City of Stone and Silence

by Django Wexler

  “That fits with Harak’s story, more or less,” he says, when she’s finished. “At least until the end. To hear Harak tell it, Gragant and Silvoa told Catoria what they were doing, and Catoria refused to allow any of her people to support them. He says that Gragant only escaped because Silvoa sacrificed herself, and Catoria turned on him afterward.”

  “I wish I could have met this Silvoa,” Meroe says. “She sounds remarkable.”

  Zarun grunts. “In any event, Harak’s offer is about the same as Catoria’s. Anyone who wants to join their order is welcome.” He looks sour. “So we can swear loyalty to a lost Imperial princess, or throw in with a bunch of fanatic monks.”

  “Did Gragant say how many people are with the Minders?” Meroe says.

  Zarun shakes his head.

  “Catoria didn’t mention that, either,” Meroe says. “It makes me wonder if the dozen or so she brought with her are most of her strength.”

  “You think?” Zarun perks up. “That puts us in a much better position. If we call her bluff—”

  Shiara shakes her head. “I don’t like it. The last thing we need is a fight with other humans, when there’s Blessed-knows-what wandering out there at night.”

  “Easy for you to say,” Zarun says, his expression turning dark again. “It sounds like the Cresos would welcome you Imperials with open arms. What about the rest of us?”

  “Enough,” I cut in. “We’re not picking a side, and we’re certainly not going anywhere that’s only going to take half of us.”

  The three of them look at me, and my knuckles tighten. I take a deep breath.

  “So what’s the plan?” Zarun says. “We need food, and from the sound of it the angels only deliver to the three big ziggurats. This Lady Cresos isn’t going to keep sending us gifts after we turn her down.”

  “We might be able to scavenge something from the jungle,” Shiara says, “but not indefinitely.”

  “They deliver to the three big ziggurats,” I say. “So we’re going to take one of them.”

  “Catoria’s?” Shiara says, dubiously. “I still don’t think it’s wise.”

  “If we take them by surprise, we can do it with a minimum of bloodshed,” Zarun says. “Isolate the leaders. Hell, most of their servants will probably turn on them given half a chance.”

  Meroe looks at me, quietly, and I shake my head.

  “The Minders, then?” Zarun scratches his chin. “That’s harder. We don’t know much—”

  “Neither,” I interrupt. “Shiara’s right. We don’t need to fight humans when there are monsters out there.”

  “You want to attack the third ziggurat,” Meroe says. “Attack Prime.”

  “We know even less about him than about the other two,” Shiara says.

  “Not to mention Gragant and Silvoa tried that already, didn’t they?” Zarun says.

  “I think we have more fighters than they did,” I say, trying to put confidence into my words. “Think about last night. Prime’s monsters were all over us, but we cut our way through them pretty easily.”

  “We still lost people,” Meroe says.

  “I know. But we had a lot to defend.” I stalk across the room, unable to stay still. “A smaller group, just fighters, would have an easier time. I don’t think those corpses could stop us.” I force a smile. “They’re rotting sure not as frightening as blueshells and hammerheads.”

  “That’s true,” Zarun says slowly. I wonder if he’s remembering the nightmare march to the Garden, cutting our way through an endless horde of maddened crabs, pack members dying all around us. It certainly haunts my nightmares.

  “What about Prime?” Shiara says. “Do you have any idea who they are, or what they can do?”

  “I’ve been thinking about that,” I say, recalling blank, empty eye sockets and a cracked grin. “I got a … a message from him, while we were fighting. I think he’s an Eddica adept, like me and Silvoa. He must have come here with Soliton in an earlier cycle.”

  “Can you raise the dead with Eddica?” Zarun says.

  “Not raise them, exactly,” I say. “But you can make inanimate objects move like living things. That’s what the angels are, so it makes sense that you could make it work with corpses.” I raise my hand. “And before you ask, I have no rotting idea how, so don’t tell me to try it. It just seems like it ought to be possible.”

