Heart of Iron Page 21

  The Royal Captain faltered. “I . . . am not sure, Your Grace.”

  The Messiers that guarded the empty tower kept staring, staring, and for the first time Ana actually thought they were looking at her instead of past her. As if daring her to come investigate.

  “And why are there Messiers standing guard over it if it’s just a monument?”

  “They stand guard everywhere,” the Royal Captain’s replied. “Now please, Your Grace, we must get back before anyone notices you’re missing.”

  Because Ana was just so scared of that. But she didn’t want anyone gossiping about where she was snooping, and if she came back later than usual, someone would be nosy enough to find out. So she gave in and followed her guard back to her room in the South Tower, unable to shake the attentive gazes of the Messiers as she left.

  Every evening, Robb would come to her room and they would have dinner out in the garden. They never went to the moonlily grove again, but ate on the benches beside the moondial, the stoic shadow of Royal Captain Viera keeping watch over them.

  Robb couldn’t seem to find the visitation logs for the day of the Rebellion.

  “It’s like they’ve disappeared,” he said between mouthfuls of roasted chicken.

  “Or someone destroyed them,” Ana replied, turning back to the captain. “Do you know who has access to the palace’s records?”

  “Only the highest personnel,” replied the young captain. “Myself, the Grand Duchess—”

  “And a good majority of the Iron Council,” Robb finished for her before explaining, “The Iron Council’s only called in a crisis. It’s composed of the heads of all the Ironblood families, so anyone could have taken or destroyed those records.”

  Ana felt like they hit a barrier at every turn.

  She couldn’t get any answers from her tutors either. They—and everything they taught—ran together like watercolors: history, intrigue, economics, Iron Law, policy. . . . She relentlessly asked questions about the palace, the Rebellion, her parents, but most of the stuffy-looking Advisers diverted her questions, or ignored her completely.

  All except for one.

  Lord Machivalle, her royal demeanor and conversation tutor, never seemed to shy away from any question. Ana often overheard her other tutors gossiping about him. He wasn’t even from a proper Ironblood name, they said. He had skin baked dry from the sun and wore so many jewels he glittered like the mines on Cerces. He looked Siege’s age, with hair the color of starlight—like Jax’s, but his skin didn’t shimmer like Jax’s did.

  “Flattery is not something given lightly,” Machivalle lectured, discussing the proper decorum for interacting with other Ironbloods. “Keep it simple and straightforward—you never like a person that much. Your mother was the queen of flattery. Then again, she was also a Valerio . . . but she was the best of them.”

  She glanced up from picking at a loose thread on her trousers. She didn’t feel like herself in dresses. And she couldn’t run in them if she needed to. “Did you know them? My parents?”

  “Of course,” replied her tutor. “They were rare. They treated everyone with as much dignity and grace as they treated each other, you see. Some say it was why they never saw the Rebellion coming. They trusted too much.”

  “They trusted Metals too much? Or someone else?”

  Her tutor hesitated for a moment. “They had a dear friend who was a Metal, but he disappeared after the Rebellion.”

  “Do you think he set the fire?”

  Machivalle’s eyebrows furrowed, his jaw working, not sure what to say. But when he finally opened his mouth, another voice interrupted.

  “May I come in, Lord Machivalle?”

  Ana whipped around in her chair.

  The Iron Adviser, Lord Rasovant, stood at her door, a glowing holo-pad in his grip. She hadn’t seen him since the throne room, the day the iron crown didn’t rust. It felt almost like a lifetime ago, although it had only been three days.

  “Lord Adviser,” Lord Machivalle greeted Rasovant. “I didn’t realize I had run over time. I thought Lord Charone was her next tutor?” Her economics tutor.

  “I’m afraid he is indisposed today,” the Adviser replied coolly.

  “Indisposed or relieved?”

  The Iron Adviser smiled politely. “He is sick.”

  “He drank too much Ilidian brandy, eh? Ah, well, we all have our vices. Some of us are just better at hiding them.”

