Siege of Rage and Ruin

by Django Wexler

  “No,” I mutter. “That Immortal was strong. An adept for certain.”

  “I need to wash this,” she says. “Do you think you can bear it?”

  I nod. She takes a wet cloth and starts brushing it lightly over my shoulder, which alternately stings and twinges. I feel tears prick my eyes, and wipe them away with my free hand. For some reason they won’t stop.

  “Isoka…” Meroe says.

  “It just hurts,” I say, through clenched teeth.

  “Not that badly.” She cocks her head with a sad smile, and I sigh.

  Meroe pulls my head forward, careful of my shoulder this time, and I press my face into her chest. I feel my shoulders shake, silently.

  “I was so close.” My throat is thick. “I had her in my arms. And I still couldn’t … I couldn’t…”

  “I know.”

  “What rotting good am I, if I can’t keep her safe? What’s the point of … of any of it?”

  “We’ll get her back.”

  “Maybe. Or maybe she’s already dead. Maybe Kuon Naga’s already tearing her fingernails out. Maybe—”

  “Shhh.” Meroe lets out a breath. “You’re right. I can’t make any promises. But let’s think about this for a little while, okay?”

  I don’t answer.

  “They city has been under siege for weeks. We arrive, and the next morning Naga’s Immortals come for Tori.” She pushes my head off her chest and looks down at me with a slight smile. “Does that coincidence seem likely to you?”

  “No.” My voice is barely audible.

  “Which means…?

  “Naga knows we’re here, and that’s why he launched his raid now.”

  “Right.” Meroe’s smile widens. “Because?”

  “Because he still wants Soliton.” I take a deep breath. “Tori is his leverage to get it from me. To keep me from just sailing away.”

  “That was my thought, too. And that probably means Tori is safe, for the moment. If he wants to trade her for Soliton, he’s got to produce her at some point, and not badly damaged, right?”

  “There are still things he could do to her,” I say, anger creeping into my voice. “If he—”

  “She’s alive, Isoka. That’s what matters, because it means that we can still get her back.”

  “Right.” Another deep breath. My chest seems to be opening up. “You’re right. As usual.”

  “Thanks.” Meroe’s smile broadens, and she dips her cloth back in the basin. I reach out and grab her hands for a moment.

  “My strange princess. What did I ever rotting do without you?”

  “Gods only know,” she says. “But I think a more important question is what we’re going to do now.”

  “Find Tori. Get her back.”

  “Obviously.” Meroe returns to cleaning my shoulder, and I wince again. “But finding her isn’t going to be easy. Naga will expect us to come looking.”

  “Let him try to stop me.”

  “You can’t fight the entire Imperial Army, Isoka.” She prods my wound, and I give a squeak of protest. “And that’s what you’re going to have to do if you go off alone.”

  My smile fades. “You still want me to help the rebels, don’t you?”

  “She asked you to. Your sister.”

  “If that message was even from her.” I still hadn’t wrapped my mind around the Blues, who remind me unpleasantly of Prime’s walking corpses.

  “And the rebels want to help her just as much as we do, I think. We stand a much better chance if we work together.”

  “Assuming they want to work with me at all,” I say. “Hasaka didn’t seem too friendly.”

  “We can try, at least,” Meroe says. “If the rebellion falls apart and the Imperials march in, I think we’ll have a much harder time finding Tori. In the worst case, if Naga manages to take you captive, he doesn’t even have to bargain.”

  “He won’t take me captive.” I’d long ago promised myself that I’d force him to kill me, if it came to that. But, my stupid, rotting mind supplies, he could take Meroe away …

  I shake my head, refusing to entertain that thought. Meroe glares at me, and I hastily clear my throat.

  “Even if I help them,” I say, “it’s not going to change anything in the long run. They’re all still rutted when the Legions get here. And if we manage to get Tori away from Naga, she still won’t want to leave, and we’re back to where we started.”

