Page 57 of The Winner's Crime
Her disguise! Arin stopped in his tracks and marveled at the sight of her dressed as a maid. Her bright hair was hidden. Her face bare. Brow clean. That godsforsaken gold mark was gone.
He felt something buoyant. Practically giddy. It filled his lungs. It made him spin a story. A pure fantasy that exposed just how far his mind had gone.
Arin imagined her as Tensen’s Moth.
Yes, Arin mocked himself, surely that was it. Everything was explained.
Amazed at his powers of self-deception, Arin told himself his absurd little story. Tensen’s hints about Risha as the Moth had been mere insinuation. Tensen had said nothing straight. And Kestrel was in a good position to gather information for Arin’s spymaster, wasn’t she? Beloved by the court. Daughter of the general. Close to the emperor. Promised to his son. Tensen would never tell Arin if she was his source.
It fit perfectly. Look at her now. The maid’s uniform. That coat. Something hidden in her eyes. Oh, yes. Kestrel would make a fine spy.
And let’s not forget that ruined dress Deliah had described, with the ripped seams and vomit and mucky hem.
Wouldn’t it be like Kestrel, to risk herself?
For what? Herran?
Him?
Gods of madness and lies. Arin was insane.
He laughed out loud.
* * *
Kestrel had stopped, too. She’d seen his face fill with a strange, hard mirth even before he’d laughed. “Arin,” she said. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” He shook his head, still smiling. “Everything. I don’t know.”
“What is it?”
“A joke. Something stupid. Not real. Never mind.”
She was reluctant to press him. She didn’t want to hear that joyless laugh again.
They continued on for a few paces beneath the wooden signs that hung over establishments’ doors like rigid flags. Kestrel stopped when she realized where Arin was leading her. She eyed the tavern across the street, the one with the sign of the broken arm, under which that sick lord had almost seen through her disguise. “I can’t go in there.”
“Not grand enough for you?” Arin still had that satirical light in his eyes.
“Someone might recognize me.”
“They won’t.”
“Do I look so different in plain clothes?” She heard the self-conscious note in her voice, and was embarrassed.
“Kestrel, I’m going to suspect that you think yourself too fine a lady to enter the Broken Arm. Or that you’re afraid to lose to me, which is really quite understandable.”
She scowled at him, then led the way.
The tavern was all wild noise and light. There was a press of people. The air lay thick with tobacco smoke, the meaty smell of cheap tallow candles, and a yeasty, humid odor that seemed due to a mix of alcohol and sweat. Kestrel threaded through the crowd.
“Do you know where you’re going?” she heard Arin say near her ear, amused.
Kestrel pushed ahead. She could breathe a bit better closer to the bar, though when she came nearer she saw three disheveled courtiers, drunk and loud. She knew one of them by name. He ranked highly, and had been a part of the emperor’s inner circle at the Winter Garden party.
Kestrel ducked her head, afraid to be recognized.
She wasn’t quick enough. His gaze fell on her … and slid away. She saw him not see her, or at least not see anything worth his attention. One of his fellows laughed at something the other said. The senator turned to them. There was a merry call for another round. They didn’t glance her way.
