Page 113 of The Bridge Kingdom (The Bridge Kingdom 1)

Which was a shame. It smelled like spilled beer and vomit, but she’d grown fond of this place.

Drinking directly from the bottle, she blearily scanned the room, tables full of Harendell sailors dressed in baggy trousers and those stupid floppy hats that never ceased to remind her of Aren. A trio of musicians played in the corner. No-nonsense serving women carried trays of steaming roast beef and rich soups to the patrons, the smell making her mouth water. A nod at one of the women had a bowl of soup arriving in front of her moments later.

“Here you are, Lara.”

Shit.It was time for her to move on. How long had she been in this town? Two months? Three? In the haze of alcohol, she’d lost track of days, it feeling both like a lifetime and just yesterday that she’d dragged her battered boat onto a Harendell beach, half-starved and her clothes still red with the blood of the Maridrinian soldiers she’d slaughtered to get herself off Midwatch.

The smell of soup tickled her nose, but her stomach soured, and she shoved the bowl away, drinking from the bottle instead.

The smart thing would be to move inland, north and away from all those who knew and cared about Lara, The Traitor Queen of Ithicana. Her father’s agents would be looking for her—maybe another one of her sisters, for all she knew—and a drunken wreck like her was an easy mark.

But she kept finding excuses not to go. The weather. The ease of stealing coin. The comfort of this shithole of a tap house. Except she knew the reason she stayed was because here, the news from Ithicana was on everyone’s lips. Night after night she sat at the bar, listening to the sailors chatter about this battle and that, hoping and praying that the tides would turn. That, rather than grumbles about the growing dominion of Maridrina, she’d hear that Aren was back in power. That Ithicana held the bridge once more.

Wasted hopes.

With every passing day, the news grew worse. No one in Harendell was particularly pleased that Maridrina now controlled the bridge—already the old men were bemoaning the good old days of Ithicanian efficiency and neutrality—and there was much chatter over the likelihood of the Harendellian King taking action. Except even if he did, Lara knew it wouldn’t be until after storm season, six months from now. And by then . . . by then, it would be too late.

“. . . battle with the Ithicanians . . . the king . . . prisoner.”

Lara’s ears perked, unease pushing aside the haze of the wine. Turning to the table behind her, which was filled with a group of heavyset men with equally heavy mustaches, she asked, “What was that you said about the Ithicanian King?”

One of the men grinned lasciviously at her. “Why don’t you come over here and I’ll tell you everything there is to know about the sorry sot.” He patted one knee, which was coated with grease stains.

Picking up her bottle, Lara swayed over to the table and set it down among their mugs. “Here I am. Now, what was it you were saying?”

The man patted his knee. She shook her head. “I’m fine on my feet, sir.”

“I’d be better with that fine ass of yours on my lap.” His hand swung in a wide arc, cracking against her bottom, where it remained, his meaty fingers digging into her flesh.

Lara reached behind, taking a firm grip on his wrist. The idiot had the nerve to smile. Pulling hard, she twisted, slamming his palm against the table and, a heartbeat later, embedding her dagger in it.

The man squealed and tried to pull away, but the knife blade was stuck in the wood beneath his hand.

One of the others reached for it, but fell back, nose broken.

Another swung his fist at her face, but she dodged easily, the toe of her boot catching him in the groin.

“Now.” She rested one hand on the knife and gave it a gentle twist. “What was it you were saying about the King of Ithicana?”

“That he was captured in a skirmish with the Maridrinians.” The man was sobbing, squirming on his seat. “He’s being held prisoner in Vencia.”

“Are you certain?”

“Ask anyone! The news just came in from Northwatch. Now please!”

Lara eyed him thoughtfully, nothing on her face betraying the terror rising in her guts. Jerking the knife free, she leaned down. “You slap another ass, I’ll personally track you down and cut that hand off.”

Spinning on her heel, she nodded at the barkeep and strode out the door, barely feeling the rain that drove against her face.

Aren had been captured.

Aren was a prisoner.

Aren was herfather’shostage.

The wind ripped and tore at her hair. The last thought replayed endlessly in her mind as Lara strode toward the boarding house, people leaping out of her way as she passed. There was onlyonereason her father would keep Aren alive: to use him as bait.

Taking the steps two at a time, she unlocked the door to her room, slamming it behind her. Guzzling water straight from a pitcher, she stripped off the simple blue dress she wore and donned her Ithicanian clothes, swiftly packing her meager belongings into a sack. Then, a chip of charcoal in hand, she sat down at the table.

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