City of Stone and Silence

by Django Wexler

  My mouth is dry. He spreads his arms, beatifically.

  “Join me, and we will use Soliton’s power to do what must be done. We will destroy the lesser races. Each slaughter of the unworthy will release Eddica energy, and I will use that power to create new servants. My army will expand until the world is cleansed of the ancients’ mistake, and only Eddicants remain. I will not be betrayed, because there will be no one left to betray me.”

  Oh, Blessed’s breath and rotting ruin. I told the others Prime was mad, but I hadn’t expected this. And the worst part is, it might actually work. Not the re-creation of an ancient race, but the rest: in my mind’s eye, armies of walking corpses spread across the world like locusts, killing everyone they encounter, the very energy of those deaths fueling the creation of more monsters.

  I become aware that Prime is staring at me. Waiting for me to respond. And what am I rotting supposed to say now? Yes, that sounds great, sign me up for your transcendently insane program of universal genocide?

  Thankfully, at that moment, a shiver runs through the ziggurat. It’s the faintest vibration, this deep inside, but Prime’s head snaps around like a dog scenting prey.

  “We will continue our discussion another time,” he says, not looking at me. “I appear to have other matters to attend to.”

  He strides from the room, leaving me with the pair of lizard-birds. I put my hand on the conduit, and Silvoa’s ghostly form takes shape beside me.

  Is it time? I ask her.

  Yes. She looks grave. The attack has begun.

  21

  TORI

  It’s been ages since I’ve visited the harbor. I’ve forgotten how bad it smells.

  When people from the Second Ward say they’re going to the sea, they usually mean they’re going north, across the spine of Dragonback, the headland that bounds one side of Kahnzoka’s bay. There’s a long stretch of pleasant beach there, bordered by a forest managed by Imperial gamekeepers and dotted with “cabins” (that is, small mansions) owned by various nobles. There the smell of the salt water is bracing when the wind blows strong and cool off the ocean.

  Here, it smells of—well, a variety of things, but first and foremost rotting fish. Kahnzoka’s fishmongers dump their offal in the harbor, or into the covered streams that drain into it. The rotting heads and guts wash against the shore under the piers and at the bottom of the tide walls. Small children from the Sixteenth Ward go diving in it, hunting for the crabs that live on the decaying meat. That was a job even Isoka never considered, no matter how hungry we got—the offal attracts sharks, too, in packs that will happily tear a child to shreds.

  The fish market is still operating, even under the current strained circumstances. Without the daily catch, half the ward would starve. But tension is definitely in the air, and every vendor seems eager to sell what they can and move on. Women with colorful headscarves scurry up and down the rows of wheelbarrows, hardly bothering to haggle when they find what they’re looking for.

  At the edges of the market, our people patrol in pairs. Hasaka has given them red sashes to mark them out. He’s been directing the effort to turn the shapeless mob that has now taken half the city into something resembling a militia, with officers and duty assignments. From his scowls and arguments with Hotara and the others, I gather that it isn’t going particularly well.

  Two red-sashed women salute him, clumsily, as he and I leave the fish market and thread our way through the Sixteenth Ward’s maze. Another pair of guards follow behind us, spears at the ready. Though the Ward Guard have pulled back as far as the Second, everyone is certain the Immortals still have spies and agents in the lower wards. Night patrols have been ambushed, men and women found slaughtered and left in the street. Everyone is on edge.

  It’s been nearly a week since Garo left for the Royal Ward and his negotiations with Kuon Naga and the Imperial authorities. I’ve received two letters from him since, both in his handwriting, both urging patience and promising to return soon. In the meantime, Hasaka has taken charge of organizing our defenses, while Hotara works on training and equipment and Jakibsa tries to keep everyone fed, clothed, and sheltered. And for some reason, all three of them insist on reporting to me, though I’m not sure what they expect me to offer. Maybe I’m just a proxy for Garo until he returns.

  “For the most part, I’m not worried about a direct assault,” Hasaka says, as we approach the looming bulk of the outer wall. “It’s still too soon for the closest Legion force to arrive, and the Ward Guard doesn’t have the equipment for an attack on the wall.”

