Page 72 of The Winner's Kiss
“I think that it’s not just about winning for him.” Arin remembered Kestrel at the gaming table. “He likes to win with style. Make you feel the fool for ever thinking you could compete. He could push all his troops up onto that beach and bleed them out, and still win, and come up north to take the city. Brute force victory. A nasty one, though, with heavy losses. And a little too straightforward. He prefers a trick. He already played one with the cliffs. Unless he’s got another trick up his sleeve for the beach, I wouldn’t focus our forces there.”
“If we have none in position at Lerralen, he’ll walk right onto the peninsula with no resistance.”
“Send a division.”
“Two-thirds?”
“Plus most of the supplies, and infantry. Stationed there. The rest of the army keeps moving south—light, fast, mainly cavalry. Small cannon. And guns.”
“Where would you put your people?”
“Where you want them.”
Roshar’s eyes went exaggeratedly round. “How very accommodating of you.”
“So long as they’re under my command.”
“Why not,” Roshar said graciously, “so long as you are under mine?”
Night. Without commenting on it, Arin and Roshar had pitched their tents near each other. A small fire crackled. A chill had crept into the air; the weather was changing.
Roshar lay on his back, the dip of his neck bolstered by a tied bedroll. He smoked. “I’ve been thinking.”
“Dear gods.”
“It occurs to me that you have no official rank, and that I, as your prince, might give you one.” He said an eastern word Arin didn’t know. “Well? Will it suit?”
“Depends.”
“On?”
“Whether that word was some horrific insult you’re pretending is an actual military rank.”
“How mistrustful! Arin, I have taught you every foul curse I know.”
“I’m sure you’ve saved a few, for just such a time.”
Roshar said something about pigs and Arin’s fondness for certain questionable practices.
Arin laughed.
“I wasn’t joking earlier,” Roshar said. “I don’t know how to translate that word. For your rank. It puts you third. After Xash.” The sea captain had requested the queen’s permission to leave his ships under her orders, and that of his second-in-command. He wanted to be part of the land operation. “He has the experience. He fought the general in the mountains four years back. He’s good. Also, he’d kill me if I ranked you above him.”
Arin shifted a log and watched the darting sparks. “Thank you.”
Roshar squinted up at him, dragging on his pipe. Its bowl blistered red. “You don’t seem wholly pleased.” Smoke curled around his face. “What is it? What makes you not glad for third? You don’t like Xash? Neither do I. So what? You can’t have second, and you damned well won’t get first.” He studied Arin more carefully. “No, it’s not thwarted ambition that’s bothering you. Not even wounded pride, which is usually the obvious interpretation where you’re concerned. Not this time, somehow. Arin, you’re not nervous, are you? You’re perfect for this. You want it. Just earlier today you claimed command of the Herrani.”
“I must. I’m responsible for them.”
“And they love you. They think you’re some holy gift from your gods. Very nice work, I must say.”
“I didn’t mean for that to happen.”
“Even better. Makes it seem more authentic. Convenient, you understand, when sending people to their deaths.”
Arin looked at his stolen Valorian boots and felt the fire’s heat in his cheeks.
“Too late to have qualms about death and dying and killing,” Roshar said. “You’re in it. Some people were born to be in it.”
