The Winner's Curse

  He settled back in his chair, toying with one of his winning pieces. He tapped a thin side against the table, spun the tile in his fingers, and tapped another side. “That’s not a full answer.”

  “I don’t think we specified how short or long these answers should be. Let’s play again.”

  “If you win, will you be satisfied with the kind of answer you have given me?”

  Slowly, she said, “The military is my father’s life. Not mine. I’m not even a skilled fighter.”

  “Really?” His surprise seemed genuine.

  “Oh, I pass muster. I can defend myself as well as most Valorians, but I’m not good at combat. I know what it’s like to be good at something.”

  Arin glanced again at the piano.

  “There is also my music,” Kestrel acknowledged. “A piano is not very portable. I could hardly take it with me if I were sent into battle.”

  “Playing music is for slaves,” Arin said. “Like cooking or cleaning.”

  Kestrel heard anger in his words, buried like bedrock under the careless ripple of his voice. “It wasn’t always like that.”

  Arin was silent, and even though Kestrel had initially tried to answer his question in the briefest of ways, she felt compelled to explain the final reason behind her resistance to the general. “Also … I don’t want to kill.” Arin frowned at this, so Kestrel laughed to make light of the conversation. “I drive my father mad. Yet don’t all daughters? So we’ve made a truce. I have agreed that, in the spring, I will either enlist or marry.”

  He stopped spinning the tile in his fingers. “You’ll marry, then.”

  “Yes. But at least I will have six months of peace first.”

  Arin dropped the tile to the table. “Let’s play again.”

  This time Kestrel won, and wasn’t prepared for how her blood buzzed with triumph.

  Arin stared at the tiles. His mouth thinned to a line.

  A thousand questions swam into Kestrel’s mind, nudging, fighting to be first. But she was as taken aback as Arin seemed to be by the one that slipped out of her mouth. “Why were you trained as a blacksmith?”

  For a moment, Kestrel thought he wouldn’t answer. His jaw tightened. Then he said, “I was chosen because I was the last nine-year-old boy in the world suited to be a blacksmith. I was scrawny. I daydreamed. I cringed. Have you looked at the tools in the forge? At the hammer? You’d want to think carefully about what kind of slave you’d let pick that up. My first slaver looked at me and decided I wasn’t the type to raise my hand in anger. He chose me.” Arin’s smile was cold. “Well, do you like your answer?”

  Kestrel couldn’t speak.

  Arin pushed his tiles away. “I want to go into the city.”

  Even though Kestrel had said that he could, and knew that there was nothing wrong with a slave hoping to see his sweetheart, she wanted to say no. “So soon?” she managed.

  “It’s been a month.”

  “Oh.” Kestrel told herself that a month must be a long time to go without seeing the person one loves. “Of course. Go.”

  * * *

  “I’ve made about thirty weapons,” Arin told the auctioneer. “Mostly daggers, good for close-range attack. A few swords. I’ve bundled them, and will drop them over the southwest wall of the general’s estate tonight, four hours before dawn. Make sure someone’s waiting on the other side.”

  “Done,” said Cheat.

  “You can expect more. What about the black powder kegs?”

  “They’re secure.”

  “I wonder if I should try to recruit any of the general’s slaves. They could be useful.”

  Cheat shook his head. “It’s not worth the risk.”

  “If we didn’t have people in Senator Andrax’s house, we never would have been able to steal the black powder. All our man had to do was take his master’s key and return it to its proper place afterward. We might be missing a similar opportunity at the general’s.”

  “I said no.”

  Arin’s heart seemed to be punching its way out of his chest, he was so angry. But he knew that Cheat was right, and his mood wasn’t the auctioneer’s fault. It was his own. Or hers. He wasn’t sure what bothered him more about that last Bite and Sting game: that he had played into her hands, or that she had played into his.

  “What about the girl?” Cheat said, and Arin wished that he had asked him any other question.

  Arin hesitated, then said, “Reports of Lady Kestrel’s military skill are exaggerated. She won’t be a problem.”

