The Winner's Curse (The Winner's Trilogy, #1)(40)

Kestrel’s breath came quickly. Irex held his position at about thirty paces from her.

She balanced on her toes, waiting, and saw that Irex’s anger at her insult was gone, or had mixed itself with pleasure to the point where he seemed to be in a good humor. His first throw had been wild, and not smart, since he had drawn a Needle from one of the two easiest points of access. When Needles became hand-to-hand, it was a disadvantage to have few knives, and to have lost those at the forearms, or even the hips. Kestrel knew he knew that, or he wouldn’t have thrown his second Needle from his calf. He was cocky, but he could be cautious. That would make Kestrel’s task harder.

She could almost feel her father’s frustration. People were shouting suggestions at her, but she didn’t hear her father’s voice. She briefly wondered if it was hard for him not to yell at her to throw a few Needles of her own. She knew that this was what he wanted. It was the sensible thing for a weaker fighter to do: hope to end the duel early with a strike anywhere.

But she wanted to get close to Irex, close enough to speak without anyone overhearing. She would need every knife she had once she was within arm’s reach of him.

Irex cocked his head. He was either mystified that Kestrel wasn’t taking the only sensible strategy or disappointed that she was doing little at all. He had probably expected more of a fight. Kestrel had taken great pains never to reveal her very ordinary skills at weapons, and society assumed that the general’s daughter must be an excellent fighter.

He hung back, showing no interest in emptying more sheaths. He didn’t advance, which was a problem—if Kestrel couldn’t lure him to her, she would have to come to him.

The shouts were incoherent now. They swelled to something like a roaring silence.

Kestrel’s father would say that she should stand her ground. Instead she pulled her two calf daggers and sped forward. A blade spun from her hand and went wide—a terrible throw, but one that distracted Irex from the second, which might have struck him had he not ducked and launched a Needle of his own.

She skidded on the dry grass to avoid the knife. Her side hit the earth just as the Needle punched into the ground next to her leg. Her mind iced over, sealed itself shut.

He was quick, too quick. She hadn’t even seen his hand move.

Then Irex’s boot kicked her ribs. Kestrel gasped in pain. She forced herself to her feet and swept an arm knife out of its sheath. She sliced the air in front of her, but Irex danced back, knocked the blade out of her hand, and rolled to claim it as his own.

Her chest heaved. It hurt to breathe. It hurt to think. She fleetingly imagined her father closing his eyes in dismay. Never arm your opponent, he always said.

But she had what she wanted. She and Irex were in the circle’s center now, too far from the shouting audience for their conversation to be overheard.

“Irex.” Her voice was thin and weak. “We need to talk.”

He kicked in her knee. She felt something grind and give just before she crumpled to the ground. The force of her fall drove the kneecap back in place. She cried out.

The shock was too great for pain. Then it came: a spasm that tunneled from her leg into her brain.

It wasn’t fear that forced Kestrel to her feet. She was stupid with pain and didn’t have room to feel anything else. She didn’t know how she managed to get up, only that she did, and Irex let her.

“I never liked you,” he hissed. “So superior.”

Kestrel’s vision was whitening. She had the odd impression that it was snowing, but as the whiteness ate its way toward Irex’s face she realized there was no snow. She was about to faint.

Irex slapped her face.

That stung her to life. She heard a gasp, and wasn’t sure if it came from the crowd or her own throat. Kestrel had to speak now, and quickly, or the duel was going to end with Irex crushing her well before he finished things off with a Needle. It was hard to find the air for words. She drew a dagger. It helped, a little, to feel its solidity against her palm. “You are the father of Faris’s baby.”

He faltered. “What?”

Kestrel prayed she wasn’t wrong. “You slept with Senator Tiran’s wife. You fathered her child.”

Irex brought his guard back up, the dagger fire-bright in the setting sun. But he bit the inside of his cheek, making his face go lopsidedly lean, and that slight trace of worry made her think that maybe she would survive this duel. He said, “What makes you say that?”

“Strike a blow easy for me to block and I’ll tell you.”

He did, and the sound of her blade pushing his back made Kestrel stronger. “You have the same eyes,” she said. “The baby has the trick of a dimple in his left cheek, as you do. Faris looked pale as we took our places to fight, and I notice that she is at the front of the crowd. I don’t think she’s worried about me.”

Slowly, he said, “Your knowing a secret like that doesn’t make me feel less inclined to kill you.”

She took a shuddery breath, glad that she was right, glad that he hesitated even as the crowd continued to shout. “You won’t kill me,” she said, “because I have told Jess and Ronan. If I die, they will tell everyone else.”

“No one would believe them. Society will think they mourn you and seek to damage me.”

“Will society think that when they begin to compare the boy’s face to yours? Will Senator Tiran?” Limping, she circled him, and he allowed it, though he drew a second Needle and held them both ready. He shifted his feet swiftly while she tried not to stumble. “If Ronan has any difficulty starting a scandal, he’ll feed it with money. I have given him five hundred gold pieces, and he will bribe friends to swear that the rumor is true, that they witnessed you in bed with Faris, that you keep a lock of the boy’s hair close to your heart. They will say anything, true or not. Few people are as rich as you. Ronan has many friends—like poor Hanan—who would gladly take gold to ruin the reputation of someone no one really likes.”