City of Stone and Silence

by Django Wexler

  “Tori.” Garo takes my arm. “Tori! Are you all right?”

  I blink, looking up at him. “What?”

  “You just about fell over.” He casts around for a moment, spots an inn with lamps in the window in spite of the late hour. “Come on. Let’s see if we can find you a place to rest.”

  I nod, feeling numb, and let him pull me toward the lit doorway. We’re still close to the Low Market, and there are quite a few inns around, catering to merchants and fishermen. This one must be very cheap indeed, because it doesn’t even have a common room, just a narrow counter where a pinch-faced woman hands out keys and sells clay jugs of liquor. Garo gets us one of each, and pulls me upstairs, where he struggles with the newfangled padlock on the door.

  The room is barely big enough for two people to lie down side by side, but at least it’s clean, a sleeping mat rolled up in one corner with a threadbare pillow sitting on top. Garo kicks the door shut behind us and guides me to a seat on the ground.

  “I’m all right,” I tell him. “Just … tired.”

  “You’ve had a shock,” Garo says. He uncorks the little clay jug and holds it out to me. “Drink. Just one swallow.”

  The harsh scent of the stuff goes through my sinuses like a crossbow bolt, and I barely manage to take a pull. It burns my throat on the way down, too, but somehow turns warm as it hits my stomach, spreading out through my body like a cloud. Garo takes the bottle back, swallows a bit himself, and sets it aside.

  “I’m sorry,” I tell him. “I’m sorry I dragged you into my mess. You don’t have to … do all this.”

  “You’d rather I abandoned you in the street?”

  “I’d be fine,” I insist.

  “Maybe.” He grabs the sleeping mat and unrolls it. “But you wouldn’t have left me, would you?”

  “That’s different.”

  “Of course.” He pats the mat. “Lie down. You need rest.”

  Lying down seems, suddenly, like an extremely good idea. I crawl across the room and roll awkwardly onto the mat, while Garo settles himself beside me, legs crossed.

  But everything is still waiting for me when I close my eyes. Isoka in a dungeon, throwing herself at the bars like a caged animal. Isoka burning on a pyre. My sister, the one I owe everything to, dead, dead, dead, dying in a hundred ways, torn away from me.

  Don’t leave me behind. I remember a night, hungry and cold, watching her stare at a knife and not caring what she did, as long as she didn’t go without me.

  I feel Garo’s hands on my shoulders, calm and warm, and realize I’m gasping for breath like I’ve just sprinted a mile. My eyes pop open, and he’s looking down at me, hair falling around his face.

  “It’s all right,” he says, very quietly. “It’ll be all right.”

  It won’t be. But it’s nice to hear him say it. And then it strikes me how close he is, and how we’re alone, a single room in a cheap inn. My skin pebbles to goose bumps, and my cheeks flush.

  Idiot, something in my mind admonishes. Isoka’s captured, maybe gone forever, and you’re thinking about … boys, is that it? But some combination of alcohol and emotional backwash seems to be drowning that voice out. If Isoka’s gone …

  I won’t think about it.

  Garo is giving me a strange look.

  “Garo?”

  “Hmm?” he says.

  “Do you want to kiss me?”

  It pops out, before I can think about it. Which is good, because if I’d thought about it I never would have said it. Garo’s jaw tightens, and he swallows hard. There’s a long pause.

  “Very much,” he says, his voice tight.

  “You can.” My heart beats triple-time. “If you want to.”

  “Tori…” He runs a hand across my forehead, pushing my hair aside.

  “It’s all right.”

  “It’s not.” He lets out a deep breath. “Not like this.” Garo smiles, a little sad. “Go to sleep.”

  * * *

  When I open my eyes, they’re crusted with dried tears, and it tastes as though something has died on my tongue.

  Daylight is coming in through the tiny window, revealing the cracked plaster walls and fraying floor mats of the little room. I’m lying on my side, curled up on the sleeping mat, my joints stiff. It takes me a moment to raise my head and rub the crumbs from my eyes. Garo is at the other end of the room, sitting propped against the door, his head tipped backward, emitting faint snores.

