City of Stone and Silence

by Django Wexler

  “Ylla’s dead,” he says dully. “Vargora, Emmie, Mokash…”

  “I didn’t see Safiya,” someone says. “On the way out.”

  “Safiya—” My gorge rises. “Safiya’s dead.”

  “Rotting Blessed,” someone else mutters.

  “Zarun,” I say, taking a few steps away.

  He comes over. Close up, his copper skin has faded to gray, and he looks nearly as dead on his feet as I feel.

  “How many can walk?” I ask him.

  “Aifin’s all right,” he says. “Bohtal. Kotaga. A couple of the others are torn up, but they’ll manage.” He lets out a breath. “Thora’s going to die.”

  I look over at the big iceling woman. She’s leaning against a tree, breathing shallowly, as Jack attempts to bind her wounds with strips of her own rapidly shrinking garments.

  “It’s a miracle she made it this far,” Zarun says. “We can’t carry her all the way back.”

  “She’s your pack leader,” I mutter.

  “And a damned good one.” He shakes his head. “But that’s not going to keep her from bleeding out, or stop those punctures from festering even if she makes it through the night.”

  For some reason I remember Shiro—poor, stupid Shiro, who looked the wrong way and got a knife in the gut for his trouble. I’d killed him myself, a quick thrust to the heart. All the mercy I could offer, I’d told Hagan.

  I swallow again. “I don’t think I can make it back. We need help. I’m going to send Aifin to get a rescue party.”

  “A deaf-mute makes a strange choice of messenger,” Zarun says.

  “He’s fast. And Meroe understands him. The rest of us will make for the obelisk.”

  “And Thora?”

  “We carry her. As far as we can.”

  * * *

  Aifin gives a curt nod when I hand-sign what I want him to do, and he takes off in a golden blur into the trees. The rest of us pick ourselves up and stagger on toward the obelisk, Zarun and Jack supporting the semi-conscious Thora between them. The raucous cries of animals accompany us on all sides, but now they sound more like jeers. The sun is going down, and the shadows between the trees grow long and twisted.

  I’m sweating heavily by the time we’re halfway to the obelisk, and not just from the walk. Fever and nausea are the next stages in powerburn. Sister Cadua, on Soliton, had used fungus-derived herbs to keep some of the symptoms away, but she was back at the ziggurat and in any case she’d had to leave her apothecary behind. I force myself to keep walking, step by weary step, when I want nothing more than to lie down among the cool ferns of the forest floor.

  My mind feels numb. Eleven of us left. Counting Thora. Nine people had followed me, trusted me, depended on my word, and now they were dead. For nothing.

  Dead, dead, dead. Dead is dead. That’s what I’d always said, back in Kahnzoka, but it wasn’t true. Here in the Harbor, the dead rose and tore you to pieces.

  My dead. My fault.

  Monkeys in the trees, staring at me.

  Why are they always looking at me?

  Tori’s waiting for me, and I’m not going to make it. She’ll be waiting for me when they break into her perfect house, her perfect little world, and drag her away. I wonder if she’ll be smart enough to kill herself.

  Dead. Tori, her fingers wrapped around a knife buried to the hilt in her breast, lying cold and still on her sleeping mat. Dead, dead, dead, everyone’s dead and it’s my fault—

  “Isoka!” Zarun’s voice.

  I blink, and look up. The obelisk rises above us, a cracked and broken spire, relic of glories long gone. Aifin is standing by the base, with a crowd of people behind him carrying spears and torches.

  “Oh.” I swallow, suddenly desperately thirsty. “Good.” Something in my brain seems to sizzle. “I’m going to. Pass out. Now.”

  I don’t have any memory of hitting the ground. When I open my eyes, we’re climbing the ramp up the side of a ziggurat. For a terrible moment I think we’ve gone the wrong way, that we’re going back into Prime’s labyrinth of monsters and corpses, but it’s only our own smaller building. I’m lying on a makeshift stretcher, made from a blanket and a pair of sticks, with two crew bearing my weight. I raise my head as we pass under the archway.

  “Deepwalker?” Sister Cadua bustles up to me, all business. “It’s powerburn, I take it.”

  I give a weary nod. “What about the others?”

