The Bridge Kingdom

by Danielle L. Jensen

  Lara rose onto her knees to look up as they passed between two towers of limestone. “Do people live here?”

  As if to answer her question, when they rounded another island, several fishing boats appeared, the men and women aboard them stopping what they were doing to lift their hands in greeting, many of them calling out to Aren by name.

  “Some live here,” he responded slowly, as though the admission cost him something. “But it’s dangerous. If they are attacked, we can’t come to their aid until it’s too late to matter.”

  “Are they attacked often?”

  “Not since the treaty was signed, which is why more people have settled their families here.”

  “Do they leave during War Tides?”

  His jaw tightened. “No.”

  Lara turned away from the fishing boats to look up at him, a sickening feeling filling her guts. What were the chances that Serin and her father didn’t know these people were here? And what were the chances Aren wouldn’t do everything in his power to help them if they were attacked?

  Even if meant weakening the bridge’s defenses.

  They meandered through the islands in silence before sailing beneath a natural stone arch into a hidden cove that dwarfed the one at Midwatch where, to Lara’s surprise, several large ships were anchored.

  “They’re mostly naval vessels that we’ve captured. We’ve refit several to pass as merchant ships. This one’s mine.” Aren pointed at a mid-sized vessel painted with blue and gold.

  “Aren’t they all yours?” Lara replied sourly, accepting Jor’s arm for balance before taking hold of the rope ladder dangling off the side of the ship.

  “They all belong to King Aren of Ithicana. But this one is under the command of Captain John, merchant of Harendell. Now come on. That storm’s going to chase us into Vencia if we delay much longer.”

  The hold, as it turned out, was full of the very product that Ithicana had been trying to keep from Maridrina: steel. “Can’t keep a hold full of cattle sitting around for these situations,” Aren said. “Plus, steel’s the only commodity worth the risk of a storm season crossing. Or at least it was.”

  As they retreated back on deck and into the captain’s quarters, Lara broke off a tiny piece of the root Nana had given her, then chewed on it vigorously, hoping it would quell the nausea inflicted by more than just seasickness.

  Opening a chest, Aren riffled around and extracted a set of clothes and a floppy cap, which he tossed her way. “Disguises. If you pretend to be a boy, you’ll have more liberty once we arrive in the city.”

  Scowling at him, Lara took the clothes and waited for him to turn his back before shedding her Ithicanian garments. After a bit of thought, she wrapped a scarf tightly around her chest, binding her breasts as well as she could, then donned the baggy shirt and voluminous trousers apparently favored by sailors from Harendell. She twisted her long braid into a coil on top of her head, securing it tightly, then tugged the cap over the whole affair and turned around.

  Aren was already dressed in his Harendell attire, a similar floppy hat perched on his head. He frowned. “You still look like a woman.”

  “Shocking.” She crossed her arms.

  “Hmm.” He turned in a circle, then walked to a corner and rubbed a hand across the floor. “This ship hasn’t gone anywhere for over a year, and I don’t think anyone’s been in to clean.” Retreating across the room, he reached for her.

  Lara recoiled in alarm. “What are you doing?”

  “Finishing your disguise.” Holding the back of her head, he rubbed a hand that smelled like dirt and mouse shit across her face, ignoring her protests. Stepping back, Aren eyed her up and down. “Slouch a bit. And keep that frown on your face. It suits that of a thirteen-year-old boy forced into the service of his roguish-yet-charming older cousin.”

  Lara lifted her hand in a gesture that was universally insulting.

  Aren laughed, then shouted out the door. “All hands on deck. We set sail for Maridrina.”

  With practiced efficiency, the soldiers-turned-Harendellian-sailors were readying the ship, Jor in conversation with a dozen Ithicanians she didn’t recognize, but who must have been on the island.

  “What’s the story, Captain?” Jor called out as Aren and Lara came on deck.

  “We saw a break in the storms and risked the crossing for a quick profit. Last chance to make a pretty penny while steel prices are high.”

