Bonesmith (House of the Dead, #1)(88)

Wren scowled. They’d been traveling for days; it wasn’t like his face was pristine and—well, actually, it pretty much was. How did he do that?

“The makeup,” he clarified, gesturing vaguely at her. His expression was strange, almost anticipatory, and Wren remembered the last time he’d seen her without it.

“Oh, right.” She swiped ineffectually at her face with the back of her hand, but all she managed to do was make things worse, if Julian’s hastily stifled smirk was anything to go by. The eye black was greasy and mostly waterproof, making it difficult to take off. “I use oil at home…,” she muttered.

“Try this,” he said, reaching into his breast pocket to produce what looked suspiciously like an embroidered silk handkerchief. Wren had no idea ironsmiths were so proper.

“Wow, elegant,” she said, taking the pristine scrap of fabric in her dirty hand.

“It’s a handkerchief, not a ball gown,” he said dryly, handing over a small flask. “This is mineral oil. I use it for my blades, but I think it should do the trick.”

Wren held the bottle over the fine silk, hesitating. Shaking his head, Julian took both from her, soaking the handkerchief before giving it back.

“It’s so white…,” Wren argued, though she brought the corner to her eyes and swiped underneath. Julian watched her intently.

After cleaning around her eyes with the edges, she pressed her lips against the center of the cloth. She let the oil soak against her mouth for a moment, then dragged the silk across her face. The result was a black, lip-shaped smear on the fabric.

“That okay?” she asked uneasily, wishing for a mirror. He had already removed his breastplate, which she had used to see her reflection before.

Julian’s gloved hand came up to her face, hovering there for a moment, before it dropped.

“Fine,” he muttered, taking the used cloth and turning away.

Wren started fussing with her belt again, anything to break the tension, though she watched him from under her eyelashes.

His back to her, he stared down at the handkerchief, at the imprint of her mouth visible there. Then he carefully folded the silk and tucked it safely back into his breast pocket. Wren expelled a shaky breath.

“You’ll have to keep your hood up,” he said over his shoulder. “There’s no changing your eye color, but hopefully without direct sunlight on your face, no one will notice.”

“Right,” Wren said, drawing up her hood and composing herself.

Julian hefted the bag, which would be impossibly heavy for Wren, given all the iron armor inside, and they set out.

Getting across the moat was easier than Wren had expected. The water was shallow, meant to deter undead attackers—not living ones—and they scaled the walls using Julian’s whip sword, avoiding the north-facing gate and the guards posted there.

They climbed near a cluster of grain silos, which gave them good cover as they dropped down into the town.

Sticking to shadowy streets and back alleys, they only passed through the main thoroughfare when absolutely necessary. They poked their heads into doorways and paused outside open windows, listening for any sign of the iron revenants. Wren knew Julian’s senses were also on high alert for large amounts of iron, but given that there was an active mine within the walls of the city, she doubted he’d be able to get an accurate reading.

All the while, Wren kept an easy pace, her chin high, elbowing Julian when he walked too fast or looked anxiously around.

“Clearly this is your first time sneaking into someplace you shouldn’t be,” Wren said under her breath with some exasperation. “Skulking around trying not to draw notice is a surefire way to be noticed. Walk like you belong here.”

He scowled at her before sighing and raising his head, throwing back his shoulders and putting some of his usual grace and confidence back in place. Wren stared at him, worried she’d made a mistake. With his elegant features and aloof expression, he was bound to draw a different kind of notice now.

They were just sidling around the edges of the crowded market when a shout went up.

Wren froze—they’d been seen!—but then she realized the sound had actually come from the far side of town. There was a second gate situated there, this one facing south, and as she turned, the doors were slowly cranked open. The thunder of horses’ hooves shook the ground and kicked up a cloud of dust in the afternoon light.

It was late in the day for traders or farmers, and as the riders drew near, she saw they were soldiers. It wasn’t a massive force by any means, around twenty by Wren’s count, but next to her, Julian’s face blanched.

A waving pennant caught her attention, borne by a rider near the front. It was a black field with a red tower, the sigil of the House of Iron.

Next to the flag bearer rode a man in black iron armor, ornate and extravagant, with red enamel accents and a spiked plume on his helmet twice the height of the one Julian had worn.

It was another ironsmith.

Riding alongside him were soldiers with more flashes of red, though they wore iron chain mail rather than plate, meaning they were not smiths.

The whispers that had begun from the moment the gate opened finally reached Wren’s ears.

“The Red Guard is coming… the regent of the Iron Citadel… the regent is here….”

Wren ducked into the narrow space between two buildings, dragging Julian with her, and both of them watched through the gap as the procession entered town.