Page 17 of The Gambler's Prize
Then—
“Boss?” he says, louder to drown out the rain.
“What is it, Florian?”
“Is there any way out of my contract?”
I wasn’t expecting that. Does he really think I would release him so easily? He owes me two years of work. Stars, he owes me two years of what I suffered inside those jailhouse walls. At the fragile hope in his voice, something ugly opens up inside me. My anger and bitterness, which according to Jos was overcultivated by my intense personality. It borders on obsessive, according to Jos; he went in for nerve doctors and such foolishness.
“You could just ask me,” I say to Florian. There’s an ominous note in my voice which goes over his head.
“Really? It could be as simple as that?”
“It could be, if I decide to let you go. I’m the contract holder.” I roll the words around my tongue, enjoying my power over him. “Why don’t you try?”
He takes a breath. I feel him move a little, as though he’s trying to see my face as much as he can in the faint moonlight. I don’t open my eyes.
“Boss, will you release me from the contract?” he says. “Please?”
His voice is feathery light and so soft. He sounds so young and pure. And scared. For a moment he reminds me of the new prisoners shipped in every week, looking around the prison yard wide-eyed and panicking. He sounds like an innocent young man ripped from his home and carried off to serve a tyrant, which I suppose he is—minus the innocent part. For a moment I almost fall into his spell: weak and sleepy and nightmare-battered as I am, I’m almost tempted. Then I remember it’s an act. He’s a selfish, spineless aristocrat. He sent me into prisonfor two years without a care. While I was picking rope and dodging guards’ batons, he was in coffee houses, in dance halls, dancing with pretty young men and women, drinking into the small hours of the night and rollicking home to be undressed and put into a warm bed by a servant.
“No, Florian, I will not release you,” I say. “You will serve your two years’ labor as you agreed.”
He stays still for a moment, then settles back onto my chest with a sigh.
“Thought not,” he says. “That would’ve been too easy.” He laughs softly. “But worth a try.”
Annoyance rises, faster than if he had argued or shouted or begged. His casual acceptance bothers me. He won’t let anything crush him. He’s facing his imprisonment with a galling amount of nonchalance. Even courage.
“Is there a reason why you went after me specifically?” he says.
“What?” I say, freezing. “What do you mean?”
“In the game ofafi. You obviously had a plan to get yourself a cheap servant. Why did you want me?”
“You flatter yourself if you think your work ethic was worth seeking out,” I say coldly. “You were simply the first to be conceited enough to fall for my plan.”
I’m a competent liar, and it’s even easier in the dark. If he knew the lengths I went to in tracking him down and hiding my identity, even changing my last name so he wouldn’t recognize me from my prize fights…
“But you said you didn’t want just anyone,” he objects. “You said you wantedme.”
“When?”
“Outside the casino. After you won the bet.”
Shit. I’m relaxing too much, not keeping track of my story. Yes, I did say that. I was trying to scare him and it succeeded. I probably shouldn’t have been grandstanding but I couldn’tresist. I ran my mouth too much, and he remembers. Perhaps he isn’t as big a fool as I thought. I need to be more careful in future.
“I only meant that once you lost the bet, I wasn’t about to let you run out on your obligations,” I lie, glad he can’t see my expression clearly.
“Oh, okay. It was a pretty good plan,” he says ruminatively. He gives a huge yawn, getting relaxed and sleepy, lulled by the rhythmic battering of the rain. “A bit sneaky, though. A bit low…”
“Florian,” I snap. He must be forgetting himself, talking to me like this. It’s my fault for letting him lie all over me.
“Yes, Boss?” he says.
“You want to stay here? You don’t want me to send you back to your own bed?”
“I want to stay.”
