Page 87 of The Winner's Crime
She would turn eighteen. Her birthday was near spring’s end: right before the wedding. “It’s more than two months from now.”
“Yes, not so far away. Trajan, I insist that you stay in the capital right through until the wedding.”
The general shut the watch. “We just seized the eastern plains. If you want to hold them—”
“Your lieutenants can manage. You’re barely healed. You can’t expect to lead a regiment in battle, and quite frankly, you’re no good to me dead. You’ll stay here. We’ll celebrate Kestrel’s birthday together.” With the air of someone presenting the best idea in the world, he added, “I thought that she could perform for the court.”
There was the soft, faraway thump of an arrow hitting canvas.
The general said nothing. Kestrel watched his mouth harden.
“She has such a gift for music,” said the emperor, “like your wife did.”
The general’s hatred of Kestrel’s music had always been clear. It embarrassed him: her love for an instrument that one bought slaves to play. Sometimes, though, Kestrel thought that it wasn’t just that. The piano was his rival. He had wanted her to enlist in the military. She wouldn’t. He wanted her to stop playing. She wouldn’t. The piano became her way of refusing him … or at least this was how she had thought he saw it. Only now did it occur to her that he hated to hear her play because it hurt.
“I confess,” the emperor said, “that I want to show Kestrel off. I want everyone to see what talent my future daughter has.” With a smile, he excused himself to speak with the Senate leader.
General Trajan’s hand closed around the watch.
What a silly gift to give a man who led nighttime assaults where stealth could mean the difference between life and death. “Give it to me,” Kestrel said. “I will find a nice convenient rock to drop it on.”
The general smiled a little. “When the emperor gives you a gift, it’s best to wear it.” He glanced at the new dagger at Kestrel’s hip. “Sometimes what he gives is actually a way of saying what’s his.”
I’m not his, she wanted to say, but her father was already gone, walking slowly across the lawn to greet an off-duty naval officer.
Someone must have struck a target’s center. She heard a smattering of applause.
“Are you going to shoot?”
It was Verex. He had approached without her noticing.
“Not today.” The wind was tricky and her father was here. She didn’t want to miss.
Verex offered her his arm. “Let’s see who wins.”
As they walked together, Kestrel said, “You seem to know a good deal about medicine.”
He shrugged.
“Would you rather be a doctor than an emperor?”
Verex peered down the low slope. He didn’t say anything. Kestrel wasn’t sure if it was because he had been offended by the question or because he didn’t know how to answer it. Then he said, “The Herrani minister of agriculture is looking at you.”
Kestrel glanced to see Tensen sitting in a chair under the trees, folded hands resting on the cane planted into the grass in front of him.
“No, don’t look back,” said Verex. “Be careful, Kestrel.”
Her step faltered. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“You know why my father keeps him at court, don’t you?”
Slowly, Kestrel said, “To watch him.”
“What will my father think if he watches that minister watch you?”
Kestrel swallowed a bubbling nervousness. Her hands, though lightly gloved, were very cold. But she strove to sound confident and careless. “People look at me all the time. I can’t help it.”
Verex shook his head and turned to eye the archers.
