City of Stone and Silence

by Django Wexler

  “That’s Lord Mondara’s crest.” He squints. “And Lord Goruka. I know some of these people.”

  My heart goes cold for a moment. “Any of them likely to recognize you?”

  “I doubt it,” he says, as though he hadn’t considered that possibility. “Not dressed like this.”

  “Try to keep your head down,” I tell him. “We just need to see Thul and get out again.”

  “And then I get that statue,” Nouya says, pathetically eager. I manage a nod.

  He leads us right up to the front door. A man in a dark, fashionably cut robe bars our way, looking me and Garo over.

  “Staff entrance,” he says. “Around the side. You’re late, but we’re overbooked—”

  “They’re not working,” Nouya says. “I’m Stashi Nouya. From Gleamon’s group? They want to see Thul.”

  “They want to see Thul,” the doorman responds, deadpan.

  Nouya nods, happily.

  “And who are they?” he says, turning to me.

  “I’m Gelmei Tori,” I tell him, emphasizing the family name. Sure enough, there’s a flicker of recognition. “This is my man Garo.”

  “I see.” The doorman sighs. “Wait here for a moment.”

  He disappears through the doors. Nouya grins at me. Garo eyes the guards.

  “I don’t like this,” he says.

  Tell me about it. The Black Flower looks like a cancerous growth on the ward wall, a poisonous blossom. But Isoka needs me.

  The doorman returns, with a particularly large bouncer looming behind him. I tense, and I can feel Garo straighten up beside me.

  “Master Thul says he’s willing to see Miss Gelmei, in deference to her sister’s long service,” he says, sourly. “However.”

  He inclines his head, and the bruiser steps forward. Nouya barely has time to look surprised before a huge fist slams into his face. I hear his nose break with a crunch, and blood sprays everywhere. He staggers back a step and sinks to his knees, and the bouncer buries a heavy boot in his midsection. The pawnbroker collapses, curled up on himself and whimpering.

  “Master Nouya, he is displeased by your lack of discretion,” the doorman says. “You may consider your services to Master Thul at an end.”

  I look down at the gasping, wretching Nouya. It’s not like he’ll be harmed permanently …

  “Come on,” the doorman snaps at me. “Master Thul doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

  * * *

  The interior of the Black Flower is nicer than the ramshackle façade, at least on the surface. We enter a great hall, done up Jyashtani-style with a stone floor, deep carpets, and flowing hangings along the walls. It looks like a picture of exotic luxury, but living in the Second Ward has taught me a little about what true luxury looks like. It doesn’t take much effort to see the frayed edges here: carpets with threadbare spots, cheap dyed linen hangings instead of silk, gaudy plaster sculptures along the walls instead of real ones.

  Most of the customers don’t seem to care. The hall is full of people, the women in colorful kizen, the men in looser, blander styles, but all in cuts and fabrics speaking of wealth and status. They gather in small groups, talking and laughing, supplied with drink by circulating flunkies in black. Other employees speak with the customers in low voices, and then disappear through side doors.

  “That’s Min,” Garo says, a note of surprise in his voice. “Garuka Minio.” He indicates a tall girl in her late teens, elegant in an expertly tailored deep crimson kizen. “I know her from our family temple.”

  The girl is a head taller than me, and beautiful by any standard, perfect painted lips, powdered skin, and a woman’s body. I try not to think about the contrast I make, in my laborer’s trousers and with my hair pushed up. Garo’s eyes follow her as we skirt the edge of the room.

  “Don’t let her see you,” I mutter.

  “I know.” Garo looks at the floor. “I’ve known her since we were kids. What’s she doing here?”

  “At this place? My guess would be either rutting or losing her father’s money.” I risk a glance in the noblewoman’s direction, and catch one of the handlers emerging from a side door with a young man and a girl, both in loose robes. Minio gives the pair a once-over, nods decisively, and follows them out of the hall. In spite of myself, I feel a stab of satisfaction. “Definitely rutting.”

  “She—” Garo’s mouth snaps shut. “This is a brothel.”

