But like my brother, I too have a crutch. Mine is not metal. It is flesh and fire and bronze eyes. If only I could cast him away. If only I was strong enough to let the prince go and do what he would with his vengeance. To die or live as he saw fit. But I need him. And I can’t find the strength to let him go.
Though we’re far from the Fish Market, a horrible smell permeates through the street. I push my shawl to my nose, trying to block out whatever it is. Not fish, I steadily realize, and the others know it too.
“We shouldn’t go this way,” Cal murmurs, putting out a hand to stop me, but I duck under his arm. Farley is right on my heels.
We emerge from the side street into what was once a modest garden square. Now it is deathly quiet, the windows of the houses and shops shut fast. The flowers are burned, the soil turned to ash. Dozens of bodies swing from the bare trees, their faces purple and bloated, with rope nooses around their necks. Each one has been stripped naked, save for their matching red medallions. Nothing fancy, just carved wooden squares dangling from rough cord. I’ve never seen necklaces like that, and I focus on them to keep my eyes from so many dead faces.
They’ve been up for a while, judging by the smell and the buzzing cloud of flies.
I’m not a stranger to death, but these corpses are worse than any I’ve seen—or made.
“The Measures?” I wonder aloud. Did these men and women break curfew? Speak out of turn? Were they executed for the orders I gave? Not your orders, I tell myself reflexively. But that doesn’t lessen the guilt. Nothing will.
Farley shakes her head. “They’re Red Watch,” she mumbles. She starts to step forward, but thinks better of it. “Bigger cities, bigger Red communities, they have their own guards and officers. To keep the peace, to keep our laws, because Security won’t.”
No wonder the Seaskulls attacked Crance and Shade so openly. They knew no one would punish them. They knew the Red Watch was dead.
“We should cut them down,” I say, though I know it’s not possible. We don’t have the time to bury them, nor do we want the trouble.
I make myself turn away. The sight is an abomination, one I will not forget, but I do not weep. Cal is there, waiting a respectable distance away, as if he doesn’t have the right to enter the hanging square. I quietly agree. His people did this. His people.
Farley is not so collected as me. She tries to hide the tears gathering in her eyes, and I pretend not to notice them as we walk away.
“There will be a reckoning. They will answer for this,” she hisses, her words tighter than any noose.
The farther we go from the Paltry, the more ordered the city becomes. Alleys widen into streets, curving gently instead of turning at hairpin angles. Buildings here are stone or smoothed concrete, and don’t look ready to fall down in a strong breeze. A few homes, meticulously kept but small, must belong to the successful Reds of the city, judging by the red doors and shutters. They are marked by our color, branded, so everyone knows who and what lives inside. The Reds wandering the street are just as clear, mostly servants wearing corded red bracelets. A few have striped badges pinned to their clothes, each one bearing a familiar color order, denoting which family they serve.
The closest one has a badge of red and brown—House Rhambos.
My lessons with Lady Blonos come flooding back, a blur of half-remembered facts. Rhambos, one of the High Houses. Governors of this, the Beacon region. Strongarms. They had a girl in Queenstrial, a slip of a thing named Rohr who could tear me in half. I met another Rhambos in the Bowl of Bones. He was supposed to be one of my executioners, and I killed him. I electrified him until his bones shrieked.
I can still hear him screaming. After the hanging square, the thought almost makes me smile.
The Rhambos servants turn west, up a slight incline to a hill that overlooks the harbor. Heading for their master’s mansion, no doubt. It’s one of many palatial homes dotting the rise, each one boasting pristine white walls, sky-blue roofs, and tall silver spires topped with sharp-pointed stars. We follow, winding our way up, drawing closer to the largest structure of all. It looks crowned in constellations, surrounded by clear, gleaming walls—diamondglass.
“Ocean Hill,” Cal says, following my gaze.
The compound dominates the crest of the rise, a fat white cat lazing peacefully behind crystalline walls. Like Whitefire Palace, the edges of the roof are gilded in metal flames, so expertly forged they seem to dance in the sunlight. Its windows wink like jewels, each one gleaming and clean, the product of who knows how many Red servants’ toil. The echo of construction scrapes and rumbles from the palace, doing only Maven knows what to the royal residence. Part of me wants to see it, and I have to laugh at such a foolish side of myself. If I ever step inside a palace again, it will be in chains.
Cal can’t look at the Hill long. It is a distant memory now, a place he can no longer go, a home to which he cannot return.
I suppose we have that in common.
FIFTEEN
Gulls perch on the stars adorning every roof, watching as we pass through the cool, midday shadows. I feel exposed beneath their gaze, a fish about to be snapped up for dinner. Cal keeps us moving at a brisk pace, and I know he feels the danger too. Even in the back alleys, overlooked only by service doors and servants’ quarters, we are still hopelessly out of place in our hoods and threadbare clothing. This part of the city is peaceful, quiet, pristine—and dangerous. The farther in we go, the tenser I feel. And the low pulse of electricity deepens, a steady thrum in every house we pass. It even arcs overhead, carried through wire camouflaged by twisting vines or blue-striped awnings. But I feel no cameras, and the transports stick to the main streets. So far, we have gone unnoticed, protected by a pair of bloody distractions.