  Everyone nodded in agreement, and it dawned on Lara that they’d done this before. That the most sought-after man in Ithicana had waltzed beneath her father’s nose with no one, not even Serin, so much the wiser. Aren took hold of the wheel at the helm, shouting orders. The anchor was raised, sails dropped into place, then the ship was drifting out of the cove.

  “Do you go to Maridrina often?”

  Aren shook his head. “Not anymore. Before my coronation, I spent a great deal of time in other kingdoms furthering my education on trade economics.”

  “Is that what you were doing?” Jor said as he walked by. “And here I thought all those ventures out of Ithicana were to give you an opportunity to gamble, chase skirts, and piss away money on cheap booze.”

  “That too.” Aren had the decency to look embarrassed. “Regardless, all of it ended when I was crowned, but for Lara, I’m going to make an exception.”

  She rested her elbows on the rail. “How long will it take us to get there?”

  “Either ahead of this storm”—he grinned—“or not at all.”

  “This is unnecessary.” She was more worried about what she’d find when they arrived than whether he’d get her there alive.

  “That’s my call to make. Now, why don’t you go find something useful to do?”

  Because she knew Aren wouldn’t expect her to listen, Lara did just that. Armed with a bucket, a mop, and a filthy brush, she scrubbed the deck before moving into the captain’s quarters where she pilfered some gold she found in the drawer of a desk, pausing in her cleaning only to toss the blackened water and haul in fresh. From the corner of her eye, she saw Aren open his mouth each time she passed before snapping it shut and glowering at the sea ahead of them.

  Which was satisfying in and of itself, but more than that, the cleaning gave her uninterrupted time to think. As Lara saw it, she had three options once they made port. The first was that she ran. There was no doubt in her mind that she could escape Aren and his guard, and with the jewels she had in her pocket along with the gold she’d already pilfered from the captain’s quarters, she’d be able to set up a life for herself wherever she saw fit. She’d have her freedom, and on the assumption that Aren would eventually write to her father on the marked paper, she’d have done her duty to her people.

  The second was that she made her way to her father’s palace and used the codes Serin had given her to gain admittance. That she’d tell them all that she knew in detail in exchange for her freedom, as had been promised. Though doing so risked her father cutting her throat a heartbeat after she’d given him what he needed. And the third . . .

  The third was that everything Aren had told her was true. That her father had been given the opportunity to improve the lives of the Maridrinian people, but had chosen not to. That her father, not Ithicana, was the oppressor of her homeland. Yet Lara’s mind balked, unwilling to accept that explanation. Certainly unwilling to accept it without proof.

  Clutching a bucket of dirty water in one hand and the railing with the other, she turned to watch Aren sail the ship, her heart lurching despite the ridiculous cap he wore.

  What if her life had been dedicated to a lie?

  Lara was saved from thinking on it further as a wave washed over the deck, rendering her efforts unnecessary. The seas had grown rough and, lifting her face to the sky, she watched as lightning crackled through the clouds, wind tugging at her foolish hat. Aren was skirting the edge of the storm, which was almost upon them. Squinting, Lara took in the shadow of the continent ahead of them. What were the chances t
hey’d make it?

  Dropping her mop and bucket, she staggered across the rocking deck and up the steps to where Aren stood at the helm. “You need to turn west and get ahead of this typhoon, you mad fool,” she shouted over the wind, gesturing at the black clouds.

  “It’s just a little storm,” he said. “I’ll beat it. But you should hold on.”

  Clinging to the railing with one hand and her hat with the other, Lara watched as Vencia and its sheltered harbor grew on the horizon, barely visible as the rain began to fall. Unlike the day she’d left, the sky over the city of her birth was black and ominous, the whitewashed buildings rising up from the harbor a dull grey. Lording over it all was the Imperial Palace, its walls washed a brilliant blue, its domes made of bronze. It was where her father kept his harem of wives, one of whom was her mother, if she was still alive.

