Tournament of Losers (24 page)

"Welcome, welcome," Montague said, turning from the other two to smile at Rath. "I hope you're looking forward to dinner. Their Royal Majesties certainly are."

"Of course," Rath said with a smile that he fervently hoped did not show all the panic that he was feeling.

From the way Montague chuckled, he'd failed miserably. Montague motioned to a servant, who came bearing a tray full of cups of wine. Montague picked one out and offered it to Rath. "A little bird told me you'd be partial to this one."

"A little bird?" Rath asked as he accepted the wine. He knew it just by the smell. His chest clenched. "What bird?"

Montague smiled. "Lord Quinton, actually, though she didn't tell me how
she
knew. Enjoy."

"Thank you," Rath said. How had Lord Quinton known what wine he liked? But she'd said she knew Tress; that must be where she'd learned it. But if Quinton knew Tress, then she must know that Rath and Tress had been breaking the rules. Why hadn't Rath been disqualified for cheating?

Well, if no one else was going to say anything, neither was Rath. Maybe it didn't matter because he wasn't competing for Tress.

It was a pity Tress couldn't be at the dinner. Rath would have liked to see him all dressed up in his finery. On the other hand, being that close, but unable to touch or even act like they knew each other…

He took another swallow of wine, as warmed by the memories it dredged up as by the wine itself. Taking a few more sips, he went to join the others and chat while they waited for dinner.

Jessa showed up just as the closing bells finished tolling, trying very hard to look and act like he was already a noble. Unfortunately, he did it well. He wore clothes as fine as Montague's, rich greens and blues trimmed in gold, his hair braided and twisted into elegant knots that Rath would never be able to duplicate.

Montague motioned to the servant with the wine tray. "Good evening, Master Jessa. Good of you to join us. Now that all of you are here, I will inform Their Majesties and then call you to dinner shortly."

Once he'd gone, and the servants had faded off, silence fell among the little group. Jessa glanced at Rath and the others, then turned pointedly away from them to go examine one of the paintings.

"You'd think he'd at least try to be polite," Sarie muttered.

Benni snorted softly. "Has he bothered since we started? Don't expect it now. He's certain he'll win, even though so far I would swear his performance has been amongst the worst, except for maybe the first challenge where he finished right after you. How he's made it this far is a mystery."

"No, it's not," Sarie replied. "I'd bet my place in the tournament right now that he's cheating, and that he had something to do with that reprimand we all got. If he hasn't bribed or threatened his way through this whole thing, I'll eat my shoes. Wouldn't surprise me in the least that he paid to have someone killed."

Rath let the conversation wash over him, focused on the flavor of his wine, the memory of dancing and playing with Tress, tumbling into the sheets with him later.

"—house, Rath? Rath?"

He startled, staring blankly at Sarie. "I'm sorry, my mind drifted. What did you ask?"

She grinned at him. "Nervous a bit? Glad I'm not the only one. I asked if your mother is enjoying her new house." She nudged him playfully. "She must be beyond excited. That was a smart boon."

"Money would have been smarter," Jessa said, turning away from the painting. "You could have bought a house and plenty more besides."

Benni shook his head. "I'd rather have security, and money is hardly secure, especially when you suddenly have a great deal of it. The house is a certainty, and no one can steal it."

Jessa's lips curled in a sneer. "Spoken like a true—" He broke off as a door opened and Montague swept in.

"Competitors, dinner is served."

Rath finished his wine and handed the cup off to a patiently-waiting servant, murmuring a thank you before he followed the others down the hall and into a dining room that made him want to turn and flee. His experience with eating was pubs, his own room, and feeding customers when they asked. None of those were adequate preparation for dining with the king and queen, no matter what manners the brothel had drilled into him.

He and the others knelt as they entered the dining room, heads bowed as formal introductions were made.

"Come sit, come sit," King Teric said congenially, and Rath was more than happy to let the others lead the way and sit as far away as he could get. Still too close, with only Jessa between him and the royal couple, but it was better than nothing.