  * * *

  “Here.” Kestrel handed her old nurse a small ceramic pot. “Syrup for your cough.”

  Enai sighed, which triggered another bout of coughing. She leaned against the pillows Kestrel had tucked behind her shoulders, then raised her eyes to the cottage ceiling. “I hate autumn. And the god of good health.”

  Kestrel sat at the edge of the bed. “Poor Amma,” she said, using the Herrani word for mother. “Shall I tell you a story, like you used to do for me when I was sick?”

  “No. You Valorians are bad storytellers. I know what you’ll say. ‘We fought. We won. The end.’”

  “I think I can do better than that.”

  Enai shook her head. “Best to recognize the things you can’t change, child.”

  “Well, then when you’re better, you’ll come to the villa and I will play for you.”

  “Yes. I always like that.”

  Kestrel left her side and moved around the two-room cottage, unpacking a basket of food and tidying up.

  “I met Smith,” Enai called.

  Kestrel’s hands stilled. She returned to the bedroom. “Where?”

  “Where do you think? In the slaves’ quarters.”

  “I thought you didn’t go there,” Kestrel said. “You shouldn’t go outside until you’re better.”

  “Don’t fuss. I went there a few days ago, before I fell ill.”

  “And?”

  Enai shrugged. “We didn’t speak much. But he seems to be well liked. He’s made friends.”

  “Like who?”

  “He and the groom—that new one, I forget his name—get along. At meals, Smith usually sits with Lirah.”

  Kestrel focused on drawing Enai’s blanket into a neat line across the woman’s chest. She made it neater still, thinking of Lirah’s oval face and sweet voice. “Lirah is kind. She is a good friend for him to have.”

  Enai reached for her hand. “I know you regret the purchase, but there are worse places for him to be.”

  Kestrel realized that she no longer did regret the purchase and frowned. What kind of person had she become, to feel that way?

  “I gave him house privileges,” she said, knowing that her tone was defensive. “He also often serves as my escort into the city.”

  Enai swallowed some syrup and made a face. “Yes, I heard from the others. Does society talk about it?”

  “About what?”

  “About Smith. Does society talk about him appearing as your escort?”

  “Not to my knowledge. There was some gossip about the price I paid for him, but everyone’s forgotten that.”

  “That may be, but I would think he’d still draw attention.”

  Kestrel searched the woman’s face. “Enai, what are you trying to say? Why would people talk about him?”

  Enai studied the very plain syrup pot. Finally, she said, “Because of how he looks.”

  “Oh.” Kestrel was relieved. “Once he’s dressed in house attire he doesn’t appear so rough. He holds himself well.” This thought seemed ready to give rise to other thoughts, but she shook her head. “No, I don’t think he would give anyone cause to complain about his appearance.”

  Enai said, “I’m sure you’re right.”

  Kestrel had the sense that the woman’s words were less an agreement than a decision to let some unspoken matter drop.

  15

  Enai’s words troubled Kestrel, but not so much that she changed her ways. She continued to
bring Arin with her on visits into society. She enjoyed his sharp mind—even his sharp tongue. She had to admit, however, that their conversations in Herrani created a false sense of privacy. She thought this was due to the language itself; Herrani had always felt more intimate than Valorian, probably because after her mother’s death her father had had little time for her, and it was Enai who had filled the void, distracting Kestrel from her tears by teaching her the Herrani word for them.

  Kestrel frequently had to remind herself that Arin knew her language as well as she did his. Sometimes, when she caught a glimpse of him listening to an absurd dinner conversation, she wondered how he had mastered Valorian so completely. Few slaves did.

  Not long after her second game of Bite and Sting with Arin, they went to Jess’s home.

  “Kestrel!” Jess embraced her. “You’ve neglected us.”

  Jess waited for an explanation, but when Kestrel mentally sifted through her reasons—the strategy lessons with her father, hours of practice at piano, and two Bite and Sting games that took up much more time in her mind than they had actual hours—she said only, “Well, I’m here now.”