  “Nothing I can’t handle, although I wish we had more supplies.” Her face falls slightly. “Except—”

  “Thora,” I say. “Is she alive?”

  “For the moment. I’m not sure how. Jack won’t leave her side.”

  “Take her upstairs, to my room.”

  Her lips press into a thin line. “As you say.”

  My bearers carry me up the sloping passages of the ziggurat, until they reach the chamber I’ve been sharing with Meroe. She’s there, pacing back and forth, one hand playing nervously with the silver bangle on her arm. When she sees me, she rushes forward.

  “Isoka!” Her face is several shades paler than normal. “Are you—”

  “I’ll be all right. Help me up.”

  She takes my hand, and I stumble out of the stretcher. I wave the two crew away with a mumbled thanks, then collapse into Meroe’s arms.

  “You’re feverish,” Meroe says, pressing her forehead against mine.

  “Powerburn,” I mutter. “It’ll pass. Listen.”

  “You need to rest.” We walk together to the blanket, reeling like a pair of drunks. “Here. Lie down.”

  “Listen.” I grab her sleeve. “They’re bringing Thora up. She’s … hurt badly.”

  “How badly?” Meroe says, then catches my gaze. “Oh.”

  “I can’t … tell you to help her. I know that. But…”

  “You don’t have to tell me.” Meroe takes a deep breath. “I’ll try.”

  I lie down on the blanket, propped up against the wall. A few moments later, two crew maneuver Thora’s limp body in, followed by Jack. The pair look at one another uncertainly, and one says, “We told her to stay behind, but—”

  “It’s all right,” Meroe says, with a glance at me. “Thank you.”

  Jack is silent until they leave the room. Then she collapses to her knees, startling me. Her long, lanky frame folds up, shaking with silent sobs.

  “Please.” Her voice is tiny. “You have to help her. I’ll do anything, I swear. I’ll cook your food, kill your enemies, warm your bed. Please.”

  Meroe puts a hand on Jack’s shoulder. “I don’t have many enemies,” she says. “And I don’t need a bedwarmer. But I’ll do what I can.”

  “Thank you,” Jack mumbles. It feels vulgar, seeing her broken like this, without her witty persona, somehow more vulnerable than if she’d been naked. “Thank you. Thank you—”

  “It may not work.” Meroe settles herself beside Thora. “It may go … wrong.”

  Jack curls in on herself, rocking back and forth. Purple light engulfs Meroe, as she delicately lowers her hands to touch Thora’s bloody skin.

  Meroe is a ghulwitch, an adept of Ghul, the Well of Life. That fact would be enough to get her killed immediately in almost any nation in the world. The power to heal carries with it the power to kill, or worse to change. It was Ghul adepts who created the Vile Rot, that incomprehensible blight, source of monsters and sickness. A Ghul adept could give you a virulent plague to take back to your city, or seed your body with tumors to tear you apart from within.

  Meroe isn’t likely to do any of that, of course. But healing has its own risks. When she healed me, I was fortunate enough to come out of it with only blue marks on my skin. I still have nightmares about our packmate Berun, who’d bloated into a mountain of straining, writhing flesh and then exploded.

  She can do it. I keep my eyes on her, as though the strength of my belief can be carried through my gaze. She can. She’s been practicing with her abilities, after spending her life trying to hide them.
She can do it.

  For a long time, nothing seems to happen.

  Thora coughs, blood bubbling across her lips. Jack whimpers, and draws herself into an even tighter ball.

  Meroe pulls her hands back, and opens her eyes.

  “Just kill me,” Jack whispers. “If she’s dead just rotting kill me, I can’t take it I can’t take it I can’t—”

  “She’s not going to die,” Meroe says. Her voice is shaky. “I didn’t want to try to heal everything. The risk…” She glances at me. “But I stopped the bleeding, and … well. It’s complicated.” She lets out a deep breath. “It’ll be a while before she’s on her feet. But she’ll live.”

  Jack is suddenly hugging Meroe, apparently without occupying any of the intervening positions, lifting her off her feet. I let my eyes close.

  Eleven. I’d taken twenty, and come back with eleven. Better than ten, thanks to Meroe. But still not good enough.

