Defend the Dawn (Defy the Night #2)(86)

I glance across the circle to find the captain watching me. When my eyes meet his, he looks away and says something to Tessa, something too quiet to hear. She nods, but she doesn’t look up at me.

Usually, I’m good at figuring people out. With Captain Blakemore, I think what I hate the most is that I can’t figure out if he’s completely playing us both, or if he’s astonishingly earnest about his desire to help everyone. If he is, then I’m an ass who owes him an apology.

But … I don’t think he is. I want to know what he’s hiding. I need to know what he’s hiding.

Marchon, the navigator, rises from where he was sitting, and he draws a blade from his belt. The crew falls quiet.

“I’ll explain the rules of Blade and Brawl for our newcomers,” he says. “You’ll spin the blade to find your opponent.” He sets it spinning on the deck, and the blade glints in the fading light as it whirls. “Once it stops, you make a request, and they respond with a challenge. It can be anything: a race, a riddle, a wrestling match, anything. But it can’t take longer than a few minutes so the game keeps going.” The dagger comes to a stop, pointing straight at little Anya.

She squeals, sitting up straighter.

Marchon smiles. “Fine, Anya. I want those wooden dice you took off me last time.”

She leaps to her feet. “Then I challenge you to slip between the sail and the beam.”

He rolls his eyes. “Go ahead.” As the little girl squeezes through the tiny gap that a grown man could never fit through, Marchon says, “She gets to keep the dice because I can’t do that.” Anya skips forward to spin the dagger, and it lands on Tor, who’s taking a swig from a bottle someone passed around.

“Tor!” she cries. “Hmm. I want your spyglass.”

Tor snorts and rolls his eyes. “All right. Whoever can touch the highest point on the mast gets it.”

She scowls, but they step up to the mast and he obviously wins.

Gwyn leans close to me. “It’s a bit of a slow start because Anya was first. But once the crew gets going, the asks get bigger—and so do the challenges.”

“You can ask for anything?”

“Yeah, but you’ve got to be ready to battle for it. The other person picks the challenge, so they have the advantage.”

Tor’s spin slows and lands on Kilbourne, and a few whistles go up from the crew. The guard doesn’t move. Tor glances from Kilbourne to me, and his gaze falters. “I … I can just spin again, Your Highness.”

“No,” I say. “The guards can play.” I look up at Kilbourne. “If you’d like.”

I watch Kilbourne size up Tor, and he grins. The guards are probably just as bored as the crew. “All right,” he says easily. “What would you like?”

Tor looks back at Kilbourne, sizing him up in return, probably wondering what kind of challenge he’ll face. Tor isn’t a small man, but the guards are well-trained warriors, and they look it.

Tor says, “Well, I wouldn’t mind that dagger you’ve got.”

“Fine. If you can take it from me in less than a minute, it’s yours.”

Tor’s eyebrows go up, and for an instant, I think he’s going to ask a question or request a new challenge, but instead, he lets out a shout and charges at the guard.

Kilbourne sidesteps smoothly, but Tor recovers quickly, and he nearly tackles Kilbourne on his second attempt. The guard shoves him away, and Tor slams into the deck so hard that he cries out. The crew whistles and jeers.

Tor is breathing heavily, glaring up at Kilbourne.

The guard’s smile widens. “You still have forty-five seconds,” he says, and a laugh ripples through the crowd.

Tor goes after him again—and Kilbourne puts him down again. Then a fourth time.

After the fifth attempt, Tor has blood on his lip, and he’s panting. Kilbourne says, “Ten seconds.”

Tor makes a final run, and he’s all but snarling from the effort, but Kilbourne sends him sprawling onto his belly.

“A valiant effort,” Kilbourne says, and there’s nothing mocking in his voice.

But Tor rolls over, and that dagger is clutched to his chest. “It sure was,” he says, laughing and coughing at the same time.

Gasps and laughter come out of the crew.

Kilbourne swears and slaps the empty dagger hilt at his hip, then scowls ruefully down at the crewman. He laughs lightly. “I’ll get that back.”

“You’ll have to wait your turn,” Tor says, grinning. He limps his way back to his seat.

Beside me, Gwyn is laughing softly. “Tor was a bit of a pickpocket before he turned to the honest life of a sailor.”

“So that was all misdirection,” I say.

“Yes, but Tor looks like he’s regretting it. He’ll probably be asking your girl for a poultice later.”

My girl. I feel those words like a fist to the gut.

She looks up at my guardsman. “Go ahead, Kilbourne. Spin the blade.”

He spins, landing on a crewman—and loses, when the challenge is to tie a complicated knot. The game continues. Sometimes the asks are simple: an extra roll, an hour of covered duties, a bit of gossip. Sometimes they’re bigger: a treasured book, a valued piece of jewelry, a night of companionship.

The challenges are varied, too. Some are physical, and enough blood is spilled that I hesitate to call the game friendly. Some are mental: riddles and questions.