City of Stone and Silence

by Django Wexler

  The flows coil around me, curious, almost aware. I reach out with my own power to touch them, and Eddica energy sparks across the gap between me and this—thing, machine, relic, whatever it is. For a moment I feel it thrashing at the back of my skull, and I suppress the reflex to shove it away.

  Words write themselves across my mind, accompanied by a flat, dead-sounding voice.

  access request received; home//melchior

  result:

  authorized/accepted

  Well, says Prime, look who’s come calling.

  * * *

  For one shattering moment, the pain is so great I nearly scream.

  The flows that surround me, gray and calm, turn sharp and angry. They slash at my mind like vicious birds, biting and tearing. Prime has been waiting, deep in the Harbor system, coiled like a razor-toothed bear trap.

  But he doesn’t control it, not fully. If he did, he could have used the angels against us, not merely his reanimated corpses. I push my own power toward him, taking control, and the flows around me turn back. They ripple outward, thrashing against the stream of incoming energy, forging a narrow space of safety.

  I don’t know what I’m doing, here, in this strange domain. But I get the sense that Prime doesn’t, either. He rakes my defenses, and I can feel his anger, his growing frustration. When he finally stops, I uncurl from my metaphorical crouch, and find his face hanging in front of me, built of flowing gray motes, eyes like dark holes in space.

  Marvelous, he says. You are truly an adept. I admit I had my doubts.

  So happy I didn’t disappoint you, I answer.

  On the contrary. He misses the sarcastic spin. I have been nothing but impressed by your perseverance. When you join me, we will reach true greatness.

  I don’t plan on joining you.

  Not yet. His tone is insufferably smug. But you will. You’ll come to realize, as I have realized, what truly matters. His phantom lips twist into a horrible smile. That’s why you’ve been brought here. Do you want to know the true history of this place?

  All I want is to get out of here, I snarl.

  But the Harbor was made for you, he says, with a chuckle. Quite literally. Our kind—the Eddicants—built it. A paradise that only we could rule, a base for our empire.

  I don’t want to rule.

  Of course you do, Prime says. It’s in our nature.

  Your nature. Not mine.

  Oh? He lowers his voice. Wherever you’ve found yourself, you’ve taken over, haven’t you? Become a leader? Seized command?

  I—I stop, because, of course, he’s right. First the Sixteenth Ward, then Soliton. But that was because I had to, not because I wanted to be some kind of tyrant.

  You can’t help it, he says, self-satisfied as a cat. It’s what you were born to do. It’s what you—we—are for. Accept it, and you will understand yourself. You can have peace.

  I will have peace when I carve off your head, I tell him.

  He laughs as I turn away, and the laughter lingers as I step off the dais and stalk out of the room.

  “That’s it?” Meroe says, as I emerge.

  “It’s done.” I hope. “One down, two to go.”

  “Prime’s presents the most obvious difficulties,” Gragant says. “But getting Catoria to agree will not be easy. I regret that I cannot help you. Anything I do is likely to make her even more paranoid.”

  “We’ll deal with Catoria,” I assure him. Somehow.

  * * *

  We depart the Minders’ ziggurat as soon as the sun rises.

  Gragant comes to see us off, with the glowering Harak at his side. Meroe, Zarun, and I descend the ramp to the forest floor, our packs full of food from the monks’ stores. I sight on the great obelisk in the center of the city, a needle of stone barely visible over the trees from this angle. The Cresos ziggurat is across the city, but still far from Prime’s territory, so we’re unlikely to run into trouble.

  Even so, I feel a bit nervous watching Zarun run off on his own. Someone needs to go back to the crew and give them an update, though, and he’s promised to send a runner to meet us at Catoria’s if there’s any sign of Soliton’s imminent departure.

  Or if it’s gone already. All of this could be pointless. But I can still feel the great flow of Eddica power from the direction of the docks, and I think that means the ship is still in place. It’s like it’s feeding the city. Maybe that’s what the rotting thing is for.

  “There’s an ugly thought,” I mutter.

  “What?” Meroe says.

