The Traitor


But it isn't over. Not yet. I feel something slip in the front of my gown before my beating heart. The card. Heavensby's card. It falls to the gritty stone without a sound.

Pizda.

Do I cover it up? Let it lie? Will even so much as moving attract attention-?

I rest one bare foot over it, feel the grain of sand and the prickle of stone. It soaks into the blood of those fallen families and clings to my skin.

But Snow sees. He always sees.

A Peacekeeper hands him the blood-drenched card. Again his features remain expressionless. "I know this man," Snow intones. "He is at the gala. Send for him."

He eyes me coldly. "Who gave you this?"

"I found it." I lie.

"And kept it," he corrects me. "How very considerate of you, Petra. Doubtless you meant to return it to its rightful owner. I will see you have the chance to do so. Tell me, Petra Angelovna, have you not learned enough?" He asks acridly. "Have you not seen enough? You are either unintelligent or stubborn, Petra Angelovna, and it is unfortunate. Neither will fare you well."

I shiver. Huddle closer to the cross-light for warmth. It's only bones. Bones and meat. I'm the butcher's daughter, and a body, once dead, can't frighten me.


Heavensby is brought, puffing and panting, tripping the last few stairs nearly on hands and knees in their haste. His pudgy face flaps as he gasps for breath. "In a moment, your Excellency, I beg you, a moment, it's the sweets, they say, too many sweets—"

He is disgusting, but I pity him. He meant to help me, and I betrayed him.

"Heavensby, I'm disappointed," Snow returns coldly.

"Disappointed?" Heavensby seems shocked. "In what?"

"You." Snow reveals the card. "This rebel was caught with it. What have you to say?"

Plutarch Heavensby turns a mottled grey. "I, your Excellency-"

"Because this looks like a plot, Plutarch," Snow interrupts him. "A plot to aid a potential Victor seeking to overthrow this government-"

"I, please, your Excellency, I have hundreds, thousands of those cards!" He races desperately, jowls flapping with every quiver of his jaws. "She, the girl, she could have picked it up anywhere, anytime, stolen it-"

"And when would she have stolen it," Snow asks dryly. "And from whom? Do tell, Plutarch. Was it back in her District, or did you notice this theft tonight at this gathering?"

He is caught. His sweat pours, a sheen as slick as petrol. "I, I gave the girl the card," He finally admits. "Tonight."

"Go on," Snow prods him.

"I meant nothing, Excellency!" Heavensby wails. "Nothing!"

"And yet I find you plotting with the Rebellion."

"Rebellion?" Plutarch Heavensby pales. "No, I-"

"I don't abide liars, Plutarch," Snow reminds him harshly. "Choose your next words carefully."

With that he begins to sob, every hitch of his belly causing his fringe to jingle. "I, I was merely asked to look out for the girl! Gain her trust! That was all, it seemed harmless-"

Snow regards him with contempt. "And why would you do such a thing?"

"I, this is, this is humiliating, Excellency," Heavensby cringes, wringing his fat hands earnestly. "I have a problem. With money. I owned a man a great deal, an unforgiving man, Excellency, and I, borrowed from the Games Expense account to repay the debt-"

So he never was a hero, then. Just a coward. Always a coward. He never meant to help me, just himself. I have no more pity. Just disgust.

"Stole," Snow says. "You stole."

"Yes!" Heavensby cries. "I stole! It was discovered, and I was told to comply with their wishes, their simple, harmless wishes, and it would be forgotten-"

"Such deeds are never forgotten," Snow interrupts him. "You would have been approached again."

"P-p-please, Excellency!" He cries. "I meant nothing, n-nothing-"

"The request should have been reported. Immediately," Snow cuts across him harshly. "These are dangerous times."

"I, I, report?" the fat man questions timidly. "Excellency, how could I-?"

"Admit to being a thief rather than a traitor?" Snow continues lightly.

"I am a thief!" Heavensby falls to his knees before him, nose streaming with snot. "A miserable, despicable thief! Yes, yes I admit it. A thief. A thief. A thief not a traitor, never a traitor, please, please-"

"Please?" Snow sneers at the man now clutching his robes. "A thief is still a thief, Plutarch, and he will steal again."

"No, your Excellency," he moans. "Never, never again, no-"

Snow draws back, pulls his hem from those pudgy, grasping fingers. "And a man who has been blackmailed once can be blackmailed twice. Tell me," he turns to the nearest helmeted Peacekeepers. "What is the sentence for theft and treason?"

Wordlessly their rifles are raised. I turn back to the flames, back the Capitol's winding streets and sleepless night of traffic and trains zipping brilliant lines throughout the dark. Plutarch Heavensby is a coward, and was never my friend. I don't have to watch this.


"EXCELLENCY, PLEASE—!"

I tense, shoulders aching, but no shots are fired. Finally I turn.

Snow has raised one hand. "Thank you, Excellency," Heavensby blubbers. "Oh, thank you-"

"I have not countermanded your execution, Plutarch. Merely postphoned it," Snow informs him coldly. "Tell me this: why should I spare you?"

"I, I am an Assistant Gamemaker," Heavensby stammers, face spangled with tears. "I have done great service for this country-"

"You have stolen from her, lied to her, kept secrets from her," Snow reiterates. "Yet you speak now of service? Your patriotism is moving, Plutarch. But it will not save you."

He falls to his face, grovels on the blood-soaked stones. "I have nothing, nothing more to hide, your Excellency-"

Snow raises an eyebrow in mockery. "Truly?"

"Truly!"

"Very well, then," Snow orders briskly. "Take this man away. See to it he returns safely home."

Heavensby gapes like a fish, drowning in air. "I, I, I don't understand."

"Come, Plutarch," Snow offers a hand gently. "You must be smarter than this. The crime will go unreported and unsolved. No one but you or I will know the truth of it," he explains with long-suffering patience. "You will continue to do simple, harmless favors for these fools as they request, and you will report to me. But know this: the day will come when I ask of you a favor, a harmless, simple favor, and you will see to it that it is done."

He grasps Snow's hand between his own and smears it with trails of saliva and snot. "Yes, your Excellency," he mutters between kisses. "Thank you, your Excellency-"

"Enough." Snow orders, withdrawing his hand. The Peacekeepers drag him away.

He's become Snow's lackey, same as the other. Converted, not killed. He'll remember Snow as the man who saved his life, not the one who ordered his execution. I find him sickening. "I thought I could trust you," I accuse him bitterly.

"So did I, dear girl," Plutarch Heavensby whispers, "so did I."