  “Obviously,” I say. “Though there’s gambling, too, and probably narcotics. Where did you think we were going?”

  “I just…” He looks down at me. “You shouldn’t be here.”

  Oh, Blessed. Now he decides to get protective? “What exactly makes you say that?”

  “Don’t—” At my expression, he pauses. “You’re too young.”

  I glance at the doorman, who’s leading us the length of the hall. He’s busy making small talk with the guests as we pass, not paying us any attention. I keep my voice low anyway.

  “There are probably girls my age working here,” I tell him. “If Isoka hadn’t gotten us off the streets, I could have been working here by now. So please spare me your moralizing.”

  He blinks. “Sorry.”

  “Besides, you’re not much older than me.”

  “That’s…” He purses his lips. “I suppose not.”

  Blessed above. This is not an argument I want to have, and especially not now. I look over at him, trying to gauge his reaction, but he just looks thoughtful. Even if I was prepared to read his mind, this place is crowded enough that I don’t want to risk opening my Kindre senses. So I swallow whatever I was going to say next and follow the doorman, and we finally break out of the crowd at the far end of the hall, where a wide stairway leads to the second floor.

  Upstairs, another narrower hall is fronted by many doors. What’s going on behind some of them is obvious from the muffled moans and cries, and I blush in spite of myself. At least, I note, Garo has the grace to do likewise. Other doors are quiet, but a strange, sweet smoke hangs around them in a haze.

  At the end of the hall, a pair of double doors are carved with a stylized whale bearing a long, whorled horn, picked out in gold leaf. The doorman pushes them open a fraction of an inch, speaks quietly, and then beckons us forward.

  “Master Thul is very busy,” he says. “So don’t waste his time.”

  He pushes the door open. Inside is a spare drawing room with a low table and cushions. The walls are lined with shelves bearing a row of clay pots, beautifully stained and ancient looking. In contrast with the hall downstairs, everything here has the quiet, understated solidity of truly expensive craftsmanship.

  Sitting behind the table is a middle-aged man, powerfully built but running somewhat to fat. He has an Imperial cast to his features, but his hair is a startling blond, which speaks to an iceling ancestry. He wears a simple gray robe, and his dark eyes seem permanently narrowed in suspicion.

  When I’d poked around to find out who Isoka worked for, years ago, I’d heard stories about Borad Thul. Few of them were complimentary. The child of a prostitute and an iceling sailor, he’d grown up in the Sixteenth Ward, just like we had. After doing a stint as a galley rower in the last war, he’d come back with a lot of money and taste for creative violence. His takeover of the lower wards—and in particular what had happened to the bosses of the incumbent organization—was the sort of thing people talked about in whispers.

  “So you’re the little sister,” he says. At a nod from him, the doorman slips out. He glances at Garo. “Who’s this supposed to be? A bodyguard?”

  “Something like that,” I say. “Thank you for seeing us.”

  “I was curious. Isoka doesn’t like to talk about you, you know. Some of my men thought you might have died, or that she’d sold you for a whore.”

  “My sister takes care of me,” I tell him, a little stiffly. “She was supposed to visit today, and she hasn’t come. I think she might be in danger.”

  Thul gives a bra
ying laugh. “So you charged to the rescue? You’ve got balls, little girl. I like that. Do you have the same stick up your ass your sister does?”

  Garo bristles. I put a hand on his sleeve to restrain him. Thul notices, and laughs again.

  “I would like to know where Isoka is now,” I tell him. “And if you have any idea what might have happened to her.”

  “What happened is that she made the wrong enemies,” Thul says, “and left me with a heap of trouble to clean up. If you see her, you can tell her I’m rotting pissed off.”

  “What do you mean, the wrong enemies?” My heart double-thumps, my guts squeezing. “What happened?”

  “Best I can tell, she and her man Hagan were having themselves a rut in a little place on Bleak Street. Next thing anyone knows, someone’s kicked down the door, Hagan’s dead, and there’s blood everywhere.”

  “What?” I take a half-step forward. “Have you tried to find her?”