  “And ready with an apology. If not, I shall take my revenge on you.”

  “Oh?” Kestrel followed Jess into the parlor, listening to Arin’s footsteps behind them soften as he moved from the marble hallway to the carpeted floor. “Should I be afraid?”

  “Yes. If you don’t beg my forgiveness, I won’t go with you to the dressmaker’s to order gowns for the governor’s Firstwinter ball.”

  Kestrel laughed. “The first day of winter is ages away.”

  “But your apology, I hope, isn’t.”

  “I am very, very sorry, Jess.”

  “Good.” Jess’s brown eyes glittered with mirth. “I forgive you, on the condition that you let me choose your gown.”

  Kestrel gave her a helpless look. She glanced at Arin, who was standing against the wall. Though his expression was bland, she had the impression he was laughing at her.

  “You dress too modestly, Kestrel.” When Kestrel began to protest, Jess caught one of her hands with both of hers and shook it. “There. It is agreed. It is done. A Valorian honors her word.”

  Kestrel sank onto a sofa next to Jess, admitting defeat.

  “Ronan will be sorry to have missed you,” Jess said.

  “He is out?”

  “He is visiting Lady Faris’s household.”

  Kestrel lifted one brow. “Then I am sure her charms will soothe any regret he might have in missing me.”

  “Don’t tell me that you’re jealous. You know what Ronan feels for you.”

  Kestrel became acutely conscious of Arin’s presence in the room. She glanced at him, expecting the bored expression he usually wore in Jess’s company. It wasn’t there. He seemed oddly intent. “You may go,” she told him.

  It looked like he might disobey. Then he spun on his heel and strode from the room.

  When the door had shut behind him, Kestrel told Jess, “Ronan and I are friends.”

  Jess huffed with impatience.

  “And there is only one reason young men of his set visit Lady Faris,” Kestrel continued, thinking of Faris’s baby and his dimpled smile. She considered the possibility that the child was Ronan’s. This didn’t trouble her—which did trouble her. Shouldn’t she care? Didn’t she welcome Ronan’s attention? Yet the idea that he had fathered a child skimmed the surface of her mind and slipped in quietly, without a splash or gulp or quiver.

  Well, if the baby was his, he had been conceived more than a year ago. And if Ronan was with Faris now, what promise was there between him and Kestrel?

  “Faris is notorious,” she told Jess. “Plus, her husband is in the capital.”

  “Young men visit her because her husband is one of the most influential men in the city, and they hope Faris will help them become senators.”

  “What price do you think she makes them pay?”

  Jess looked scandalized.

  “Why would Ronan mind paying?” Kestrel said. “Faris is beautiful.”

  “He would never.”

  “Jess, if you think you can convince me that Ronan is an innocent who has never been with a woman, you are mistaken.”

  “If you think Ronan would prefer Faris over you, you are mad.” Jess shook her head. “All he wants is a sign of your affection. He has given you plenty.”

  “Meaningless compliments.”

  “You don’t want to see it. Don’t you think he is handsome?”

  Kestrel couldn’t deny that Ronan was everything she might hope. He cut a fine figure. He was witty, good-natured. And he didn’t mind her music.

  Jess said, “Wouldn’t you like for us to be sisters?”

  Kestrel reached for one of Jess’s many shining, pale braids. She slipped it out of the girl’s upswept arrangement, then tucked it back in. “We already are.”

  “Real sisters.”

  “Yes,” Kestrel said in a low voice. “I would like that.” She had always wanted to be part of Jess’s family, ever since she had been a child. Jess had the perfect older brother and indulgent parents.

  Jess made a delighted sound. Kestrel looked at her sharply. “Don’t you dare tell him.”

  “Me?” Jess said innocently.

  * * *

  Later that day, Kestrel sat with Arin in the music room. She played her tiles: a pair of wolves and three mice.

  Arin turned his over with a resigned sigh. He didn’t have a bad set, but it wasn’t good enough, and beneath his usual level of skill. He stiffened in his chair as if physically bracing himself for her question.

