The Exorcist Doctor

Chapter 146 - Familiar Face // Western Ward of Masks

In the evening—after Evelyn returned from meeting the Steelborn and they’d all had enough fun running around Umbracross buying weird souvenirs they absolutely didn’t need—Gael herded his little circus towards the western edge of Umbracross.

His coat was heavier now. Not with contraband, thank the Saintess, but with purchases: a glass vial of ‘authentic saint’s breath’ that was clearly just mint oil, a carved bone comb that allegedly kept lice away through sheer intimidation, and a pair of earrings shaped like tiny coffins that Maeve had stared at with such wide-eyed delight he’d bought them before he could pretend to be sensible. He had also acquired, through means best left unconfessed, a paper bag of sugared chicken legs that Evelyn kept crunching on like they were nuts.

“Stop eating them like you’re making a threat,” Gael muttered.

Evelyn only crunched louder. “People should feel threatened, aye.”

Now the Hanging Market thinned behind them, and ahead, the Gilded Bridge rose. Gael stopped at the mouth of it and took in the sight. Elegant gargoyles hunched along the tarnished golden rails, wings half-spread as if they were mid-lunge, and they stared down at the traffic as if judging who deserved to cross. It wasn’t like the Wild Bridge, where moss and vines tried to reclaim everything, and it wasn’t like the Ember Bridge either, where soot and pipes and metal ribs made the air taste like someone had boiled iron. The Gilded bridge was clean, brightly lit, and… well, far more organized than the other two bridges.

Four lanes ran across the bridge in neat order. Two for walking on the sides, and two down the middle for open-air carriages pulled by giant bugs. Tonight, the carriage lanes were busy with wealthy silhouettes and merchants with trunks and luggage, their perfumes floating so thick Gael felt it trying to strangle him.

He angled his cane towards the walking lane, but that was when Evelyn grabbed his sleeve and pointed at the middle lanes with the end of her wing.

“Oi! Look at that!” she said. “They got proper carriages and all! That’s a ride, that is!”

Liorin tugged on Maeve’s sleeve as well. “Can we ride?” he asked earnestly. “I never ride carriage before.”

Maeve was about to reply when Gael smacked them both on the head.

“We are not spending on what’s essentially a glorified ten-minute shuffle across a shiny road,” he grumbled. “We have arms and legs. Four each. Some of us may have more, but that’s not the point.”

“Aye, and we’ve also got livers, but you still drink like you’re tryin’ to pickle your insides,” Evelyn complained. “Don’t go actin’ holy now. Please, please please please—”

“Drinking’s an art form. Carriages are a scam. No.”

Liorin’s shoulders sagged. “But… giant ants are pulling! It look nice!”

“Everything looks nice until you feel how light your coin purse is afterwards. Now stop moaning and start…”

He was halfway through his ramble when he glanced behind him and looked at Maeve. She wasn’t begging. She wasn’t even asking. Hands folded before her dress, her eyes quietly followed one of the giant ant-pulled carriages as it rolled past them. The polished metal, the clack of chitined legs against stone, and the way the driver’s lanternlight slid across the golden rails of the Gilded Bridge—it had her entranced.

He stole a glance at the others, Vivi’s eyes were wide at the sight of the carriages as well, while Cara caught him looking and her eyes smirked faintly, looking victorious. Jin and Fergal, by contrast, wore identical expressions of resigned indifference. They didn’t much care for a ride, but if they did have to get on one…

Gael cracked his neck and let out a slow sigh.

“... Oh, whatever,” he muttered.

Breaking off from the gang, he turned away from the walking lane and scanned the mouth of the bridge instead, searching the roundabout lot for an unmoving carriage. When he spotted one parked just off to the side of the bridge, its driver slumped in his seat and snoring away with the giant silver ant’s reins still in his hands, Gael made his way over and rapped his cane against the driver’s seat.

The man immediately jolted awake with a startled grunt, and he rubbed at his eyes—though he wore a crudely hammered iron mask that Gael swore he’d seen somewhere before.

“What’s up?” the driver grumbled.

Gael hooked a thumb over his shoulder, gesturing vaguely at his gang. “My kids want a ride across,” he said. “Think you can get us where we’re going, or are you committed to napping as a lifestyle choice?”

The driver craned his head, peering past Gael to count heads under his breath. “It’ll cost you.”

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“How much?”

“A thousand.”

“Fuck you. Six hundred.”

“Nine hundred.”

“Seven.”

“Eight and we have a deal.”

“Seven-fifty.” Gael rummaged around the inside of his coat, found his coin pouch, and fished out the extra coins before tossing it onto the driver’s lap. “If the giant ant gives us a rocky ride, I’m billing you extra.”

He climbed up onto the open-air carriage first, planting his cane with a solid thump before turning and waving the gang over.

Evelyn flew up immediately, laughing under her breath, while Liorin scrambled up after her failing to look dignified. Maeve followed more carefully, though excitement was still bright in her eyes as she took her spot. The rest of them came after. Once everyone was aboard, Gael leaned forward against the railings and looked down at the driver.