  We’re well into our walk, the Minders’ stronghold vanished into the trees behind us, nothing ahead but sun-dappled forest. After yesterday, I’m still glorying in air that doesn’t feel like it’s shredding my skin, and in spite of my worries I actually find my spirits lifting. I tell Meroe what I was thinking, about Soliton feeding the city.

  “Prime said something, when I was in the access point,” I tell her.

  “He spoke to you again?”

  I nod. “He still wants me to join him. He said this”—I wave vaguely at the forest—“was all created by Eddica adepts.” I frown, trying to remember. “He called them ‘Eddicants.’ Like they were a separate race, almost.”

  “Hmm.” Meroe’s brow creases in concentration, an expression I find almost unbearably adorable. “I mean, obviously the system was created with Eddica power. And from what you’ve told me about the access points, it’s designed to let someone with Eddica talent control it.”

  “I suppose. There’s still too much we don’t understand.” I throw up my hands. “What’s the point of all of it? Why build a giant dome at the end of the world, and then send huge ships to … what, collect sacrifices? Bring people here?” I feel like I’m on the edge of something I can’t quite grasp. “Were the ancients just insane?”

  “I doubt they were insane,” Meroe says. “But that doesn’t mean we can understand them. One thing about reading history: you come to appreciate that people at other times and places don’t always think the way you do.”

  “I suppose.” I shrug. “I always figured people were people.”

  “You’d be surprised what they can convince themselves of, if they try hard enough.” She looks at me sidelong. “Do you know the story of Princess Vehnka?”

  “I don’t think so. Should I?”

  “Not unless you’ve studied Nimari folklore. She lived a thousand years ago or more, before the time of your Blessed One. Our people were at war with a country called Gemori. Princess Vehnka was married off to a Gemori prince, in an effort to forge a peace. But after the wedding, she finds evidence in the palace that the Gemori are planning a sneak attack. So she goes on an epic adventure, evading her husband’s guards, crossing the wild borderlands, encountering all kinds of dangerous beasts and unhelpful spirits. When she gets back to Nimar, she tells the king just in time about the Gemori treachery, and he goes out and wins a famous victory against their army. By the time he gets back, Vehnka has stabbed herself in the heart.”

  “What?” I miss a step, nearly stumbling over a tree branch. “Why?”

  “Because she betrayed her husband,” Meroe says. “Even if it saved her country, she knew she had damned herself by breaking that sacred bond.”

  “Rot that,” I say. “I would have cut the guy’s throat before leaving the palace, myself.” I shake my head. “Did this actually happen?”

  “Who knows? The point is that we tell the story for a reason.”

  I think about that, as we cross a stretch of open fields full of angels. There are so many of them, plain compared to the bizarre angels on Soliton, each with its several limbs working away as tirelessly as a watermill. One of them is weaving, creating the coarse fabric I’ve seen both the Cresos and the Minders use out of a pile of fibrous stuff it manipulates using specialized extremities.

  Someone did design this place for people to live here. That’s obvious enough. It still doesn’t tell us who, or why.

  After we cross into anothe
r stretch of forest, I call a halt beside a stream, dammed by a boulder into a wide pool. The day is hot enough to make me sweat, and it’s a relief to sit in the shade. Lunch is fruit and roasted vegetables, both of types I can’t identify, and some crispy, salty stuff.

  “I never thought I’d say this,” I tell Meroe, “but I honestly miss crab meat.”

  “Meat in general,” she says. “God, what I wouldn’t do for a steak.”

  “Roast pork,” I suggest. “Marinated and cooked slowly. The street stalls stuff it in a bun with spicy sauce.”

  “Fried venu.” Meroe sighs longingly, then laughs as I give her a quizzical look. “You don’t have venu in the Empire? They’re like … big, stupid birds.”

  “Like chickens?”

  “Much bigger than chickens. The size of a pony. And they can’t fly.”

  “You’re making that up.”

  “I swear I’m not! I visited a ranch once. You wouldn’t believe the smell.” She grins at me.

  “When we get Soliton back to Kahnzoka, maybe we can start farming crabs.”

  I try to picture a farm full of blueshells and hammerheads and start laughing, and Meroe joins in.