Also at the table were Montague, Quinton, Sorrith, and a handful of other people whose names flew by him. He glanced surreptitiously at the king and queen. They were both beautiful, of course. Rath felt more inadequate than ever, hands twisting together in his lap.

His Majesty was tall and slender, hair cut so close to his head that there was only the barest bit of tight curl to it, run through with a dusting of silvery white, and he had sky-bright blue eyes that did not look as somber or serious as Rath had expected. Something about him was familiar, but Rath could not say why.

Next to him, Queen Isara was even more beautiful, shorter than her husband and significantly larger. Her hair was bound up in heavy braids twisted together at the back of her head and run through with bright scarlet fabric that probably helped to keep it all up. Gold and red hearts were painted on her cheeks, red paint on her lips. Her skin was lighter than Teric's, whose skin was dark enough almost to be black. Her eyes were light brown, almost gold, and as warm and friendly as any Rath had ever seen.

Some of Rath's nerves eased, though that pricking at the back of his mind that something was familiar about King Teric would not stop nagging him.

"Master Rathatayen," Teric said, making him jump. "I hope you are doing well." He smiled gently.

Rath ducked his head, but then forced it back up. "I am, Your Majesty. Thank you."

"Good. How did you enjoy your visits to the villages assigned for your quest challenge?"

Rath brightened slightly. "I had a lot of fun. I'm fairly certain I'm too old to be drinking like that, but I hope Cartina does well at the market competition. I'd feel bad if I chose poorly."

Across from him, Sarie chuckled. "That sounds like the wine tasting I had to do in Harter. Were you as hungover as me for the three days following?"

"It certainly felt like it," Rath replied, not wanting to dampen the conversation by saying he'd been too worried about Teller and further attacks to care about his hangover. "Did we all have to do such judgings? I had pie, ale, and got to oversee a village frost fair and judge all sorts of things."

Benni gave a bittersweet smile. "I am sad I'm missing the frost fair in my home village. Favorite part of the year."

"Yes, there was a beautiful frost fair where I grew up," Isara said. "We were thinking of reinstating the frost fair here, to take place at the conclusion of the tournament."

Rath brightened. "Really? That would be fun—assuming people could get the time to go."

Jessa scoffed next to him. "People are already given plenty of holy days off."

"One more won't make much of a difference then, will it?" Sarie countered.

"That is what was decided, yes," Teric interjected, casting the barest hint of disapproval in Jessa's direction. "Most of those days are in the spring and summer months. There is little time away from work to be had in the winter. So it's all to the good, I say."

Jessa bowed his head, mouth slightly pinched. "Of course, Your Majesty."

Mouth widening into a happy grin, Teric said, "Speaking of fairs reminds me of one of my favorite stories about Isambard. He'd wanted to go to the summer fair his brothers were attending, but I forbade it. He declared he was going to go all by himself if he must, and I told him he wouldn't get very far without coin. So later, he snuck into my office when he thought it was empty, never noticing my secretary tucked back in the bookshelves that wrap around most of it, and stole two marks from a purse I'd left in my desk." He chuckled. "Of course, he felt so bad about stealing the marks, he didn't get any further in his scheming, and the next day he snuck back into my office to return them. Left them right in the middle of the desk, as though I or any of my servants would leave money out like that."

It could have been a coincidence. Any number of boys probably stole marks from their father's desks. It seemed like the harmless, defiant sort of thing that children would do. But the story was exactly the same in all the key points…

And
how
had it taken this long to realize why Teric looked so familiar? Tress had his nose and smile, that infectious grin that Rath surrendered to every single fucking time. That also explained Quinton's strange behavior, and about five hundred other things that Rath
really
should have noticed sooner.

Tress wasn't the son of a noble. He was Prince Isambard.

Rath's hand shook as he reached for his wine. He took a deep swallow, because there was no other way he was going to avoid screaming or cursing or jumping from his seat to go find the bastard and break his damned nose.

He barely remembered the rest of dinner, though he did his best to talk and smile and act like he wanted to be there. Whatever his murderous intentions toward their youngest son, the king and queen didn't deserve to be on the receiving end of Rath's temper, and neither did the other guests.

