Gaspart cleared his throat. “I never saw her without his mark.”
“Marks aren’t proof of consummation.” Pijuan’s boots clipped as he strutted to the center of the hall. “Twenty thousand yenna, and a lordship.”
Monna stepped forward, small and plump. “He threw her over his shoulder and kissed her in the middle of the hall. I saw them. Laughing and carrying on.”
Janna cleared her throat. “She loves him.” She met Tor’s eyes. “She does.”
Tor sucked in a sharp breath, staring at the holo-cam in her hands. He’d seen it in Klym’s hands so often. He’d never really looked at it, though.
She’d left it behind? Why?
Where was she?
He stared at the holo-cam, imagining a thousand things he could have done differently. Carried her up to their room the night she’d come back with Sanger, made her his then, or the following morning, stayed with her instead of going to the field to see his men. Told her he cared. Told her about the treaty with Argentus. Not taken her from Frigorria in the first place. Asked her to come, begged her. Anything.
So many choices had led to this point.
“I was there when he found out she was missing in the riot.” Fandig spoke from the back of the room by the doors, the light behind him, his booming voice echoing. “He loves her too.”
Tor stared at the beady-black eye of the holo-cam, the wind blowing in his hair, his teeth clenched tight. He should have told her. He’d just expected her to know. She must have left, thinking he’d never cared at all. “I loved her. And if you ask what happens between an Argenti woman and a Vestige Prime, I swear to Vaniiya it will be the last thing you ever ask. No one talks about my wife like that.”
Pijuan gritted his teeth, a snarl passing over his humani face, and Tor let loose with a long, slow Prime growl of his own, complete with raised hackles. “I dare you, Pijuan. Pick a fight right here.”
Just over Fandig’s shoulder stood Sanger. Brother. Enemy. Warrior. The wind tore at his shirt and tugged at his hair. He tilted his chin up, ever so slightly.
Solidarity. Nothing more and nothing less. I’m here. I’ll fight if you need me.
Tor nodded back.
I can deliver Didgermmion.
Pijuan’s upper lip lifted in a sneer. “I’ll be back.”
Tor nodded. “Please do.”
There wouldn’t be a fight. There couldn’t be. At least not yet. But soon. Tamminia and Didgermmion would rise up. The Alliance would fall.
And for now, his people had just proven something. They trusted him. Enough to keep his secrets. He wouldn’t let them down.
It would take Pijuan weeks to cut through Alliance legalities.
When Pijuan came back, he’d find Torum TaKarian, Regio of the Roq, backed by his people with a proven selissa by his side.
As Pijuan and his army loaded into their hovers, he inclined his head at Sanger and jerked his head toward the door.
Sanger disappeared.
Tor closed his hand around Janna’s upper arm. “I need that holo.”
“Of Pijuan?”
“Yes.” He just came into a regio’s home and threatened to take the selissa. Leaders across the planet would resent letting the Alliance have that kind of power. It just might be the proof that would tip the scales for any leader still in doubt.
Janna and their mother made the exact same expression. He could practically see the cogs and gears turning in their brains. They hit understanding at the same moment.
“You mean—” said his mother.
“But then—” said Janna.
He turned toward Gaspart and Jeor. These four people were his family. And now, finally, he trusted them. “Sanger’s in the study. We need to make a plan.”
It took longer than he’d have liked.
Gaspart would act as regio in his absence.
His mother would send copies of Janna’s holo to her contacts.
Jeor would go personally to meet with a few of them.
And Sanger. Sanger had to go back to Didgermmion. That was the final piece to delivery.
38
I will not
STARIA STARED at her reflection in awe. She’d put on Klym’s evilest bustier. “My boobs look amazing.”
“Just wait,” Klym said, and yanked on the ties at the back of the bustier. She pulled tighter and cinched Staria’s waist in another inch.
“I can’t breathe.”