  Memory returns in bits and pieces, a little fuzzy. I feel acid churning in my stomach, but in the cooler light of day some calm has returned. I go over what Thul said, piece by piece, and try to think.

  Then I look at Garo again. Blessed above. Did I really ask him … My blush returns with a vengeance. Oh, Blessed One. How am I supposed to talk to him now?

  He gives a snort and wakes up, shaking his head. I sit up, pulling my knees close in front of me. Garo blinks and looks around.

  “Tori.” He lets out a breath. “How are you feeling?”

  “Better.” It’s even true. “I’m sorry for falling apart like that.”

  “It’s only to be expected.” He yawns. “I’m not sure either of us has been getting enough sleep.”

  “Probably not.”

  “And—” I glance at the window, and swear, for the first time in quite a while. “Oh, rot.”

  “I know. My father is going to be furious when I get back.”

  It’s not a matter of furious. If Ofalo figures out I’m not there, he’s going to send out search parties. And afterward there’s no way I’ll be able to get out again, not for months at least. The acid in my gut rises higher, and I clench my jaw, trying to force it back down.

  “I’ve been thinking, though,” Garo says. “About what we can do to help your sister. Father will know something, I’m sure of it. If I go home and throw myself on his mercy, he may be willing to help.”

  “I thought you said he’d be furious,” I say, still trying to figure out how to deal with my own situation.

  “Oh, he will. But I know how to handle him.” He gives me a sidelong look. “Er. It might be better, actually, if I told him I was going out to meet a girl, not work at a hospital.”

  “I mean. You’re doing both, aren’t you?” I fight to ignore the rising blush. “It’s not exactly a lie.”

  “Right.” He yawns again. “What about your people?”

  “I’ll deal with them.” Thank the Blessed he doesn’t press for detail, because I don’t have any. “I think we should go back to Grandma’s first, though. She keeps track of the Immortals, she might know something.”

  “I suppose being a little bit later isn’t going to make things worse.”

  Garo gets to his feet, stretches, and holds out a hand. I take it and let him pull me up. Then, for a moment, I don’t let go.

  “Thank you,” I say quietly. “For helping me. And for … last night.”

  “It’s…” He gives an embarrassed shrug, and squeezes my fingers. “I meant what I said. Just … think about it a little.”

  “I will.”

  There’s a long moment of silence, awkward but warm. Finally, reluctantly, I let go.

  * * *

  Even after washing my face, I’m scarcely feeling my best. My hair is a mess, tucked up in a tangle under my cap, and my clothes feel stiff with yesterday’s sweat. I move gingerly as we leave the inn.

  In a way, this is an unfamiliar world. For years I’ve visited the Eleventh Ward only by night, and seeing the crowded streets in the daylight feels strange. The crowds are different, more purposeful, more hurried, less inclined to linger by a puppet show or a sweets stall. These are people heading to another day of making ends meet, or just beginning their long hours of labor. Men with pairs of buckets slung on a long pole walk the streets, dispensing wickedly strong tea into any proffered mug for a couple of bits. Garo secures a couple of cheap clay mugs and gets us some, and I sip the biting-hot stuff as we walk up toward the hospital.

  I don’
t even know if Grandma will be there. She might be asleep—she must need to sleep, I know intellectually, but I have a hard time imagining her actually doing it. She certainly doesn’t rest at night. But I need to talk to her now, before returning to the Second Ward, because I have no idea how long it’ll be before I’ll be able to get out again.

  Unless, of course, I simply make Ofalo leave me be. The thought is chilling. Ofalo has been nothing but kind to me, even if he’s been well paid for his services. Turning his mind against itself would be as wrong as knifing him in the back. But it was just as wrong to twist Nouya, and I did that for Isoka’s sake. I look down at the cup of tea in my hands, and half-expect to see marionette strings trailing from my fingers like glittering spider-silk. Garo walks beside me in silence, leaving me to my thoughts. We’ve crossed half the Eleventh Ward and gotten within a few blocks of the hospital before I realize something’s wrong.

