Lady Smoke (Ash Princess Trilogy #2)(50)
Somehow, time passes and I don’t fall off. I don’t think I could ever grow used to the jostling pace and the wind, but it eventually does become almost calming in its predictability. The journey yawns out in front of us, but before I know it, Heron is pulling the horse to a halt.
He hops down onto the ground before holding out his arms to help me. “The Prinkiti says it’ll be easier to get into the camp if we go on foot.”
I take hold of his arms and let him help me down, squinting into the distance where I can just make out another wall—this one much different from the one around the capital. That wall was tall and gilded and regal, a promise of what awaited inside, but while the wall around the camp is nearly as tall, it’s a grisly-looking thing of craggy, uneven stones that don’t appear to have ever been cleaned. There is no grand, ornate gateway, instead a small wooden door in one corner that’s easy to overlook.
The capital wall was made to keep people out, I realize. This wall was made to keep people in.
THE TWO GUARDS STATIONED ON either side of the single door wave us through without question, which strikes me as odd until I realize that those swords sheathed at their hips aren’t meant for those trying to enter the camp.
“Visitors happen often enough,” Heron tells me, answering my unasked question. “I was walking around the palace invisibly last night and I heard some people talking about it. The refugees are cheap labor, so people will hire them when they have some kind of task they need done. Jobs no one else wants to do—construction work, sewing cheap clothing, stable mucking. And they pay them next to nothing to do it, because they can.”
Dread coils around my heart and squeezes.
As we come out through the other side of the door, though, I nearly lose my stomach altogether. After the ornate shine of the capital, with its bright colors and elegant spires, the decrepit state of the refugee camp seems all the more ghastly. The streets are cramped and dirty, with clusters of shacks on either side, none of which could be larger than a single room. Thatched roofs look ready to collapse and the wooden doors are moldy and hanging off their hinges. The smell of dirt and rot hangs heavy in the air. I’m tempted to wrap the edge of Heron’s cloak around my mouth and nose again, but I resist, worried about how that might come across to the people who live here.
And the people! Men and women and a handful of children crowd the streets and peer out from cracked open doors, all dressed in dirty scraps of clothes that don’t cover much more than absolutely necessary. A couple of children who can’t be more than five are completely naked and caked in grime. Their hair is matted and cut short or shaved completely, even the women’s. Cheap labor, Heron said, and it shows. They are all callused fingers and rough, sunburnt skin stretched too tight over muscle and bone.
The way they look at us hollows me out until I can’t feel anything, not even the ground beneath my feet. Their eyes are hungry and wary and fearful, like they aren’t sure if I’m here to feed them or spit at them.
“We should have brought food,” I say, more to myself than to anyone else.
The others don’t respond and I realize that they’re as shocked as I am. I didn’t expect to find the opulence of the palace here, but I didn’t expect it to be like this. As soon as I think it, though, I realize how naive that was of me. There is a reason they are kept in a camp still, ten or more years after they arrived. There is a reason they haven’t been brought into the capital or the villages around it. They are seen as less than.
I let go of Heron’s arm and take a tentative step forward, casting my eyes around in search of someone Astrean, though it’s surprisingly difficult to tell what anyone looks like under all the grime. I clear my throat and hope my voice doesn’t waver.
“We’re looking to talk with someone in charge,” I say in Astrean, trying to channel my mother. She had a way of speaking that felt like it could travel a mile even though she didn’t so much as raise her voice.
There’s whispering at that, low murmurs that I can’t understand, though bits and pieces of it sound Astrean. Finally, a man steps forward. He must be in his late forties with a shaved head and gaunt face. Under the dirt, his skin looks similar to mine, but a few shades darker.
“You speak Astrean well,” he says, in the same tongue, but rougher around the edges, similar to the way Heron speaks it. “What do you want with us?” Though he’s speaking to me, his hard gaze keeps flickering behind me. The rest of them aren’t so subtle about it; they stare just over my shoulder with an intensity that could be described as hate. With a sinking stomach, I turn to see what they’re looking at.
Immediately I realize my mistake in bringing S?ren. How can they believe that I’m here as a friend when I bring their enemy with me? But it’s too late now.
I turn back to the man and draw myself up to my full height. “My name is Theodosia Eirene Houzzara,” I tell him. “Queen of Astrea. I want…” I trail off, suddenly at a loss. What do I want? I thought I wanted to see the camp, to talk to other Astreans who weren’t enslaved by the Kaiser. I wanted to talk to those who had been lucky enough to escape, but lucky doesn’t seem like the right word now.
“I want to help,” I say finally, though my voice shakes around the last word.
The man stares at me for an uncomfortably long moment before he throws his head back and laughs, showing a mouth with more gaps than teeth. The sound is hoarse and after a few seconds it turns into a hacking cough.