Honor Bound by Joey Hill (good novels to read in english TXT) 📗

Feeling vaguely piqued, Rhio snapped out orders. “Yachi, you’re in command out there.

Check every shadow, every bush, every doorway. The roof too. Go.”

“Aye, Cap’n.” Yachi sped away.

With the departure of the Queen, the gathering had relaxed, splitting into smaller groups.

To one side sat a trio of gray-haired ministers engaged in serious, low-voiced discussion, while the little treaty scholar stood in the colonnade, chatting with her juniors, her face flushed with excitement and the release of tension.

Rhio leaned casually against the wall, his arms folded. With any luck, the Trinitarians would dismiss him as a piece of the furniture, the way they treated all servants. The Ambassador-Pasha and his delegation gathered their robes about them and made for the door, their soft slippers scuffing across the tiles.

“Well?” said a tall man with military bearing, bending to murmur in Giral’s ear.

The Ambassador’s shoulders moved in a fluid shrug. “All is in the hands of the

Trimagistos.” Automatically, he made the sign of the Three, touching his fingers to forehead, heart and groin.

Rhio’s eyes narrowed as the others caught up. Two long strides and he gripped the last of the party by the shoulder, spinning him around. “Where do you think you’re going with that, sonny?”

The youth glared up at him, big eyes outlined in black, his pink lips compressed to a thin line. A silvery fall of chain mail spilled over his arms. “It belongs to the

Ambassador-Pasha.”

The damn thing must have slipped to the floor in the confusion. He hadn’t even noticed.

“It’s the dancer’s.”

“Yes, and the dancer also belongs to the Ambassador-Pasha.” The young man sauntered off down the colonnade, hips swinging.

Rhio caught up with him. “But she’s responsible for it?”

The other man’s gaze flickered up and down his body with frank interest. Rhio knew what he was thinking. Big, slow— stupid. A vicious smile revealed small even teeth.

“Indeed, she is.”

Shit. They’d punish her for a fault that was his. “She gave it to me to hold.”

When Rhio reached out, the youth skipped backward. “Oh, no, I couldn’t.” He shook his head in apparent sorrow, lips pursed.

Like most big men, Rhio couldn’t claim to be lightning fast but he was extraordinarily efficient. A single step, a practiced, economical move, and he spun the youth deep into the shadow where the colonnade curved, fingers pinching a nerve in his neck and a slim wrist twisted up behind his back. The corset slithered to the flagged floor with a musical hiss.

The smaller man spat curses, writhing hard in Rhio’s grip. Rhio’s brows rose. Interesting.

Any normal courtier would be terrified. Therefore . . .

Abruptly, he removed his fingers from the man’s neck and shoved him face-first toward the building, helping him along with a knee in the small of the back. “Place your hands on the wall and do not move,” he whispered, all gravelly menace.

“Or what?” With some difficulty, the youth turned his head. His lip curled. “You’ll damage Giral’s favorite? Good career move, clod.”

“Favorite what?” Though he was pretty sure he knew. As Rhio patted the other man down, gusts of musky perfume rose off his skin and robes. Ah . . .

With infinite caution, he slid his fingers under silken fabric and withdrew a thin blade from a flat, flexible scabbard taped to the man’s ribs. An assassin’s trick. He held it up in the moonslight. More like a meat skewer than a dagger.

Brother’s balls!

Slamming his full weight against the slender body, he gripped the man’s fingers as they inched toward the intricate coil of his hair. The bastard would keep a garrote there, or a second blade. He waved his prize under that pert nose so the assassin could see the dark-colored tip. “Just a scratch,” he growled. “Want to risk it?”

Silence.

“What have you used?”

Silence.

“Tell me or I’ll find out for myself.” He moved the evil thing a hairsbreadth closer, watching the other man’s eyes cross.

Another heartbeat. “Prettydeath. Let me up, damn you! It’s prettydeath.”

A pool of ice grew in Rhio’s guts, froze the blood in his veins. His memory supplied a searing vision—a body arched in a bow of muscle-wrenching agony on a tavern floor, hideous clotted screams, the stink of purple-flecked vomit.

With an inward shudder, he stepped back, poisoned blade at the ready.

The assassin turned, settling his clothing like a huffy cat. But he took care to keep his hands in plain view. “You are at an impasse, my friend.” His lips twisted in a parody of a smile. “Kill me and the repercussions will ruin the talks.”

Rhio arched his brows. “You’re that important?” The man made his skin crawl, but he let his insolent gaze rove over the lithe body. Not so young, after all. There were cruel lines of dissipation graven around that pouty mouth, and in the moonslight, his eyes showed as pits, dark and empty.

“I am Simoener Selidan Sethril. The Grand Pasha, exalted be his name, is my esteemed uncle.” Pushing away from the wall, he took a step forward, until the tip of the prettydeath blade brushed his outer robe. He didn’t lack for nerve.

“Do not forget my name, Captain Rhiomard.” Slowly, he backed away.

Rhio bared his teeth. “I’ll be watching you.”

Sethril glared. “The old bitch has your balls beneath her heel.” His lip curled. “Eunuch.”

Turning on his heel, he disappeared toward the guest wing.

Amae stood quietly in the shadows of the Queen’s antechamber. Her heart beat hard and heavy with the aftermath of gut-churning fear, but she willed herself to breathe deeply, to ignore the cold air whispering under the cloak and around her bare legs. Once a warrior of the Shar’d’iloned’t’Hywil, always a warrior. She’d survived another day. Let that be enough.

From under her lashes, she observed the half a dozen women milling about the

luxuriously appointed room, taking each in turn. A simple matter of self-preservation.

When your continued existence depended on a master’s caprice, you learned to read faces.

Slowly, she relaxed, leaning back against the wall. The court ladies were lightweights not worth her concern, save for a tall