  “Yes, well.” Rasovant blinked and then pressed a thin smile across his lips. “Pleasant day, is it not, Machivalle?”

  Lord Machivalle leaned forward and whispered, “Take note of the forms of redirection,” with a wink, and closed his old leather tome and stood. “Don’t forget to practice your articulations, and I’ll see you tomorrow, Your Grace,” he said, and nodded to the Iron Adviser. “I hope you have Charone’s lessons for today. The burgeoning disadvantages of the Erosian economy thanks to the influx of Messiers will be quite a treat to talk about today, I feel.”

  Then he left without so much as a glance at the Iron Adviser.

  Such sass. Ana approved.

  Until she realized she was alone with Rasovant, and her courage spiraled into a cold knot in the center of her stomach.

  “Good afternoon, Your Grace,” Rasovant began, gliding toward her, and her skin crawled the closer he came. “We will not be going over your economic lessons today. Instead, I thought we could get to know each other a little better before your coronation on the Holy Conjunction. You need to know your duties.”

  She stood as the Adviser approached, a wrongness settling in her stomach. His eyes reminded her of cut obsidian—shallow, stagnant. “What kind of duties?”

  “I’m sure your other tutors have already said what’s expected of you. I am here as more of a spiritual Adviser, simply to remind you of your duties to the Cantos and the Iron Shrines. We are a kingdom of many, after all. We are of different planets and different beliefs, but we will all be stronger with an army under the Goddess.”

  Ana’s brow furrowed. “What?”

  “Once you are crowned, and with your blessing, we shall begin the acquisition of all remaining Metals by force—”

  “What?” Her voice was louder, brittle. The Adviser gave her an impatient look. “You can’t just order innocent Metals—who have not broken the law—to be HIVE’d! What kind of army do we need?”

  “In these dark times, we need to be united—”

  “Dark times? Haven’t they always been dark? Look around you! We’re surrounded by space!”

  “Metals cannot see the Goddess’s light. They will go astray. They have already. They have the Great Dark inside them. You of all people should know that. The Rebellion cost you everything you knew.”

  “It’s a good thing those Metals died in the North Tower, then,” she replied, trying to keep her voice level.

  “And if there are more?” asked Rasovant. “We are not safe until they are all HIVE’d.”

  “Why did you create Metals to think, then? If you just wanted to control them?”

  The edges of the old man’s lips twisted. “I was arrogant and young. I assure you, the HIVE does not hurt—”

  “I said no,” she snapped, balling her hands into fists, trying hard not to punch the old man in his crackly old mug. “I will never be a part of that. Find a different Empress.”

  She turned on her bare feet, because she refused to wear shoes in her own room, and left. Like a shadow, Royal Captain Viera pushed off from the wall and followed her out.

  Why did Lord Rasovant insist that all Metals be HIVE’d when the ones who’d burned the North Tower had died? And why was the North Tower locked?

  Because Rasovant lied about the Rebellion, and for once she hated that she’d been right.

  Di

  On the afternoon before Ana’s coronation, citizens crowded the square in front of the palace. Siege said that at the last coronation, people celebrated for weeks after. Tents lined the broad square, food stalls an
d festival games, the heavy scent of ale making everyone punch-drunk by the smell alone. Di hiked his knapsack higher on his shoulder and moved his way through the crowd, slowly, cautious not to attract attention.

  It had taken longer than expected to get to the palace, between repairing the Dossier at the waystation near Iliad, unloading the Valerio men, acquiring fake IDs, booking legal passage to the Iron Palace, going through security screenings, never mind the dizzying ride to the moon. . . .

  Too much time had been wasted. They could not afford any more.

  He stepped lightly through the crowded square, this body much more agile than the one before, though he missed being taller. Evening light filtered through the willow trees lining the square, creating swirls of shadows across the cobblestones. Citizens from every corner of the worlds were stuffed into the expansive square, along with vendors selling hot pots and kebabs and sweet ales.