  I’ve never seen the building by day before. It’s squat and ugly, all peeling whitewash and cracked plaster. A dozen chimneys poke out the top. I’m used to seeing their faint twists of gray smoke rising up against the clouds, lit by the glow of the city below. Now, though, a more substantial column is rising, black and thick. It’s not wood in a hearth. The hospital is burning.

  “Garo.”

  I tug him to a stop, and point wordlessly. He looks up, swears, and for a moment we both stand there stunned. Then, in silent unison, we toss our teacups to shatter in the street and start to run.

  Fires always draw crowds, but there are more people gathered than I would expect, a knot of Eleventh Ward onlookers several layers deep. They’re kept well back from the hospital by a line of Ward Guard, soldiers on the ground carrying hooded spears, with cavalry trotting behind the line. Garo and I come to a halt at the back of the crowd, and I rise onto tiptoe, trying to find the source of the flames. The building doesn’t seem to be a blazing inferno.

  “Can you see anything?”

  Garo shakes his head. I look around, then turn away and pull him after me, heading for a butcher shop on the nearest corner. The front door is open, and the butcher—a woman named Karan who’s worked with Grandma before—is gawking with the rest. I wave as I push past her into the shop, Garo in tow.

  “Tori!” Karan turns. “Do you know anything? Is Grandma all right?”

  “Trying to find out!” I call back at her. “Borrowing your roof!”

  Karan’s rooms are above her shop, a tangled mess of discarded clothes and soiled sheets. And, leaning against one wall, a ladder, which is just the right height to reach a trapdoor leading out onto the slate roof tiles. I know this because one night, a year ago, we used Karan’s roof as a hiding place for a couple of scared mage-blood kids, and I sat with them and tried to calm their whimpering as Ward Guard patrols crisscrossed the district below.

  I slam the ladder into place, and Garo, getting the idea, swarms up it, pushing open the trapdoor. I follow, blinking at the bright sunlight. The roof is sloped, and the slate tile uneven, so footing is tricky at best, but at least we can see over the heads of the crowd and the Ward Guard beyond.

  There are a lot of Ward Guard. As a rule, they don’t fight fires, leaving that to neighborhood fire brigades. The sour feeling in my stomach returns, stronger than ever, as I watch a whole squadron of cavalry troop past, with a company of spearmen on their heels. No one seems to be carrying buckets.

  The smoke is billowing out of the main entrance, with trickles rising from a few of the first-floor windows. It can’t be that bad inside, though, because Ward Guard are still moving in and out. I freeze as more of them emerge, followed by a line of men and women with their hands roped behind their backs. Many are bandaged, wearing stained hospital robes.

  “Are they evacuating?” Garo says.

  “It’s not a fire,” I mutter. “It’s a raid.”

  My chest feels tight. Grandma has been raided before, though not in the time that I’ve been there. She talks about her friends in the Ward Guard, but there are times when they can’t turn a blind eye to her activities. She’s always gotten through it. Unless they find the sanctuary …

  The smoke shifts, and I catch sight of a column of figures who are definitely not Ward Guard. They wear a uniform I’ve never seen in person, but recognize from a hundred hushed stories—dark leather armor, studded with blackened metal plates, their faces obscured by a hanging veil of chain mail. Immortals.

  A moment later, they’re gone, but I know what I saw. I turn to Garo.

  “We have to get to the sanctuary.”

  “We’re not going to get through that,” he says, pointing down at the lines of Ward Guard. “And they may not find it. If we stay clear—”

  “They’ll find it. There are Immortals in there. That means they’re not just looking for draft refugees.”

  His eyes go wide. “You’re sure?”

  “I saw them.”

  I will him not to argue, and Blessed be praised he doesn’t. Instead he takes a deep breath, as though steeling himself, and lets it slowly whistle through his teeth. Then, with no trace of further hesitation, he says, “All right. How do we get there?”

  Okay. I can admit, in the privacy of my own skull, that if I’m not falling in love with him, then … well. The thought distracts me from the madness of what we’re about to do.

  “Follow me,” I tell him. “And stay quiet.”