  “’Course I tried. You let someone take out one of your bosses, next thing you know they’re coming for your scalp. But we asked around.” He leans back. “People who live in the building said it was the Immortals who grabbed dear old Isoka.”

  The world seems to go slow and strange for a moment. My ears are ringing. “The … Immortals?”

  “I’m guessing she got careless. Or else she pissed off rotting Kuon Naga. Either way, it’s bad for business. And now I’ve got to find a new ward boss.”

  “Where did they take her?” I say. “The Immortals.”

  “Who rotting knows?” He shrugs. “Does it matter? Ward Guards are one thing, but I’m not stupid enough to go up against the throne. Or Naga, which amounts to the same thing.”

  “You can’t just give up—”

  “’Course I can.” He narrows his eyes. “Your sister’s dead, kid, or as good as. Get used to it. The Immortals play for keeps.”

  “Tori.”

  Now it’s Garo restraining me. I’ve stepped toward Thul without realizing it. I want to reach out to him with Kindre, to twist his mind and make him eat his awful words, to admit that Isoka only needs to be rescued—

  “She was a good ward boss,” Thul says, his tone growing slightly more somber. “Had a temper, but she didn’t pick fights or beat her bedwarmers or get stupid on smoke. So here’s what I’m going to do for you, kid. One-time offer.” He leans forward. “Walk out that door and never bother me again, and I’ll forget about you, and about the trouble your sister caused in her unfortunate passing. Sounds square?”

  “It sounds…” I take a deep breath. “Fine.”

  “Good. Get lost.” He makes a dismissive gesture, then tilts his head appraisingly. “Though if you ever need work, you come to me. I’m sure we can figure something out.”

  I turn on my heel and stalk out of the room, Garo hurrying to keep up.

  “We’re leaving?” he says.

  “We got what we need from him,” I say. “We know where Isoka is.”

  “But—”

  “Now,” I say, with a great more confidence than I’m feeling, “we just need to figure out what to do about it.”

  12

  ISOKA

  The sun is setting, turning the clouds to blood and the ocean to liquid fire. The jungle cacophony has redoubled its efforts, a rising chorus of rhythmic animal sound, punctuated by flights of birds. I watch, exhausted, trying not to close my eyes.

  When I close my eyes I see Safiya screaming as the king of the lizard-birds rips her in half. In my memory she’s still screaming as it pulls her torso free, still screaming as she tumbles down its gullet in a spray of blood and a tangle of writhing guts. I don’t think that’s right—a person couldn’t be alive through that, still shrieking in pain as—

  “Isoka?” Meroe’s voice.

  My eyes snap open again, but I don’t say anything.

  I hear her padding across the stone. I’m sitting at the very top of the ziggurat on a flat stone roof that’s featureless except for the hole leading down into the stairwell. There was a guard up here—Meroe’s security is thorough as always—but I dismissed her. Now I sit on the edge, legs dangling over one colossal step, facing north toward the sea and the enormous shape of Soliton in its dock.

  Still there. But not for long. And still out of my reach.

  “There you are.” Meroe pauses beside me, shading her eyes against the setting sun. “You didn’t tell anyone where you were going.”

  “Sorry.” I pull my blanket a little tighter around myself.

  After a moment, Meroe sits down beside me. I don’t look at her. I don’t dare.

  “Thora’s doing well,” she says. “She should be awake in the next day or two. It’ll be a while before she’s fit to fight, of course.”

  “That’s good.” I pause. “You’ve been practicing.”

  “A little,” Meroe says. “I didn’t want to be in a situation where I could save someone, and … hesitate.”

  “That’s … good.”

  There’s a long silence.

  “Isoka,” Meroe says, in the gentle tone of voice you might use to calm a frantic animal. “It isn’t your fault.”

  “Don’t be stupid.” I hunch over in the blanket. “Of course it’s my fault.”

  “The crew knew the risks. They volunteered.”

  “They volunteered to follow me. That makes it my fault. That’s what being leader means.”

