Page 40 of The Gambler's Prize
“Toyou?” he says, like it’s a wild notion.
“To anyone.”
“I talk plenty.”
“No, you don’t. Anyway, I meanreallytalk. About how you’re feeling, what you really think of things.” I cast him a sidelong glance. “About your past. I don’t count barking orders as talking.”
This is pretty forward behavior for a servant, but instead of getting angry he just looks thoughtful, and a little awkward.
“Well… what do you want to talk about?” he says.
I click my fingers. “I know. We could do something I used to do with my friend Jagder back when I lived in Rhennes. It’s a memory exercise. You’ll love it.”
“I doubt that,” he says. “But go on, I’ll humor you.”
“Well, the beauty of it is, even if you don’t like or trust the person you’re talking to, it’s still a good exercise.” I pause for him to reassure me that he does indeed like and trust me. When he just looks at me with a raised eyebrow, I hurry on. “Basically, you just recount a memory without context.”
“Without any context?” he checks.
“Yep. Tell me what happened, the sensations, how you felt, but you don’t have to give any identifying details.”
“That sounds… doable,” he says. There’s a hesitant note in his voice. And I realize that maybe sometimes he’s a little afraid of me, too.
“Do you want to go first, or should I?” I ask.
“You.”
We walk over to the well and sit on the edge. The stones are warm already, even though it’s only early morning. The tiniest little insects crawl all over them, busier than factory workers, their red-brown bodies glistening in the sun. I’m not sure what they’re called. They’re everywhere here, but we don’t have them in Rhennes. They seem fulfilled in their tiny sphere, each stone like a whole universe to them, totally uncaring ofthe wider world. It makes me think of Rhennes with a pang of homesickness. I have no idea what my father is doing, my old friends. My whole life is here now, in this faraway gold-mining city, and to the people from my past, my new life is probably as bare and empty and small as the stones around the well that provide a whole world to these insects. But with Grimes beside me, it doesn’t feel so empty. I raise my gaze to his face. His eyes contain so much depth, even if he won’t show it all to me. Yet. I throw my head back, letting the sun play over my face. This is the best part of the day, before the heat becomes a punishment and bakes my skin within moments of stepping outside. I cast my mind back to a different kind of sunny day, still hot but with a fresh breeze from the eastern ocean, and green grass all around me.
“Okay, here goes,” I say. “This is my memory. The woman is about thirty years old. She has long blond hair and she’s paler than me. She’s pushing me on a rope swing in a tree. We’re in the garden of my house. I’m screaming with joy for her to push me higher and higher, and we’re laughing together. The sky is so blue and I feel like I could fly off the swing right into it and keep on going and I’d be fine, I wouldn’t fall to earth. She sings as she pushes me and she has the most beautiful voice you’ve ever heard. Then she lifts me down from the swing and hugs me close to her. She tells me she loves me, and then she brings some hoti berries out of the picnic basket, and we eat them right there on the lawn.”
Grimes’ dark eyes are fixed on me. He’s listening intently to every word I say. I exhale. The memory brings me peace with a twinge of sadness that I can never shake.
“It’s my very best memory,” I say.
“Your mother,” he guesses.
“Yes. I haven’t seen her since I was ten years old.”
I don’t want to tell him that she left me. That’s the beauty of the memory exercise. I don’t have to.
Grimes looks the same as ever. Hood up, mouth unmoving, shoulders wide in his dark cloak, big work boots planted in the dirt. But there’s something different about him too. It’s his eyes. Their dark depths are softer than I’ve ever seen. I look down again fast, torn between wanting to hold onto that kindness in his eyes and the need to protect myself. I’m feeling shaky, almost tearing up. If he sees that that he can make me cry that easily, I’ll be at his mercy.
“Now you go,” I say.
“Mine is darker,” he warns.
“That’s okay. The point is to be honest.”
He takes a deep breath, eyes on the sentinel cacti at the edge of the yard. His mouth becomes a thin line.
“The man is a little younger than me,” he says. “He has brown Rhennian skin and short hair. His mouth is oozing blood and a couple of his teeth are in his hands. They look like little beads on his palm.” I shiver even in the heat. His tone is bleak, his eyes bleaker. “I have my arm around him, trying to lead him back to our”—he pauses, searches for the word— “room. But he’s so weak, he can barely walk. I’m not strong enough to carry him.”
Really? Grimes is strong enough to carry anyone, surely. Was he injured as well? I can’t interrupt to ask about it. It’s against the spirit of the game, and anyway it might cause him to clam up.
“Go on,” I say softly.
“Finally I get him back to our room. He’s crying. His wince as I ease him onto the bed breaks my heart. ‘They broke a couple of ribs,’ he says to me. I already know. I’m so angry, so fucking angry, Florian, you have no idea.”