  In his knapsack, E0S hummed against his back, the little can opener calming his nerves, and somewhere far, far above him, the Dossier drifted around Eros in silent orbit, waiting. The ship was too far to reach him if trouble broke out, but just remembering that it was there helped.

  A little.

  Nervously, he pulled at the collar of a coat he had borrowed from Jax’s wardrobe. It was the only one that seemed to fit reasonably well.

  “I should be down there with you,” the captain said, her voice resounding in his head like an echo. She had patched herself into his receptor. It was—what was the word?

  Intrusive.

  “I should be helping you get her—”

  I am fine, Captain, he stressed. Besides, I have the can opener—

  E0S bleeped angrily, earning Di an alarmed look from a passing family, and he quickly moved on.

  And you have seven bounties on your head, he finished, bumping his knapsack again to keep the bot quiet. We will be safe. No one can recognize me.

  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” the captain murmured, because he did not look like D09, and they were all afraid that Ana would not believe him.

  He squatted beside the willows, assessing the entrance of the palace. Six Messiers stood guard. Seeing a face like the one he used to have, with a placid blue gaze, made his skin crawl.

  Now he realized why Ana had always been so terrified of the possibility of his being HIVEd.

  Goddess, he hoped to die before ever being submitted to the HIVE.

  Captain, I am in position, he said, taking off his knapsack.

  “Are you sure you want to do this?”

  Do we have a better plan?

  “Of course we do! I was gonna—”

  That does not involve coming in, guns blazing, and getting everyone killed?

  “I was going to do it at night,” she said defensively, and sighed. “Fine. Once you’re inside, Riggs’ll go park the skysailer at the docks for you—and Di?”

  Hmm?

  “Be careful.”

  Of course.

  Di untied the top of the knapsack, and E0S came whirring out, bleeping happily.

  “Shh!” he hushed the bot. “Remember, all you have to do is unlock that side gate, okay?”

  It bobbed in a nod.

  “Okay, now if you get into trouble—” But it was already whizzing away over the palace wall. “I cannot help you,” he finished dejectedly.

  I am upgrading E0S when we get back, he told Siege.

  “What’s wrong with it?”

  It is not the brightest bulb in the light socket.

  The captain howled with laughter, and he found his lips twitching up into a smile. There was a strange feeling in his throat, but he bit his cheek to keep from laughing.

  As a Metal, he had been absent of feelings. But over the last few days he had come to understand a few. Anger, hatred, sadness, annoyance, longing. Siege had to explain that one, the pit he felt in his chest, traveling down and down and down into a metaphorical dark hole. It made him antsy and restless. He still did not need to sleep in this body, so all he did was pace, and try to work out the movement of his new limbs, and . . .

  Think.

  He had a lot of time to think.

  Sitting against the trunk of a willow, he took a tie from around his wrist—another borrowed thing from Jax—and pulled his red hair back into a ponytail, waiting for E0S to unlock the side gate. He watched the crowd, soaking in the sound of the music and the sweet smell of the hot pots and kebabs, until an uproar on the other side of the square drew his attention.

  At first it sounded like a cheer, some sort of rabble-rousing for the new Empress, but as he got to his feet again, he caught a few words in the chaos—traitor, rogue, Metal.

  Alarmed, he abandoned his empty knapsack by the willow and shoved through the crowd toward the noise.

  Siege, there is a Metal here, I believe, he sent through the comm-link, squeezing past onlookers standing on their tiptoes to see over the people gathered around whatever was happening.

  “Now, Di, don’t do anything rash—”

  He broke out into the center of the chaos.

  A Metal lay sprawled on the ground, a knife embedded in its leg. Its white eyes flickered, searching the crowd. It was not HIVE’d. “I apologize for my inconvenience,” it tried to say over the crowd. “I am not here to harm—”

  “Traitor!” someone cried, throwing a handful of trash.

  It smacked the Metal in the face, stickiness oozing down its chin. Other people threw pieces of rotten fruit, dirt from beneath the willow trees, sticks from the kebabs sold at the stands. They pinged off the Metal’s dented body, and the Metal did not even care.