“Then don’t. You’re not meant to breathe. You’re meant to look pretty.” The words sounded sullen, and she felt bad. She’d been poor company for Staria. Even getting dressed each day felt like work, and waking up in the morning seemed too hard. She mustered up a forced smile as she tied off the last of the laces. “Next comes the dress.” She dropped it over Staria’s head.
“It looks like a tarp.” Staria stared forlornly at the mirror. “I liked it better when you could see my boobs.”
“Wait until it’s laced.” Klym yanked on the laces at the back of the gown, and Staria winced. She was slimmer than Klym, and the dress made her look willowy and slight.
She’d let Klym coil her hair for her too, and it gleamed in an elaborate, low chignon. “You look lovely, Staria.”
And she really did. The gown was one of Klym’s favorites, a deep gold, that set Staria’s pale skin and dark hair practically glowing, and she’d added golden Vestan filigree bracelets and earrings. She looked exotic and intense, and Klym had no doubt every Argenti at the ball that night would stare.
“I’ll be dead and lovely if you don’t loosen this thing.”
Klym ignored her and set to work putting on her own dress in preparation for a ball, where she’d see Spiro. The thought sent a sharp stab of longing through her for Tor. It was impossible to believe that after everything they’d been through, she’d ended up right back here, in Merentide, engaged to Spiro.
Her father hadn’t given her a choice, though. Go to the ball or see Spiro at home, and Staria had turned on her with her big, black eyes, and Klym couldn’t say no. Staria had come all this way with her; the least Klym could do was go to a ball with her.
Her own dress was so wide it bordered on absurd, silvery gray with a lacy underskirt. The back laced closed over the thick boning of her stays, and it left her shoulders bare. She tried not to imagine what Tor would say if he saw her wearing it, probably something rude and funny about her breasts.
The thought brought such an intense burst of homesickness that her eyes stung. She’d left Tor twelve days ago. Today was meant to be the day of the feast.
She stared at her reflection. She should be wearing the outfit from Itta. The one with blue flowers in her hair, and her mother’s pearls, but she’d sold those for enough yenna to buy passage on a freight ship that had stopped on four separate peace planets.
They’d arrived only yesterday. Within five minutes, her father had announced her engagement to Spiro Willo back on.
She turned her back to Staria. “Will you do up the laces?”
Staria met her eyes in the mirror. “We could always find a way to comm Janna. Find out how he is.”
Klym wrapped her hand around a bedpost, and Staria yanked on the laces.
She winced. “It wouldn’t change anything.”
Yank. “He might ask you to go back.”
“I’m sure he would. For peace.”
Staria tilted her head. “Maybe not.”
She tightened her grip until her knuckles stood out, pale as bone.
“Klymeni,” said her father from the doorway.
She turned to him.
“I have urgent business tonight. The chauffeur will take you in the hover.” His jaw clenched as he took in Staria in her formal gown, standing by her side.
“Both of us,” Klym said. “We both go, or neither of us do.”
When he’d come to get them from the Merentide Spaceport, he’d begrudgingly agreed to let Staria stay with them. He hated the Vestige with the fiery passion of a thousand blazing
suns, but evidently, he found their women harmless. Then again, he’d never met Tor’s mother.
His mouth pinched, but he added, “Both of you. Spiro will meet you there.”
Klym clenched her fingers to keep them from shaking. “I told you before, Father. I will not Bond with him.”
A vein just below his hairline pulsed. “You will.”
39
This will probably hurt
TOR LANDED HIS SHIP at the coordinates Franno had given him, in the middle of a blue field a few miles west of the Merentide, Klym’s hometown.
He’d polished Miannya during landing, and checked his rezal and all his knives. But it didn’t really matter. He could have every weapon on Vesta at his disposal and it wouldn’t change a thing. He was one man, landing on an enemy planet.
If Franno double-crossed him, he’d be arrested, interrogated, tortured for more information, and eventually killed.
And it wouldn’t be a pretty death.
