The story of the night is written in the debris still littering the road. I pass Kamura’s noodle stall, half demolished, its timbers and boards pulled away to form a makeshift barricade. These barriers are everywhere, facing north toward the wall and the Ward Guard barracked there. People are milling around, not quite sure what to do next, still angry but without an obvious target. This might actually work. If Garo can make them listen …
We push into the center of the market, where people are densest. All sorts are represented in the crowd, from laborers in rude vests to upper-ward servants still wearing their tailored uniforms, old men leaning on walking sticks, and young women in colorful robes. There are a lot of walking sticks around, I notice, along with empty sleeves and ugly scars. People Grandma helped.
In the center of the crowd, there’s a small clear space. A dozen people are sitting in a circle, arguing furiously, with everyone else pressing as close as they can. I assume these are the leaders, or what passes for them. We manage to reach the edge of the council area by vigorous shoving. A ring of people at the front are holding the rest back, big, tough-looking men and women in leather vests and colorful bandannas. When Garo attempts to get through, several hands shove him backward, and Giniva has to catch him before he falls.
“I need to speak to whoever’s in charge!” Garo shouts, though he has a hard time making himself heard above the clamor. “Please, let me pass.”
“You and everyone else in the ward,” one of the bouncers roars back. “Get rotted.”
I push my way up beside him. “We have information.”
“I don’t—” the bouncer begins, but her companion leans close and points at me.
“Isn’t that Tori?” he says. “From the hospital?”
I nod, vigorously. The bouncer detaches herself and talks to one of the people in the circle, and a moment later Garo and I are escorted through. I gesture desperately to Giniva, Vekata, and the others to wait.
A woman, in her thirties and hard-bitten from outdoor work, gives us a dismissive look as the bouncers return to holding back the crowd. Her companions in the circle don’t even look up, continuing their frantic argument. The woman steps closer and half-whispers, half-shouts.
“Who are you supposed to be? A couple of kids?”
“My name is Garo,” Garo says. “This is Tori.”
“Grandma’s Tori?” the woman says.
I nod again.
“Hmm.” She frowns. “You probably don’t remember me. I came in with—”
“Infected boil on your backside, right?” I force a grin. “I was the one who lanced it.”
“Rotting Blessed that hurt.” The woman gives me a friendly clap on the shoulder. “I’m Hotara. What are you doing here?”
“We need to talk to you. To everyone.” I pull Garo forward. “We might have a chance to help Grandma, but we have to move quickly.”
“Good luck getting this lot to move anywhere.” Hotara waves at her fellow leaders. “The only thing they agree on is that they disagree on everything.”
“Can you get them to quiet down?” Garo says. “Just a few moments will do.”
Hotara gives me a questioning look, and I nod. She shrugs.
“I’ll do what I can.” Turning away from us, she takes a deep breath, and bellows at a volume I couldn’t have achieved with a megaphone. “Everyone shut your rotting mouths for a minute!”
Astonishingly, people do, if only from sheer surprise. There’s a moment of opportunity, and Garo takes it, raising one hand dramatically in front of him. He’s smooth as anything, young, handsome, confident.
“Friends!” he begins. “People of the Blessed Empire! My brothers!”
Then he starts to speak, and I realize it’s not going to work.
I’m not sure if the problem is that Garo didn’t pay attention to his rhetoric tutors, or that he listened to them too closely. He certainly sounds good, lots of ringing phrases, good projection, with the stance of a dramatist on the stage. But what he’s actually saying is—well, boring. He talks about the decline of the Imperial system, the rise of commercial interests, and the challenges posed by the increasing urbanization of labor. He tells the people of the Eleventh Ward, gathered in the middle of the night half in fear, half in fury, that what they ought to demand is tax reform and a reorganization of the civil service. It sounds like something he’s practiced, and I’m sure it was very convincing to his First Ward friends, as they sat around his dining room trying to figure out how to save the world. Here, though, the muttering starts before he’s gone through more than a paragraph, and by the time he mentions that the Immortals are holding people here in the ward—I might have started with that—nobody’s listening. He’s glancing around as he speaks, looking desperate. I want to hug him and slap him at the same time.