  “What about the Immortals?” I ask.

  He makes a face, but shakes his head. “If they had the strength, I have to imagine they’d have done it already. Maybe there aren’t enough of them left. We don’t have a good idea of their numbers.”

  More information it might be worth extracting from our prisoner, if only she would talk. Unfortunately, she still remains obstinate, naked and chained under the old safe house.

  “There are two weak spots I’m worried about,” Hasaka goes on. “The first is up in the Third Ward. That’s an interior wall, not part of the outer defenses, and it’s not as high or as well fortified.”

  “If they attack there, though, the fighting will be all over the Third, and maybe into the Second.” Where people who mattered lived, in other words, and held property that could be damaged.

  “Exactly,” Hasaka says. “That’s why I don’t expect an assault there, though we still have to be careful. More than likely, though, when they attack, it’ll be right here.”

  We come out of the last alley, and into the clear space at the foot of the wall, kept free of encroaching shacks by Imperial decree. Kahnzoka’s outer fortifications are several times my height, and broad enough at the top for three men to walk abreast. We’re at the very end of the line of walls, where the circumference of the city meets the shoreline, and a massive round tower with its footing in the surf guards the boundary. I can see people in red sashes walking on top, and more volunteers carrying bags and boxes up the narrow stairs built into the inside of the wall.

  “It looks solid enough,” I say.

  “It is, as far as it goes,” Hasaka says. “The problem is that the walls were never intended to be a complete defense on their own.”

  He turns, and I follow his gaze, looking out to sea. The shoreline of the Sixteenth Ward is a solid mass of piers and quays. At night, Kahnzoka’s fishing fleet crowds against them two or three deep, but now they’re deserted, with only a few untended boats riding the surf. Farther out, fishermen work with lines, nets, and traps, oars splashing as they move from spot to spot. Beyond them, larger ships have sails raised, tacking on the morning breeze. There are many fewer of these, now, most of the merchant ships having fled on the news of the revolution.

  None of these are where Hasaka is looking, however. Well out in the harbor, cutting through the water with the sleek grace of predators, a squadron of Imperial war galleys flash in the sun, black sails trimmed with gold. I can see a half-dozen ships, and I know there are more, off beyond the horizon.

  Halfway along the harborfront is the Navy dockyard. It stands empty now. The entire naval contingent lit out to sea soon after the Sixteenth Ward rose.

  “Some of the fishermen told me the Navy has made a new base on the other side of Dragonback,” Hasaka says. “Too exposed for a winter mooring, but it’ll serve them for now, and we have no way to get at it. They can control the harbor just fine from there.”

  I imagine war galleys drawn up on the pleasant beaches, the nobles’ cabins commandeered by Imperial officers. At least we’ll have cut some vacations short. Not much of a victory. I shake my head and try to focus.

  “What can they do to us?” I ask.

  “If they started attacking the fishing fleet, they could starve the city,” Hasaka says bluntly. “My guess is they haven’t done that because they’re worried it’ll turn more people against them. I’m sure they’re blocking incoming mercha
nt ships, though. And…”

  “And?” I prompt.

  He hesitates, glancing around. Only our two guards are near enough to hear, but he lowers his voice anyway.

  “I don’t want to lower morale,” he says. “But if those ships come up in close support, there’s no way we can hold the wall here.” He gestures to the open space around us. “Their archers can sweep this whole area, and keep us from bringing food or reinforcements to the wall itself. And a quick landing here by a couple of companies of marines could push all the way to the closest gate.” He shakes his head. “Like I said, the walls were designed on the assumption that the defenders would control the harbor, too. Without that…”

  “What about the small boats?” I say. “Could we use them to attack the fleet?”

  “Those are fishing smacks and cargo haulers,” Hasaka says. “A proper galley would tear the whole lot to pieces, assuming you could find people suicidal enough to try to attack in the first place.”

