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scowl—confirming my suspicion that he can look suitably dangerous—and lunges for me, but I anticipate the move and sidestep at the last moment.
    His momentum sends him tumbling to the grass with a grunt that makes me grin as I dash away, the only sound a soft squish as water oozes from my boots.

Chapter Three

Niklaas
    Flaming son of a demon. Arrogant, briar-born slog. Stuffed and trussed, barely teat-weaned, fuzz-faced baby man!
    I call the Brat Prince every foul name I know and a few I make up on the spot as I follow the slip of a boy across the sleeping camp. I move as quickly as I can with my head drink-fogged and not an hour of sleep the entire night, but I can’t catch up with Jor before he reaches the treasure tent and slips inside.
    He’s a spare thing—shorter than my sister, Haanah, and narrower, too, with pigeon legs covered in linen pants sticking out beneath his brown leather overshorts and his scrawny chest swimming in an armored vest two sizes too big—but he’s wretched fast.
    And wretched foolish.
    He’s scrapped our easy escape and practically delivered us both into Boughtsword hands. Now we’ll have to fight our way out of the camp and hope the mercenaries are still too drunk to prevent us from stealing their horses and getting far enough down the road to avoid an arrow in the back.
    “Cheek licker,” I mutter as I pull back the tent flap.
    I reach for my sword—expecting to find the little man already snatched up by mercenaries—but once my eyes adjust to the murky light, I see his boots sitting on a carpet a few hands away and the prince silently picking his way across the body-littered ground in his stocking feet.
    It seems more than a few of the Boughtswords stumbled to the treasure tent after our drinking games to visit the pleasure girls and never made it back to their own beds. Men and women in various states of undress lie snoring on straw pallets on the ground, blankets and pillows strewn about, ripped and leaking feathers, as if a battle was fought with the bed things before the revelers passed out for the night.
    The tent stinks of garlic and onions and barley spirits, with a hint of soured milk that makes me wager someone couldn’t hold their drink, but beneath the stink are the sharp tang of gold and silver and the smoky scent of magic, the smell of treasure drifting from the crates stacked on the far side of the tent.
    The Boughtswords are primarily concerned with increasing their stores of hard currency, but they traffic in magical items as well. It was my enchanted charm, which I assured them would lead them to the legendary pirate Swain’s lost treasure, that earned me their welcome last night. We were still debating the price for the charm when the Boughtsword leader passed out before the fire, giving me the chance to go hunting for the briar-born captive I suspected was being held in his camp.
    I managed to stay conscious after the final Boughtsword fell, and I have Usio to thank for it. My brother and I built up quite a tolerance to spirits in the months before the curse claimed him. Knowing that our debauchery helped me avoid being robbed and taken prisoner makes me even more determined to see this adventure through. I have to succeed in my quest, if only to live to tell Haanah she was wrong and that my days spent drinking and wenching my way through half the kingdom weren’t a tragic waste of time.
    I will succeed. Three weeks remain until my eighteenth birthday; three weeks to find the lost princess, convince her to marry me, and escape my brothers’ fates.
    Finding her will be the hard part. I’ve yet to meet a girl who can refuse me when I crave her favor, and I’ve never wanted a girl the way I want Aurora of Norvere. I will find her and marry her and Haanah and I will finally be out of my father’s depraved shadow, and the Land Beyond help this reckless prince if he thinks he can deter me from my course.
    The woolly-headed boy is now across the room, climbing