  Someone is calling my name, but I’m already asleep.

  11

  TORI

  By the afternoon of my birthday, I know something is badly wrong.

  People start congratulating me from the moment I wake up. My maids make extra bows as they lay out my most elaborate kizen, intricately dyed blue-green silk with delicate silver embroidery. The formal stays are complicated enough that I can’t put it on by myself, so I stand stoically in my underthings while they putter around me, wrapping me in slick, cool fabric and arranging everything just so. They braid my hair, and accent it with gold and silver pins. Part of me wants to tear everything off and run to the trunk in the closet, dress in something that lets me move. But Isoka loves seeing me this way, and anything that makes her happy makes me happy.

  After breakfast, with celebratory strips of fried honey-dough—I insisted, though the ones I get in the High Market are still better—Narago leads me through a series of prayers at our household shrine. The Blessed One looks down at me with an expression that’s supposed to be enigmatic, but I always think just seems bored. In stilted, formal language I drone through my promises to abide by his teachings and my requests to be healthy and safe in the new year. Now that I’m fourteen—an adult, by ancient standards—there’s a new set of prayers in which I ask for a kind husband and many strong children. I find myself thinking of Garo, and I hope that Narago can’t see me blush.

  I’m not madly in love with him, I swear. He’s just … nice to look at, and unfailingly polite, and genuinely interested in what I have to tell him. And he seems to believe in doing good, even if his sheltered upbringing has given him a somewhat skewed idea how to go about it.

  All right, I’ve been having some … inappropriate dreams. And perhaps spending more time in the closet than strictly necessary. (In addition to storing my lower wards clothes, my hidey-hole is a good place to masturbate if you don’t want the maids walking in on you.)

  If the Blessed One is watching my thoughts while I pray, I hope he forgives me.

  Isoka usually turns up around midday, so I wait patiently through the morning audience. There are a dozen couriers waiting, sent by families of our acquaintance, bearing congratulations and small gifts. The household servants assemble, too, in order of rank, and wish me a prosperous year. Ofalo goes last, bowing his head to the floor in formal obeisance and telling me how honored he is to serve.

  I wonder, if I’d been born to this life like Garo, if I’d take all of this seriously. As it is, I know the truth. The servants—even Ofalo—are here because Isoka pays them to be here. They do their jobs, but I don’t fool myself that they love me. I remember too well how loyalty fractures when the money runs out.

  Next comes the entertainment. I vaguely recall talking my way out of clowns and ending up with a theater troupe. They’re really quite good, three men and three women taking turns acting, singing, and playing the three-string. Unfortunately, Narago has gotten his hands on their scripts, and so they present A Series of Vignettes to Elucidate Correct Morals for Youth instead of anything actually interesting. The actors give it their all, but smoldering glances between A Young Man and A Young Lady are about as intense as it gets. (And the Lady, of course, ignores the Young Man’s Inappropriate Attentions in favor of the suit of A Gentleman, who courts her in the Proper Manner by first approaching her father for permission, taking her on exciting outings to the temple for extra prayers, and so on.)

  I had hoped that Isoka would be there for the show, since then at least we’d be able to laugh about it later, in private. But there’s no sign of her, even though I ask Ofalo to send someone down to the road to see if her carriage is on its way. So I suffer in silence, keeping my snide remarks to myself. When the players are finished, I applaud politely and accept their bows and congratulations.

  The kitchen has laid a late lunch of—again at my insistence—dumplings and plum juice, Isoka’s favorites. But she still hasn’t arrived by the time we sit down. I keep glancing at the door, expecting someone to burst in and tell me her carriage has pulled up outside, but word never comes. I tear the dumplings from their skewers and try not to feel ill.

  You can’t pace properly in a kizen, but I give it my best shot. Ofalo hovers, offering various amusements—books, games, a trip to the market—and I ignore him. Finally, watching me wear a hole in the floor mats, he heaves a heavy sigh.

  “Lady Tori,” he says, his voice quiet so none of the other servants overhear. “You know Lady Isoka has a great many concerns.”

  He doesn’t know the half of it. As far as Ofalo is aware, Isoka is some kind of rich merchant. I reach the wall and turn, slippers shuffling.