  Kestrel studied his tiles. She was certain he could have done better than a pair of wasps. She thought of the tiles he had shown earlier in the game, and the careless way in which he had discarded others. If she didn’t know how little he liked to lose against her, she would have suspected him of throwing the game.

  She said, “You seem distracted.”

  “Is that your question? Are you asking me why I am distracted?”

  “So you admit that you are distracted.”

  “You are a fiend,” he said, echoing Ronan’s words during the match at Faris’s garden party. Then, apparently annoyed at his own words, he said, “Ask your question.”

  She could have pressed the issue, but his distraction was a less interesting mystery compared to one growing in her mind. She didn’t think Arin was who he appeared to be. He had the body of someone born into hard work, yet he knew how to play a Valorian game, and play it well. He spoke her language like someone who had studied it carefully. He knew—or pretended to know—the habits of a Herrani lady and the order of her rooms. He had been relaxed and adept around her stallion, and while that might not mean anything—he had not ridden Javelin—Kestrel knew that horsemanship among the Herrani before the war had been a mark of high class.

  Kestrel thought that Arin was someone who had fallen far.

  She couldn’t ask if that was true. She remembered his angry response when she had asked why he had been trained as a blacksmith, and that question had seemed innocent enough. Yet it had hurt him.

  She did not want to hurt him.

  “How did you learn to play Bite and Sting?” she asked. “It’s Valorian.”

  He looked relieved. “There was a time when Herrani enjoyed sailing to your country. We liked your people. And we have always admired the arts. Our sailors brought back Bite and Sting sets a long time ago.”

  “Bite and Sting is a game, not an art.”

  He folded his arms across his chest, amused. “If you say so.”

  “I’m surprised to hear that Herrani liked anything about Valorians. I thought you considered us stupid savages.”

  “Wild creatures,” he muttered.

  Kestrel was sure she had misheard him. “What?”

  “Nothing. Yes, you were completely uncultured. You ate with your hands. Your idea of entertainment was seeing who could kill the other first. But”—his eyes
met hers, then glanced away—“you were known for other things, too.”

  “What things? What do you mean?”

  He shook his head. He made that strange gesture again, lifting his fingers to flick the air by his temple. Then he folded his hands, unfolded them, and began to mix the tiles. “You have asked too many questions. If you want more, you will have to win them.”

  He showed no sign of distraction now. As they played, he ignored her attempts to provoke him or make him laugh. “I’ve seen your tricks on others,” he said. “They won’t work with me.”

  He won. Kestrel waited, nervous, and wondered if the way she felt was how he felt when he lost.

  His voice came haltingly. “Will you play for me?”

  “Play for you?”

  Arin winced. In a more determined tone, he said, “Yes. Something I choose.”

  “I don’t mind. It’s only … people rarely ask.”

  He stood from the table, searched the shelves along the wall, and returned with a sheaf of sheet music. She took it. “It’s for the flute,” he said. “It will probably take you time to transpose it for the piano. I can wait. Maybe after our next game—”

  She fanned the paper impatiently to silence him. “It’s not that hard.”

  He nodded, then sat in the chair farthest away from the piano, by the glass garden doors. Kestrel was glad for his distance. She settled on the piano’s bench, flipping through the sheet music. The title and notations were in Herrani, the pages yellow with age. She propped the paper on the piano’s rack, taking more time than necessary to neaten the sheets. Excitement coursed through her fingers as if she had already plunged her hands into the music, but that feeling was edged with a metallic lace of fear.

  She wished that Arin hadn’t chosen music for the flute, of all instruments. The beauty of the flute was in its simplicity, in its resemblance to the human voice. It always sounded clear. It sounded alone. The piano, on the other hand, was a network of parts—a ship, with its strings like rigging, its case a hull, its lifted lid a sail. Kestrel always thought that the piano didn’t sound like a single instrument but a twinned one, with its low and high halves merging together or pulling apart.

  Flute music, she thought with frustration, and would not look at Arin.