Gild (The Plated Prisoner Series Book 1), Raven Kennedy [good books to read TXT] 📗

As we move steadily forward, I bask in the open air, glad to be out of the carriage. The rain, while light, is still cold and wet, but I’m too excited about being out in the open to care.

Crisp moves steadily beneath me, his hair helping to keep my bottom half warm. I’m glad that I’m wearing such thick stockings beneath my dress and that my boots are so well insulated.

Highbell City is pretty at night, though, and that distracts me from the dropping temperature. Most of the buildings are three stories tall, all made of the same gray rock that the mountain is made of.

The streets are cobbled and slightly uneven in places, but I like the sound of the horses’ hooves clomping over them. The street lamps create a flickering path for us along the winding road, and it’s all so picturesque that it brings a smile to my face.

People come out to view us, eyeing the royal procession with avid interest, but I’m careful to keep my hood up so that it covers most of my face and all of my golden hair. Even the saddles in the brothel pop out of the windows, waving topless at the guards and blowing kisses as we go.

The guard to my left clears his throat and snaps his head forward when one of the women purrs out a rather generous offer to him. I don’t blame them. He’s handsome, with an open, friendly face. The sort of face that probably always looks kind, even when he’s angry. He has ashy blond hair and deep sea blue eyes, a patchy line of hair across his jaw that tells me he can’t quite grow in a full beard.

“What’s your name?”

He looks over at me, and I notice how young he looks. Maybe only twenty years or so. “My name’s Sail, miss.”

“Well, Sail, you seem to be popular with the ladies,” I note, nodding to the saddles hanging out the windows who are still beckoning to him more than any other.

That pink hue on his cheeks deepens, and it’s not from the brisk air. “My mum would wallop me if I ever disrespected a woman enough to force her to sleep with me for a few coins.”

I decide I like Sail right then and there.

“You know, some could argue that it’s one of the few jobs we women can have to earn a decent wage and manage to stay independent,” I tell him.

Sail blanches, like he just realized what he’d said—just remembered who I am. “I didn’t—I...I didn’t mean to imply that being a saddle isn’t respectable. I’m sure plenty of saddles are respectable. Or, I mean, I just—”

“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