City of Stone and Silence

by Django Wexler

Gragant nods. “I will take you there myself.”

  15

  TORI

  Isoka’s Melos blades are ignited, brilliant green energy crackling and spitting. Very deliberately, she raises one of them above her head, and brings it sideways in a sharp stroke. There’s a twang like a piano string breaking, and threads cascade down all around her, their severed ends drifting in the breeze.

  I look at my hands, and they’re covered in blood.

  “I should have known,” she says, raising her blades. “I should have known you were a monster.”

  “I’m sorry.” It’s all I can do to force the words out. “I’m so sorry.”

  When the searing heat of her blade slides into my chest, it’s almost a relief.

  * * *

  I open my eyes. I should be in a panic, heart pounding, but I feel calm.

  I’m on a musty pallet in a small room, empty except for a few broken bits of wood that look like part of a table. When I throw back the thin sheet, I find that my clothes are gone, replaced by a ragged linen shift of the sort we use for patients at the hospital. Bandages are wrapped around my left arm. I move it, experimentally; there’s a throb of pain, but I can manage.

  Isoka used to come home with wounds like that. I would bind them, washing the cuts and stitching them closed, with old rags for bandages. By the time she brought me to the Second Ward, her skin was a mass of scars, while mine was still unblemished. She’d wrapped herself around me, protected me, borne the blows and the wounds.

  Until now. I close my eyes and remember the maddened guard’s thrust, the curious not-pain of those first few instants. I would have a scar of my own—always assuming the wound didn’t fester and kill me, of course. And my hands, which Isoka had tried so hard to keep clean, were stained crimson.

  They had been for some time, if I was truly honest. Just because I’d kept the blood off my clothes didn’t make me any less responsible—for the Ward Guards at Nirata’s restaurant, for Nouya. For all my bleating about my power feeling wrong, I’d used it at the first real temptation.

  Monster. Of course. Who would trust someone who could turn their own mind against them? Not Garo. Not Isoka. Even Grandma, herself marked as an outcast by her power, had only tolerated me as long as I was useful.

  Tears threaten. I feel my hands curling into fists, fingernails digging painfully into the skin of my palms. Now my heart pounds, and my shoulders shake.

  Let them be alive. Grandma. Kosura—Blessed, Kosura had been taken by the Immortals, and I’d barely spared her a thought. And Isoka, Isoka, please. I don’t care if she hates me forever, just let her still be alive, let me see her again.

  There’s a rap at the door.

  It takes me a moment to pull myself together. “Y … yes?”

  “It’s Garo.” He sounds tired. “Can I come in?”

  “Go ahead.” I think about wrapping myself in the sheet, for modesty’s sake, but it seems like too much effort.

  The door slides open, and Garo enters. He’s sporting a bandage of his own on one leg, and a spreading bruise across his cheek. His arms and hands are covered in strangely regular patterns of angry red welts. Dark circles under his eyes speak of lack of sleep.

  In spite of all that, he smiles at me. “How are you feeling?”

  “All right,” I say.

  “One of the hospital people stitched your arm and did the bandage,” he says. “She said it should heal clean, as long as you don’t strain it.”

  I nod. “What about you?”

  “Me?” He shrugs. “I’ll be okay. Just tired.”

  “Your arms?”

  He touches the welts. “Powerburn. It’s not bad.”

  “How long have I been asleep?”

  “Most of the day. It’s past sundown now.”

  “I take it we got to the safe house.”

  He nods. “Most of us. We split up, and a few groups got tagged by the Ward Guard. Fortunately by then things were getting bad everywhere, and they didn’t have the time to keep chasing us.”

  “What do you mean, bad?”

  “You still need rest.” Garo frowns. “I’m not sure—”

  “Don’t give me that, when you’re about ready to fall over.” I kick the sheet off and struggle to my feet. “What’s happening?”

  “Ah.” Garo averts his gaze. “I’ll get you some clothes, shall I? And then we can go downstairs and explain things.”

  I look down at myself—the shift isn’t very long, and I’m only marginally decent. I swallow a comment and just nod, and he backs awkwardly out of the room, returning a few moments later with a simple brown robe. I put this on, folding it back where it doesn’t fit, and join him outside.

