Page 49 of Queen of War and Ruin

Fuck. They’re playing with dice. I hate gambling with dice; there’s no good way to cheat.

“Dice!” I cheer as I lift the wine bottle like I’m toasting to their health. I stumble toward the nearest game, then collapse on a chair. “I’m in!”

The guards exchange a glance while I bring the bottle to my lips.

“Shit,” I spit. “Empty. I’mma need another,” I call to the room, waving my hand in the air like I’m summoning a spirit.

One of the guards at the table clears his throat. He’s got dark hair and a thin, predatory smile. He’s the one in charge, then.

“Of course,” he says. “Corporal Dalton, be a dear and get his lordship a drink, would you?”

Corporal? I ignore the military terminology. The man who must be Dalton looks like he’s worked in the kitchens his whole life. He pushes back from the table as the dark-haired guard leans closer to me.

“You want to join us for a friendly game, then?” he asks, with a gleam in his eyes that I’d have to be a complete idiot to miss.

“Of course,” I say, like a complete idiot.

“It’s a simple game,” the guard continues. “All you do is⁠—”

“I know how to play fuckin’ dice,” I say, cutting him off with another wave of my hand. “All I need is some, uh⁠—”

I pat at my sides like I’m feeling for a fat coin purse, then give an exaggerated frown.

“In my fuckin’ room,” I say, slurring my words. “But there’s this.”

The wince I make when I pull my dagger from its sheath isn’t entirely exaggerated.

This is my prettiest dagger, damn it. The leather-wrapped grip is topped with a golden pommel bearing the seal of Vsenrog, and the cross guard is etched with tiny golden dragons. The blade itself is stamped with an image of a rearing horse whose proportions have always looked a little off to me, but hells, it’s still a fine little weapon.

It hurts to toss it on the table. But that’s what drunk noblemen do; they don’t give a shit how pretty a thing is before they toss it aside.

The guard’s eyes widen. He’s not even trying to hide his interest in the shiny little weapon.

“What about the sheath?” one of his companions asks.

“Separate roll,” I slur.

Dalton comes back to the table. He’s carrying an entire bottle of wine, and he hands the whole thing over to me. I grab it like that’s exactly what I was expecting, then take a long swig.

It is not good wine. I swallow it anyway, then grin at the table.

“What’ve the rest of you got?” I ask.

A few coins land on the table, along with a silver clasp for a cloak and what looks like a woman’s brooch. None of it is half as nice as my dagger. I pretend not to notice.

“My fuckin’ room’s the size of a horse stall,” I announce. “That’s the best this kingdom’s got to offer?”

The guards exchange another uneasy look. They might as well just stand up and say, We’ve got better rooms, and someone more important than you is staying in them, you dipshit.

Instead, the man who must be in charge drops the dice into the cup.

“You roll first,” he says, with an oily smile. “Your lordship.”

I lose the dagger. Of course. I was expecting to lose it, but still, it hurts to watch that pretty little blade vanish beneath the dark-haired man’s cloak. I slur a few curses, drink more horrible wine, and push back from the table. I stagger toward the door, collapse in a chair by the wall, close my eyes, and act like I’ve passed out.

Conversation hums and buzzes around me. I hear a few whispers about his lordship and ignore them. There’s a long conversation about the merits of the dagger I just lost; I grit my teeth and try to ignore that too.

“Did you see the princess, though?” a voice asks, cutting through the chatter.