But it was a relief when he could finally leave.

"Master Rath!"

Rath groaned, but came to a stop as he reached his horse and turned back to face Quinton, mustering a smile that felt stiff on his face. "Yes, my lord?"

"You seemed troubled all throughout dinner. I wanted to make certain all was well and you were not being further troubled."

Some of Rath's anger slipped out. "Tell
Lord Tress
that he is fortunate our paths did not cross."

"Oh, dear," Quinton said quietly.

Rath bit back a hundred questions and accusations, turned, and swung up onto his horse. "My thanks to Their Royal Majesties, and everyone else, for a wonderful supper. Goodnight, my lord." He rode off before Quinton could reply, barely noticing that the guard who usually shadowed him did not follow.

Leaving his horse at the inn's stable, he went quickly to his room and changed out of his good clothes. He packed up all his scattered belongings and set them by the door, then sat on the bed to pull on his boots—

And stayed there, head braced in his hands as he went over every single moment he'd spent with Tress. With
Isambard.
Every stupid thing he'd said, the way Tress had gotten mad and defended the royal family.

He couldn't—he was going to
kill
that lying bastard. Why? Why had he lied? Why hadn't he just told Rath who he was? Why keep interacting with him at all when it was against the damned rules?

Rath swallowed, face flushing hot. He must have sounded so stupid, must have looked ridiculous, discussing the royal family, his disinterest, everything else that had tumbled out of his mouth because he'd thought he was talking to a noble. Tress had never said a word, just gone blithely along lying and evading like it was nothing.

The door creaked, loud as a clanging bell in the silence, and Rath looked up as Tress stepped into the room.

Rath let him step into the room and close the door, then surged from the bed and stormed across the space between them, grabbing Tress up and slamming him against the door. "You lying bastard! You fucking—you—tell me why I shouldn't break your fucking nose! I trusted you, I cared about you, and this whole
fucking time
you've lied to my face over and over—"

"It's not like that!" Tress said. "Please, Rath. I never meant to lie; it wasn't like that. Please."

Rath threw him to the floor and went to retrieve his bags. "Then what the fuck was it?" Oh, Fates. He'd just slammed and thrown around and yelled at a fucking prince. His knees nearly gave out, and he had to grab the bed briefly until the urge to laugh hysterically had subsided.

He was thirty-fucking-three years old. Far too old for all of this foolishness.

"Rath, please—" Tress stepped in close. "You look afraid of me, and that was exactly what I didn't want."

Rath gave an unsteady laugh. "I just threw you around like I would a dock worker doing something stupid and dangerous. You could literally—"

"Do a hundred things that you know damn good and well I wouldn't do!" Tress shouted. "Have I not made clear after all these weeks that I care for you?"

"Care so much you've lied to me this whole fucking time," Rath snarled, anger once more taking him over. "You lied to me about who you were, what you were. Let me wonder and worry why my lover was so excited that I might be marrying the prince and didn't seem to care at all that meant I couldn't be with
you.
I've been heartbroken for weeks, and you've just been lying and evading and probably have a fucking lark over it." He jerked away when Tress reached out for him. "Don't fucking touch me. I was worried sick about you when my father was murdered, and now I have to wonder: did someone who knew you see us together? Did they convey that you and I were already close? Is that why they jumped so quickly to murder instead of just beating me again?"

Tress's eyes filled with tears. "I didn't—"

"Didn't think of anyone but yourself and how fucking clever you are for getting away with your lies and evasions, with keeping your Fates-damned secrets."

"It wasn't like that," Tress said. "It got complicated. Please, Rath. Don't leave. Give me a chance—"

"I'm tired," Rath cut in. "I'm tired of my life being in upheaval, of never knowing what will happen next. My life might have been boring, but I worked hard for it and I had control of it. Since this stupid tournament, I've had no control over anything. I've just been rushed along and run over and struggling not to drown. I wanted
you,
but now it feels like I don't even know you, and why should I keep fighting in this stupid tournament for someone who couldn't even be honest with me?"