. After we conquer it.”

“Perhaps your efforts will be wasted,” said Janto, his chin up. “You might lose.”

She looked down at her book, embarrassed now that she had tried to hurt him. “I can’t imagine it would ever be a waste to learn another language. I’ll see you tomorrow morning. Be prompt.”

“Prompt as the sunrise, Your Imperial Highness.” The slave returned to his wheelbarrow.

Janto left the Imperial Palace grounds under cover of his shroud with Sashi on his shoulder. He watched Iolo and the others pick up their signed chits that indicated they’d done a full day’s work. As he understood it, the chits entitled them to their abeyance spells and allowed them to live another day. The brutal, dehumanizing system seemed typical of the Kjallans.

Invisible, Janto stayed close to Iolo, who, as agreed, slowed his pace and fell behind the others. When they were alone, Janto extended his shroud to cover the both of them. “I think that went all right.”

Iolo shook his head. “You were crazy to talk to the Imperial Princess. I about had a stroke when her bodyguard went after you.”

He touched the tender spot on his cheek, only just now remembering the assault by the bodyguard. Once he’d started talking to the princess, all other thoughts had fled from his mind. Gods, he’d never anticipated meeting someone like her. “The bruise is a small price to pay. I need access to the man at the top—or at least to his half-witted military strategies—and this woman gets me close.”

“I don’t question your courage,” said Iolo. “But there are other ways to get what you’re after.”

Janto sighed. Iolo had spent the last couple of days teaching him everything he needed to know about pretending to be a palace slave. His initial fear that Iolo would be overawed by his rank had turned out to be unjustified. Iolo eagerly challenged Janto on decisions he didn’t agree with. That was good; his advice seemed insightful, and his outspokenness meant Iolo would be useful as a long-term ally and adviser, not just a temporary tutor in the ways of Kjallan slaves. But it was also annoying. “You don’t question my courage,” said Janto, “but you question my judgment.”