  “You,” I say, wiping my eyes, “are a very strange princess.”

  “So I’m told.” Meroe gets to her feet and starts taking off her silver bracelets, then unwrapping her dress.

  I eye her suspiciously. “What are you doing?”

  “Getting cleaned up.” She gestures at the pool. “I don’t know about you, but I haven’t had a bath in days. I figured Catoria might appreciate the effort.”

  “Here?”

  She undoes the last knot, and lets her dress fall away. As always, the sight of her makes my breath catch.

  “Who’s going to notice?” she says, still grinning. “The angels?”

  She has a point. I watch, appreciatively, as she strips off her underthings and wades into the pool.

  “Nice and warm,” she says. “Come on, you’ll feel better.”

  I glance at the sun, trying to ignore the hissing hourglass at the back of my mind. Rot it. I strip down and step into the water. It’s as warm as Meroe promised, only a couple of feet deep, and the sandy streambed feels good on my weary feet.

  Meroe is already sitting down, leaning back to put her head underwater and wet her hair. I try not to stare at her too obviously as I start cleaning myself up.

  A paradise that only we could rule, Prime called this place. Without his monsters, he might be right. I rub wet sand across my skin, then lean back to wash it off, my thoughts wandering in odd directions. If not for Tori, if not for Prime, would it be so wrong to stay here?

  Just thinking that feels … almost blasphemous, somehow. Ever since my powers came to me, I’ve been living my life for my little sister’s sake, keeping her free of the river of blood and rot I had to wade in. Here, though, the river was gone. No Immortals to hide from. No one has to starve or sell themselves for food, or fight to keep monsters from their door.

  If I could take control, destroy Prime and his madness …

  Wherever you’ve found yourself, you’ve taken over, haven’t you? His voice in my mind. It’s our nature.

  He doesn’t know anything about me, what I’ve been through. But he’s not wrong, is he? Maybe he’s right about your nature, too.

  Sudden weight on my shoulders, arms twining around me. For a panicked moment, I nearly activate my armor.

  “You’re thinking about Tori,” Meroe says.

  I nod, mutely.

  “We’ll get to her in time,” she says. “This is going to work.”

  I nod again. Meroe hugs me tighter. Her wet skin shifts against mine, her breasts pressed against my back. I feel hot and cold at once.

  I squirm around inside the circle of her arms, grab her at the waist, pull her close and kiss her. She gives an excited squeak and topples over with a splash, ending up on her back in the shallows, her wet hair a dark, gleaming halo around her. I crawl forward on hands and knees and bend down to kiss her more thoroughly. Time passes, imperceptibly.

  Meroe pulls away for a moment, breathing hard, as I find her breast with one hand and the other slides up her smooth brown thigh.

  “Here?” she says, raising an eyebrow.

  “Who’s going to notice?” I mutter, kissing her again. “The angels?”

  * * *

  There’s still plenty of daylight left by the time we reach the Cresos ziggurat. I keep looking at Meroe—back in her dress, skin scrubbed to glowing, hair still damp—and shaking my head. Strange princess, indeed.

  The third great ziggurat looks much like the others. Two vast cloths are draped on either side of the main ramp, painted with an Imperial clan symbol—Cresos, I assume, though I don’t recognize it. There are two guards with spears at the base, one iceling and one southerner. They don’t look particularly happy to see us. Fortunately, as we approach, I spot Shiara descending the ramp from above, and at her call the pair step aside.

  “Isoka!” Whatever damage the exile from the ship did to Shiara’s composure or her wardrobe has long since been repaired. She’s in a long, elegant kizen, her face painted in the very image of the proper young Imperial lady. She manages to make good time down the ramp, even so. “We’ve been expecting you.”

  “I take it Jack made it here all right, then,” I say.

  She nods. “Though you may want to consider sending a more … conventional messenger next time.”

  Meroe snorts a laugh, and I grin. “I trust Jack to get through.”

  “I know. It’s just…” She sighs. “Things are … more formal, here.”

  I look at the surrounding jungle. “It seems like an odd place for formality.”

  “Or maybe a good reason to cling to it,” Meroe says. “Something familiar.”