  Dimly, she heard Aren order his crew to drop some of the sails, the ship barely slowing as it raced toward the breakwater protecting the harbor. Lightning flashed, and a heartbeat later, thunder shook the ship. Wave after wave swamped the deck, the Ithicanians holding tight to lines to keep from being washed overboard.

  Only Aren appeared unperturbed.

  Fighting her growing nausea, Lara dug her fingers into the railing. Surf smashed against the high breakwater like a ceaseless battering ram, froth and spray flying fifty feet in the air. Each time it sounded like an explosion, and sweat poured down her back as she envisioned what would happened to the ship if it ran against the structure.

  With a grunt of effort, Aren turned the wheel, his gaze fixed on the seemingly tiny gap through which they would pass.

  A wave rose to nearly the height of the breakwater. “This is insanity.” Lara barely kept her balance as the vessel swung round and straightened, sliding through the gap with unerring precision. A loud breath of air expelled from her lungs, the wood of the railing digging into Lara’s forehead as she rested against it, rain splattering against her forehead.

  “I told you we’d make it,” Aren said, but she didn’t answer, only took in the crowded harbor, the waters smooth relative to those of the open sea they’d left behind.

  During storm season, she knew the majority of merchant vessels remained close to the coast, able to duck into a harbor if dark skies threatened, so heads turned at the sight of a Harendellian ship coming in. The likely contents of their hold enticed the harbormaster enough to wave them into the docks ahead of the queue, much to the obvious disgust of those captains and crews.

  “It’s been a long time, you brave bastard,” the man shouted as the ship bumped against the dock, Jor and several of the others leaping over the rail to secure the vessel.

  Aren waited until they dropped the gangplank before motioning for Lara to follow him down, the rain growing heavier by the minute. “You say brave, but my grandmother uses quite another word to describe me.”

  The harbormaster laughed. “Greedy?”

  Aren clapped a hand to his chest and staggered sideways. “You wound me!”

  They laughed as though they were old friends. Aren extracted a handful of coins and passed them over to the harbormaster, then another golden one, which the man slipped into his pocket while his assistant was recording the details on a piece of paper.

  “You’re well to have arrived when you did,” the harbormaster said. “Steel prices won’t hold for long with Ithicana shipping the cursed metal without tax or toll. It’s piling up on Southwatch. Not that the Valcottans are giving King Silas much chance to retrieve his prize.” He spat into the water.

  Aren made a noise of commiseration. “So I’ve heard.”

  “Ithicana’s new queen has done us no favors. All the gold Silas taxed out of our pockets has been spent on steel, and yet we’ve seen nothing in return.”

  “Beautiful women have a way of costing men money,” Aren responded.

  Lara bristled, and the harbormaster’s eyes left Aren to land on her. “Don’t much like the way you’re looking at me, lad.”

  Aren clapped Lara on the shoulder hard enough to make her stagger. “Don’t mind my cousin. He’s only sour as he spent the entire crossing swabbing the deck rather than lazing about, as he’s wont to do.”

  “Family makes for the worst crew.”

  “Don’t it just. Was half tempted to chuck him overboard half a dozen times, but to do so would mean I could never go home.”

  “More than a few ladies in Vencia would be happy to put you up, I should think.”

  “Don’t tempt me.”

  A fourth plan, which involved sticking a knife deep into Aren’s guts, began to evolve as Lara followed the two men off the docks.

  The harbormaster’s voice dragged her attention back to the conversation. “I’ve heard Amarid spent the calm season showing the Bridge Kingdom exactly what they thought of Ithicana stealing away the business of supplying Maridrina with Harendellian weapons.”

  “Ithicana isn’t supplying weapons.”

  Lara detected the heat in Aren’s voice, but the harbormaster didn’t seem to notice.

  “Same is same. Shipping them for free. Getting them into our hands. Or would be, if Valcotta weren’t risking their fleet to keep us from making port.” The bitterness in his voice was palpable. “King Silas should’ve bargained for cattle.”

  “Cows don’t win wars,” Aren replied.