Blessed protect us from well-intentioned nobility. I may have spent the last few years in the Second Ward, but I remember being hungry and afraid.
We’re not going to get another chance at this. By morning, the Ward Guard will have re-established control, and the prisoners will be moved somewhere more secure. Grandma, Kosura, and the others will be out of reach, along with any information about Isoka. I know what I have to do, but—
Monster. I take a deep breath. What would a monster do?
“Down with the Immortals!” I shout, as loud as I can. Garo, startled, stops speaking. “Down with the Immortals, down with the draft! Down with the Immortals, down with the draft!”
He blinks, swallows, and raises his voice with mine. “Down with the Immortals and down with the draft!”
I open my Kindre senses, and the tide of emotion floods in. Copper anger, caustic fear, bubbling excitement, all rushing back and forth across the market like waves in a bathtub, feeding on one another. Right now, fear is winning, a chain reaction that might send the mob flying apart. But I spread my will, rippling outward like a stone cast into the tub.
It’s easier than I expected. Easier, even, than twisting the mind of a single individual. The currents of emotion run from person to person even without my help, and all I have to do is ride the wave, suppressing one feeling and strengthening another. I feel giddy, almost drunk, power flooding through me and spreading heat across my skin. Fear withers away, melting like fog in the sun, and I draw in righteous anger to take its place.
The chant spreads, gathering momentum, rolling downhill like a loose boulder.
“Down with the Immortals! Down with the draft!”
“Down with the Immortals! Down with the draft!”
“The Immortals are here!” Garo, whatever his faults as a speaker, can take a hint. “A nest of them, right in the Eleventh Ward! They have prisoners, innocent people from Grandma Tadeka’s hospital!” His voice sounds hoarse, pained, dangerous. “Are we going to leave them in chains?”
“No!” The single word, chorused back from a thousand throats, is accompanied by a burst of emotion so powerful it nearly drowns me. I stagger, and desperately slam my Kindre senses closed. Garo grabs me before I hit the cobblestones, his arm around my shoulder, propping me up.
“Tori? Are you all right?” he says.
“Yes.” I haul myself back to my feet. “You have to lead them. Now.”
“I don’t—I’m not sure I—”
“Garo.”
“Right.” He straightens up. “Lead.” He pulls away from me, raises his hands again. “To Leftmark Road!”
The roar that answers is like the sound of the sea.
* * *
By the time the mob reaches Leftmark Road, it feels like half the city is with us.
It can’t be, of course. It can’t even be half of the Eleventh Ward. But the street is packed solid, the crowd spreading out into the alleys on either side. Packs of children follow across the roofs. There are torches everywhere, flaring and smoking, matched by more lights in the windows as we pass by. The chant never stops, like a heartbeat: “Down with the Immortals! Down with the draft!”
Garo
and I have managed to secure a place in the front rank. Most of the other would-be leaders have been left behind, but Hotara is still with us, along with Vekata, Giniva, and the others from the sanctuary. Two of these are Tartak talents, and they’ve taken on the task of surreptitiously shoving people away to keep us from getting crushed.
It’s not hard to tell which building is our target. The Immortals have seen the mob coming—how could they not?—and have opted not to hide. The place—an old factory—is set back from the street by the width of a gravel drive, and there’s a line of Ward Guard soldiers stretching from the wall of one neighboring building to another, blocking off the main entrance. Behind them, a few paces back but still in plain view, a dozen Immortals in black armor and chain veils wait in stoic silence.
