*
“You understand,” the bookkeeper said as she tucked the emerald away, “that you can’t make any bets after you look in my book. Not with me, not ever.” She sat more seriously now, all business, the four legs of the chair firmly on the floor. She pulled a slim book from her inner jacket pocket. “Got something in particular you’d like to see?”
“Show me the entries about the wedding.”
The bookkeeper raised one brow, which made Arin wonder if she knew who he was. She found the list and held the book out to Arin, her thumb wedged in its open seam.
These bets concerned the wedding night. They went into great detail. The wagers showed a breadth of curiosity and imagination that made Arin wish he’d never looked.
“Not that,” he said. “That’s not what I meant. I want to see bets about the dress.”
Both of the bookkeeper’s brows were arched now, this time in disdainful boredom. She turned a few pages and offered the book again.
Arin saw the Senate leader’s bet. It was in the middle of several entries that concerned the dress. Others had guessed the same color the Senate leader had wagered on—red—but no one else had bet on the number of buttons, the neckline, the length of the train, the style of the scabbard …
Arin examined the pages again. He’d been mistaken about something. He’d gone through the dress wagers too quickly before, racing to find the Senate leader’s name and to escape the memory of the first set of bets he’d seen. He saw now that the Senate leader wasn’t the only one to have gone into careful detail about the wedding dress. Another person had bet in the exact same way, and more recently.
Arin tapped the name. “Who’s that?”
The bookkeeper peered. “A palace engineer. She works on water. Aqueducts. Canals. That sort of thing.”
Arin closed the book and handed it back.
“That’s it?” she said.
“Yes.” He added, “If you want a tip, that bet’s the correct one.”
The bookkeeper drew up her boot so that it was planted on the seat of her chair as she sat, one leg dangling down, the other bent into the perfect position for her to prop an elbow on the knee, drop her chin onto her fist, and look up at Arin. “I think you’ve overpaid me. How about I give you something extra before you go?”
*
Sailors strolled the wharf. Kestrel hung back, chafing her arms for warmth. Waves slapped the sides of large merchant ships docked at piers that reached out into the black, glassy sea.
She kept her eyes on one ship in particular. She saw several sailors from the Maris clatter down its pier, ready for shore leave, but she let them go.
Then Kestrel spied the perfect target. He walked alone, cheeks ruddy from the cold and drink. His merry steps wavered a little. He was humming.
“Sailor,” she called as he passed, “care for a game of cards?”
He stopped. He came close, and Kestrel could see that he wasn’t drunk after all. His eyes were alert, his expression a mix of friendly and sly. The sailor reached into his coat pocket for a pipe, and the slow, deliberate way he packed it told Kestrel that he wouldn’t be an easy opponent.
She would enjoy the game all the more.
“Well?” she said. “Will you play?”
He gave her an appreciative grin. “Absolutely.”
They stepped off the promenade and onto the rocky beach, where they found a few wooden crates dragged together. There were signs of an earlier, abandoned game: an empty bottle of wine and scattered tobacco ash.
Kestrel sat. “I trust you have a deck.”
“A sailor always does.” He joined her. He lit his pipe, sucked until the tobacco crisped and glowed, and reached for his purse.
Kestrel said, “Let’s play for something else.”
“I was hoping you’d say that.”
“Mind out of the gutter, seaboy. The stakes are questions and answers.”
“Can I ask the sort of questions that belong in the gutter?”
“If you win.”
“I warn you, I’m pretty good.”
Kestrel smiled. “I’m better.”
*
The bookkeeper climbed onto Arin’s lap. She settled her knees at his hips, lifted smoke-scented fingers to his jaw. She tipped his head back. Her black eyes glinted down at him, and her red hair slipped over his cheek. Her hair lay cool against his stitches. He thought about his ruined face, and how, in this moment, it was to not feel so ruined.
“I’d like to make a bet,” she said, and leaned to whisper in his ear.
Arin’s hands went to her waist.
*
“You look disappointed,” Kestrel said.
The sailor tossed his cards onto Kestrel’s winning hand spread out on the crate. “I did hope for something more exciting than telling you that yes, the Maris sailed to southern Herran about a month ago. Can’t I at least lose in an interesting way?”
Kestrel’s laugh was white in the cold. “We could gamble for your coat.”
“Ah, love, why don’t we skip to the part where you win and I give it to you?”
*
Arin lifted the bookkeeper off his lap. He set her gently down on her chair.
“It’s sad,” she said, “to see someone act against his best interests.”
Sometimes, it was as if Kestrel still owned him. Arin thought about the silver she’d paid for him. He felt its terrible weight. He couldn’t forgive it. It lay hard and shiny inside him. As he’d grown to know her, in Herran, the silver sank slowly down through uncertain waters. Then came a current’s warm push. He’d floated up. That silver lay deep below, and the thought of diving for it had felt like drowning. But sometimes—especially since the treaty, especially in this damned city, and especially now—the silver seemed close. Bright as treasure.
Yet Arin knew the pull of his blood. He turned away from the bookkeeper. “I know my own best interests,” he told her.
She smiled, propping her boots back on the table. “Someday you’ll know better.”
Arin quit the table. He stepped out of the tavern and into the night.
*
The sailor stood and offered Kestrel a flourished hand. She let him lift her to her feet. He wrapped his coat around her shoulders and bunched the loose fabric together in an almost fascinated sort of way. “Sweet palace maid, won’t you come to sea with me?”
“I’d sink the ship. Can’t you tell? I’m bad luck.”
“Just my kind.” He gave her a hearty kiss on the cheek. Then he took off over the rocks, running up onto the promenade. “I’m freezing!” he shouted. He ran in the direction of the city. He opened up, and began to sing the melody he had been humming earlier. He sang it full and loud. The song was more or less on pitch, and Kestrel liked to hear it leaping over the wavebreaks, jagged with his runner’s breath.
It was not beautiful. It was not Arin’s voice: rich liquor poured to the brim. But it was happy. Kestrel was happy to hear it, and thought about being grateful for what one can get.