Read Online The King's Blood by S. E. Zbasnik, Sabrina Zbasnik - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: S. E. Zbasnik, Sabrina Zbasnik
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excruciatingly counted out each chickpea, the coins landing with a wooden thud on top of the other. With the final fifteenth, Ciara passed the velvet to the woman's lusting arms and pushed Aldrin out the door before the woman could realize the bag of mud soaked magic beans she'd just been sold.
"Pleasure doing business with you," Ciara called out as the bell gave one last mournful cry; no one ever accepts business advice from the greeter.
What remained of the sun as they'd entered town had passed and they found themselves standing on a deserted street with an oversized package and a fuller purse. Ciara began to rifle through the find, most of the coats would at best last a month, the boots were in even worse shape and Oh gods of course she snuck that damn hat in there. Luckily, the tunics weren't too itchy and probably didn't have lice, severely upping the chances someone died in them, but she didn't mention that to Aldrin as she passed him one.
"Here, put this on."
He still glared, a face that was hard to maintain by one without a chin, even as he pulled the shirt over his head. But this was a tunic sewn for a man who'd already gone far past puberty. The hem fell down to his knees.
Ciara tried to stifle a giggle as the large neck cut into a V almost slipped over narrow shoulders. Aldrin struggled, but without saying a word undid his belt and rebuckled it over the tunic, his sword from Marna still tucked safely in the leather.
"At least we got a lot of coin out of the sale. Enough to hire a carriage to Tumbler's End, I'm sure."
This time Ciara didn't bother holding back and barked a laugh at the boy who had probably never handled a coin in his life.
"A pair of horses, then?"
The laughing grew harder, her giggles coming in bursts as she tried to keep breath flowing.
"At least a good night's rest at the inn."
Ciara managed to compose herself, gently resting her hand upon the shoulders barely covered by tunic. "We'll be lucky if we can get a pile of straw in the barn."
"But..."
"The reason we call them chickpeas is because that's about all one'll buy, a chickpea. Come on, help me grab the coats. We need to make for the inn before we get marked."
Aldrin tried to mutter something about how unfair it all was, how could anyone live when the choices were clothing or food? Ciara simply thought, No wonder the kingdom's in the shape it is, they wouldn't know a good deal if a plate of gold landed on their heads.
CHAPTER SIX
H is unwanted tunic pulled and bunched in the back, causing Aldrin to shift his shoulders while trying to keep a hold of the piles of clothing still clutched in his hands. Ciara, always in the lead, pushed through the unhinged doors and held it open for the wandering prince.
Some Kings prided themselves on having a common touch, spending nights ensconced around the hearth trading exaggerated tales, wandering amongst the back ranks and even the archers giving little pep talks, and of course nipping into every local tavern and drinking the biggest guy there under the table. Then finishing the night terrorizing some women, stealing a chicken, and bedding a cart.
But King Edric loved little more than a warm plate of clotted cream (preferably on top of whatever pie was in season), then a long night under the duvets his fore-bearers earned in blood and about five ravens to the royal embroiderers. The only info Aldrin knew about such places of ill repute came from either his nurses or the knights whose knees he'd play carts under during meals.
This place was neither a den of debauchery as demons whipped patrons and fires roasted men alive, nor was it a nirvana of top-heavy women swimming in pools filled with ale. It was actually quite boring.
A few tables, most made from the doors that refused to stay on the single hinge, littered the wooden floor. While the ground did cling greedily to the bottom of his shoes, no gaping mouths with razor sharp teeth lay buried in the floor ready to gobble him straight
"Pleasure doing business with you," Ciara called out as the bell gave one last mournful cry; no one ever accepts business advice from the greeter.
What remained of the sun as they'd entered town had passed and they found themselves standing on a deserted street with an oversized package and a fuller purse. Ciara began to rifle through the find, most of the coats would at best last a month, the boots were in even worse shape and Oh gods of course she snuck that damn hat in there. Luckily, the tunics weren't too itchy and probably didn't have lice, severely upping the chances someone died in them, but she didn't mention that to Aldrin as she passed him one.
"Here, put this on."
He still glared, a face that was hard to maintain by one without a chin, even as he pulled the shirt over his head. But this was a tunic sewn for a man who'd already gone far past puberty. The hem fell down to his knees.
Ciara tried to stifle a giggle as the large neck cut into a V almost slipped over narrow shoulders. Aldrin struggled, but without saying a word undid his belt and rebuckled it over the tunic, his sword from Marna still tucked safely in the leather.
"At least we got a lot of coin out of the sale. Enough to hire a carriage to Tumbler's End, I'm sure."
This time Ciara didn't bother holding back and barked a laugh at the boy who had probably never handled a coin in his life.
"A pair of horses, then?"
The laughing grew harder, her giggles coming in bursts as she tried to keep breath flowing.
"At least a good night's rest at the inn."
Ciara managed to compose herself, gently resting her hand upon the shoulders barely covered by tunic. "We'll be lucky if we can get a pile of straw in the barn."
"But..."
"The reason we call them chickpeas is because that's about all one'll buy, a chickpea. Come on, help me grab the coats. We need to make for the inn before we get marked."
Aldrin tried to mutter something about how unfair it all was, how could anyone live when the choices were clothing or food? Ciara simply thought, No wonder the kingdom's in the shape it is, they wouldn't know a good deal if a plate of gold landed on their heads.
CHAPTER SIX
H is unwanted tunic pulled and bunched in the back, causing Aldrin to shift his shoulders while trying to keep a hold of the piles of clothing still clutched in his hands. Ciara, always in the lead, pushed through the unhinged doors and held it open for the wandering prince.
Some Kings prided themselves on having a common touch, spending nights ensconced around the hearth trading exaggerated tales, wandering amongst the back ranks and even the archers giving little pep talks, and of course nipping into every local tavern and drinking the biggest guy there under the table. Then finishing the night terrorizing some women, stealing a chicken, and bedding a cart.
But King Edric loved little more than a warm plate of clotted cream (preferably on top of whatever pie was in season), then a long night under the duvets his fore-bearers earned in blood and about five ravens to the royal embroiderers. The only info Aldrin knew about such places of ill repute came from either his nurses or the knights whose knees he'd play carts under during meals.
This place was neither a den of debauchery as demons whipped patrons and fires roasted men alive, nor was it a nirvana of top-heavy women swimming in pools filled with ale. It was actually quite boring.
A few tables, most made from the doors that refused to stay on the single hinge, littered the wooden floor. While the ground did cling greedily to the bottom of his shoes, no gaping mouths with razor sharp teeth lay buried in the floor ready to gobble him straight
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