  “So he’s just one man and an army of puppets?” Shiara says. “It’s still mostly guesswork. We should move carefully. Send scouts—”

  “No.” My voice is too loud, and I swallow hard. “If we wait too long, Catoria and the Minders are going to demand answers, and we’ll end up fighting in three directions. We have to move now, before they get a handle on us.”

  “I’m in,” Zarun says, with a lazy grin.

  “I’m…” Shiara shakes her head. “I’m not sure. But…” She sighs. “The crew will follow you, Isoka. I just hope you know what you’re doing.”

  I look at Meroe, and she stares back at me, biting her lip.

  * * *

  “Why don’t you tell them?” Meroe says.

  “Tell them what?” I don’t know why I say that. She already knows everything, of course.

  “About Tori.”

  We’re in the corner of one of the empty chambers, made a little less stark with the addition of some blankets and a lantern. There’s plenty of room to spread out, but for the most part the crew has stuck together, turning a few of the largest chambers into a communal barracks. This one is empty except for us, a stone space the size of a small house, and it feels echoing and vast. The sun has set, and the room is in shadow beyond the narrow circle of light cast by our lantern.

  Meroe is sitting on the blanket, cross-legged. Her head turns to follow me as I continue to pace.

  “Is it that obvious?” I ask her.

  “Only because you already talked to me about it.” She shrugs. “If there is something strange happening with the passage of time—”

  “Catoria said we have at least a week until Soliton leaves. We’ve used two days of that already.” I reach the wall, and resist the urge to slam my palm against the stone. “If I can get back on board before then, and head right back to Kahnzoka, I should get there before the deadline. Barely.”

  “And you think this attack on Prime is the best way?”

  “It’s the only lead I have. This Silvoa thought that an Eddica adept could get control of the city by using the access points in all three ziggurats, right? That’s why she went to Prime in the first place. If I can get to that one, we might be able to talk the Cresos and the Minders into letting me use the other two. Or force them, if it comes to that. That might get me back onto Soliton.”

  “That’s a lot of ‘mights,’ Isoka.”

  “I rotting know.” I grit my teeth. “But what else am I supposed to do? I am open to rotting ideas here, but there’s no time.”

  “I know.” She holds up her hands for peace. “I’m not disagreeing with you.”

  “Sorry.” I run one hand through my hair. It’s getting longer than I like it, nearly to my shoulders. “I just … before we got here, I thought I’d have the rest of the year to figure this out. Now I have the rest of the rotting week, if I’m lucky.”

  “Sit,” she says.

  “What?”

  “Just sit down, would you? Your pacing is making me seasick.”

  I let out a breath and flop gracelessly to the blanket beside her. “Better?”

  “A little.” She shifts sideways, sitting behind me, and twines her arms around my neck, head resting on my shoulder.

  “I…” The warmth of her, pressed against my back, makes me shiver. “Rot. I am sorry.”

  “I understand,” she says. “I just want to make sure you’ve thought this through.”

  “I have,” I say. “I know it’s asking a lot of the crew. But if we win, it’ll work out best for everyone. We’ll have food, and we won’t have to worry about being attacked by monsters at night.
” I lean my cheek against hers. “Honestly, if not for the walking corpses, things wouldn’t be so bad here.”

  “But you still want to leave?”

  “You know I have to.”

  “What happens after you save Tori?”

  I laugh. “I haven’t dared think that far ahead. What about you? If Soliton could take you anywhere, where would you go?”

  There’s a long silence, long enough to make me realize I’ve said something wrong. After a few moments, her voice a little thick, Meroe says, “That might depend on … your plans.”

  Rot. Rot rot rot. Leave it to me to miss the point. Obviously, I still don’t understand people.

  “Meroe,” I manage. “I didn’t mean…”

  “It’s all right.”

  “It’s not.” I grit my teeth. “Look. I’ve spent my life with exactly one person who means a rotting thing to me.” I bring my hand up and grip one of hers. “Now I have two, and I don’t intend to leave either of you behind, wherever we go.”

  She squeezes my hand. There’s another silence, of a much more comfortable kind.

