Rush managed to hail a carriage to take them to the Asmute city square where most of the social events and settings were available in the city. Asmute’s square was a large area divided into quadrants holding various forms of entertainment and venues.

By comparison to Marcomal’s cities, Asmute was tame. That wasn’t to say crime didn’t exist, or places of ill repute couldn’t be found—of course, they could. This was a former penal colony, after all. But those places remained under the radar and not as easily accessible to one who didn’t know and wasn’t connected.

Katrina’s dark eyes glistened with a sense of adventure and eagerness to explore the city, and it was contagious. Rush couldn’t remember the last time he’d been around someone with such joie de vivre.

She glanced at him. “What are the Cardinal Few, exactly?”

Of all the things to ask me about. He didn’t let her see how the question had caught him off-guard. “They are the ruling families of Zama. They usually get the government posts that are of note. They control policies. That sort of thing.”

“Why are they the ones listed for us to marry? Handfast, I mean.”

“Because it was deemed Earth’s government would take our obligation to the cause, to all the treaties and pacts between our planets, seriously if the highest echelon of our societies were committing to the handfasts.”

“What do you think about it?”

“I’m not a decision maker. My opinions on the matter are irrelevant.”

She seemed to let the line of questioning go quickly, and, instead, pointed and remarked on all the oddities she could find. Her passion and her enthusiasm were matched by her curiosity. Though, truth be told, he found her inquisitiveness to be slightly suspect.

He didn’t want to throw a damper on his own enthusiasm to show her Asmute, but some of her questions were too pointed, too piercing—almost as if she had a cause, an agenda.

He found himself disappointed in himself for regarding her with such doubt, but questions about where to find a specific person, how to get a hold of someone, or contact them…

Oh, who the blazing fires of all the volcanoes did he think he was kidding? He was jealous. He was certain her questions were because she wanted to find her intended, Maz’n. Sure, he was jealous; it was natural, he surmised. Here he was, spending his time, energy, and monies to make this woman smile, and she was clearly thinking of someone else.

Sitting near her in this open-air carriage meandering toward the square, their thighs practically touching, her natural essence filing his nostrils, and his desire for her impacting him, it was hard not to be bitter she was thinking of another.

As the skyline grew darker, the city’s bright lights compensated, casting her features in a sultry light.

He pointed toward the near distance. “That quadrant of the square has the eatery I’ll be taking you to. The chef was an escaped convict when Janus was still a colony of criminals. After securing independence from Zama—”

“Wait. I didn’t think it was independent.” She frowned. “I’m confused.”

“The colony was freed from being a penal institution. Many of the criminals were pardoned, but only under the provision they never return to Zama. Only the very worst were kept under incarceration, and those were moved to a facility in the desert area of Janus.”

“I had no clue.”

“It’s not something the Zamanese government would want advertised.”

He put his hand on hers on her leg to get her attention. To let her know the seriousness of what he was preparing to tell her. “Katrina. Janus isn’t as bad as some of the planets, but it’s also not as safe as Zama. Do not go wandering. You do not want to find out what can happen to a woman who’s alone in the wrong part of the city.”

“Understood.” She nodded. “I’m sorry. I interrupted you. Back to the chef…”

“He created a cuisine from his days on the run, hiding out from the law, before he was pardoned. The menu is comprised of only native elements but twisted into Zamanese dishes.”

“How…? What?”

“For example, say your lasagna, the Italian dish, right?”

“What about it?”

“Imagine that, but instead of pasta, a different medium, and a different type of sauce, and with meat from the local environment.”

“And that’s where we’re going? To eat prison food?” Her face wore a scowl.

He laughed. “No. It’s nothing like the slop one gets in prison.”

She raised a brow. “Is that the voice of experience?”

He shook his head. “No. Never been incarcerated.”

“Probably never got caught.”

He looked out of the side door of the carriage. Probably.