Gild (The Plated Prisoner #1)(40)

“Relax,” I say, cutting through his stuttering. His eyes nervously look back at the royal saddles’ carriages, as if they might be listening in. “So long as you don’t look down on saddles, I have no issue.”

“Of course not,” he insists. “The saddles in this city are probably tougher than the whole of the army, for all they have to put up with.”

I eye some of the sneering people on the streets who are openly staring up at the brothel, their faces not filled with lust, but with violent, carnal hunger and bitter jealousy. I nod slowly before I can look away. “On that, we can agree.”





Chapter Seventeen





Word spread quickly about our group passing through the city. Soon, more people start lining the street until they’re five and six people deep, waving and calling to us with excitement, wondering who travels in the group, what important person they might catch a glimpse of. I keep my head down, my gloved hands on the reins, not daring to look up or let my hood fall back.

The guards in front keep the way clear, our procession going even slower as they constantly have to urge people aside to make way for our carriages.

After a while, we turn off the cobbled road, away from the gathered crowd, heading deeper into the heart of Highbell. I sigh a bit when we’re no longer being watched under the scrutiny of dozens of people, my hands relaxing on the reins, but that relief is short-lived.

The further we go, the poorer our surroundings become. Right before my eyes, Highbell goes from a beautiful and pristine city proper into a dismal, back-alley slum.

I eye the change warily, noting that even the noise seems insulated here, not carrying any of the joviality that existed on the main road. Here there’s only the sound of babies crying, men shouting, doors slamming.

“Normally, we’d stay on the main street, but since we’re heading for Fifth Kingdom, the south road is the quickest way out of the city,” Sail murmurs, riding much closer to me now—he and Digby both—since the hard-packed road is even narrower.

No longer are the buildings on either side of us made of thick stone, but of wood instead. The structures aren’t well made, some crooked and crumbling, others sagging with age, like the snow and wind has been trying to weigh them down for years, nature winning against the man.

Even the Pitching Pines seem rougher here, their bark craggy and splintered, branches half empty of needles.

The lamps along the road become fewer and further between, until they finally stop completely. The road, no longer cobbled, turns to sodden, icy mud that kicks up with the horses’ hooves.

And the stench...the air no longer smells crisp and fresh and free. Instead, it’s held captive, a stagnancy that seems to cling to the sagging faces of the buildings, piss and sweat so overwhelming that it makes my eyes water.

“What is this?” I ask as I look all around the broken and depressed part of the city.

“The shanties,” Sail answers.

More babies wail, more people argue, shadows scuffle down alleys, and stray dogs sniff around corners, their ribs visible through mangy, ice-ridden fur.

Highbell doesn’t feel so picturesque anymore.

“How long has it been like this?” I ask, unable to look away.

“Always,” Sail replies with a shrug. “I’m from the east side, myself. Little more space, but...not much different than this,” he admits.

I shake my head, eyeing the puddles on the ground, knowing they aren’t from rain but from the filth buckets people pour out their windows.

“But...Midas has all that gold,” I say with confusion.

Call me naive, but I assumed since Midas was crowned, since the palace turned from stone to pure gold, that the entirety of Highbell became a wealthy city too.

I didn’t even consider that some of Midas’s people would be poor, right here in the city. Why would they be? He has all the means to pay them handsomely, no matter the job. Gold is no hardship for him, so why are his people living in squalor like this?

“I’m sure he uses his gold for other things, my lady,” Sail says, though I don’t miss the way he darts a look down to his gold-plated armor over his chest, or the guilt that seems to crawl into his blue eyes as he scans our surroundings.

He’s on high alert, all of the guards are, like they half expect bandits to come out and attack us. Given the scenery, I don’t doubt the possibility of that. Some of the people look desperate enough to do it.

But when some of the guards unsheathe their swords, an open threat at the bedraggled people we pass...something in my chest presses against my heart, hard and persistent, making it bruise.

And when I see children start to peek out from behind empty crates of garbage or follow us with wide eyes, their clothes little more than threadbare scraps, their faces gaunt with missing meals, cold dirt caked against their cheeks...that press against me digs deeper, bruises harder.

Pulling on the reins, I steer Crisp to cut off Sail, pulling up against the carriage. “My lady!” Sail calls, and I hear Digby curse again as I stop Crisp and jump down, landing harder than I mean to. I nearly slip on the icy mud, but the carriage blocks my fall. It’s still rolling when I wrench open the door, but it jolts to a stop just as I lift myself up.

“My lady, we cannot linger here!” Sail says behind me, but I ignore him as I lift up the velvet seat inside the carriage, my hands digging through my things.