Chapter One #2
Two mugs of ale in hand, I make my way between crowded tables to where I’ve been flagged by a couple of sellswords, their faces as sharp as their steel.
They’re not from around here, but that’s not unusual.
Evandale is at the crossroads of several popular routes, so we’re a prime spot for travelers to stop for the night—or longer, as they flee from more dangerous lands.
The sellswords don’t look up from their conversation as I serve their drinks.
Apparently, the Usurper King of Penrith is hiring anyone who can lift a blade, but neither of these men is convinced the coin is worth the risk.
If our King Elgar increases his soldiers’ hazard pay as he’s been promising, these men would rather sign up to defend Alarice.
I’ve heard others whisper about the Usurper looking to expand his borders and make war against Loegria and Alarice, so there might be some truth to it.
I collect their empty mugs, keeping a mild, disinterested expression on my face, but they don’t even acknowledge my existence.
I’m used to being ignored. Patrons talking among themselves, keeping their voices low as I serve their drinks.
They don’t think I’m listening, or simply don’t care if I am, because I’m a nobody.
Barmaids couldn’t possibly care about the politics of Penrith, a kingdom half a world away.
What harm would it do if I were to overhear?
I’m used to being invisible, just another set dressing, and I like it that way.
It’s way better than being proposed to, that’s for sure.
They continue their hushed discussion as if I’m not there. Being a nobody has its perks.
I feel someone’s gaze at my back, and every hair on my body begins to stand up.
I turn to see Lord Breadalbane, Marquis of Evandale, at a table with two of his trusted lackeys.
He is almost three times my age, with cold eyes and a lecherous stare that makes me feel as if I’m already standing naked before him.
Ugh. Lord Grabbyhands. That’s what the girls call him.
He stares at me like a beast does its dinner as his henchmen bicker amongst themselves. I pretend not to notice him and dodge his gaze.
I walk over to a lone traveler at a table by herself. She doesn’t hear me approach, given that a group near her has spontaneously burst out in a harvest shanty. Four scores of seven whores…
“What can I get ya?” I ask, hand on my hip.
The woman blinks up at me in surprise and adjusts her spectacles. “Tea, if you please.”
“That’s all? A tinker doesn’t want anything a little stronger?”
The woman gawks. “How’d you know I’m a tinker?”
“You’ve got a callus on your middle finger,” I say. The tinker looks down at her hands. “You hold a tool of some kind, something small, and for long hours. Based on that, you’re either a scholar or a tinker, but seeing as you don’t have ink stains on your fingers, that’s a giveaway.”
“I’m impressed.”
“Comes with the job,” I tell her. Years working at the bar means I’m good at reading people. You can learn more about a person from their body than what comes out of their mouth.
“Where you off to? Back home, is it?” I ask, noting her Loegrian lilt.
The tinker nods. “I’m supposed to meet a friend here and journey together, but he’s coming from Penrith, and I’ve seen neither hide nor hair of him.”
Traveling from Penrith has been risky since their rightful king was overthrown a couple of decades ago.
But lately there have been more and more stories of missing travelers who disappear in Estyrion’s Great Waste—the land Boreas destroyed.
I’ve never been outside of Evandale to know if these stories are any different from the tall tales the farmers spin during long winter nights to pass the time.
But I’ve seen one too many terrified travelers pass through my doors who whisper about something dark stirring once more in the Great Waste.
I suppress a shudder and maintain the cheerful act; my customers come to the tavern to forget their troubles for a while.
“I’m sure he’ll be fine,” I say, putting on my best smile.
“You’ll meet your friend, and before you head out on your journey together, you’ll bring him back here for a much-needed drink.
” I hide my creeping sense of unease at the possibility of yet another missing traveler.
I’m making my way back to the bar when the front door bursts open with such force, I’m amazed it’s still hanging on its hinges.
A dozen soldiers barge into the tavern. They’re decked out head to toe in Loegrian blue, with sharp, gleaming swords at their hips.
They stand shoulder to shoulder, their massive frames blocking the entrance.
I tuck my rag into my apron pocket and cross my arms over my chest. It isn’t every day that soldiers arrive at the Raven’s Beak. Even though they’re armed, they don’t look like they’re here to cause trouble.
But what business does the Loegrian royal guard have in Evandale?
Their dramatic entrance clearly didn’t have the impact they’d expected because, of course, most of my patrons don’t even give them a second glance.
