Spy's Honor by Amy Raby Page B

night.”
    Rhianne scrutinized Janto’s face as if she’d never seen him before. “He’s clearly been in a fight.”
    â€œYes,” said Lip Scar. “That’s not important. I want to know whether he’s a spy.”
    â€œI’ll find out.” She turned and stared at Janto imperiously. “Slave,” she said, “give me your hand, and do not be afraid. This won’t hurt.”
    Janto’s palms were sweating. He wiped his hand on his slave tunic and offered it to her. She took it with an expression of distaste, which he hoped was feigned.
    An electric sensation crept up his hand—her mind magic, invading him. He stared at her hand on his, the point of entry, but it was all happening invisibly, in the spirit world: a breach of his soul. As the tendrils of her magic seeped through and enveloped him like a fog, he felt his own magic screaming rebellion, gathering to repel the foreign magic. But he held it in check and allowed her truth spell its nauseating hold. He could see no way out of this except to put his faith in Rhianne. She had a quick mind and a kind heart. He had a feeling she would not let him down.
    â€œWe’re ready,” said Rhianne.
    Lip Scar leaned forward and spoke to Janto. “Who and what are you?”
    Apparently this man wasn’t the type to ask a few warm-up questions first. “My name is Janto. I’m a slave assigned to the Imperial Garden.” His voice sounded strange inside his own head. There was an echo within, some sort of rumbling overtone.
    Lip Scar glanced at Rhianne.
    A moment’s infinitesimal hesitation. Her eyes met his. “Truth,” she reported.
    â€œAre you controlled by a death spell and under the oversight of Micah?” asked Lip Scar.
    â€œYes,” said Janto.
    Lip Scar’s eyes went to Rhianne.
    â€œTruth.”
    Gods, she was lying for him. He owed her a debt, and he would never be able to repay it.
    â€œAre you a spy?” asked Lip Scar.
    â€œNo,” said Janto.
    â€œTruth,” reported Rhianne.
    â€œIs Micah remiss in his responsibilities regarding paperwork and keeping track of slaves?” he asked.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œTruth,” said Rhianne.
    â€œDid you assault Micah because he attacked a slave woman?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œTruth,” said Rhianne.
    Lip Scar sat back heavily. “Your Imperial Highness, please release him from the spell. I’ve no further need for this man.”
    Janto closed his eyes in relief. The fog of the truth spell dissipated within him like the smoke of a discharged pistol, and Rhianne dropped his hand.
    â€œI’m pleased to help,” said Rhianne. “Slave, I’ll write you a chit to explain your absence from work.” Rhianne took a blank sheet of paper from the table, scribbled a few words on it, folded it, and handed it to Janto.
    Puzzled, he took the paper. Later, walking back to the garden, he opened the note. It read
Bow Oak Bridge, midnight.

11
    J anto thought hard about whether to meet with Rhianne as requested. In the end, he decided his honor demanded it. She had rescued him. She knew exactly what he was and had covered for him, an act her people would consider treason. If she’d stuck her neck out for him to that extent, he owed her some sort of explanation.
    The Bow Oak Bridge spanned a gravel-strewn creek just northwest of the Imperial Palace’s service entrance. Every morning and every evening, hundreds of slaves trod its ancient oaken planks smooth on their way to and from work. Farther north was the larger bridge, the one wide enough for carts and carriages. The Bow Oak Bridge served foot and horse traffic only, and, for the purposes of his “tame Kjallan,” was more private.
    In the darkness, Janto heard the water chattering to itself and smelled its dampness, but he could not see it. He crossed the bridge shrouded from the slave side to the palace side, not wanting