  “Neither do half-starved soldiers. Or those dead from plague.” The harbormaster spat on the ground. “The only good our princess’s marriage has done for Maridrina was line the pockets of the beggars the king paid to sit on the street and cheer her name as she passed.”

  Aren and the man turned to the details of offloading the ship. It was nothing but a drone in Lara’s ears as what she’d heard sank deep into her soul. What Serin had told her in his letter about the famine and plague was true, yet . . . Yet if what this man said had any verity to it, she’d been much deceived about who was to blame. Sweat rolled in little beads down her back, making her skin itch.

  It couldn’t be true. Aren had hired this man to say these things. It was all lies intended to trick her. A band of tension wrapped around Lara’s chest, every breath a struggle as she attempted to reconcile a lifetime of teaching with what she was seeing. What she was hearing.

  With what she had done.

  “Have your crew offload it first thing in the morning. This storm is going to make it next to impossible to do it now.”

  Lara blinked, focusing on Aren as he shook the harbormaster’s hand, waiting until the man was out of earshot before saying, “Proof enough for you?”

  Lara didn’t answer, pressing a hand to her aching temple, hating how it shook.

  “Are we going back to the ship now?” Her tongue was thick in her mouth, her own voice distant.

  “No.”

  There was something in his tone that pulled her from her fugue. Water sluiced down the hard angles of Aren’s face, little beads collecting on his dark lashes. His hazel eyes searched hers for a moment, then he scanned the wharf. “We’ll need to wait out the storm in Vencia. Best to do it in a bit of comfort.”

  Her pulse thudded like a drum in her skull as she walked through the market, following on Aren’s heels, the Ithicanians casually walking around them. Run. The word repeated in her head, her feet flexing in her boots, desperate to take her away from this situation. She didn’t want to hear any more. She didn’t want to face the fact that she might not be a liberator. She might not be a savior. Not even a martyr.

  She wanted to run from these shards of truth telling her she was something else entirely.

  Aren climbed the narrow switchback streets, two-story buildings crammed together on both sides, windows shuttered against the storm. He stopped in front of a door with a sign that said The Songbird over top of it. Music, the clink of glasses, and the collective murmur of voices seeped onto the street. He hesitated with one hand on the handle, then pulled open the door with a sigh.

  The scent of woodsmoke, cooking food, and spilled ale
washed over Lara, and she took in the common room filled with low tables, most of them claimed by merchant class patrons. Jor and Aren sat at a table in the corner, the other guards taking places at the bar. Fighting to control the turbulent emotions shifting through her heart, Lara took a seat at Aren’s right, slouching in the chair and hoping the rain hadn’t washed away the dirt completing her disguise. A female voice caught her attention.

  “Well now, look what the cat dragged in.”

  A young woman, perhaps in her early-twenties, had approached the table. She had long hair, a lighter and more golden shade of blond than Lara’s, and a good portion of her generous cleavage was revealed by the low-cut bodice of her dress.

  Aren picked up one of the small glasses of amber liquid that a serving girl had brought to the table. “How are you, Marisol?”

  “How am I?” The woman—Marisol—planted her hands on her hips. “It’s been over a year since you showed your sorry face in Vencia, John, and you ask how I am?”

  “Has it been that long?”

  “You damn well know it has been.”

  Aren lifted his hands in an apology, giving the woman a charming smile that Lara had never seen before on his face. Flirtatious. Familiar. The nature of their relationship dawned on Lara, her skin turning hot.

  “Circumstances beyond my control. But it’s good to see you.”

  The woman pushed out her bottom lip and gave him a long look. Then she sat on his knee and wrapped an arm around his neck. Lara’s fingers twitched toward the knives hidden in her boots, fury bubbling in her veins. What was he thinking, parading his mistress in front of her? Was this some sort of punishment? Was he making a point?

  The woman then greeted Jor and waved at one of the servers to bring another round.

  Jor drained his glass, plucking the next from the server before she’d even had a chance to set it down. “Good to see you, Marisol.”