The civilians of Argentus may be like Klym, polished, gentle and polite, but the Tribe, the Argenti military, were as fierce and as hard as the fiercest on Vesta. If the plan went south, he was screwed, and Sanger would be Regio of the Roq, a prospect Sanger had begrudgingly agreed to. Gaspart was handling the Roq in his absence. Pijuan had been called back to the Alliance for an Inquisition, and Janna’s holo of his invasion of the Roq had been aired on every digi on Vesta.
A small ground vehicle sat on the edge of the field, a trio of blue-hued headlights cutting light cones through the dark.
He used field goggles and his ship’s sensors, but detected nothing. Ground recon on a planet like Argentus—built up and populated by hostiles—however, was not and had never been his strength.
He took a deep breath, shoved Klym’s pearls in his pocket, and jabbed the button to open the hatch. He’d see her tonight. Or first thing tomorrow. It had been too long since their last marking, when he’d left too much unsaid. He’d followed her, just two days behind every step of the way, as her freight transpo had stopped at various peace planets, and every time he’d been half convinced he’d find out she’d been captured or arrested by the Alliance.
She hadn’t, though. And for that he was proud. Even if he was pissed that she’d sold her pearls—and he was pretty sure he’d paid three times what she’d gotten for them.
The door slid open with a hiss, and an onslaught of cool, humid air hit him.
He walked across a damp blue field. Nearly every planet he’d been on had its own version of night music and, as lush and blue as Argentus had appeared from space while landing, he didn’t doubt they had plenty of life here. But for whatever reason, there was no music tonight. No insects, no nocturnal animals calling to one another. And out here in the country, no hovers or rigs, no ships in the sky, no city-hum. The night was quiet, the sky overhead a uniform cover of thick, gray clouds that reminded him of Klym’s eyes. He felt strangely at home.
If anyone from the government was out there waiting for him, they were quiet too.
When he got close to the vehicle, a door hissed opened, and Franno stepped out, steely hair and that recognizable narrow nose.
“There are about five million men in Merentide and a few hundred thousand women,” Franno said, his chin thrust forward. “Just about every last one of them will kill you if they see you.”
“Only if they find out I’m here.”
Franno sent Tor a look he’d known since the day he’d had his first kill. It was the look a man gives another man when he’s trying to establish the pecking order. “You love this girl?”
Tor ignored that because it was a stupid question, and yanked open the door of the vehicle. “Where is she?”
Franno rounded the front of the vehicle and opened his own door. “At a ball surrounded by a few hundred military officers. No place safer in the city.”
Tor climbed in to a nice big seat. Klym had never made anything easy. “Beats City Hall.”
Franno snorted. “The building we’ll end up in is right across the street.”
“I know.” Tor had studied the map for a long time. First, they’d go to Franno’s house, and then he’d be taken to the War Office. He stretched out, rolling his shoulders. “I like this seat.”
Franno shrugged and guided the vehicle down a long road, through slim trees with broad leaves that stretched into the sky like fans. The city twinkled in front of them.
“How did you bypass my arrival?”
“I didn’t. I just programmed the computers to recognize you as my son’s ship.”
Tor made a noise, and Franno laughed.
“Not Agammo. My older kid. He works in acquisitions.”
Tor tried to imagine how he’d go about sneaking an Argenti vessel onto Vesta. The Alliance had so many satellites, automated security systems, defense bots, any foreign object would have been shot down instantly. “Seems like it shouldn’t be that easy.”
“It’s not. He’s got clearance. He brings in… covert items.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“Means whatever the government wants off books.”
Sounded like people or weapons. Tor shrugged. In some ways, the Argenti were as bad as the Alliance. “You got the holo to Agammo?”
Franno leaned back in his seat. “I sent Agammo to get the Premier. His mate, Malina, has the holo. She knows more about the media. It will be all over the news within the next hour or so.”
“You watched it?”
Franno met his eyes, the light from the vehicle reflecting back on his face, bathing him in ghost light. His eyes glinted. “It was effective.”
“Will she see it?”