  “One problem at a time,” Meroe says. “I think somebody told me that once.”

  I chuckle weakly. “It’s still impossible.”

  “Getting the crew all the way to the Garden was impossible. We did it anyway.”

  “Not all of them.” I remember that march. The bodies we left behind.

  “Not all of them,” Meroe agrees. “But we saved something.”

  I turn it over for a minute, but it’s just for show. You can’t really argue with Meroe when she’s made up her mind; not because she’s stubborn, but just because she’s always right.

  “I think this will heal clean,” she says, pulling the cloth away from my burn. “I’ll leave it, unless it gets infected.”

  I give an absent nod. Meroe’s control of her Ghul powers has improved considerably, but she’s still very aware that every use is a risk. Those powers have saved my life, more than once; they also turned a friend of mine into a giant explosive tumor. She tries to use them only when it’s life or death.

  “All right,” I tell her, as she starts winding a bandage. “I’ll try and help, if they’ll have me. If we can keep the rebellion going long enough, Naga will make some kind of offer to negotiate. That could be our chance.”

  “I think,” Meroe says with a smile, “it sounds like a very sensible strategy.” And she ties the bandage off, a little tighter than perhaps strictly necessary.

  6

  TORI

  I wake up in perfect darkness.

  My limbs are still numb, but slowly return to life, prickling with invisible pins and needles. I sit up as soon as I’m able to, gasping for breath, exploring the space around me with my hands. It’s stone, cold against my skin, and I can hear the plink of water dripping somewhere nearby.

  A dungeon, I assume. Where else do you throw a captured rebel?

  Reaching out with my mind yields nothing. Kuon Naga has not neglected to provide a Kindre user—maybe the same one, for all I know—to smother my supernatural senses. Whatever else he is, the Emperor’s spymaster is certainly thorough.

  I follow the edges of the space, which is about what I expected—a cell a couple of yards square, ceiling low enough I can brush it with my fingertips. The lack of light is doing strange things to my eyes, and I keep thinking I see flickers of color.

  Now what? They’ll have to give me food and water eventually, unless they just mean to bury me alive. That doesn’t sound like Naga. The Immortal could have killed me and didn’t; therefore, he wants me for something.

  Which maybe means I shouldn’t oblige him. The thought makes my stomach flop, but it’s logical. I remember Kosura, after we retrieved her from the Immortals, the marks they’d left on her. And she’d just been one prisoner among many, not important. Whatever Naga has planned for me, architect of the rebellion, can’t be pleasant.

  Unfortunately, no easy means of suicide presents itself, short of trying to crack my skull against the stone. I don’t think I have the courage to go through with it anyway, even if they’d left me a convenient dagger.

  A coward and a monster.

  I feel … strange. Terrified, of course, but also in an odd way released. Whatever burdens were on my shoulders are gone. When I parse that thought, it brings a dark smile to my face.

  I may be in a cell about to get tortured or worse, but at least I don’t have to tell my sister the truth!

  As my old supplicator would say, the Blessed’s mercies come at unexpected hours.

  Times passes. It’s hard to judge how much, with nothing to go by but my breath and the beating of
my heart. The air in the cell gets warm and thick, and I’m not sure I’m imagining feeling light-headed. Kuon Naga wouldn’t let me suffocate by accident, would he? I’m just contemplating whether to try shouting for help when there’s a grinding sound above me.

  The entire roof of the cell lifts up, a solid stone block suspended with glimmering Tartak force. An Immortal jumps down beside me, armored and veiled. I can’t see her face, but when she speaks I recognize the scarred Melos adept who took me from the rebels.

  “Good men and women accepted their deaths to get you out of there,” she says, in her harsh voice. “Soldiers loyal to the Emperor and the Blessed One. Each of them is worth a thousand of you rotting traitors.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it.” I blink in the light. “Personally, I’d have preferred they not have bothered.”

