Bonds of Brass (The Bloodright Trilogy #1) - Emily Skrutskie Page 0,41

the summer heat’s begun to shimmer on our wings, the Ruttin’ Hell is on its approach to Isla. The planetary capital sprawls out ahead of us, and a ping of misplaced jealousy rattles through me as I think of Trost. Isla has never been the site of any war of conquest, and this city grows tall in a way my home was never allowed to. Traffic hails and insistent drones shunt us into a regulated lane once we move over the suburbs, and my teeth grate as our speed slows and slows.

Gal’s propped up on his elbows, peering at the skyline rolling beneath us. Ships in the lower lanes cut across our view, and briefly I wonder if it’s strange or liberating for him, seeing people he won’t rule one day. He doesn’t have to think about anyone here as his future subject, and I can’t ignore the bitter taste of that reminder.

“Eyes on the sky, Ettian,” Gal warns, and only then do I realize I’ve been staring at him.

I turn my gaze to the buildings below, biting down on a scowl.

“I mean, you can enjoy the view, but your eyes are making promises you don’t intend to keep.”

My lips twitch. He’s been like this all morning—constantly reminding me that for two mismatched seconds yesterday, the door was wide open. I thought watching Gal flirt with other people at the academy was bad enough, but I underestimated how much it sucks to be in his sights and know I can’t do anything about it.

I mean, I could, but—

I focus harder on the city. Isla’s built with precision, relying on subtleties of shape and carving to distinguish skyscrapers nearly identical in build. Its character is brutalist and square, everything arranged along a clean-cut grid. Most of the downtown buildings are capped with granite carvings and ironwork in homage to the Corinthian Empire’s metal and stone. Corinth coalesced from the settlements made by the people who ventured the farthest along the galactic arm back in the generation-ship days, and their choice of crude metal and rough stone represents their pride in hacking it on the fringes. The sight of such deep, established patriotism is unsettling after seven years in a conquered territory.

Gal’s knuckles go pale when I drop us into the next lane below, the Beamer doing its damnedest to let gravity take us even lower. The closer we get to the ground, the more stressed he gets. “It’s a city of two million,” I remind him. “No one’s going to know who you are.”

“Unless Berr sys-Tosa got desperate. He could have broadcasted my name and face to every Corinthian borderworld a signal could reach.”

“If he did that, he’s probably already been hauled to the interior and beheaded on the citadel steps. Trying to ransom you for power is one kind of stupidity—revealing you to a foreign empire is another kind entirely.”

Gal nods.

“He could have sent bounty hunters though.”

He groans.

“Again, city of two million. We keep a low profile, and there’s nothing to worry about.”

Gal sticks his lower lip out as our lane dives into the forest of skyscrapers. He folds his arms across his chest, leaning back in his chair and sticking a careless foot up on the dash. I studiously ignore how good he looks doing it. “Why do I get the feeling that’s easier said than done?”

* * *

—

If you want to have a good time in a city, you visit its shiny bits. The places they polish up specifically to welcome outsiders. The places they show in pictures. But if you want to know a city, you visit its underbelly.

Isla’s overcity is shining, stalwart, blocky, and organized.

And the undercity…

Well, the best word would be “skewed.” The difference starts with the architecture itself. The clean-cut edges of the skyscrapers melt into slanted storefronts. The iron here is rusted, unprotected by the chemical treatment that keeps the upper parts of Isla looking freshly forged, and any granite is barefaced and unpolished.

The people dress to match. Gal and I look rough enough to blend in without suspicion in our drab