Everyone continues to chatter away. The table next to the tinker even starts a new ribald shanty.
When a farmer takes a wife… His balls are set for life…
The captain—at least I think he’s the captain, based on the row of medals gleaming on his chest—steps forward. He looks around and calls out, “Silence!”
No one pays him any mind, save the half-drunk marquis. He starts to make his way toward the guards, likely attracted by the captain’s shiny hardware—a magpie drawn to power.
Oh, Goddess, I don’t need this tonight.
“Can I help you strapping gents?” I ask, shouldering my way over to the Loegrians. “If you’ll kindly pipe down and take a seat…” I motion to a table.
“Thank you, miss,” he says politely. “But I must have the floor.” He turns back to the tavern. “Silence!” he roars again, but no one listens.
Right. I let out a sharp whistle between my teeth, and the crowd falls silent like dogs called off a hunt. Everyone stares.
“Hey, listen up! It seems we’ve got an announcement,” I say, gesturing to the soldiers.
All eyes turn to the captain, who nods his thanks before he begins. “I am General Marcus Marcellus, and I’ve come to announce that my lord, the crown prince of Loegria, arrives in two days’ time.”
Murmurs cut through the tavern. A prince? In Evandale? What the hell for?
The general—not captain—continues, “His royal highness is traveling the kingdom in search of his bride.”
“Why?” one of the old farmers asks, his words slurring. “He lose her?”
That gets a laugh, but the soldiers are not amused.
“His royal highness has come to collect a bride, perhaps from this very village, on his tour of Alarice.”
“You want someone from Evandale?” another red-cheeked farmer croaks. “I’d make for a nice bride.”
“Me too,” another says, laughing. He grabs his neighbor by the face. “Lemme give the prince a big smooch—mwah!”
More raucous laughter. If the soldiers had intended to make their announcement to Evandale’s most bustling hall of drunks, they’ve picked well. But my mind whirls and my whole body tingles with what feels suspiciously like hope at this remarkable news.
Despite his bearing and air of competence, Marcus Marcellus looks way too young to be a general.
He also looks less than thrilled at his audience.
“The prince is coming here in search of a bride per the terms of the treaty of mutual support between the kingdoms of Loegria and Alarice,” he declares.
He sighs and glances at his men. It’s clear he’s unimpressed with the pickings so far.
That makes two of us, bud.
Under his breath, the general mumbles, “Dietan has lost his damn mind…” as he looks around. “This is a mistake.”
“We can’t leave yet, sir,” a soldier murmurs.
“I know our orders.” He turns back to the tavern, which has settled into its usual hum. Everyone ignores him. Most of them are sloppy drunk, and I doubt they’ll remember what happened come morning.
But me? I see opportunity. My brain starts to race.
As the soldiers take a table vacated by farmers who have left to stumble home to their beds, I head back to my place behind the bar.
I’m positively buzzing.
This is what I’ve been waiting for—a once-in-a-lifetime shot of getting the hell out of this dead-end town.
Shephard raises his head, the bumpy imprint of his wrinkled sleeve in the center of his forehead. “Guess you’ll be marrying that prince now instead of me, huh.”
Prince?
I almost laugh. “Me? Not a chance,” I say.
No way am I going to marry the prince… Dear Goddess, what would the prince want with me?
I’m…alright-looking, I guess, but rough around the edges, to use a generous term, and the prince won’t want a princess with a salty tongue and a sharp wit.
“I’ve got a better idea,” I announce a little too loudly.
“Of course she does,” a familiar voice says snidely.
As the marquis takes his final strides toward the general, he makes sure his dead eyes are firmly planted on me. I struggle to keep a smile plastered to my face.
The marquis extends a hand to the general, which he takes in a firm grip.
“General Marcellus, is it? Lord Breadalbane. Marquis of Evandale. It is nice to make your acquaintance. I look forward to working together to find the crown prince a bride.”
I see the glint of a gold coin pass from the marquis’ sausage-like fingers to the gloved hand of the general. “And make sure you watch out for this one,” he says, nodding at me. “She’s a wily one.”
The general shakes his head and returns the coin with a frown. Then looks to me, puzzled by the marquis’ comment, but I know his game—planting seeds of supposed ill repute. I feel utter rage bubble from my toes to the core of my stomach.
Now, I have two ideas…