MOST OF THE crowd pushed to the front of the platform, jostling to get as close as possible. I kept to the edge, on the lane, behind the food vendors. Children had tied ribbons of red and black, the Allyrian colors, on their wrists, and they screamed with joy as they wove in and out of the trees, their parents only half-heartedly calling for them to stay nearby.
Ten or so meters from the platform was another, smaller raised box. A banner painted with the words ORYOUS SAVE THE EMPIRE hung around the box, and I could see a large, gilded chair in the center, with a smaller chair beside it.
The Emperor’s private box for the best view of the execution.
I kept well away from the box—and the circle of guards that surrounded it. It was easier to move on the perimeter of the crowd anyway.
“A flag, miss?” A woman held out a little patch of cloth with the Allyrian flag on it, the material so stiff with paint that the flag stuck out without the need of a breeze to lift it.
“I don’t have any money,” I said, already walking away.
“It’s free.” She grabbed my shoulder—my left shoulder, where the arm gave way to nothing. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said, still awkwardly holding on to my residual limb. I looked down at her hand. “It’s free,” she said again, lamely, taking her hand away and holding the painted cloth to me. “The Emperor himself commissioned the Sewing Society to make them.”
“Thank you,” I said, taking the little flag and pinning it to my cloak, because it seemed apparent that she wouldn’t leave me be if I didn’t.
“And one for your”—she peered up at Nessie, to see if this was a relative or a spouse—“sister?”
I took the second flag and turned to attach it to Ernesta’s cloak myself. I could feel the woman’s eyes on us.
“The plague?” she said in a near whisper. Rather than help me, she watched as I held the cloth steady with my residual arm and used my right hand to slide the pin through Nessie’s cloak.
“Obviously,” I snapped. I cast my eyes at her. The Sewing Society, she had said. Women and men whose parents, spouses, or inheritances supported them enough that they could sew for fun rather than necessity. What must it be like to turn labor into a hobby? That was the definition of luxury—not only to be able to buy what you needed, but to have the time to create things that no one did.
“Yes, well,” the woman said, unsure of how to politely disengage. I didn’t bother to respond to her; I just walked away, my sister following mutely behind me.
As I suspected, the prisoners had not yet arrived, but there was a space blocked off behind the platform, surrounded by guards. Members of the council milled about under a large tent. Servants poured glasses of wine for the esteemed guests. A table with charcuterie had been laid out, thinly sliced meats on plates nestled over glass, garlic-stuffed olives sprinkled between blocks of cheese.
The Emperor wasn’t there—surely he’d be seated at the box later—but the gathering under and around the tent was large enough that I felt like I could at least be ignored if I drew closer.
“Excuse me,” the guard closest to me said as I approached. Under my cloak, I had the crystal blade strapped to my waist. My hand went not to it, though, but to the iron crucible hanging from my neck. The book on philosophy from the Collector had hinted that, while I could not control a mind, I could use a soul to help . . . distract it. I hadn’t had a chance to practice this in person, but desperate times called for drastic measures. I brushed the golden light of his soul, tugging his attention past Nessie and me.
His eyes grew distant, and he focused on a spot well over my shoulders.
We walked right past him, into the private circle of the elite.
I kept to the edges, in the shadow of the tent. I didn’t want to draw attention to myself, nor did I want to be mistaken for a servant, which would draw a different sort of attention. Instead, I turned to Nessie, as if engaging her in a fascinating conversation, both of our shoulders turned to the bulk of the crowd.
It wasn’t long until a large prisoners’ carriage drove through the trees from the northern side of the Imperial Gardens. A contingent of guards on horseback flanked the large wooden box on wheels, pulled by two draft horses.
The carriage was hidden by the platform, and there was no fanfare announcing its arrival. There would be a grand entrance for the crowd on the other side of the platform soon enough.
I used necromancy to see the vibrant golden light radiating from the wagon. Thirteen people were cramped inside. Without meaning to, I’d drawn closer, Nessie following dutifully. A few of the other elite guests had also lingered nearby, so we didn’t stand out, just two more cloaked girls among a group of other morbidly curious folks.
I could hear crying from inside the wagon. Cursing. Praying.
My blood felt alight. I should mourn these deaths, I knew I should, but I could not stop their hanging. What I could do was siphon some of the energy from their already stolen lives and give it to my sister.
And then, through it all—through the noise of the people around me and the ever-growing crowd on the other side of the platform, through the horses huffing and the cries of the prisoners inside the wagon, the shouts of the guards to not get too close, through it all, I heard a voice I recognized.
Grey was here.