  “Will Catoria see me?” I ask.

  “She’s agreed to give you an official audience,” Shiara says. She sounds uncertain, which is unusual for her. “I’m … not sure how productive it will be.”

  “We’ll find out.” I feel energized. We’re getting there. One step after another.

  I picture the interior of the Cresos ziggurat as much like ours or the Minders’, but instead of taking the corridors to the large room at ground level, Shiara directs us upward. Here, a warren of smaller chambers branches off the main hall. More guards wait at the intersections, wearing hanging shoulder tabards displaying the Cresos clan symbol. An Imperial warrior—a boy my age, really, but trying hard not to show it—is waiting for us, wearing blocky, old-fashioned armor and a red-painted helmet.

  “The clan mistress will see you,” he growls. His speech is beyond merely accented, phrased so archaically I can barely understand him. He turns on his heel and stalks away, without waiting to see if we follow.

  “A hundred years,” I say quietly, glancing at Meroe and Shiara. “Did people really use to talk like that all the time?”

  “In the noble houses, at least,” Shiara says.

  The stone walls of the ziggurat are nothing like the wood-paneled corridors of an Imperial mansion, but the Cresos have done their limited best to decorate them as though they were. Precious objects stand on small pedestals at intervals, things they must have guarded since they were first exiled: a small porcelain statue of the Blessed, an even older-looking helmet and a sword sheathed in chipping leather, a comb picked out in mother-of-pearl. In between, someone has tried to re-create traditional Imperial wall paintings—the sort of thing I’ve only seen in stage sets—without very good results. No artists among the clan Cresos exiles, I see.

  Two more warriors, an older man and a girl Tori’s age, in patched and fading armor, wait outside the entrance to Catoria’s audience chamber. A silk curtain is draped across the doorway, and our escort falls to his knees and edges through it, bowing deeply. I hear a murmured conversation inside, and he backs out, climbs to his feet with a clatter of armor, and gestures us forward.

  “You will show proper respect,” he say
s. “Especially you, Southerner. Lady Catoria is the sovereign of the Harbor.”

  I clench my teeth, but this isn’t the place to make an issue of it.

  “Follow my lead,” Shiara whispers.

  That’s mainly meant for me, it turns out. Meroe may be the only non-Imperial here, but I’m the one ignorant of courtly etiquette. I imitate the other two, walking through the curtain with my arms at my sides, my head down. Inside, the floor is covered with cloth matting, sewn into squares to resemble proper floor mats. People sit along both sides of the room on a row of cushions, women in colorful kizen, men in dark blue or brown robes with their hair in complicated braid-knots. At the far end, Catoria herself sits on a plump purple pillow, edged with pearls. Beside her is an older man, one of the oldest people I’ve seen in the Harbor, possibly past thirty. His heavy-lidded eyes look over the room with a proprietary air.

  “Lady Catoria,” Shiara says, after a deep bow. “Ladies and gentlemen of the Cresos court. I am honored to present my master, Lady Gelmei Isoka, called the Deepwalker, and her consort Meroe hait Gevora Nimara, First Princess of Nimar.”

  Consort? I glance at Meroe, who gives a grin and a tiny shrug. Shiara steps back beside me.

  “Bow,” she says. “And tell her you’re honored to be here.”

  I do my best, bowing as low as Shiara did. “Lady Catoria. It’s an honor.”

  Mutters run through the room, probably because I can’t fake the formal court language. Meroe can, of course, and she steps forward to greet Catoria with all the dignity of a lifetime of diplomatic training. I should have just sent her to do this, shouldn’t I?

  “Lady Isoka,” Catoria says. “It is good to see you again. After I heard of your battle against Prime, I feared the worst.”

  “Thank you, my lady,” I say.

  “I’m told,” the older man beside her rumbles, “that this battle did not end well for you. Is that the case?”

  “That’s Cresos Toranaka,” Shiara whispers. “Catoria’s uncle.”

  And, judging by the looks he gets from the other courtiers, the person who is really in charge around here. My earlier enthusiasm starts to flag a little. Toranaka’s is a face made for scowls.