The Winner's Crime (23 page)

THE WINNER

“Flustered, Kestrel?”

“Not at all.” She fi rmed up her voice. “To tell the truth,

he gave it to me.”

“Quite an eve ning you’re having. Sneaking out. Taking

coats off sailors. Why do I feel, though, that that’s not the

whole of it?”

She shrugged. “I enjoy a good card game. Courtiers

provide few.”

“What were the stakes of your late- night gamble?”

“I told you. The coat.”

“You said he
gave
it to you. You also said that you won.

What
did
you win, then, at cards?”

“Nothing. It was merely for fun.”

“A game against you with nothing at stake? Never.”

“I don’t see why. I once played against you for matches.”

“Yes, you did.” He briefl y closed his eyes. Kestrel saw

the thin, almost vertical red line that marked his left lid. It

scratched at her heart.

He looked at her. His gray eyes hunted her face. She

fell prey to them as she always did. Arin smiled. It wasn’t

a real smile, and it dragged at the left side of his face. “I

challenge you to a game of Bite and Sting, Kestrel. Will

1

you play?”

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She turned back to the river. “You should leave the cap-

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ital.”

“A stormy journey across the sea with no one to keep

me company? How tempting.”

She said nothing.

MARIE RUTK

“I don’t want to leave,” Arin said. “I want to play with

you. One game.”

There was temptation, and there was the smart thing,

but it was becoming increasingly hard for Kestrel to make

the right choice. “When?” she managed.

“The next available opportunity.”

There was hardly a Bite and Sting set lying at their feet.

Kestrel would have time to prepare . . . though she had no

real notion of what such preparation could be.

Wasn’t it just a game? Just one? “Very well,” she heard

herself say.

“Winner take all,” said Arin.

She looked at him. “The stakes?”

“The truth.”

Kestrel couldn’t agree to that. She couldn’t even say no,

for that would admit that the truth was something she

couldn’t aff ord to give.

“Not enticing?” said Arin. “I see. Maybe such stakes

aren’t high enough. Not for you. That’s it, isn’t it? I’d give

you
my
truth for the asking. You know that. You don’t want

to win something that’s free.” His eyes mea sured her. “Kes-

trel. You’re hiding something. And I want it. Let’s say this.

If you win, I’ll do what ever you ask. If you tell me to leave

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the capital, I’ll go. If you want me never to speak with you

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again, I won’t. You name your price.” Arin off ered his hand.

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“Give me your word that you’ll pay properly. On your

honor, as a Valorian.”

CRIME

She tried not to look at Arin’s outstretched hand. She

’S

held the collar of her coat closed tight against the cold.

To lose was unthinkable. But if she won . . . she could

send Arin home. It would be for the best. It had become

THE WINNER

too dangerous for him to stay. Too hard.

“Kestrel.” He touched her bare wrist. Slowly, he slid his

fi ngers into the warmth of the coat’s large cuff . Her pulse

shot beneath his thumb. “One last time?” he asked.

Her fi ngers loosened, almost like they didn’t belong to

her. They opened, and they found his.

It suddenly seemed that Kestrel had been an empty

room, and that all of her wishes came crowding in. They

thronged: delicate, full- skirted, their silk brushing up against

each other. “Yes,” she whispered.

Arin’s eyes were bright in the darkness. His hand was

hot. “Swear.”

“A Valorian honors her word.”

“Come.” He drew her toward a descending alleyway.

“Now?”

“Would you rather play in the palace? I wonder where

would be best, my rooms or yours?”

She dropped his hand. She rubbed her palm, trying to

rub away the feel of him.

He watched her do it. His expression changed.

“We’ll play later,” she said, and that was when she knew

for certain that she might have agreed for the simple plea-

sure of playing against him, or even for the poisoned prize

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of sending him from the capital, but some weak part of her

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had also agreed out of the sneaking hope that she might

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lose. “Later,” she said again.

“No. Now.”

“We

can’t wander around the Narrows waiting to

stumble upon a Bite and Sting set.”

MARIE RUTK

“Don’t worry,” said Arin. “I know a place.”

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20

ARIN WONDERED IF THE FEVER FROM THE

wound had truly left him. He felt wild.

It was the confusion.

He led the way back down into the Narrows. His stride

was longer than Kestrel’s. He shortened it . . . and mo-

ments later, was practically loping.

Arin didn’t know what was real anymore. What was

real? Kestrel’s look of disgust when she’d fi rst seen him?

But then the wan lamplight had caught her face more fully.

He’d seen shock and grief.

Or he thought he had.
You’re seeing what you want to

see,
Tensen had told him.

When Arin had pulled that stolen— borrowed? won?—

coat away from Kestrel’s throat, a sensation had sparked

the air between them. Hadn’t it? But then she’d turned to

stone. Like she had before on the balcony, that fi rst night.

Maybe those sparks had been in Arin’s head. Maybe they

were the kind you get when someone punches you in the

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Arin hadn’t lied when he said that he trusted her. But

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that trust always came with a wrench of the gut. Trusting

her made no sense. Arin knew all the reasons it didn’t. His

trust was foolish. Unhealthy. To be honest, Arin didn’t un-

derstand his own trust. He wasn’t even sure if this stubborn

MARIE RUTK

impulse came out of real hope or was the habit of beggar,

fallen asleep with his hand held out for small coins.