  “You’re wrong, you know,” she says, after a few moments. “It’s not just me that you care about. Not anymore.”

  “That’s your influence,” I say. “You’re a better person than I’ll ever be.”

  Meroe holds me a little tighter, but says nothing.

  * * *

  The next morning, the fighters among the crew gather in one of the unused chambers. I stand in front of them, with Meroe, Zarun, and Shiara behind me, and try to look like I know what the Rot I’m doing. I explain to them what I told the others the night before, and I watch their faces. There’s respect there, and skepticism, and fear, and excitement, and Blessed knows what else.

  I know so few of them by name. I recognize people, from the nightmare march or afterward, in the Garden, but most of the pack leaders and others I came to know before the passage through the Rot are gone. A leader—if that’s what I am—ought to know her people, and I resolve to start learning.

  Zarun steps forward. “I think the Deepwalker has the right idea. If we’re going to stay here—and it doesn’t seem like Soliton has given us any choice—getting rid of the army of hell-spawn corpses seems like a good start.”

  A few in the crowd mutter in agreement. Shiara steps up beside him and says, “It’s a risk, but if it pays off it will put us in a strong position to bargain with the Cresos and the Minders. I think it’s our best chance.”

  More mutters and nods. These aren’t soldiers, who march into the jaws of death for a king or because they’ll be whipped if they refuse. Soliton’s crew are rebels, outcasts, discards. Deepwalker or not, I have to convince them.

  Jack and Thora are the next to step forward. Jack turns to face the crowd, giving an elaborate bow.

  “You all know Clever Jack is always up for a scrap,” she says. “And this seems like a good one. That’s all I need.”

  That brings a round of laughs. Thora puts an arm around Jack’s shoulders, nearly pulling the smaller woman off her feet.

  “For my part,” Thora says, “I never figured on seeing home again. If we’re going to be staying here, we’d better make this place our own.” She looks at me. “And I owe the Deepwalker for bringing us to the Garden. We all do. If this is what she thinks is the right move, I’m with her.”

  One by one, the rest shout their approval. I stand up a little straighter, and can’t help but smile.

  9

  TORI

  The upper floors of the hospital are reserved for its permanent residents.

  As usual, we’re badly shorthanded. Grandma has called in every favor and friend to help deal with the fallout from the draft riots, but most of those assistants are needed downstairs, caring for the freshly hurt. It’s been several days since the last disturbance, but the mats down there are still full of people with splinted limbs, mending under Grandma’s watchful eye.

  Meanwhile, the daily work of the hospital piles up. Some of it is simply going undone—it’s past time, for example, to replace the light summer curtains on the windows with heavier winter drapes, but no one has time. Yet meals have to be prepared, chamber pots emptied, and linens cleaned regardless of how busy we get.

  At the moment, Garo and I are delivering food. We turn on to the east corridor, one of us on either side of a big, wooden-wheeled serving cart rescued from a junk heap. The thing has a tendency to suddenly veer to the right at the worst possible moments, so I direct it carefully, while Garo pushes from behind. In spite of his slim frame, he’s well-muscled.

  We’ve been spending quite a lot of time together, in fact. Just as I’d seen in his mind, Garo was completely serious about becoming my “apprentice.” It’s ridiculous when you say it like that, both because he’s a year older than me and because I don’t really have anything to teach him other than the basics of life in the lower wards. But the basics are precisely what he needs, never having had to attend to them himself. It’s quickly become apparent that, for all Garo seems to consider us equals, his life at home is very different than mine.

  The hateful cart bumps and jolts against my hands as we make the last turn. There’s a wide landing, leading to one of the outdoor staircases, and then a hall of tiny rooms. A desk sits by the window, where it gets a little light during the day. Jakibsa, Hasaka’s boyfriend, sits behind it, dressed in a long, loose black robe.

  Garo sucks in his breath, and I realize I should have warned him. Jakibsa is a bit of a gruesome sight. His career in the Legions ended while fighting frontier barbarians, one of whom happened to be a Myrkai adept. Burned across most of his body, he’d been expected to die, and the Legions hadn’t quite known what to do with him when he survived. He’d turned down their offer to live in one of their communities for retired soldiers and come here instead.