  Meroe lapses into silence for a while longer. I want her to go away and leave me alone. I also want, quite desperately, for her to put her arms around me. The remnants of the powerburn fever leave my skin pebbled and scratchy under the blanket.

  “Venius Acuitus has a saying,” she says, eventually. “‘To command is to sacrifice.’ My father likes to quote that, but I don’t think he really understood it. He thinks it means that when you command, sacrifices are inevitable in the name of the greater good.” She looks at me, sidelong. “I think Acuitus was talking about the burden of responsibility. To command is to sacrifice, not of others but of yourself.”

  “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

  “It’s not supposed to do anything—”

  “Because it’s rotting garbage. They put me in charge to try to keep people alive. My ‘burden’ is I’ve done a rotting awful job at it.”

  “Back on Soliton, you saved us all,” Meroe says gently.

  “You saved us all. You got people to march, kept them fed, kept them going, kept them from killing each other. You and Shiara and Karakoa and even Zarun.”

  “You stopped the Scholar and got the doors closed.”

  “Right.” I look down at my hands. “I can kill things. And I can talk to ghosts, apparently. Why in the Blessed’s name did anyone think that would make me a good leader?”

  “You know it’s not that simple.”

  “I’m not sure it isn’t.” I shrug, still not looking up at her. “It doesn’t matter anymore. I’m finished.”

  “That’s not true.” She leans closer. “The crew understands, Isoka. They—”

  “It’s not about them. It’s about me. I’m done.”

  Meroe stops. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I mean I’m done with this.” My heart hammers, driving a dull, throbbing pain in my head. “I should never have started it. The crew can take Catoria’s offer, go live with her or the monks or whoever will have them. I’m not making decisions for them anymore.” I close my eyes, fighting the tears building behind them. “My sister’s going to be dragged off to be tortured and there’s nothing I can rotting do about it and I’m done.”

  “Ah.” Meroe rises, then grabs my hand. “Stand up, would you?”

  Reluctantly, I get to my feet. She turns me to face her, beautiful as ever, eyes full of a kind determination.

  “Right,” she says, gently.

  Then she punches me in the face.

  It’s not an expert blow, but it has surprise and passion behind it. I take a stumbling step back, my cheek stinging, as Meroe
shakes out her hand and examines her knuckles for a moment. When she looks up, all her calm is gone, replaced with a cold, quiet rage.

  “You don’t get to be done,” she says. “You can’t just abandon your responsibility. That’s what responsibility means. It’s not something you do because someone tells you to, or because you’re in the mood. It’s something you feel and can’t let go.”

  “If I feel it, it’s your rotting fault,” I shoot back, spitting a gobbet of blood to the stones. “Do you know how much easier it was before—”

  “Of course it was easier,” she interrupts. “Nobody said doing the right thing would be easy.”

  “The right rotting thing for who? Not for Safiya. Not for everyone who died on the way to the Garden. Not for Tori.”

  “You do what you can with what you have,” Meroe grates.

  “And when that’s not enough?”

  “It has to be enough.”

  “Rot.” My lips curl in a snarl. “Maybe the problem is I can’t live up to your rotting standards. Maybe no one can.”

  “The problem,” Meroe says, “is that I fell in love with a self-centered, self-pitying piece of rotscum.”

  “I—” Anger drains away, all at once, and a terrible guilt surges to take its place. “Meroe. I don’t—”

  But she’s already leaving, dress whipping around her as she stalks away. I can’t bring myself to call out as she clomps heavily down the stairs.

  I sit back down, legs wobbling underneath me. Then, eyes still full of tears, I start to laugh.

  * * *

  The sun is long gone, and the sky is full of stars.

  Go downstairs, something at the back of my mind tells me. It’s the fever, the guilt. Tell her that, tell her you’re sorry. She’ll put her arms around me, and tell me she’s sorry, too, and kiss me, because Meroe is a better person than I have any right to have near me.

  But if I do that, then I’ll have to figure out what comes next. Face the prospect that Soliton is going to leave, stranding me here, maybe for the rest of my life, while back in Kahnzoka, Tori will be at Kuon Naga’s nonexistent mercy.