“Of course they do.” Rhianne eyed the Cinna tome. Lucien was the military strategist, not she. But loyalty to one’s friends seemed such a basic concept. One didn’t need to study thousand-page books to know it was important. “So what do you know about Augustan Ceres?”
“He’s coming here,” said Lucien. “Florian had already summoned him, even before he spoke to you.”
“He’s coming soon?”
“A matter of days.”
Days. She didn’t feel ready. But maybe she never would. “What sort of person is he?”
Lucien frowned. “I don’t know. He’s always been on assignment in the south, and I was in the north. He’s got a reputation. . . .”
“What sort of reputation?”
“He’s strict. Stern.”
Rhianne bit her lip. She’d been hoping for a kind, jovial husband. Someone who made jokes, like Morgan. Someone thoughtful, like Lucien.
“It’s not necessarily bad,” offered Lucien. “Most good officers are on the strict side. They’re clear about their expectations, and the men like that.”
“I’m not a soldier,” said Rhianne.
“Of course you’re not. I’m not implying he’d be strict with you.” Lucien gave a nervous laugh. “You’d be his wife, not his, uh . . .” Whatever word he was searching for, he didn’t find it.
Rhianne tried to calm the anxious flutter in her stomach. It was no use getting worked up about a man she had never met and was hearing about thirdhand from a soldier’s point of view. Augustan might turn out to be wonderful. She couldn’t help wondering about him, but she would not pass judgment until she could evaluate him in person. “So after I go to Mosar, what are we going to do about Morgan?”
Lucien sighed. “I don’t mind contributing the fifteen tetrals, but if you’re expecting me to go crawling through the hypocaust in your place, well . . .” He held up his crutch. “Come up with another plan.”
Rhianne dropped her chin into her hands. “Morgan said not to involve you. Is there anyone else we can bring into this little conspiracy? Celeste?” As soon as she said it, she knew it was ridiculous.
Lucien shook his head. “Out of the question.”
Celeste, Lucien’s younger sister, was only eight years old and in the constant company of her nurse and tutor. She had not yet soulcasted. Rhianne could safely evade guards and travel through the city of Riat with the aid of her mind magic, but until Celeste acquired her own magic at around the age of twelve, it was ludicrous to consider sending her on such a mission.
“When I become emperor, I’ll reinstate his pension, but that won’t happen any time soon. Florian is likely to outlive Morgan. What about sending the money from Mosar?” said Lucien. “Once you’re married, you should have the authority to do that. And the island is wealthy—you’ll have money to spare.”
“I think that would depend on my husband. Will he allow it, considering that it violates Florian’s wishes?”
“Augustan doesn’t have to know what the money’s for,” said Lucien. “Not exactly. Just say you’re sending money to support Kjallan war veterans.”
“What if he doesn’t allow me to have money of my own?” said Rhianne.
“He’d better,” said Lucien.
Rhianne’s heart leapt when she saw the slave Janto waiting under the Poinciana tree at the appointed time. She’d been looking forward to this meeting all morning. When he spotted her and turned with a smile of recognition, her stomach practically melted. Which was ridiculous. A princess should never be nervous or excited about meeting a slave. She stood up straight and made herself enunciate clearly, “There you are.” She took a seat on the bench. “I thought we’d start with this.” She held up a book of Mosari fairy tales.
“A children’s book?”
It still stunned her to hear such perfect Kjallan words come out of his mouth. Most foreigners stumbled over the different grammatical forms. Janto, speaking in the submissive since he was her social inferior, hadn’t made an error yet. But perhaps he knew only the submissive. “Something easy, since I’m just getting started. Do you know all three grammatical forms of the Kjallan language?”
“Of course,” said Janto. “Now I’m speaking to you in the diplomatic form,” and he rattled off a few lines of Plinius, a well-known Kjallan writer. “Now I’m speaking to you in command.” More Plinius.
He switched as fluently as a native speaker. And while he shouldn’t have been speaking in command, he didn’t stiffen up or take on an apologetic air, the common mistakes that gave away those who weren’t comfortable in the form. Rather, he spoke command with a charisma that almost had her wanting to obey his orders. Which was disconcerting. “You astonish me.”
“Why?” He grinned. “Did you think my people spent all our time frolicking about on the beach?”
A flush crept up her cheeks. “No. I just mean it’s unusual for a nonnative to master all three grammatical forms so thoroughly.”
He shrugged. “I have a talent for languages.”
She slid over on the bench, making room. “Will you sit down?”
He glanced at Tamienne. “Your attack dog is eyeing me.”
“If you mind your manners, you’ve nothing to worry about from my attack dog.” Though part of her wished her bodyguard wasn’t there. Yes, Tami protected her, but she was also a chaperone. Rhianne would never be able to touch this man, not even in the most innocent of ways, with Tami present.
He sat, leaving a frustrating hand’s width of space between them, and handed the book back to her. “Show me what you know.”
Rhianne opened the book to the first story, about a prince, an old woman, and a magical goat. She read aloud haltingly, translating to Kjallan where she could and asking for help when she didn’t know a word. Janto turned out to be a patient and nonjudgmental teacher. The sweet citrus scent of a nearby lemon tree wafted over them as they worked, and the Mosari tale was adorable. She would have thoroughly enjoyed herself except that Janto was being excruciatingly careful not to touch her, always pulling his hand away from the book before their fingers met. No doubt he was worried about Tamienne, but it was aggravating. She could feel the heat of his body, the strength of his presence, but at this rate that was all she would ever feel.
“So here’s something that’s driving me crazy,” she said. And it’s not the only thing driving me crazy. “Earlier, the prince was referring to the old woman with the pronoun xhe, and now the pronoun is nhe. Why do Mosari pronouns change all the time? It makes no sense.”
“It makes perfect sense. He says xhe at first because she’s a stranger. Later he says nhe because she has become, to him, na-kali. That’s a word with no translation in your language, but it can be thought of as ‘future friend.’ It suggests friendly intent and common ground. Now, if they were truly friends, he’d call her alhe, or kali if he were addressing her directly, and if they were intimates or family members, sei or su-kali. Su-kali is also how our mages address their familiars, and vice versa, since that’s a close relationship.”
“How do you keep track of it all? Aren’t there seven forms for each variant?”