  We’re on the upper floor of an old, boxy building. Garo leads me down a corridor flanked by dark, empty rooms. A stairway leads into a much larger open space on the first level. This place had been a warehouse, years ago, before it had been abandoned and Grandma had acquired it on the cheap. Since then it’s served as her fallback, insurance in case the government ever really cracked down. I don’t know if she ever expected to really have to use it.

  Spread across the dusty, cobwebbed floor are a few hundred people, everyone who’d escaped from the hospital and the mage-blood sanctuary. There are no sleeping mats, so they’ve just stretched out on the ground, or spread out their coats if they’re lucky enough to have them. It’s mostly dark, with a couple of lamps burning on a table at one end of the room, and a pair of hospital assistants carrying lanterns as they work.

  At the table Hasaka and Jakibsa are sitting, listening intently to a young woman. It takes me a moment to recognize Giniva, the girl who’d I judged worthy of entering the sanctuary the day I met Garo, what feels like a hundred years ago. Garo, seeing her, quickens his steps, and I follow.

  “—tried to make a stand at the main intersections,” she’s saying. “But they got pushed back pretty quickly. A few guardhouses might still be holding, but other than that they’ve fallen back to the walls.”

  “Blessed help us,” Hasaka says, shaking his head. His burly frame is hunched over the table, tattooed arms crossed

  “Blessed help them,” Jakibsa says, his eyes alight in the scarred ruin of his face.

  “Tori’s awake,” Garo says. He holds out his hand to help me to the table. I settle on a spare cushion, and he sits beside me. “Good to see you made it back all right, Giniva.”

  The girl gives him a quick, awkward nod. Her eyes are on me, and I have trouble meeting them. I feel guilty—for denying her sister a place, and for ignoring her afterward. Helping her settle in the sanctuary was a part of my duties, which I’d brushed off in favor of pursuing … whatever it is I have with Garo. She would have every right to hate me. But there’s no hate in her gaze, just wariness, as though she’s worried that I might kick her out even now.

  “Giniva volunteered to go out and see what was happening,” Jakibsa explains.

  “I’ve only been at the sanctuary a little while,” she says, looking down at the table. “If they had lists of people they’re looking for, I thought I might not be on them. And I … I wanted to be useful.”

  “It was very brave,” Garo says. “Sorry to be late. Can you summarize?”

  “It’s—”

  “It’s chaos,” Hasaka cuts in. “Riots.”

  “Only where the Ward Guard tried to make a stand,” Jakibsa says. “Right, Giniva?”

  Giniva gives another jerky nod. “There were lots of people on the streets, but most of them were peaceful. The Ward Guard tried to disperse the crowd, but from what I heard the fighting ended pretty quickly. Someone said they have orders to fall back.”

  “It’s standard procedure,” Hasaka says bitterly. “Kahnzoka was designed to prevent this kind of rising. That’s why we have the ward walls. All the guards have to do is close the gates and wait for things to burn themselves out.”

  “Slow down,” I say. “What exactly is going on? Why are people fighting?”

 
Everyone looks at me, and Hasaka scratches his stubbled cheek.

  “Sorry,” he says. “I forgot you’ve been out.”

  “It’s Grandma,” Jakibsa says. “She had—has—a lot of friends.”

  “And people in the Eleventh are angry about the draft,” Garo says. “It all seems to have boiled over.”

  “And the Ward Guard have pulled out!” Jakibsa bangs his maimed hand on the table.

  “For now,” Hasaka says. “Mark my words, they’re just waiting for daylight. If there’s still a mob abroad by then, it’ll be blood.”

  “You seem very certain of that,” Garo comments.

  “Used to be a guard,” Hasaka mutters. “Ten years. Until … well.” He glances at Jakibsa. “Grandma gave me a way out. But I’ve seen my share of ward risings, and it never ends well.”

  “So what do you suggest we do?” Garo says.

  “Hide,” Hasaka says promptly. “Thanks to all this chaos, we have a window, but it won’t last. We can get in touch with Grandma’s friends, see who’s willing to take in some of our people. Split up, hunker down, and stay out of sight. Once the lockdown is lifted, maybe try to get out of the ward.”

