Lara gave a long sigh. “We’re in the right place.”
Marisol’s hands paused in their polishing, her eyes fixing on the pair of them. Gone were the expensive embroidered gowns she’d worn when Lara had met her—her dress a drab homespun and her golden hair woven into a single braid down her back. She set down the glass as Lara approached, Sarhina following at her heels. “Look what the cat dragged in.”
“Hello, Marisol.” Taking a seat on one of the stools, she rested her elbows on the bar. “Far cry from the Songbird.”
“Your visit compromised my cover. It seemed prudent to lay low for a time.”
“Wise.”
Marisol stared at her, and Lara didn’t miss the look in her eyes, the muscles of her jaw tightening visibly, her hands trembling with repressed fury. So it was no surprise when the woman swung her hand, palm cracking against Lara’s face. “They should’ve killed you. I should kill you.”
Rubbing her stinging cheek, Lara shook her head at Sarhina, who looked ready to go across the bar. “Fortunately for me, those in power decided I was more useful to them alive than dead.”
“You are a repugnant, disgusting creature,” she hissed. “A traitor. How they can trust you is beyond me.”
“They don’t trust me.” Seeing that the other woman was readying to slap her again, Lara added, “You got your piece. Try it again and I’ll break your wrist.”
Marisol’s eyes grew wary, suggesting that she’d been warned of Lara’s skills, but the anger in them didn’t diminish. “You’re just like your father.”
“Watch yourself.” Sarhina’s voice was frigid, the tone of it drawing Marisol’s attention to her for the first time.
“I was told to come here,” Lara said before the situation could devolve further. “That you could get me back in contact with my associates. Perhaps we might save the catching up for later given that time is of the essence.”
Marisol glared at her, but gave a short nod, then retrieved a green scarf from beneath the counter and headed to the front door.
“Who is she?” Sarhina asked under her breath. “Looks Maridrinian, not Ithicanian. Sounds like it, too.”
“Because you’re so familiar with what Ithicanians look and sound like?” Lara muttered back.
“Just answer the question.”
“She’s Maridrinian, but she spies for the Ithicanians.” Lara hesitated, then added, “Aren used to frequent Vencia in disguise. She was his lover.”
“That much was obvious.”
Their conversation was cut short by Marisol’s return. “Do you want something to eat while you wait?”
Lara shook her head, but Sarhina said, “Yes. And a pint of milk, if you have it. Get my sister here something stronger.”
Marisol’s jaw dropped, then she peered through the dim light at Sarhina’s eyes, which were twin to Lara’s. She shook her head, then growled, “I hope one of you princesses has coin to pay.”
“Put it on our associates’ tab,” Sarhina replied, then pulled Lara over to one of the tables. “You look nervous. Should we be worried?”
“The only thing I’m worried about is whether I will be able to deliver on my promises.” They’d heard nothing from Bronwyn or Cresta about whether they’d been successful in recruiting the rest of their sisters, and at this point, Lara was concerned that she’d wasted weeks on a fool’s errand that would have been better used in Vencia trying to free Aren.
Sarhina made a noncommittal noise, seemingly more interested in the food Marisol was bringing in their direction. The woman slammed the tray down on the table. “Enjoy.” Then she retreated to the bar and her glassware.
Pulling one of the bowls in front of her, Sarhina began eating with gusto. “It’s not bad. You should eat.”
Probably true, but the thought of putting anything in her stomach made Lara nauseous. Picking up her glass instead, she sipped the amber liquid, recognized the taste, and lifted it in toast to Marisol. The other woman only gave her a flat glare.
“They’re here.” Sarhina paused in her eating, watching the two old men in the corner abandon their food and leave the common room.
Only moments after, the door opened again and Jor came inside, Lia at his heels. Both were disguised in Maridrinian clothes, their only weapons the marriage knives Lia wore at her waist, though Lara knew they’d have others.
“Not the slightest bit demonic,” Sarhina said between mouthfuls of soup. “I’m disappointed.”
Lara shot her a warning look, then sat back in her chair, meeting Jor’s dark gaze.
“Well now,” he said, taking a seat. “Weeks of waiting for you to bring us reinforcements and you deliver us”—he looked Sarhina up and down—“a pregnant girl with a healthy appetite.”
“Spoons are remarkably formidable weapons when wielded by adept hands.” Sarhina slurped soup off her spoon and gave him a bright smile before digging back into her food.
Jor ignored her, fixing Lara with a glare. “Well?”
“It’s taking longer to gather my sisters than I anticipated. They weren’t all in one place.” Never mind that she wasn’t sure if they were coming at all.
“Always an excuse.” Lia pulled out one of her knives and set it on the table, the edge razor-sharp. Sarhina picked it up and used it to slice her roll in half, though Lia snatched it back when she started using it to butter the bread.
Lara had known this would be a contest of wills, but she hadn’t expected it to start so soon. “The delay can’t be helped.” Leaning forward, she asked, “Is there any news? Has anyone seen him? Do you know if he’s all right?”
“We know he’s alive.”
Alive. Lara exhaled a long breath, tension seeping out of her shoulders. Alive she could work with. Alive meant he could be saved. “And Eranahl?”
Jor gave the slightest shake of his head. “Storms have been violent. No breaks. No updates.”
And no chance for boats to get on the water to catch fish, which meant the city would be running on provisions alone. Lara gritted her teeth, but there was nothing she could do about that problem.
“Gorrick’s dead.”
Lia’s voice was bitter and cutting, and Lara flinched. The two had been lovers as long as she’d known them, and Aren had often speculated that it was only a matter of time until they wed. Not every casualty of war was a corpse. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m not interested in your apologies. The only reason I haven’t cut your throat is that the honor belongs to Ahnna.”
Sarhina shifted, and Lara knew she was reaching for a weapon. She stomped on her sister’s toe.
“He and Aren grew up together, you know.” Lia’s voice sounded strange. Stifled. “Gorrick couldn’t stand the fact that Aren was imprisoned while he was free. Got tired of waiting on you and decided to go it alone.” Her jaw trembled. “If I’d known waiting for you would be such a waste of time, I’d have gone with him. And maybe he’d still be alive.”
“More likely the Rat King would have had two corpses to taunt Aren with,” Jor snapped. “If you can’t handle this, step outside.”