City of Stone and Silence

by Django Wexler

  Garo thinks about that as we drop the cart off by the dumbwaiter and trudge back down the outside stairs to the first floor. He pauses on the landing, looking out over the tight-packed tenements of the Eleventh Ward, lit by a thousand lamps and torches.

  “Do you think it’s enough?” he says. “What you do here?”

  “I warned you, apprentice.” I flash him a smile. “That this wouldn’t be grand or glamorous.”

  “I know.” Garo sighs. “But no matter how much we do here, the basic problems won’t go away. Commoner mage-bloods will still be taken away by the Immortals, people will still starve in the winter.” He shakes his head. “The draft checkpoints are only getting worse.”

  “We do what we can with what we have,” I tell him. Grandma’s phrase. “That has to be enough.”

  His expression tells me he’s not convinced. I clap him on the shoulder.

  “Come on. Grandma’s waiting.”

  * * *

  On the first floor, we pass Kosura, tending to some of the victims from the latest round of “disturbances” at the draft stations. She sees Garo at my side and keeps her head down until he’s past, then catches my eye and gives me an exaggerated gesture of approval. I roll my eyes at her.

  Kosura’s not even the worst of the bunch. All the older women who help Grandma Tadeka have decided that Garo and I make a cute couple, and I’m getting sick of their encouraging looks. For his part, Garo doesn’t seem to notice, which has to be a polite fiction. No one can be that oblivious.

  And it’s not like I’d be … entirely opposed. In theory. But I don’t even know if the admiration he professes for me translates into anything … romantic.

  I try very hard not to read his mind, but there are times when I can’t help but slip, and I’d swear there’s something there. Using my powers feels like an intrusion under the best of circumstances, though, and checking on the feelings of a … whatever we are … seems like possibly the worst of circumstances. So I refrain. Mostly.

  Grandma is waiting for us in her office. She looks tired, but she always looks tired recently. Between finding space and funds to accommodate everyone who comes to us, and using her own powers on the worst cases, I’m surprised she holds up.

  “Tori,” she says curtly. “Garo. Are you getting used to the work?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Garo says, polite as always with her. “Tori is an excellent instructor.”

  “Of course she is,” Grandma says. “Tori, can you get him up to the High Market without too much trouble?”

  “It shouldn’t be hard,” I say. “We’ve been using the shortcut through Laundress Lane.”

  “Good. Then you can both go.” She taps one finger on the desk. “There’s a place called Nirata’s, a restaurant. He’s a friend, and he’s got three people in the back he’s hiding from the Ward Guard. Find them and bring them back here.”

  I get a sudden rush of anxiety. I know Grandma helps keep people from the authorities, but—“Hiding from the Ward Guard for what?”

  She shakes her head. “What do you think? They’re escaping the draft, just like everyone else.”

  “If we start sheltering draft-dodgers, this place is going to fill up fast,” I say.

  “Leave that to me,” Grandma says. “Just go and collect them.” She makes a shooing gesture with one hand and goes back to her ledgers.

  “She puts a lot of trust in you,” Garo observes, as we slip back out through the curtains.

  “Not enough, sometimes.” I sigh. “She’s spreading herself too thin.”

  “You know she has to.”

  “She can’t help everyone, either.” I look at him, raise an eyebrow. “You’re up for a trip to High Market, I take it?”

  “If you’re leading the way.” He grins. “We wouldn’t want a repeat of the last time.”

  “Probably not.”

  * * *

  It’s still only an hour or so after dark when we reach the market, having threaded the narrow, clothesline-choked alley at Laundress Lane and circumvented the draft checkpoints at the major intersections. In the market itself, there are more Ward Guard patrols than I would like—there have been ever since the draft riots started—but at least they’re not actively harassing us. There are still plenty of people around, and the stalls are doing brisk business.

  “We’ve got some time to kill,” I announce, as we push through the crowd. “If we give it another hour, we’ll have fewer Ward Guard to dodge once we pick up our refugees.”