The Immortals have chosen their position with care. A multi-story tenement rises behind their hideout, and the buildings to either side are solid brick. There’s no easy way in except across that driveway, under the eyes of the guards. Unless—I glance up at the roof, see two pairs of Ward Guard crossbowmen keeping watch, and shake my head.
Garo makes a similar assessment. “This is going to be ugly,” he whispers in my ear.
“Ask for a parley,” I tell him. “They have to know this won’t go well if it comes to a fight. Tell them they can leave as long as they give up their prisoners.”
He nods. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Fine. Just a little … overwhelmed.”
In truth, I feel an angry itch all along my back and shoulders. I wonder if it’s the beginnings of powerburn. I’ve never done anything like that before—the memory of it still makes me giddy. I was riding the crowd, letting their emotion carry me along, but guiding it at the same time. I imagine being atop a champion racehorse, a solid mass of muscle and bone carrying you faster than you could ever hope to run, but still responding to the lightest touch on the reins.
The first rank of the mob comes to a halt, a dozen paces from the spear-wielding guards. Garo and I push forward, stepping out in front, with the others from the sanctuary close behind.
“Who’s in charge here?” Garo barks.
The Ward Guard look at one another. There’s a sergeant in the center of the line, but she’s not ready to pretend she’s in command, not with the Immortals standing in plain view. After a strained moment, three of the black-armored figures glide forward, chain veils jingling softly. They pass through the line of soldiers and face us.
One of them, a tall, broad-shouldered woman, squares off against Garo. Her voice is a rasp. “Explain to me why I shouldn’t arrest you.”
“You’re welcome to try,” Garo says, loud enough for the crowd to hear. “There are a few people who might object.”
A wave of jeers washes over the Immortal. She shrugs. “Rabble.”
“Then why wait?” Garo leans forward. “Let me make you an offer. Take your men and get out of here. Leave everything—all your prisoners—and we’ll give you safe passage.”
I almost reach out to the woman with Kindre, then hesitate. Back at the sanctuary, the Immortals had someone who could block my power, and I don’t know if that extends to detecting it as well.
“I have an offer for you,” the woman says, raising her voice to a grating shout. “All of you. Disperse and return to your homes. When order is restored—and it will be restored—only ringleaders will be arrested.”
And then I feel it. Power like mine, licking out over the crowd in a wave of noxious fear. Someone in the line of black-armored figures is a Kindre user.
The Immortal officer cocks her head, waiting for the mob to come apart in terror. I reach out, operating by instinct, and throw my own will against the other mage-born. There’s a moment of conflict, but while the Immortal’s emotional push is elegantly crafted, I have more raw strength to draw on. The fear evaporates, shredding into fragments.
“I really suggest you take our offer,” I say out loud.
The officer turns to regard me, and something in her stance registers surprise.
“It’s you,” she says. “The sister—”
What? I take a half step forward, just as everything goes to pieces.
“Down with the Immortals!” A stone, about the size of an apple, flies over the first row of the crowd and, more by luck than aim, slams into the officer’s shoulder. “Down with the draft!” The chant is picked up again, louder and louder, and more objects start to rain over our heads.
The Immortal officer closes her fists, and blue bands of force reach out for people in the crowd, lifting them effortlessly into the air. A young boy screams and clutches at the Tartak power that binds his wrist. An older man unwisely urges his companions to hold him down, and a half-dozen people try; a moment later his arm breaks with a crunch, and he’s screaming too. Another Immortal steps forward, flames leaping around him in what’s intended to be an intimidating display. It doesn’t work—a middle-aged woman pushes through the front rank of the crowd and swings a long-handled shovel into his stomach, hard enough to double him over.
“Wait—” Garo tries to say.
“Down with the Immortals!”
The crowd rushes forward.
They roll over the Immortal officer and her two companions and charge the Ward Guard, running straight at the wall of spears. The points waver in the face of this onslaught, but the soldiers don’t even have time to break and run before the mob is on them. Men and women grab the weapons and tear them away, heedless of the steel points, ignoring cuts and blows. Some of the guards draw their swords, but only a few have a chance to use them before they’re overwhelmed. The mob bludgeons them to the ground with whatever weapons are handy, with their bare hands, and crushes them under a thousand feet.