  Di could only watch.

  “Got some nerve coming here!” someone at Di’s elbow shouted.

  A woman spit at it. “Go back where you came from!”

  Di glanced around to see if anyone was coming to stop this, but the Messiers stood calmly at their posts, and the people outside the mob simply looked away. As though if they did not see the violence, they would not be a part of it. But he saw them. He saw all the people who averted their eyes and walked past, and all the ones crowded into the circle, spitting and hissing at a Metal who could not defend itself.

  And oh, oh, was there an anger growing inside him. It bubbled, frothed, like a firestorm, burning so hot underneath his skin he thought he would explode.

  “Murderer!” one called, before a hundred voices echoed, “Murderer! Murderer!” like it was the Metal’s name.

  “You are mistaken. I am only here to honor the Empress,” the android tried to reason, but it was useless. It was reaching down to pull the knife out of its leg when another man with dark hair elbowed his way out of the crowd, flicking open a lighter.

  “Maybe we should honor her by burning you!”

  The temper inside Di turned his thoughts white-hot. The next he knew, he had the man by the hand and was twisting his arm behind his back. There was a crack.

  The man gave a cry, dropping the lighter.

  Di caught it, flicking the flame on, holding so tight to the man’s broken arm, twisting so terribly that bone protruded from the skin. And he thought how easy it was to break them. Humans. How simple.

  “Mercy,” the man babbled, the whites of his eyes matching the bone Di had easily broken.

  Di held the lighter closer to the man, until it singed his hair. “This will be a mercy—”

  “Sir,” a metallic voice cut through his ire, and he blinked, coming back to his senses. He faltered, as the human in his grip whimpered, the smell in the air matching the stain seeping onto his trousers.

  “Mercy,” the black-haired man sobbed.

  Di let go.

  Around him the crowd retreated as far as they could, many of them with looks of wide-eyed terror. Someone pulled out a holo-pad, then another person, and another, until he could feel the streams of newsfeeds lacing across him, around him, sending communications upward and outward across the galaxy.

  Until he caught sight of a girl. Flaxen hair. Purple dress
. He recognized her instantly—the servant from Astoria, the one who’d been with Rasovant. She held his gaze and grinned.

  “Monster,” she called.

  Someone else echoed. “Monster!”

  “Monster!” The word rippled like a rock in the ocean.

  “Di?” Siege asked. “Di, what’s happ—”

  The man whimpered on the ground, the bone protruding, and Di could not recall how he had hurt him. He could only remember a white-hot rage.

  The feeling in his chest squeezed, twisted, turning sour and bitter and horrible. Everything was too much—the smells of sweet ales and kebabs, the shadows through the willows, all the voices grating, ill-harmonized sounds that formed around flaps of fleshy lips—words.

  I cannot do this.

  Not here. Not in this body.

  Monster, the humans screamed. Monster, said the newsfeeds.

  There were so many glitches, too many sensations—he could not adapt. He hated his train of thought. The tangents. The opinions. The bias. And the pain. He did not like the pain. Like daggers raking through the wires of his mind. It all needed to stop—this second. Now. Now. Now.

  Monster—

  NOW.

  A rushing, electrical charge spread out from his center, to his outer extremities, pulsing like a wave. He felt every holo-pad, every newsfeed, every comm-link like kite strings reaching into the sky—every word, every syllable, every letter—

  M O N S T E R

  —and destroyed each one.

  A holo-pad burst in a woman’s hand; then another exploded, another, and another, rippling out like a wave, with Di at the epicenter.

  The crowd shrieked, dropping their electronics as the charges pulsed through them, singeing their skin, blackening their fingertips. They quickly forgot him, the word they repeated sinking beneath the swelling chaos.

  Di turned back to the Metal and plucked the knife out of its leg. “Can you stand?”

  The Metal nodded. “You are not human.”

  “No,” Di agreed, but he was no longer a Metal anymore, either. He did not know what he was. “With them distracted, you can escape. Quickly.”

  The Metal nodded and limped off into the frantic crowd.