Bring Me Their Hearts(20)

The ominousness of it all lingers, but soon the city takes my breath away. At first that’s a good thing, because the stench of horse excrement is everywhere, mixing with the smell of roasting meats and a very human smell—hot metal. The breeze is merciful, wicking away most of the smoke and steam from the machines and houses, but a strange acrid scent still hangs in the air. I look to the watertells—a copper tube on every block, it seems. But they can’t be making that smell, unless the water is rancid.

“White mercury,” Y’shennria answers my unspoken question when I wrinkle my nose. “That’s the scent it gives off as it’s converted to energy. The majority of the machines in Vetris are power sources for the Crimson Lady. The other half are water pumps for the sewage and watertell systems.”

I only half absorb what she says as my eyes drink in everything. We pass by stalls selling rainbow silks and jewels, and I do a double take when I see a celeon leading what looks like a massive insect through the streets. It has a thick, chitinous yellow body that gleams in the sun and six powerful legs tipped with hairs. Its two long antennae twitch this way and that, and its four eyes are black and bulbous, imprinted with a pattern of interlocked hexagons.

“Mirtas,” Y’shennria answers me yet again before I can ask. “An animal native to the celeon homeland. The celeon tame them for riding, as horses tend to dislike the celeon. They didn’t used to be so big, but the Wave that gave the celeon sentience also increased the mirtas’s size.”

“They’re amazing.” I gape. “Like nothing I’ve ever seen.”

She points past the giant insects to a passing few people in plain brown hemp robes, the only thing gaudy about them their heavy belts hanging with all sorts of complicated tools I’ve never seen before.

“Polymaths. Of those you know, I assume.”

“Scientists, doctors of the mind and body—philosophers and scholars. The most intelligent people in Cavanos.”

“The most intelligent,” she agrees. “And the most dangerous.”

“Is writing books and papers considered dangerous now?”

“Who do you think invented the Crimson Lady?” she asks. “The watertells, the pumps that make them possible? Who do you think truly won the war for the humans against tens of thousands of witches with omnipotent magic and hordes of Heartless on their side?”

I watch the brown-robed figures as they pass, a new wariness growing in me. She has a very good, and very terrifying, point.

As we pass through to a quieter district lined with shops, I notice more and more iron over the doorways. Every house, every shop, every baked goods stall—all of them have the iron eye of Kavar hanging from somewhere. The people of Vetris are clearly very devout. Or very scared. Perhaps both, considering one feeds the other.

The carriage halts suddenly, and Y’shennria looks around. “Why have we stopped?” she asks. “This isn’t the tailor.”

“There’s a purge blocking the way, milady,” Fisher calls. Y’shennria looks to me grimly.

“Well. I suppose now is a better time than none to see the state of the city for yourself. Get out.”

“Gladly.” I disembark on unsteady legs to a thundering crowd. It chokes the street, blocking off the horses. I see something tall and metal poking above the heads of the crowd, and it’s too silvery to be a giant watertell. Fisher jumps down from the driver’s seat, Y’shennria instructing him to watch the carriage. She leads me away, through a dim alley, then two. She finally pushes into a bar with dark wooden countertops and stained glass windows.

“Lady Y’shennria!” The woman at the bar bows deep. “It’s an honor.”

“We’re here for the purge,” Y’shennria says, clipped. “No need for drinks.”

“Very well then, milady.”

Y’shennria pulls me toward a set of stairs in the back. It leads to an upper level spaced evenly with tables, but it’s the balcony she walks toward. There are a few other nobles (and I can tell they’re nobles because their clothes are equally as fancy as Y’shennria’s) standing at the railing, watching the center of the crowd from this perfect height, where a strange contraption that looks like an oversize metal coffin sits ominously.

“Baron d’Goliev!” Y’shennria smiles at a portly man in black silk. “How nice to see you.”

The baron turns from the railing, grinning. “Oh, Lady Y’shennria! What a pleasure. I happened to be in Butcher’s Alley when I heard a purge was happening. Distasteful, the whole lot of it, but better to free ourselves of these threats now than wish we’d done it later, don’t you agree?”

“Absolutely.” Y’shennria’s smile is tight, but then she motions to me. “Baron, this is my niece, Zera. She’ll be a Bride at the Welcoming in a few days.”

“Ah!” The baron’s ruddy face creases with a grin. “Finally went and got her, did you? Welcome, milady. It’s good to have you with us.”

“Thank you, Baron d’Goliev. It’s an honor.” I recite the canned phrase Y’shennria told me to and bow, too deep, because she clears her throat and nudges my boot with her own. When I straighten, the baron squints at me.

“That’s quite the sword you have there. It’s rare to see a lady carrying one these days. Do you fence, then?”