The Winner's Kiss (The Winner's Trilogy, #3)(72)

“You sound strange.”

Kestrel dug out the token. “Catch.” She flipped it into the air and heard the man snag it—or heard, rather, the nothingness of the coin not hitting earth.

The lamp moved closer. Kestrel couldn’t see the features of the man who held it, only his tall broad form as he approached.

Kestrel coughed. “No, please stay where you are, sir. I’m sick.”

“Come to my tent, then, and report there. Rest.”

“It’s a disease, something eastern. The barbarians brought it. I might infect you.”

The officer’s boots came to a gritty halt. “What kind of disease?”

“It starts with a cough.” Kestrel hoped it’d explain any difference in voice. “Then pustules. The sores weep. I hadn’t realized that one of the wagons held bodies. I’d crept close to their camp and looked inside the supplies to see how well fortified they were.” It felt strange to speak in Valorian again. “The rebels mean to withstand a siege. They have plague bodies to launch over the walls of Errilith manor. They’ll infect us when we attack. They seem to be immune.”

“You need a physician.” He sounded genuinely concerned. “We can quarantine you.”

“Please, let me continue to do what I can for our victory.” Kestrel conjured the ghost of her very young self as she spoke. She remembered that little girl, so eager to be her father’s warrior. She spoke with that girl’s voice. “As long as I can stay on my feet, I can still scout. I want to. Let me bring glory to the empire.”

He hesitated, then said, “The glory is yours,” which were the traditional words offered when a soldier accepted a mission almost certain to end in death.

The Valorian officer shifted in the shadows and was quiet. The sky appeared to grow a little lighter, but Kestrel told herself that it was her imagination, that the sky couldn’t possibly do that in the span of two heartbeats. She was letting anxiety rule her.

“Your report, then,” the officer said. “Tell me their numbers.”

“One thousand soldiers. Maybe fifteen hundred.” Roshar’s force near Errilith numbered nearly twice that amount.

“Components?”

“Little cavalry, mostly infantry.” True. “From the looks of it, young.” True. “Inexperienced.” Not true. “Light cannon, and not many of them.” True, unfortunately. “Some tension between the Dacran and Herrani factions.” Less than she’d expect. “Tension over who should command.” Not true. Not exactly. Sometimes, though, she caught the way the prince eyed Arin with pensive hesitancy, as if he secretly believed Arin to be a wholly other creature than human, that a day would come when Arin’s skin would split and whatever was lurking inside him would climb out.

In fact, most people looked at him that way.

“Position?” the officer asked.

“By now they’ll have reached the manor.”

“Tell me about the formation of their units, their positions within the army.”

Kestrel answered, relieved. He seemed to believe her. This was easier than she’d thought. She mixed her lies and truths, setting them down like planks of joined wood, sturdy enough to bear the weight of this man’s trust.

But when she stopped speaking, the silence lasted longer than it should have.

“Alis,” said the officer, “where are you from?”

She pretended to misunderstand the question. “Sir, I came from the rebels’ camp.”

“That’s not what I mean. Where are you from?”

Her confidence vanished. He suspected her. She didn’t know anything of the scout’s history. Kestrel had taken the token and the map and had left as quickly as she could.

Carefully, Kestrel told the officer, “I thought you already knew.”

“Remind me.”

The lamplight was strong enough that he’d see if she began to inch a hand toward her dagger. She stayed still. Gambling, she told him, “I’m a colonial girl.” The odds were with her; almost all of Valoria was a colony.

“But from where, exactly?”

She coughed again, making the sound murky and wet, and tried to think. “From here.” Scouts deployed in Herran would have to know the language. Ideally the terrain, too. The scout—Alis—had been young, Roshar had said. Green, to be so easily caught. If the general chose someone with little experience to gather intelligence on the enemy, it must be because she had advantages that outweighed her inexperience, such as familiarity with the country.

“I’m from here, too,” the officer said softly.

“Yes, sir.” Her heart sped.

“I spent my youth on a farm west of here.” He took a step closer. She held her ground. He wasn’t close enough yet to see her clearly; she couldn’t see him clearly. But she caught, now, the slight accent in his voice. She would have had a colonial accent, too, if her father hadn’t ordered her tutors to hammer any sign of it from her voice. In Valorian, she possessed the voice of a capital courtier, polished and pure.

“I want my home back,” the officer said.

“So do I.” She kept her voice low, rough from coughing, but added a subtle lilt—just enough that he might think the accent had been there all along, and that he’d somehow missed it. “What are my orders?” She tried to keep the question steady. Her pulse was relentless.