  “Finding space for everyone is going to be a tall order,” I say.

  “I know,” Hasaka says. “But we have to try. The children, at least.”

  “What about Grandma?” Jakibsa says. “And Kosura and the others?”

  “You think I—” He cuts off, shaking his head. “There’s nothing we can do.”

  “Why not?” Jakibsa says. “They’re right there. They have to be.”

  “Right where?” I ask.

  “Leftmark Road,” Giniva says quietly. “I asked some people who watched the raid. They said the prisoners weren’t taken to the regular guardhouses, but to a building on Leftmark Road, and now it’s surrounded by guards.”

  “We can’t be certain of that,” Hasaka says. “Things have been confused. And even if it’s true, what are we supposed to do about it? Attack them?”

  “You fought the Immortals when they broke in to the sanctuary,” I point out.

  “Much rotting good it did.” Hasaka looks on the verge of tears. “Gaf’s dead. Vidge, Henka, Meiko—she was just a rotting kid, for Blessed’s sake.” He glances at me, then looks down at the table. “Blessed knows how many more, and we barely got away.”

  There’s a moment of silence.

  “What happened to Old Sewa?” I say.

  “He went down fighting,” Jakibsa says quietly. “Like the old days.”

  I take a deep breath, throat strangely thick.

  “It doesn’t have to be just us, though,” Jakibsa goes on. “You said yourself that people are in the streets because they don’t like what happened to Grandma. If we give them a chance to help rescue her, we’ll have an army behind us! We might not even have to fight.”

  “And we might as well paint ourselves like an archery target,” Hasaka says. “A mob’s not an army, and when the Ward Guard come back we’d find that out quick. Chanting and throwing rocks is one thing, hard fighting with real troops is something else.”

  The pair of them glare at each other.

  “I think we need to do both,” I say. I wish my voice didn’t sound so thin. “Prepare for the worst, obviously, and get as many children away as we can. But if we have a chance to help Grandma and the others, I think we should take it. We won’t get another.”

  “Tori’s right,” Garo cuts in. “We have to try.”

  There’s a strained, quiet moment. And then, somehow, Hasaka and Jakibsa—older and more experienced than either of us—are both nodding. It’s something about Garo’s tone, I think, simultaneously commanding and eminently reasonable, the voice of authority. Something you learn, I suppose, as a nobleman’s son.

  “I can try to get in touch with Grandma’s contacts,” Hasaka says. “Get the evacuation started.”

  “I’ll manage things here,” Jakibsa says. He looks ruefully at his maimed hands. “I might be a little conspicuous out on the street.”

  “Tori and I will handle that,” Garo says, so authoritative I find myself nodding. “Though any volunteers to back us up would be welcome.”

  “I’ll put the word out,” Hasaka says. “But what exactly are you going to do?”

  “People are angry and scared,” Garo says. “They just need a little leadership to point them in the right direction.”

  * * *

  “A little leadership?” I say.

  Garo has the grace to look embarrassed. “It’s true.”

  “You know this is crazy, right?”

  We’re standing by the main warehouse doors. Hasaka is talking to the other mage-bloods in small groups, looking for volunteers to help us, while Jakibsa tries to scrounge up some more durable clothing for me.

  “What’s crazy?” Garo says.

  “You and me being any kind of leaders here,” I say. “What in the Blessed’s name do we know about being in charge of a … a rebellion?”

  “Nothing,” Garo says. “But neither does anyone else.” He’s far too cheerful for my taste. “They trust you, Tori. You were Grandma Tadeka’s right hand.”

  “I was…” I stop. I can’t tell him that Grandma only wanted me because my Kindre powers let her sniff out traitors. “That doesn’t mean anything.”

  “They’re scared and angry, like I said.” Garo puts his hand on my shoulder. “They just need someone to point them in the right direction.”

  “Are we sure this is the right direction?” I have a powerful urge to lean on him, let him wrap himself around me, but I fight it. Not now. “What if we point the way, and people die?”

