The Bridge Kingdom (The Bridge Kingdom #1)(78)
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 they’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.