  It’s true, more or less. The fact that it gives me an hour to wander the market with Garo is entirely coincidental.

  “Fair enough,” Garo says. “So now what?”

  “You haven’t spent much time in the market, have you?”

  He shakes his head, and I smile again.

  “I’ll show you around.” When he looks a little dubious, I add, “If you’re going to be working here, it’s important information. You never know what’s going to come in handy.”

  “Ahhh.” His face clears. “Of course.”

  Of course. I give him a sidelong glance. I don’t know that I’ve ever wanted so badly to read someone’s feelings.

  We begin our circuit, hardly able to hear one another over the babble of voices and the cries of the hawkers. I take him for fried honey-dough—obviously—and lemonade from old Kaga, who makes it sweet enough to hurt your teeth. From there we circle around to the rows of stalls selling pretty bits of jewelry. I have jewelry at home, of course, with real gold and silver and precious stones, but somehow it never looks as entrancing as the glitter of these paste-and-glass baubles in the half light of the lanterns. Garo is getting into the spirit of things, and by the time we reach the end of the row he’s arguing excitedly whether the purple earrings are better or worse than the little china porpoise.

  Either of us could buy out the whole stall in our other lives. Tonight, neither of us can afford a thing. We debate, and laugh, and keep moving.

  There’s a puppet theater on the east side of the market, the play just starting as we arrive. It’s a court drama, the latest to come down the hill, re-staging the rumors and intrigues of the Imperial household in miniature in a way that combines entertainment and political gossip. The puppets are finely articulated figures, painted to resemble court fashion, controlled via dozens of individual strings by a hidden puppeteer. Garo is laughing immediately, but I find the things unsettling. That dream …

  The crowd is engaged, though, partisans of various factions cheering whenever their heroes appear. By convention, the Emperor himself is never depicted in these shows, appearing as a booming voice from offstage, but everyone else is fair game: his uncles, siblings, and court functionaries like the Chief Eunuch all have their fans. Not keeping up with the gossip, I find myself a bit lost, but I have to appreciate the puppeteers’ skill. The little marionettes look nearly alive.

  “He’s not as bad as all that,” Garo says in my ear, as the crowd roars with laughter.

  “Who?”

  “Videka. The Emperor’s uncle.” He nods at one of the puppets, a fat old man with a shiny bald head.

  “You know him?”

  “We’ve met. He’s a friend of my father’s.” Garo shrugs. “He can be a bit of an oaf, but he’s against the war, and he has some good ideas about improving things for the people.”

  “So why won’t the Emperor listen to him?”

  “The Emperor only listens to the Council of State,” Garo says, his expression darkening. “And the Council of State is packed with Kuon Naga’s sycophants. My father says…” He catches my eye. “Sorry. It’s not important.”

  The play ends, and amid the applause and the sound of coins landing in the puppeteers’ open trunk I consider Garo in a new light. The figures of the Imperial court are larger than life for everyone in Kahnzoka, their exploits told and retold through gossip and rumor, which fascinate my neighbors in the Second Ward just as much as the crowds in the Eleventh. I’ve never met anyone who actually se
t foot in that rarified circle of power, who might know these shimmering creatures as actual human beings.

  Part of me—the part that has carefully cultivated Grandma as a possible escape route, the part that the rest feels guilty about—is thinking that there must be some way to use him, something better than changing sheets.

  “Is something wrong?” Garo says.

  “Just thinking.” From farther down the market, there’s a crackle of sparks and a flash of green light. Garo blinks in surprise, and I grin. “Come on. This should be fun.”

  I grab his hand, before I can think about it, and pull him after me. I wouldn’t have thought twice about doing the same to Kosura, but after a few steps my mind catches up with the situation. He’s closed his fingers around mine—which means he must not object—

  All of a sudden my heart is beating very fast. I’m trying to keep my palm from sweating by sheer force of will.

  We come to a halt amidst the crowd in front of the pyromancer. She’s standing on a box, a lithe young woman in a tight, gaudy costume slashed to show a barely acceptable amount of skin. Her movements are smooth and graceful, a kind of dance in place punctuated by dramatic upward gestures. When she raises her hands to the sky, blooms of fire expand outward, dissipating in clouds of colorful sparks.