  He has hair on only one side of his head, and wears it long, pulled over the burned part of his scalp and down across his face. It almost obscures the ruin the fire made of his flesh, angry red-and-white scars running down his cheek and neck, one ear entirely gone. He wears gloves, because his hands look much the same, with two of the fingers on his right fused together, and he walks with a cane.

  Given all this, he’s cheerier than he has any right to be. He’s writing, as usual, when we come in, a nib pen held in a delicate, flickering blue aura dancing unsupported across the pages of a leather-bound journal. It pauses at the sound of the cart, and he inclines his head as we appear, a little stiffly.

  “Evening, Tori,” he says. “And who’s this?”

  “This is Garo,” I tell him. “Garo, this is Jakibsa. He helps keep track of things up here.”

  Garo gives a grave bow. “It’s an honor to meet you.”

  “Very polite, this one!” Jakibsa says approvingly. The pen zips to one side, blotting itself on a cloth, and settles down.

  “Your control is very impressive,” Garo says. “I don’t know many Tartak users who could do that.”

  “Just a matter of practice,” Jakibsa says, but I can tell he’s pleased. He raises one arm, with obvious difficulty, and his gloved hand shakes. “The alternative isn’t pleasant for me, so I learned.”

  “He writes satirical plays,” I put in. “They’re quite good.”

  “Now you’re just flattering me,” Jakibsa says. “Go on, the grumblers are waiting for their dinner.”

  We push the cart past him. Garo says, quietly, “He’s very open with his power.”

  “He’s not a part of the sanctuary, actually. He’s got a medical discharge from the Legions, so he’s fully legal.”

  Garo nods. “That must be useful for keeping up the front.”

  “It can be.”

  Grandma had agreed to let Garo in on the secret, and he’d readily sworn the oath as I watched his mind for falsehood. It was a little odd for me, actually—we’d accepted refugees to the mage-blood sanctuary, but he was the first new assistant to be brought into the fold since I arrived. I’m use
d to being the newest member of the circle.

  I hadn’t, of course, let him in on my own power. And for his part Garo hadn’t volunteered anything about his abilities, though as a member of a noble family he’s certainly a mage-blood.

  We lapse into silence as we reach the first door. I can feel him watching me. It’s … unnerving, if not entirely unpleasant. I try to ignore the sensation and knock.

  This hallway’s residents, the ones Jakibsa calls the grumblers, are mostly old men Grandma’s taken in because they don’t have anywhere else to go. There’s a certain sameness about them—bent-backed, white-haired, with tired, rheumy eyes and liver-spotted skin. I deliver their meals and spend a few minutes with them, listening to their complaints and stories about how much better things used to be, and they pat my hand and tell me I’m a good girl. I try hard to keep my mind closed to their thoughts.

  I have a hard time keeping their names straight, if I’m being honest. I feel guilty about that, but there are so many people in the hospital, with new ones arriving all the time.

  I wonder if Garo can tell. He watches me with one ancient, a man who’s so thin he looks like his bones would shatter like glass in a sharp breeze. I smile at him, and his face lights up.

  “They like you,” Garo says, after we close the door.

  “I bring them their dinner,” I say, feeling uncomfortable.

  “It’s not just that,” he says, taking hold of the empty cart. “You care about them.”

  “I listen to them, at least.” I shrug. “It’s all they really want, someone to listen. It’s easy.”

  “It’s more than most people would do,” Garo says. He cocks his head. “You never told me why you came here to begin with.”

  “About the same reason you did,” I say, picking my words carefully. He doesn’t know about my real origins, obviously. “I was … reminded how fortunate I am. It could have been me in these beds, easily. Or worse.” So much worse, if not for Isoka.

  Isoka hasn’t come to see me lately. I’d expected that, since my birthday is in less than a week, and she always comes on my birthdays. Still, I miss her.