  “You…” She pauses, breathing hard, the chains of her veil rasping softly. “The only reason you’re not screaming in agony right now is because Master Naga requires you undamaged. For the moment. But by all means, continue joking at my expense, and we’ll see if you have any unfortunate accidents.”

  It hadn’t been a joke, really, but I take the hint and stay quiet. The Immortal pulls a damp cloth from a pouch, and I back up a half step. She sighs.

  “Make things easy on yourself, rotscum. This is the only way you’re getting out of this cell.”

  There’s not much room to retreat in any event. I force myself to hold still as she applies the drugged cloth to my face, the smell of it sharp in my nostrils.

  “My name is Kadi,” she whispers, as my consciousness fades. “When Master Naga is done with you, I’m going to take a personal interest in carving you to pieces as slowly as I know how.” She leans close, chains pressing against my cheek. “Sweet dreams.”

  * * *

  This time, I wake up on a sleeping mat.

  For a few moments, while the pins and needles run through my arms and legs, I wonder if Kadi got the dosage on her drug wrong and killed me after all. It seems like the only explanation for my new surroundings, which have more in common with the supplicators’ descriptions of Heaven than any dungeon I’ve ever heard of.

  The sheets around me are the finest silk, dyed in swirling, expensive patterns, cool against my skin. As my vision clears, I can see the rest of the room, lined with carved hardwood polished to a gleam, the walls plastered and painted with understated murals in an archaic style. A wardrobe and a heavy chest sit against one wall, intricately carved with delicate reliefs, the details picked out in gold. A lamp made of beautiful colored glass hangs from a silver chain, puffing sweetly scented smoke.

  Ultimately, I conclude it can’t be Heaven, because I find myself in urgent need of a toilet. I’m pretty sure the truly righteous, sitting at the side of the Blessed, don’t have to worry about such things. I sit up, still groggy, and try to get enough control of my limbs to go in search of one.

  A door, cunningly disguised as part of the paneling, slides open. There’s a woman behind it, already on her knees, wearing a robe in a delicate blue-and-green pattern like a butterfly’s wings. It’s not quite a kizen, being cut closer to a servant’s looser attire, but it still looks finer than any kizen I’ve ever owned. She carries a basin of water, which she pushes across the threshold, then looks up in alarm as I start struggling to my feet.

  “Hey—” I manage.

  She slides the door shut, and I hear hurried footsteps departing.

  All right, then.

  A quick search of the room reveals no toilet, but an old-fashioned chamber pot tucked into a concealed closet. I use it with relief, then wash my hands in the basin, shaking my head. Everything looks like props out of a historical drama, except I’m pretty sure all the gold is real.

  Where in the Blessed’s name has Naga taken me?

  That I am still in Naga’s clutches, I confirm with a quick test of my Kindre powers. Somewhere nearby, another Kindre user is still pressing down on my mind, locking me in. I don’t push too hard—my head hurts already—but it means that whatever this change of venue portends, I haven’t escaped.

  More footsteps from the corridor outside. I look around, not sure what to do. Unlike the stone cell, there are things in here I might be able to use as a weapon—I could bash someone over the head with the chamber pot—

  The door slides open, and it’s Garo.

  His hair has grown since I saw him last, its curls tamed with oil and neat braids. Instead of the worker’s clothes he wore when we met in the Eleventh Ward, he’s in a loose, double-layered robe, wide-collared and belted at the waist, the classic casual look for an old-fashioned aristocrat. He kicks off a pair of lacquer sandals and rushes into the room before I have a chance to do more than gape, and throws his arms around me in a grip that crushes the air from my lungs.

  “Thank the Blessed,” he mutters, head bent to press against my shoulder. “Oh, thank the Blessed. You’re all right.”

  “I’d be better,” I manage in a strangled voice, “if I could breathe.”

  “Sorry! Sorry.” He pulls away a step, and I can see there are tears in his eyes, cutting through the light dusting of powder on his cheeks. “I just … after everything that happened, I thought…”

  “I can guess,” I say. “But I’m … okay.” I stare at him, wonderingly. “Unless I’m still in a cell somewhere, and this is a dream. Which actually seems pretty likely.”