“You know where the Mothlight Theatre is?”

The driver looked back up at him. “Sure thing.”

With a whip of the reins, the giant silver ant lurched forward. Its legs began clacking in a clean, rhythmic sprint, and the open-air carriage rolled forward with a gentle sway that felt oddly dignified for a vehicle being dragged by an insect thrice the size of any horse.

Gael sat down on one of the benches around the railings at last, letting himself relax. The others settled around him in a loose ring of bodies, satchels, and uneasy excitement. There was no ceiling, so the night pressed close above their heads, and the air smelled like perfume trying to pretend it wasn’t strangling soot. Evelyn leaned over the side immediately, chin high as if she’d been born to be carried instead of walking like a peasant.

“Saintess, look at us!” she drawled. “Proper royalty! If anyone throws a rotten apple, I’m throwin’ it back!”

“I’m not picking you up if you fall over,” Gael muttered, not even looking at her properly. His gaze was already on the bridge’s on the gargoyles. Crossing the Gilded Bridge itself wasn’t anything special beyond the gaudy craftsmanship and the sheer number of people compared to the Wild Bridge and the Ember Bridge, but he watched the gargoyles longer than he watched the people… and he said nothing.

The gargoyles weren’t juststatues, and he knew it, but Bleakhearth was their territory after all.

Within five minutes, they crossed the bridge and the Western Ward of Masks opened up before them. The air itself immediately changed, tasting cleaner and fresher as if someone had scrubbed it with perfumed cloth. Bleakhearth didn’t have Blightmarch’s vine-choked gloom, nor did it have Ironwych’s hot metal breath. People called it the ‘poor rich man’s city’, and that was an apt description. The buildings were clean. The windows were polished. The streets were swept. Golden lanterns hung everywhere—on posts, on chains, on elegant brackets shaped like bug limbs—and there were gardens too. Real gardens just sitting out in the Vile. The hedges trimmed into moths and flower beds arranged in spirals broke the evenness of the lavish streets, and giant water fountains filled the sky with permanent splashing-sploshing sounds.

Even the passersby looked curated with fine coats, tailored dresses, and gas masks so beautifully worked they resembled jewelry more than survival gear. People walked unhurried among shops with bright interiors spilling light onto the cobbled streets.

On that front, Bleakhearth was similar to the other wards. It was a city that never slept.

As the carriage rolled deeper into Bleakhearth’s main streets—the driver certainly was giving them a good tour of the ward, probably figuring they were tourists—everyone but Gael stared. Evelyn went quiet for a full two breaths, which was how Gael knew she was genuinely impressed. Liorin made a low sound of excitement. Maeve and Vivi, especially, looked completely struck with awe, though Gael couldn’t decide whether it was nostalgia or envy. Probably both. It was likely difficult for them to grapple with the fact that Bleakheart really was a budget Vharnveil.

Gael shrugged at it all and fished a bottle of alcohol from his coat. 79%. Not the strongest, but it’d have to do.

“Why drink?” Maeve scowled and smacked the back of his head as he took a swig from his bottle. “Do you have to be drunk all the time?”

“Never liked the real Vharnveil,” he grumbled. “Why would I like a shittier version of it?”

That seemed to strike a nerve inside Maeve and Vivi. Both of them immediately paused, stopped looking as excited, and kept their asses on their seats instead of leaning over the railings like the two actual children in their party.

Cara immediately shot him a glare as if to say ‘don’t spoil it for them’. He had to admit, he did feel a little guilty.

“Well, it does look nice on the surface, yes,” he mumbled, taking another swig from his bottle. “Riches everywhere, clean streets, soft lights, and plenty of people who make a living doing actual, honest-to-god jobs where they can hold their heads high. Very few conflicts where the lanterns can see them as well, making this ward easily the ‘safest’ ward you can be in as an unremarkable man, but don’t forget where we are. This is still Bharncair, and sometimes—”

A sharp explosion suddenly thundered nearby, close enough to rattle the lanterns and make the giant ant hitch mid-step. Everyone flinched as one, and Liorin grabbed the railing hard enough to creak it.

Gael turned his head calmly alongside a hundred passersby around him.

Behind them, another carriage burst onto the main street at full speed, wheels screaming as the giant ant fishtailed past the corner. The carriage was ugly and battered wood, nothing like the elegant rides around them, and men in crude metal masks clung to its sides with sacks spilling coins and notes. Smoke belched from a shattered building they’d just fled, and glass glittered on the cobbles like frost.

“Bank heist,” Fergal muttered. “Just ignore them. We’re not here to—”

But Gael leaned over the front of the carriage, grinning down at the driver. “Driver! Chase them! Don’t let them run off with the money!”

The driver didn’t even blink. “Am I getting paid extra?”

“It’s a fortuitous timing, so why the hell not?”

And that was all the man needed to hear. He snapped his reins once again, and the giant silver ant surged after the fleeing bandits at a violent speed.