  Pyromancers have visited the house in the Second Ward a few times, though not quite so provocatively dressed. They’re Myrkai Well users, touched or weak talents, who have trained themselves in the subtle control of their arts to make up for a lack of raw power. Like Jakibsa with his pen, they achieve a mastery beyond most mage-bloods, combined with a knowledge of flammable powders and potions to put on a show.

  This one is good, but not as skilled as some of the others I’ve seen. Garo seems entranced, though, his breath catching as she blows a cloud of red sparks from her mouth and then gestures rapidly to surround it with a halo of hanging green fire. I wonder how much is the performance, and how much the costume, and the thought comes with a touch of unpleasant jealousy I’ve never felt before. I bite my lip, try to relax, and work harder than ever to keep my Kindre senses closed off.

  He’s still holding my hand. I squeeze his fingers, and he squeezes back, looking down at me. His handsome face is outlined in the flickering multi-colored light, eyes ablaze with reflections as though they were glowing from within. My heart gives a weak flip-flop, and my skin feels suddenly hot.

  With that final flourish, the performance ends. The pyromancer bows low, but Garo is still looking at me. I clear my throat, inaudible in the tumult, and can’t think of anything to say.

  “It’s getting late,” he says, after a while. “We ought to find this restaurant.”

  Restaurant. Right. I give a jerky nod, and reluctantly release his hand. He smiles at me, and I watch him a moment longer before I turn away.

  * * *

  Nirata’s is a simple eatery, one of dozens of similar places across the High Market and the rest of the Eleventh Ward. It occupies the ground floor of a large tenement building, with a main room full of cheap, splintery wooden tables. At the back, a curtained doorway leads into the kitchen, and a hole cut through the wall provides a counter. Customers get their food—usually bowls of rice topped with fish or chicken—and eat them standing up at the tables, in the midst of lively chatter.

  It’s unremarkable, but I find myself looking at it through Garo’s eyes as we come in through the open doorway. There are so many unspoken rules. You can join a table that has fewer than four people, for example, but shouldn’t try to crowd a fifth unless you know each other; meals you can’t finish should be left in place for the other diners to pick over. No one ever told me these things, unless it was Isoka and I was too young to remember. You just … absorb things, through the air, until it feels like second nature.

  No wonder Garo’s efforts to fit in here were doomed. It makes me realize that I never would have been able to blend in, either, if I’d been the Second Ward girl I pretend to be.

  The man behind the counter, in a sweat-stained robe with the sleeves tied up, catches my eye as we come in. There aren’t many customers at this hour, just one trio of porters wolfing down their rice and a lonely old man picking through abandoned bowls. The proprietor waves us over, and I lead Garo through the curtained doorway. There’s not much room—a cooking hearth, banked to a dull glow now, and a proper door leading to what must be a storeroom. Another door, which looks like it might lead to a back alley, is so dusty it seems like it hasn’t been used in decades.

  “You’re Tori, aren’t you?” the man says. He offers me a nervous bow. “Nirata Genza. You helped my son Toma when he got caught in the fighting.”

  I have no idea if I helped Toma specifically, but I bow anyway, accepting his thanks on behalf of Grandma and the hospital. “Grandma said you’re giving some friends a place to hide.”

  He nods. “But you can’t keep them here long. The Ward Guard are searching storefronts, and Giba from the peanut stall says they’re coming this way soon.”

  “We’ll get them somewhere safe,” I tell him, feeling a stab of guilt. Maybe tarrying for an hour in the market with Garo hadn’t been entirely harmless. “Where are they?”

  He glances out into the main room. The porters have left, and only the old man is still there.

  “In here,” he says, unlocking the storeroom with a key at his belt.

  Inside, barrels and bushels are stacked high, one wall lined with shelves holding bottles of sauce and spices. Amidst the mess are three boys in their late teens, sitting cross-legged on the floor. They wear rough clothes, and from their disheveled state they’ve been hiding out for some time.