It’s not natural, this rage. I watch the guard sergeant laid on her back, her screaming inaudible in the din, as two girls my age take turns smashing her head with rocks. I watch a man with a spear wound in his belly throw himself on a guard, bearing the soldier to the ground even as coils of intestine flop free. Garo and I stand among the small group of sanctuary mage-born, and the mob passes around us like a river splitting around a stone.
I did this. Like with Nouya. I suppressed their fear, and gave them anger—
The mob closes on the line of Immortals, and I squeeze my eyes shut. Even still, I can hear the roar of flames.
16
ISOKA
At the top of the stairway, the other monks turn back, leaving Meroe and I alone with Gragant. The blue tinge has faded from his skin, leaving him looking only a fraction paler than normal. I’m still fighting the occasional shiver, and Meroe stays close by my side, as though afraid I’m going to run off again.
“You’re certain you’re ready for this?” Gragant says to me.
I shrug. “Since I have no idea what’s going to happen, there doesn’t seem to be much point in waiting.”
“Fair enough.” He takes the lead, and we start down a winding circular stair, descending into the very center of the ziggurat. Gragant carries a lantern, which throws our shadows, huge and shifting, against the walls.
“I wanted to thank you,” Meroe says.
“For what?” Gragant asks, not turning around.
“You didn’t have to accept that Isoka had passed the trial.” Meroe glances at me. “I heard what your people were saying. You could have declared her forfeit, and they would have backed you.”
“My people might have,” Gragant says. “The Divine Being would not.” That hangs in the air for a half turn of the stairs. Then he goes on, in a softer tone. “I must admit that I am not devoid of personal feelings on the matter.”
“What kind of feelings?” I ask.
“Silvoa was my friend. More than that. She taught me … many things. I would never have survived Soliton without her.” He shakes his head. “And Catoria was my friend, once. Prime killed the one and twisted the other against me. Hate is counter to the divine will, but … he has a great deal to answer for.”
&nb
sp; I wonder if I should tell him that Silvoa is still—not alive, not really, but still around. Probably, I decide, it wouldn’t make him feel any better.
“I agree,” I say instead. “I’m going to see that he pays.”
“The Divine Being does not sanction revenge,” Gragant says, half to himself. “But the divine plan moves through strange orbits.” He stops as we reach a landing, facing a single doorway. “Here. No one has entered this place since Silvoa died.”
Five years ago, by the Harbor calendar. More like a hundred, as far as the world outside is concerned. Time rushes past, and I try in vain to grab for it. I wonder if it’s already too late, if I’ll return to the beach to find Soliton gone.
“Stay here,” I tell Meroe.
“As usual,” she mutters.
“I don’t know what’s going to happen,” I say. “But Silvoa did this, didn’t she?”
Gragant nods.
“I’ll be fine.” I touch Meroe’s shoulder, and lean in to kiss her, then turn to the door.
The light from Gragant’s lantern doesn’t seem to reach past the threshold, leaving the room beyond in darkness. I step forward, and motes of faint gray ripple around me. I blink, and as my eyes adjust I can see the flows of Eddica energy, feel the power pulsing through the walls. The room looks similar to Soliton’s control chamber, the walls and floor made of interwoven, interlocking metal wires and conduits. They cross, merge, and divide in impossible profusion, but the energy flows toward a small dais at one end of the chamber, where a metal disc is linked to several of the largest pipes.
Something’s different, though. I don’t hear the whispers, the half voices of the dead that haunt Soliton and its angels. Here the Eddica energy feels … pure, maybe, refined. I cross the room and take the short step up onto the dais. The doorway behind me glows, a rectangle in the field of ghostly gray.
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