  Boats are not something I have any experience with, outside of books, so I have to concede the point. I wonder how much of this Hasaka really knows, and how much he’s pulling out of thin air. He was a Ward Guard, and certainly has more military experience than the rest of us, but I somehow doubt his expertise extends to naval strategy. But he seems determined to project an air of confidence, albeit somewhat gloomy confidence, so I go along with it.

  I’ve been keeping my Kindre senses tightly closed, of late. The fear in the city is building to the breaking point, and trying to see-hear-smell-taste through it has become overwhelming. The rebels, our people, are bad enough, with their worry tempered by excitement, duty, camaraderie. Out in the streets, the vast bulk of the people are simply hunkered down and waiting for the storm to blow over, and from them I get nothing but sickly fear.

  “So what can we do about it?” I say.

  “I’m not sure,” Hasaka says. “I’m thinking of trying to establish a secondary line, a block inland, so we have somewhere to fall back to when the time comes.”

  “What would that involve?”

  He grimaces. “Pulling down some houses, essentially, and building a barricade out of the rubble.”

  There’s a sour taste in my mouth. We’re supposed to be fighting for these people, not tearing their homes apart. “Let’s talk to the others about it.” Which isn’t an answer.

  Hasaka nods, no more eager than I to confront the issue. We turn to head back to the safe house when another red sash, this one a young boy, hurries up, gasping for breath.

  “Hasaka, sir.” No one has formal titles, but Hasaka’s people have started saying “sir,” mimicking soldiers they’d read about or seen on stage. “Miss Tori.”

  “What is it?” Hasaka says. “Are we under attack?”

  “No, sir.” The boy gulps. “Master Garo has returned. He wants to see Miss Tori right away.”

  * * *

  The former Immortal safe house—now de facto headquarters of the revolution—is surrounded by a phalanx of excited men and women in red sashes. Beyond these guards, a crowd is starting to gather, thin for now but growing by the minute. People catch sight of me and Hasaka and press closer, and our guards move up to keep them away with the hafts of their spears. A dozen questions are yelled to us at once.

  “Has the Emperor given in?”

  “Will the Immortals attack?”

  “What did Master Garo promise them?”

  “Down with the draft! Down with the Immortals!”

  “Will there be an amnesty?”

  “When can I go home?”

  “Please,” I manage to say, shouting over all of them. “I need to speak to Garo. I’m sure he’ll tell everyone what’s happening soon.”

  “Out of the way!” Hasaka barks.

  A little shoving gets us to the cordon, and it parts to allow us inside. I hurry up the stairs, past the infirmary—emptier now, as more space across the city has been pressed into service to tend the wounded—and into the barracks that we use as a conference room. Hotara is there, one of the early street fighters who has turned out to be a reliable leader, an older woman weathered by years of hard labor. Giniva is waiting by the table as well, and Jakibsa, whose horrifically burned skin and frail form conceal considerable Tartak power, along with several red sashes I recognize as Hasaka’s immediate lieutenants.

  “Where’s Garo?”

  Hotara points to one of the bedrooms. “Resting. He said he wanted to talk to you as soon as you arrived.”

  “Has he said anything?” Hasaka says. Hotara shakes her head.

  I push through the curtain, heart suddenly clenched. I’m expecting the worst, but Garo is lying on his stomach on one of the sleeping mats, a little disheveled but otherwise none the worse for wear. He’s exchanged his mock-commoner garb for a noble’s clothes, a silk robe over a finely cut under-tunic and trousers, and he’s snoring furiously. I kneel beside him, hesitate for a moment, then shake his arm.

  “Whuzz,” he says, or something to that effect, and groans. I smile slightly and poke him again, and he rolls over. “Is that—Tori!”

  He sits up so abruptly that I topple backward, laughing. Garo blinks foolishly for a moment.

  “Who were you expecting?” I ask.

  “Nobody. Sorry. It’s just…” He shakes his head. “I haven’t slept since … night before last? Blessed above, it’s good to see you.”