“If there’s a digi in the vicinity. I think so. She’ll be at a ball. They’ve got digis there.”
Tor grunted.
“What happens when an Argenti and a Vestige fuck?”
Tor rolled his eyes. “Everything you could imagine. It’s the best of both worlds combined.”
Franno shut up after that, and they didn’t speak as they entered the city’s quiet streets. Tor had a vague impression of tall marble buildings, uniform and organized, all lit up like individual landing pads. Wide streets with tall blue trees, pedestrians everywhere, and tidy bridges crossing over a wide river that glistened, flat as glass.
“You ready?” Franno asked.
Tor laughed grimly. Was he ready? To get Klym back? He’d been ready since the day she’d left, biding his time with promises for all the things he’d do to her the second he got her under his thumb. All he needed was a door between him and the rest of the world, and he was getting inside her. He was never letting her go. He fucking hoped her Argenti pheromones addicted him, or addicted her to him, or threw them into a three-day orgy of blurry red haze, or triggered heats, or all of it. Or none of it.
He didn’t care. He didn’t need any of that. He’d make their own haze, because he was going to shove his way inside her, and no matter what happened, he wasn’t letting his way out for at least a week. “I’m ready.”
Franno nodded and pulled under a building as white and marble and columned as the rest of them.
Up close, Tor could make out sculptures standing in the roofline, men and women wearing what looked an awful lot like the togatas they wore back home, a somber reminder that somewhere in their history, they’d been the same, the Vestige and the Argenti.
Franno pulled down a steep drive, and glass doors, backlit with blue light whispered open. He parked the vehicle in an underground lot beside three others. In the dark, in the shadows, Tor could easily imagine any number of Guarda hiding.
He leaned back in his comfortable seat. It would be a few hours before he’d be comfortable again. But when it was done, he’d have Klym back.
Franno squared his shoulders. “This will probably hurt,” he said, and hopped down from his seat.
Franno hadn’t even gotten two feet on the ground before the men came out, Guarda with their rezals leveled, walking with bent knees, night-vis
ion helmets reflecting back those cold blue lights.
“Hands up,” said a voice Tor knew all too well. Merona. Klym’s father. Right on cue.
Without moving in his seat, Tor held up his hands, just as he and Franno had discussed. “I surrender.”
A faint whisper cut across the air, and something hit his abdomen, faster than he could see.
Cold spread outward like a spider web. His fingers tingled. He tried to speak, but he couldn’t open his mouth. He tried to lift his rezal, but his hand wouldn’t function. When he tried to move his foot, he collapsed forward to land face-first against the broad dashboard of Franno’s vehicle.
This they hadn’t expected. Drugs. Fuck.
None of his limbs worked. He rolled his eyes around, the only part of him that moved, and found Franno chatting chummily with Merona.
“Did you honestly think it would be so easy?” Merona said, and with a sigh, gestured at the soldier, who lowered his weapon and stowed it cleanly in its holster.
Franno smacked Merona on the back and sent Tor a half smile.
If Tor’s face could move, he’d be laughing.
More soldiers moved forward. It took three of them to lift him, which he found deeply gratifying.
40
Balls are boring
KLYM SET HER WINE glass down on a mirrored table in the gilded hall of the Chief of the Education Committee’s river house, and watched as Staria chattered with an entire army. She’d come alive under the attention, her dark eyes glittering with laughter. She managed to simultaneously tease and shock the men, yet still remain somewhat aloof. She handled herself well, reminding Klym a bit of the worldly dominesses who were forbidden access to these sorts of high-society functions.
The house was beautiful in the same way her father’s house was beautiful. Opulently carved and elegantly furnished with crystal chandeliers the size of an escape pod, and stiff-backed soldiers in formal wear stood in clusters, and very few women, almost all of whom were Bonded.
This was her first ball. Girls still enrolled in The Merentide Ladies Institute of the Galactic Future had not been permitted to attend balls.
The Taming Page 25