  “Then it will be our fault. ‘To command is to sacrifice.’” It sounds like a quote. “My father always says if you have confidence in yourself, you’re halfway there.”

  “So we’re going to … what? Go out and try to convince people to help us?”

  He nods eagerly. “That, I can handle. I’ve studied this. The great speakers, rhetoric lessons—Blessed, half my education is about giving speeches. Just find me a crowd.”

  “I don’t know.” If confidence is the key, we’re in trouble, because mine is draining rapidly.

  “It will work, I swear on the Blessed.” He glances sidelong at me. “You’re thinking that your sister might be there, too.”

  “Yeah.” I swallow. “Or at least information on where they took her.”

  His grin widens. “All the more reason to try.”

  “But—”

  But that makes it worse. Leading people—innocent people, strangers who have nothing to do with me—into danger would be bad enough if I thought it would help them. But leading them just for something personal feels—

  Monstrous? The word comes from a voice in my head. Like twisting the mind of a poor pawnshop owner to make him help you, even if it gets him a beating? Like reaching into the souls of a squad of Ward Guard and driving them mad with fear?

  Puppet strings, wrapping around my fingers—

  If it helps people. I swallow. Grandma. Kosura. Isoka. If I can help them … save some of the others …

  My private agonizing is interrupted by Hasaka, who looks unhappy. Giniva is trailing quietly behind him, at the head of a half-dozen other people.

  “These are your volunteers,” Hasaka says. “I’m sorry there aren’t more. Everyone’s rattled, and going out on the streets … well.” He shakes his head. “We all want to help Grandma. They just aren’t sure they can do any good.”

  “I’m grateful for any assistance,” Garo says.

  “Giniva,” Hasaka says, “are you sure you want to do this? You’ve been in plenty of danger already.”

  “Nobody is going to doubt your courage,” Garo says.

  Giniva looks down at the floor, but she nods. Her voice is soft. “Better than waiting here.”

  I examine the other volunteers. They all look like teenagers, some of the children who’d grown up under Grandma’s protection. Every one
of them is older than Garo and me, but they’re looking at us with such deference it makes me uncomfortable. One of them, a gangly boy with a scruffy, fresh-sprouted beard, steps forward and clears his throat.

  “We talked it over.” He looks back at his companions and gets a round of encouraging nods. “Grandma needs our help. She put herself in danger for years for our sake. We can’t sit around when the situation’s reversed.”

  Garo smiles. The boy bows, and for a moment you’d have sworn Garo was the older one.

  “What’s your name?” Garo says.

  “Vekata,” the boy says. “My Well’s Rhema. Only a talent, but I’ll do what I can.”

  The others introduce themselves, Garo greeting them like a feudal overlord accepting a vassal’s oath. For the first time since I woke up, I let my Kindre senses slip open. I have to fight not to close myself off at once, repelled by the huge cloud of fear and pain that fills the safe house. There’s fear in Vekata and his companions, too, but it’s shot through with red-gold determination. We should be able to rely on them.

  Giniva is a surprise, though. A maelstrom of wild scents and spitting light hints at a storm of emotion she doesn’t let show. There’s determination there, too, but it feels like a thin skin hiding something darker. I give myself a shake as I pull my senses back in.

  “We’d better move,” Garo says. “This needs to be finished by the time the sun comes up.”

  Everyone nods. Hasaka opens the door to the deserted street, and we file out. I don’t need any special powers to read the mix of fear and shame on his face, and I linger behind the others.

  “We’ll get them back,” I tell him. “You keep the kids safe here.”

  He gives a jerky nod, and shuts the door behind me.

  * * *

  It’s not hard to find the center of the crowd. Torches, lanterns, and bonfires are concentrated in the High Market, sending up a dull crimson glow bright enough to highlight the lowest clouds.

  It’s strange, though, passing through the streets and alleys I’ve walked so many times. The riot—rising, rebellion, whatever it is—feels like a weird inverse festival. There are the same crowds, pressing close and forcing me to close down my Kindre senses, the same constant noise, the same jittery energy. But the voices are raised in anger rather than excitement, and people roam in tight packs, watching one another warily.