  “I’m certain she has some pressing matter to attend to,” he says. “She will be here by and by, or perhaps tomorrow.”

  “She never misses my birthday.” I hate the way my voice sounds, weak and trembling. “She promised me she wouldn’t.”

  “I know,” Ofalo says. He sounds genuinely pained. “But the world sometimes conspires to make us break our promises, even to people we love.”

  He doesn’t understand. How can he? He thinks I’m a spoiled little girl, angry that her sister has better things to do than come to her birthday party.

  I’m not angry. I’m terrified.

  There’s no chance Isoka just has something better to do. If she’s not here, it’s because something has happened. Ofalo thinks she’s stuck in a meeting or dealing with paperwork or something trivial, but he doesn’t know the nature of Isoka’s job. My sister would never admit it, but a great deal more can go wrong in a ward boss’ life than a missing shipment of tea.

  Isoka is a Melos adept, I tell myself. She can take care of herself. She’s probably not bleeding out in some trash-strewn alley after a knife fight. It’s more likely she’d decorate the alley with pieces of anyone who tried to stop her. But—

  But there are still things that can go wrong. There are other mage-bloods in the underworld. There are ambushes, or poisons. And worst of all, there are the Immortals, and the Emperor’s vengeance for the crime of being born an adept but not a noble.

  By dinner, Ofalo has stopped pretending Isoka’s arrival is imminent. There’s a great feast, with more prayers by Narago, but my stomach is in a roil and I can barely touch the food. For once, when I tell Ofalo I don’t feel well, he doesn’t look doubtful.

  “Go to bed, my lady,” he tells me. “I’m sure we’ll have something from Lady Isoka tomorrow. A note, at least.”

  I retire to the bedroom, let the maids undress me, and dismiss them for the evening. I don’t, however, get in bed. Something has gone wrong, and tomorrow might be too late.

  * * *

  Garo is waiting for me in the High Market, in front of Kamura’s, a noodle stall we both like. Of late I’ve been walking him to the hospital—just in order to make sure he doesn’t fall afoul of the draft squads. The fact that it gives us a few minutes alone every evening is … a side benefit.

  Today he’s prodding his bowl suspiciously with his chopsticks. The top of the soup looks like
a frothing, frozen sea, with limp tentacles a few inches long reaching out of it. In spite of the circumstances, I find myself grinning.

  “You ordered the sea monster?” Kamura leaves it on the menu with no explanation.

  “I was curious.” He pokes one of the tentacles. “And I am not disappointed.”

  “It’s egg white. I got him to show me how he makes it. Froth it up, pour it over boiling soup, garnish with squid. Sea monster.”

  “Remarkable.” He grabs one of the tentacles, pops it free, and takes a bite, nodding approvingly. Then, looking over at me, he notices I haven’t sat down. “Is something wrong?”

  “Yes.” There isn’t time to beat around the bush. “Do you trust me?”

  Garo blinks, sets down his chopsticks, and turns to face me. “Of course.”

  “If I tell you some things that you’ll find … surprising. About me. Then what?”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” he says. “But I’ve seen what you do here. I can’t imagine anything you could tell me would be that bad.”

  “It’s just…” I shake my head. “Will you help me? It might be dangerous.”

  “To the best of my ability,” he says at once. “You saved my life, remember.”

  “I thought I told you to get over that,” I say.

  “I tried, but then you saved it again.” He smiles. “What’s wrong?”

  “We need to get to the Sixteenth Ward,” I tell him. “I’ll fill you in on the way.”

  * * *

  We trace a winding path through the alleys of the Eleventh Ward, working our way south, toward the Low Market, without taking the main streets. It’s early enough that there are plenty of people about, and we don’t attract any attention. Just a couple of young lovers, out for a stroll, right? Maybe not.

  Garo’s gained a lot of confidence in the time we’ve been working together. At least he no longer stares at everything, like he’s just off a ship from distant lands. He’s still a little too well dressed, but working at the hospital has gotten his outfits realistically dirty. I keep my Kindre senses open, on the lookout for draft patrols, but I can’t help but pick up his emotions as well. He’s worried, and … pleased, I think, to be able to help. Not afraid. Not suspicious. That’s good.