  He grins back at me, and the knot in my chest unclenches. “You too. But—” I glance at the curtain and keep my voice low. “Why haven’t you talked to anyone?”

  “Wanted to tell you first. I might need your help.” His grin widens, and his eyes blaze. “Tori, we won.”

  “What?” I shake my head. “What does that mean?”

  “It means the Imperial ministry is ready to make concessions. You have no idea how seriously they’re taking this. I had an audience with the Imperial Chamberlain himself, and the entire Council of State. They agreed that we had legitimate grievances.”

  “So what are they going to do?”

  “Change on the Council, to start with. My father is going to become a member, and several of his allies, all from the liberal wing of the court.”

  “Your … father?” My excitement, which had been starting to build, feels suddenly shaky, as though its foundation had washed out with the tide.

  “I know, I had been dreading meeting with him,” Garo says happily. “Honestly I wondered if he wouldn’t disown me on the spot. But instead he congratulated me, if you can believe that, and said that he was impressed I had the courage to act on my beliefs.”

  “That’s … good.” I shake my head. “But what else did the government agree to?”

  “Amnesty, obviously, for any acts committed during the rebellion. And Kuon Naga agreed to re-examine the draft quotas and keep a sharper eye on enforcement, especially when I told him about the corruption in the Ward Guard.” Garo has a thoughtful expression. “He’s not as terrible as people say, which I suppose makes sense. In his position, you would want to cultivate a reputation for nastiness.”

  “And in exchange for all of this?”

  “We go home. It’s as simple as that.” Garo slaps his fist into his palm. “I told you taking the fight to the upper wards would get results.”

  “I…” My throat seems to be swelling shut. I stand up, breathing hard, and move to the tiny waxed-paper window. It’s cracked open a bit, and the cooler air from outside tastes good.

  I hear Garo moving behind me. After a moment, he puts his hand on my shoulder, tentatively, like a nervous bird.

  “I … talked to my father about … all of this.” He takes a deep breath. “About us. I know you worry about … your background, but he’s a more flexible man than I’d imagined. I really don’t think … I mean, if you’re…” He trails off, awkwardly running one hand through his hair.

  I shake my head, and turn away from the window. Garo’s standing very close, his eyes sharp and intense. He hasn’t shaved, and a thin,
fuzzy beard is sprouting on his chin. His hand is still on my shoulder.

  “What are you talking about?” I say. It comes out as a whisper. My heart is suddenly beating very quickly.

  “You asked me once if I wanted to kiss you,” he says. “Right now I can say that I do. More than anything.” He swallows. “If you haven’t changed your mind.”

  I stare up at him. Now? Somewhere in my mind, I’m laughing in despair. He wants to do this now? But I’m not saying no, not pushing him away, and he’s leaning forward. His lips press against mine, and in spite of everything my mouth opens under his. He pulls me against him, crushing me against his broad chest, one of his hands working into the dense knot of my hair. His silk rasps against my coarser clothing.

  I want to stay there forever, his hot breath tickling my cheek. I want him to touch me, so badly it feels like an ache, and I want to let my fingers play across the muscles of his back.

  But.

  We don’t have time for any of that.

  Because I think something has gone horribly wrong.

  * * *

  “Garo,” I say, when he pulls away to take a breath. “Garo, stop.”

  It takes him a moment to respond, but finally he lets go of me, steps back a pace. He’s breathing hard.

  “Right,” he says. “Of course. Sorry.”

  “It’s not—” I shake my head. “Garo, this isn’t going to work.”

  “You don’t know that,” he says. “If it’s about a dowry—”

  “Not you and me,” I say. “Forget about that for a minute. What you agreed to with the Council, it’s not going to work.”

  “What? Why not?”

  “Because they’re never going to accept it,” I hiss, gesturing at the curtain door. “People are dead, hundreds of people, and for what? So your father can get a promotion?”

  “It’s not about him being my father,” Garo says, defensively. “He’s always been a leader of the liberal faction, ask anyone who watches the court. By putting him on the Council, the Emperor is signaling a major change in policy. It means everything in the long run—”