Arin shot a glance behind him. Kestrel was casting

worried looks around the skinny alley— at the sick and

waste in the gutter, the wavy orange light from torchlit

gaming houses, the crumbling stairs. Mean- looking slicks

of ice.

She caught his glance. She tugged at her work scarf to

hide her cheek as if he were a stranger. Like he didn’t al-

ready know who she was, and she might succeed in trick-

ing him with her disguise.

Her disguise! Arin stopped in his tracks and marveled

at the sight of her dressed as a maid. Her bright hair was

hidden. Her face bare. Brow clean. That godsforsaken gold

mark was gone.

He felt something buoyant. Practically giddy. It fi lled

his lungs. It made him spin a story. A pure fantasy that

exposed just how far his mind had gone.

Arin imagined her as Tensen’s Moth.

Yes, Arin mocked himself, surely that was it. Every-

thing was explained.

Amazed at his powers of self- deception, Arin told him-

self his absurd little story. Tensen’s hints about Risha as

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the Moth had been mere insinuation. Tensen had said

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nothing straight. And Kestrel was in a good position to

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gather information for Arin’s spymaster, wasn’t she? Beloved

by the court. Daughter of the general. Close to the emperor.

CRIME

Promised to his son. Tensen would never tell Arin if
she
was

’S

his source.

It fi t perfectly. Look at her now. The maid’s uniform.

That coat. Something hidden in her eyes. Oh, yes. Kestrel

THE WINNER

would make a fi ne spy.

And let’s not forget that ruined dress Deliah had de-

scribed, with the ripped seams and vomit and mucky

hem.

Wouldn’t it be like Kestrel, to risk herself ?

For what? Herran?

Him?

Gods of madness and lies. Arin was insane.

He laughed out loud.

Kestrel had stopped, too. She’d seen his face fi ll with a

strange, hard mirth even before he’d laughed. “Arin,” she

said. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” He shook his head, still smiling. “Every-

thing. I don’t know.”

“What is it?”

“A joke. Something stupid. Not real. Never mind.”

She was reluctant to press him. She didn’t want to hear

that joyless laugh again.

They continued on for a few paces beneath the wooden

signs that hung over establishments’ doors like rigid fl ags.

Kestrel stopped when she realized where Arin was lead-

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ing her. She eyed the tavern across the street, the one

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with the sign of the broken arm, under which that sick

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lord had almost seen through her disguise. “I can’t go in

there.”

“Not grand enough for you?” Arin still had that satiri-

cal light in his eyes.

MARIE RUTK

“Someone might recognize me.”

“They won’t.”

“Do I look so diff erent in plain clothes?” She heard the

self- conscious note in her voice, and was embarrassed.

“Kestrel, I’m going to suspect that you think yourself

too fi ne a lady to enter the Broken Arm. Or that you’re

afraid to lose to me, which is really quite understandable.”

She scowled at him, then led the way.

The tavern was all wild noise and light. There was a

press of people. The air lay thick with tobacco smoke, the

meaty smell of cheap tallow candles, and a yeasty, humid

odor that seemed due to a mix of alcohol and sweat. Kes-

trel threaded through the crowd.

“Do you know where you’re going?” she heard Arin say

near her ear, amused.

Kestrel pushed ahead. She could breathe a bit better

closer to the bar, though when she came nearer she saw

three disheveled courtiers, drunk and loud. She knew one

of them by name. He ranked highly, and had been a part

of the emperor’s inner circle at the Winter Garden party.

Kestrel ducked her head, afraid to be recognized.

She wasn’t quick enough. His gaze fell on her . . . and

slid away. She saw him
not
see her, or at least not see any-

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thing worth his attention. One of his fellows laughed at

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something the other said. The senator turned to them.

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There was a merry call for another round. They didn’t

glance her way.

CRIME

“You’ve stopped,” Arin murmured in her ear.

’S

Her heart still hammering, Kestrel spun so abruptly to

face Arin that she jostled into him. His hand caught her

shoulder.

THE WINNER

“I’m leaving,” she said.

“You promised. One game.”

“Not here. Not now.”

Arin’s grip tightened. “Then you forfeit. I win.”

Her heartbeat changed in her ears. It rode high at his

touch. There was temptation, and then there was . . .

something else, that might have been the smart thing if she

hadn’t forgotten it.

That something else shape- shifted. It hardened inside

her. It pushed for
yes
, spurned
no
, and called Kestrel a cow-

ard. It joined hands with temptation.

“I never forfeit,” she said. He smiled. She led him to a

far corner with a cluster of tables. The tables were all occu-

pied. A pair of Valorian merchants sat at the one farthest

from the senators. Kestrel went up to the merchants. “Give

us your seats,” she said, and dropped the purse she’d stolen

from the harbormaster onto the table. The merchants

looked at it, looked at her, and decided to drink on their

feet. They took the purse and left.

“Blunt, but eff ective,” Arin commented as Kestrel

claimed a chair, her back to the courtiers. Arin remained

standing. She thought he might say something teasing.

That steely mirth hadn’t quite left him, but it had soft-