Honor Bound by Joey Hill (speld decodable readers .txt) 📕

head, a slow burn starting in his gut. “Tell me more.” He pointed to the couch and Dancer sat back with a sigh.

“The only reason I go unveiled is because I am a slave.” Her pretty mouth twisted.

“Whores are also forbidden the veil.”

“I’ve been to the Trinitarian Republic. I know how respectable women dress.”

“The covering is protection, and real enough.” Dancer shot him an unreadable glance.

“But did you know that older slaves and whores, or those of them considered ugly, are also required to wear the veil?” She smiled without humor. “I do not think your Sergeant would fare well with a Trinitarian master.”

Rhio laughed aloud. “She’d cut off his balls and shove them down his throat.”

“As punishment, they’d give her to a diabloman with a hungry demon. Her death would be one long violation. Not only body, but mind and spirit. Hideous.”

Rhio’s mouth went dry. Hadn’t she said Giral’s Slave Master was a diabloman?

“You,” he said. “Have you—?”

Someone knocked on the door, three brisk raps. “It’s me, Cap’n.”

“Enter.” Relief and frustration warred for his attention. Fuck, did he really want to know?

Yachi clumped in, a small battered pack slung over one arm and a greasy paper-wrapped bundle in the other hand. She hefted the pack. “This it, Dancer?”

Dancer smiled. “My thanks to you, Yachi. Are you all right?”

Rhio clamped a hand on Dancer’s shoulder to prevent her from rising. “Give it here, Sergeant. Report.”

Yachi scowled. “He spat at me, the filthy bastard. Would only look at Kano, though I’m the senior officer.”

“You mean the Slave Master?” Rhio spread the meager contents of the pack on his desk.

“So what did you do?”

Yachi shrugged, a shadow crossing her face. “I had your orders. I told Kano to keep his trap shut and let me do the talking. The Slave Master tried to act like he was deaf, but I kept insisting. Once he realized Dancer’s pack was the only way to be rid of me, he found it soon enough.”

“You insulted him,” murmured Dancer from the depths of the couch. “Be careful from now on, yes?”

“Was he alone?” asked Rhio.

“Yes, but you know . . .” Yachi’s brow knotted.

“What?”

Her wide brown eyes were thoughtful. “He’s a scrawny little runt, but he wasn’t scared, not at all. Even if I was beneath his notice, you’d think he’d worry about Kano. You should look at that promotion, Cap’n. He did us proud, what with all the growling and glaring like he’d break the little bastard in half with his bare hands.”

“Did you hear noises?” asked Dancer suddenly. “Anything . . . unusual?”

“Nothing that sounded like a demon, if that’s what you’re asking. Someone singing in the next room, high and thin, like a little girl.”

Dancer turned her head away and gazed into the heart of the fire.

Yachi tossed the greasy bundle to Rhio. “Here’s your supper. I did the best I could.

Cap’n. May I go now?”

Rhio smiled. “Enjoy your leave.”

Dancer shifted to brace her arms on the back of the couch. “What are you going to do?”

she asked, her eyes bright.

Yachi stretched ’til her shoulders creaked. “The taverns in the Melting Pot will be hoppin’. I’ve got me a two-day pass. Going to find me a pretty man.” Her unabashed grin made her look almost handsome. “Or two.”

Dancer blinked. “Good luck.”

Another grin and a wink. “Don’t need it. Bye, Rhio.” A casual wave and she was gone.

The fire crackled. Dancer combed her fingers through her hair, gathered up the silken mass of it and began to plait.

“Have you eaten?” asked Rhio.

“No.”

Opening the paper parcel, he found a small loaf that he tore in two. Then he used his long dagger to divide the chunks of cheese and cold roast meat. Grabbing a sheet of clean paper, he shoveled half of the food onto it and laid it on the arm of the sofa. “Here.”

Dancer’s eyes widened, but she thanked him calmly enough, continuing to braid.

Rhio picked up his ink brush and cleared his throat. “I have more questions.”

“But of course.” Had she smiled?

In his mind’s eye, he saw the hard handsome face of his old friend John Lammas, the dark calligraphy of ownership sprawled across one cheekbone, a slave tattoo. But John was lucky: He’d been one of the very few to escape the brutal servitude of a Trinitarian galley. He and his Meg had bought a country tavern in Holdercroft, way out in the Cressy Plains. Nonetheless, what must it be like to look at that desecration, that offense against his manhood, every day in the mirror? To see it reflected in Meg’s soft blue eyes when he kissed her?

“Every Trinitarian slave I’ve ever seen has a tattoo. Why don’t you?”

Her busy fingers stilled. “I do.”

Rhio frowned, remembering a feast of honey-toned skin, topped with the burgundy rose of her nipples. Against his will, he thickened. He’d seen every gorgeous inch of her. How could he have missed it?

Dancer’s dark brows winged up. Her lips curved, very slightly. “Let me show you, yes?”

Releasing the plait, she rose in a single sinuous motion and sauntered over to his desk. A drop of ink gathered on the end of Rhio’s brush and plopped onto the paper, but he didn’t notice.

Five

Silently, Dancer padded around the desk. “Where do you think it is, Captain

R-Rhio-marrd?”

“No idea.” Her eyes reminded him of Concordian chocolat, dark, bittersweet and

incredibly expensive. Rhio had a weakness for Concordian chocolat.

When she dropped gracefully to her knees beside him, the brush in his fingers snapped clean in two. What the—?

Dancer dropped her head, shifting the mass of her hair off her neck with one hand.

“See?” she said, her voice muffled, her breath warm and moist against his bare knee.

Rhio stared down at the vulnerable nape of her neck, appalled on so many levels he didn’t know which to deal with first. Unable to prevent himself, he reached down to trace the small, looping characters tattooed across the narrow span at the base of her skull. Fine downy hairs caught on his callused fingers, the