  * * *

  The sanctuary, housed in the hidden inner section of a decrepit tenement block, is not supposed to be accessed directly—that would, obviously, lead any watchers to conclude the block isn’t as abandoned as it appears. But, because Grandma Tadeka is thorough in her contingency plans, there is a back door, carefully concealed against a day just like this one. It’s outside the Ward Guard perimeter, and clear of most of the crowd, but there are still more people than normal on the streets. I lead Garo to the abandoned building and force myself not to look over my shoulder.

  We move a loose slat from a boarded-up door and push our way in, padding through silent, cobwebbed hallways. Plaster has fallen from the walls in huge chunks, melting into gray slush, and mold grows over what’s left in great blooms. The apartments visible through the open doorways are similarly ruined, floor mats black and rotting. I count doorways, muttering under my breath, and find an unremarkable door between two of the vacant suites. It opens into a closet, empty and full of dust. I reach out to the back and rap as loud as I can.

  “Is there a secret knock?” Garo says, fascinated.

  I shake my head. “There’s supposed to be a sentry on watch. I hope they haven’t run off, because it’ll be locked from the other side.” I raise my voice. “It’s Tori! Please, I need to get inside to talk to Grandma.”

  A faint voice, a young girl’s, comes back from the other side of the wood. “I’m not supposed to let anybody in.”

  I think hard. “Karuko? Is that you?”

  “Yes.” She sounds scared. “I don’t know what’s happening. Grandma’s not here.”

  “Who’s in charge?”

  “Hasaka, I think,” she says.

  “How about if you let me in and take me straight to him?” I say. “That can’t hurt, can it?”

  I can feel her fear, seeping through the wood like black oil. For a moment I want to reach out and shove it down, steady her nerves with Kindre power, and then I recoil from the thought. You can’t just twist people!

  “Okay,” Karuko says after a moment, a brassy note of courage peeking through. “Come quick.”

  The back of the closet swings open on noiseless hinges. Karuko, who is about twelve years old, blinks at us from behind round spectacles, her eyes big and owlish. I smile at her and climb through the narrow opening, Garo behind me.

  “Where’s Hasaka?” I ask her, as she shuts the secret door and locks it.

  “In the storeroom, watching the tunnel,” she says. “I should stay here and keep watch.”

  “I’ll go right there,” I promise her.

  “Is
Grandma okay?” Karuko says.

  I nod, trying to look cheerful. Blessed, I hope so.

  Most of the sanctuary’s population seems to be out in the halls or in the common room. We pass dozens of children, and even a few of the old men have left their upstairs rooms to see what’s happening. Old Sewa blinks at me from a seat on a staircase. At least he’s not trying to set me on fire this time. The hospital must have had some warning, because I recognize some patients who normally live on the other side of the secret tunnel.

  Questions are shouted at me from all directions. I can do nothing more than wave as I pass, jogging toward the storeroom, where the tunnel exit emerges. I hurry down into lantern-lit darkness. Most of the stores have been moved to the center of the room, creating a barricade of bags of rice and crates of dried meat. Hasaka sits on the dirt floor behind it, with Jakibsa and a dozen others.

  “Tori!” he says, standing up as I enter. “And Garo. Oh, thank the Blessed. I was sure they’d got you.”

  He advances to hug me. When he pulls back, I tell him, “We were away. I saw the Ward Guard, and went up on Karan’s roof to have a look.”

  “I had enough time to get a few people over to this side,” he says. “Grandma stayed behind to try to talk to them, but they’ve arrested her, and Kosura, and everyone else who—”

  “It’s not just the Ward Guard,” I blurt out. “The Immortals are here.”

  “What?” Hasaka hisses.

  “I saw them from the roof, going into the hospital.”

  There’s a chorus of alarmed swearing. Hasaka buries his head in his hands.

  “Oh, Blessed’s rotting balls,” he moans. “We’re all rotted.”

  “They might not find the tunnel,” Jakibsa says. “If we stay quiet—”

  “They’ll find it eventually,” I say. “We have to get out of here.”

  “And go where?” someone says.

  I catch Hasaka’s eye. “There’s a backup. A safe house.”

  “There?” he says. “That place isn’t a safe house. It’s just a hole. There’s no food, no beds—”

  “Grandma told me to go there,” I say, “if anything like this happened. She must have had a plan.”