Javi gasped. “That is an old portrait frombeforepuberty!”
“It is ye, then.” The man held the poster beside Javi’s face for comparison. It listed a paltry reward of a few thousand reales for Javi’s death, to be proved with a very real head.
The prince was indignant. “No.” He gestured at his chin, the cleft more pronounced with age. “Obviouslynot.”
“So yer not el principito?”
Javi made a dismissive gesture toward the poster. “I said I’m not the person in that grievously insulting flyer.”
The idiot was going to get himself killed. And Risa, too, in the process.
She jumped to her feet and leaned her hands on the wobbly table, hoping to gather everyone’s attention. “Would a prince be at a pub in outlaw country, when he should be doing whatever it is princes do?”
“Spending taxpayer money?” someone guessed.
Risa tried again. “Would the philandering youngest son of the king be out with a commoner like me?”
“You’re a country eight, city four at most,” Javi confirmed.
She shot Javi a glare. “Would the infamous seventh prince of Kheadon be caught wearing ugly clothes?”
Javi glanced down at his new attire, courtesy of the Cairn River Tailors, and glowered.
“She’s right. He’s a notorious snob,” someone shouted from a nearby table.
Javi scoffed, affronted by the accusation.
A man by the swinging doors pointed a machete in Javi’s direction. His eyepatch shifted as his wide nose twitched. “Helookslike a prince.”
“I know he’s handsome enough to look the part—”
“You think I’m handsome?” Javi interrupted, suddenly turning to Risa, a small frown working at his lips. “I take back my ‘city four.’ I was just lashing out.”
“Unfortunately, he is a liar. I mean, last week he was telling me he was to marry the princess of”—once more, the words stuck fast, but she pushed through, racking her mind until—“Madros!”
One of the men near the bar snorted and lifted a pint of ale in a dirty glass. “There is no princess of Madros.” He smacked his gums as his eyes glazed over funny. “The royal family left… a year ago?”
Someone else interjected, “No, they died three years ago.” But the words were tremulous, shaky leaves on a dead vine.
A murmur of confusion rippled through the tavern. Many patrons shook their heads as if to clear some kind of fog, whileothers returned to their seats and drinks without giving further thought, eyes clouded over.
Mustache turned his glare back onto them, a tic in his jaw. He raised his arm midair, a weapon in hand that had appeared out of nowhere.
“I don’t believe ya,” Mustache declared. His buddy Eyepatch nodded in agreement. “I wanna hack his head off anyway, just to be sure.”
The words had an immediate effect. Everyone in the pub stood. It became clear how many had weapons strapped to their bodies. There was quite a questionable amount of leather and enough chains to seem impractical, too.
Javi stood and pulled Risa back so she was flush against his chest. Using her as a shield. Hot breath stirred her hair as he whispered, “Whatever magic you have, now is the time to use it.”
Everything was falling apart, and they’d only been in here for half an hour at most. Her bad luck worked faster than even Javi’s big mouth.
“I know it might seem like a grand idea to behead him,” Risa shouted over the tension. She would say anything to keep those weapons from swinging. “And trust me, I have imagined killing him myself numerous times. But do you really want to murder an innocent idiot?”
“Yes,” came an answer from somewhere in the back.
One of the other outlaws paused, head cocked in question. “Yer not his girlfriend?”
She guffawed. “Girlfriend? Me?” Turning to consider Javi, she let her eyes travel over his face. Took in the gentle arch of his brows. The pleasing spray of freckles across his nose and cheeks. “Not even if you paid me.”
