The Winner's Crime(77)

Arin said, “You know what I want.”

The queen shook her head. “No alliance.”

Arin remembered the suffocating fear as he lay trapped beneath the tiger’s paws. The fear had squeezed his gut. It had robbed his breath. It was the familiarity of that fear, not just the fear itself, that had done it. This was how he had felt for months, for years: pinned down by the empire.

In his mind, Arin shrank the dagger on the queen’s palm. He made it the size of a needle. Easy to ignore. Easy to lose.

He saw again how Roshar had tossed Risha’s tiny weapons into the castle dollhouse.

He saw an eastern crossbow, so small compared to a Valorian one.

The tiger cub, its little teeth bared.

His own country, helpless before the empire’s massive army, their engineers, their black flags, their black rows of cannon, their seemingly limitless supply of black powder.

Arin saw, suddenly, an idea.

It took shape inside him. It was small. Compact, hard, mobile. It grew behind his eyes until he blinked, and saw again what was actually there before him in Roshar’s suite. Not a memory, or a fear, or an idea. Just a dagger on the queen’s palm.

How much damage, really, could one dagger do?

“Get that thing away from me,” Arin told the queen. “I want a forge, and I want to be left alone.”





37

Kestrel’s father inspected the puppy. He gripped the scruff of its neck and held it stock-still. He lifted the surprisingly big paws. He held the muzzle and peeled back the pink-and-black lips to see the teeth.

“That’s a good dog,” he said finally. “You’ll have to train her.”

No, Kestrel decided. She didn’t.

*

Kestrel had a gift. It lay in a small box tucked into her skirt pocket. It tapped against her thigh as she walked through an arcade and into the Spring Garden. The wind was warm and soft. It made the puppy beside her sniff the air. The dog caught the scent of something and bolted for the trees. Kestrel didn’t call her back.

The palace physician was known to tend to his own plot of medicinal herbs. Kestrel found him there by a shrub with a peppery scent.

He straightened at the sight of her. Immediately concerned, he asked if her father had worsened.

“He’s well,” she said, “though I am here because of him.” She offered the small box. “Thank you. You saved his life.”

He was pleased. There was a slight flush to his lined cheeks, and his hands, dusted with earth, accepted the box carefully. Then he became awkward, fumbling with the box in his haste to clean his hands on a handkerchief, which he didn’t have. Kestrel gave him hers.

He smiled apologetically. “I’m not used to appearing presentable to society.” He opened the box and caught his breath. Inside lay a golden pin: a flowering tree, the sign of the physicians’ order. It bore jeweled fruit. “This is too much.”

“For my father’s life? It is not enough.”

His eyes grew moist. Kestrel felt a little guilty, as if she’d sat down to play Bite and Sting with someone who had no head for the game.

Yet there might be a connection between the physician and the water engineer. She’d promised Tensen to discover what the water engineer had done for the emperor. And then there was that long table set with empty plates in her mind. The eastern plains. The slaves who cleaned the imperial palace. Arin’s stitched face.

“Will you show me your garden?” Kestrel asked.

They walked the green rows.

“I’m worried about a friend of mine.” Kestrel described Jess’s vial of dark liquid. “Is it safe?”

“I think I know who this friend of yours is. A colonial girl from Herran? No need to worry. I gave her the medicine myself. It’s just something to calm the nerves.”

Kestrel was relieved. “So it is safe.”

“Well, in the right dosage.” Quickly, he added, “But she would never have access to enough to do her harm. Even city apothecaries aren’t allowed to sell it. I oversee the making of that medicine in the palace, and I give out very small supplies.”

“Is it addictive?”

“No. The body doesn’t crave it. But the mind might. Your friend might come to rely upon it to sleep. If used for too long, it could be dangerous.”

“How dangerous?”

His expression spoke the answer. “But that would take months of use.”

Kestrel’s voice rose. “Why would you give my friend a medicine that could kill her?”

“My lady.” His voice was respectful but firm. “Every medicine has its risks. We use a medicine because its benefit outweighs potential harm. Your friend needs peace and sleep. Not forever. Just long enough for her to feel that peace is possible. She’s weak. I worry that if she doesn’t rest, she could fall prey to a serious illness.” When he saw Kestrel’s uncertainty, he said, “When you saw her, did your friend tremble? Did her hands shake?”

“No.”

“Then there’s no need to worry. Trembling is a sign of overdosage—not that this would even be possible in the case of your friend. I gave her very little.”

The puppy bayed in the distance. “Don’t give her any more.” Kestrel twisted her fingers together. “Please don’t.”