The Glass Arrow(36)

The Watcher’s hand slides over mine and, quick as a blink, he jerks back my first finger. I howl in pain until he releases the pressure.

“Quiet,” he says. I slump back in my seat but keep glaring across the carriage at the other girls. They were the noisy ones, not me.

We’ve entered the heart of Glasscaster, where the Merchants work in their towering glass buildings. The buildings are so tall they disappear into the haze.

The streets snake off on either side of Main Street, labeled with green street signs. A large, emerald-glass building on the right makes me cringe. The Watchers’ Headquarters. Several patrolmen in their black uniforms with their leather chest straps sit astride horses outside the building. Three cars are parked out front as well, but it doesn’t look like they’ve been used in years.

There are more people around now. Mostly men, but many children as well. Some of them are smiling. Some of the kids are waving. They wear terrible costume makeup—fake bloody X’s on their faces to simulate the fresh marks of the Virulent. Bian once told me it was like how we would dress up on New Moon nights to try to scare each other, but I don’t know why anyone would pretend to be marked, knowing the Watchers are really out there waiting for an excuse to cut up your face.

We pass a woman heavy with child, being dragged forward by an irritable man in a blue suit. She looks up at us and then wipes her brow on her sleeve.

The doctor’s offices. The credit lenders. The computer technicians. And, what always interests me, the fine-food stores. People sell actual food here. Eggs, rice, bacon from the pork factory, candy, bread. People pay an enormous amount for real food because it’s so rare. Meal supplements are cheap. But a fish filet—one like I could spear in a mountain stream in thirty seconds flat—that goes for fifty, sometimes eighty credits. Most can’t afford it. If they could, the mountains would be packed with men stripping the land clean.

The girls squeal again. There, high above the street on a wide, electric billboard, flash images of a pretty actress with long, silver-white hair. Her slender waist is wrapped in the arms of a chiseled man in some strange white suit. She’s the actress the girls are always swooning over in the rec yard—Solace. I remember the movie the Governess made us watch, about the girl who poisoned herself when she couldn’t please her master anymore. The glamour and lights draw me in, just like the first time I’d seen a movie. But just like that first time, I’m disappointed when the screen switches to a picture of her producer-owner, with Solace standing just behind him in the shadows.

We are entering the town square, and I begin to sweat. The noise is so thunderous I almost clap my hands over my ears. But I don’t, I can’t, because I need to hear everything. I need to know if there’s even the slightest chance I can escape. People are shouting. Horses and other livestock are whinnying, baying, shrieking. Music is being pumped in from an overhead speaker system. Even if I lived my entire life in this city, I would never get used to all these sounds.

Or the smell. Too many people close together. Beer and wine. Animal dung. Vomit. It’s enough to make me sick.

Some shouting up ahead draws my attention, and I look to see a small group of men and women holding signs crowding the street. Activists. The only ones brave enough to oppose the buying and selling of girls. They wear red-painted masks to hide their faces from the Watchers, because if they’re caught, they’ll end up facing a fate much worse than mine.

“Sell goats, not girls!” they chant.

I lean towards the side of the carriage to get a better look, but the Watcher places a heavy hand on my shoulder. It reminds me of my last auction, when I tried calling out to them and they never even heard me. The Governess did though. She had the Pips really work me over with their beaters after we got back.

“What is that supposed to mean?” asks Yellow Eyes.

“The Red Right,” answers Crown Girl. “My old house keeper told me they’re against the auction because they can’t afford it.”

The other girls all “ooh” knowingly. I don’t bother arguing with them. They won’t understand that some people see the ugliness of their world and want to make it better. I understand. But when I get out I’m not sticking around to save this mess. It’s too far gone and I’ve got more important things to do.

A team of Watchers is heading their way, and within moments, the Red Right disperses. A little of my hope goes with them as they melt into the crowd.

In the distance, I see the last part of the city. The worst part. The glass high-rises of the Magnates. The offices of the businessmen who own the Merchants’ livelihoods. Mine too, if I’m not lucky today. These are the richest people in all of Isor. Their guarded homes—our prisons—wait in the shadows of those green-blue spires.

There are Watchers up ahead. Some on horseback, some on foot. They’ve cleared our path with neon-orange pylons. Behind them, some of the Virulent are heckling us with their hideous words.

“She’d earn me double with a scar on her cheek,” shouts one woman in a low-cut velvet dress. She’s got the plague—her eyes are already bloodshot. Soon they’ll weep blood.

“Let’s see those legs before you get to the stage!” yells a man.

“Show us what you got,” says another, grabbing himself rudely.

I look through the crowd, my teeth now chattering. Be brave, I tell myself. Skinmongers, hired thugs, thieves, and other criminals. The scarred faces of the Virulent surround me. They don’t need makeup to fake an X on their cheeks, they’ve got the real thing. And any of the men can place a bid if they’ve got enough credit.