  “Wik has to piss again,” one of the boys says, as soon as the door opens.

  “Again?” Genza says. “You’re supposed to be hiding.”

  “I can’t help it!” shrieks the youngest boy, presumably Wik.

  “Well, get your things,” Genza says. “This is Tori. She’s going to take you somewhere safe.”

  “I thought this was supposed to be somewhere safe,” the third boy says. He looks the oldest, and his eyes narrow suspiciously.

  “Nowhere’s safe forever,” Genza says darkly. To me, he adds, “This is Gokto, Bel, and Wik. Try not to strangle them.”

  I raise my hands. “Just follow me, and everything will be fine.”

  “You?” The oldest, who Genza had called Gokto, glares at me. “She’s just a little girl.”

  “She works for Grandma Tadeka,” Genza says. “So you do what she says.”

  “Bel, I don’t know about this,” Gokto says.

  “Tori,” Garo hisses.

  “I can handle this,” I mutter. “Just keep an eye out.”

  “I am keeping an eye out,” Garo says. “This looks bad.”

  Genza, with a squeak, runs back to the counter. A moment later I hear him say, “Yes, gentlemen? Can I help you?”

  “It’s ‘Captain,’” a humorless voice answers. “And you can help me by letting my men search your premises.”

  I know that flat, arrogant tone. Ward Guard, for certain. I bring my eye to the slit in the curtain and swallow a yelp. There’s a half dozen of them, the captain and a broad-shouldered sergeant backed up by four soldiers with swords and clubs.

  “Now what?” Garo whispers.

  “We just had a search this morning,” Genza says, his voice taking on a wheedling tone. “Surely it isn’t—”

  “Don’t lie to me, old man,” the captain says. “And you can’t afford my rates these days, so don’t even ask about a payoff.” The rest of the squad chuckles darkly. “Now open up the storeroom.”

  Genza glances in my direction. Garo’s looking at me, too. So are the three boys.

  Why is everyone looking at me?

  “I can distract them for a few minutes,” Garo says. “Can you get everybody out the back?”

  I nod, grasping at this lifeline. Genza, hearing this, ducks back. “But—”

  “What’s going on back th
ere?” the captain cuts in.

  Garo’s already moving. He grabs a colorful cloth napkin and ties it over his face, covering everything but his eyes. Then, as the captain starts toward the curtained doorway, Garo explodes out of it. He plants his knee in the Ward Guard’s stomach, moving with easy grace, and brings an elbow down on the top of the man’s skull as he collapses gasping to the floor. The other five stare at Garo for a moment, stupefied. Then they heft their clubs.

  Garo raises his arms. Green energy shimmers into existence, encasing each of his forearms in a cracking, spitting field of power, as though he were wearing a set of translucent gauntlets. It has to be Melos energy, the Well of Combat, though it’s a form of it I’ve never seen before. Certainly it seems to take the guards aback, and they shuffle away, looking at the sergeant uncertainly.

  Unfortunately, the captain, writhing on the floor, chooses that moment to regain enough breath to shout.

  “What are you waiting for?” he wheezes. “Get him!”

  The soldiers step forward. Garo rushes them, intercepting a downward strike with one gauntlet. The solid wooden weapon shatters against the Melos energy in a spray of splinters, and Garo’s fist lands in the man’s midsection with a sound like a giant stomping its foot, a wave of power blasting the guard off his feet.

  Okay. He’s holding them off. Time to get out of here. I turn to Genza and the back door.

  “Is that locked?”

  He shakes his head frantically. “But—”

  I yank at the door. The latch moves, reluctantly, but the door doesn’t open. The three boys have piled out of the storeroom, distracted by the fight, but after a moment Bel notices what I’m up to and comes over to help. Between the two of us, the door swings inward an inch, scraping against its frame, then finally comes unstuck all at once and throws us to the ground. I roll over, gasping for breath.

  Instead of an alley, there’s the back side of a brick wall, roughly mortared.