  “It must be a shock, I know. But I promise it’s not a dream.”

  “Then what is going on? Where am I? How are you here?” My voice is rising, slightly hysterical, and Garo smiles broadly and holds up a hand for patience.

  “It’s all right, Tori. You’re safe, I promise.” He waves at the splendor around us. “This is the Imperial Palace, in the Royal Ward.”

  I goggle. I think I would have been less surprised if he told me we were on the moon.

  “As for how, that’s down to my father.” Garo blushes slightly under his powder. “I told him everything, and I begged him to do whatever he could for you. He prevailed on Kuon Naga to have you brought here after you were captured.”

  That, at least, makes a kind of sense. Garo’s father, Lord Marka, is a powerful man, wealthy and well-connected at court. But powerful enough to tell Naga what to do? It doesn’t strike me as likely. And yet here we are.

  “It’s still house arrest,” Garo says, scratching the back of his head, a bit embarrassed. It’s such a familiar gesture that I melt a little. “You can’t leave, I mean. But it’s better than a dungeon. I was … after the fighting started…” He shakes his head, and his voice is tight. “It’s good to see you, Tori.”

  “It’s good to see you, too,” I say, dazed.

  He grabs my hands and squeezes them.

  “Now that you’re awake,” he says, “we need to go and see my father right away.”

  * * *

  It turns out that this is a bit of an overstatement. One apparently does not just drop in on Lord Marka in sweat-stained work clothes, smelling like unwashed sheets. Garo summons a pair of colorfully robed servants, and they escort me to another room, down an apparently endless corridor.

  The beauty of the palace takes my breath away. I can’t help but compare it to the Black Flower, the den of vice in the Sixteenth Ward. There, the luxury had been exclusively on the surface, gaudy gold leaf and glass gemstones, already peeling to reveal the rot beneath. Here, things are solid, built to last. The palace gives the impression that every piece of it, every floorboard, every wall panel, was all individually installed by some grizzled master craftsman after much careful thought and consultation. The amount of labor lavished on every square yard is staggering, and must have taken generations—it looks archaic because it is.

  The servants take me to a washroom, where an iron-footed tub on four clawed feet is full of water so hot it trails wisps of steam. Another servant waits beside it, with kettles of lukewarm water to cool it to my exact specifications.

  Back in the Third Ward, I’d
eventually been able to chase the servants away and win the right to bathe myself. There seems to be no chance of that here, so I resign myself to company. I strip down and test the water, then slip in, gasping as the heat hits my minor cuts and sores. It makes me dizzy, and for a moment I worry I’m going to pass out—hopefully the palace servants won’t let me drown. They sit with apparently endless patience while I soak, feeling the pain slowly leaching out of my skin.

  This still feels like a dream. Not long ago—I think, though I still have no idea exactly how long it’s been—I was at rebel headquarters, trying to figure out what to say to my sister to get her to understand. Now I’m soaking in a tub at the palace, with most of the in-between spent either unconscious or certain I was about to suffer some dire torture. It would be enough to disorient anyone.

  Part of my mind is screaming that I should make a plan, try to figure out what to do next. Isoka is still out there with the rebels, surrounded by the Imperial Army, starving and threatened on all sides. But there’s nothing I can do for them, not yet, and so I try not to begrudge myself a moment or two to float.

  Anyway, I told them to listen to Isoka. She’ll be a better rebel leader than I ever could, if only she decides to help.

  When the water starts to cool, the servants move in, whisking soap in bowls with horsehair brushes and painting it gently over my skin. Another girl works on my hair, a task which is frankly long overdue, unpicking my braid and giving it a thorough wash. They take turns brushing it out and patting it dry, until it looks almost like it did when I left the Third Ward—a long curtain of silky darkness, only a little frayed from everything I’ve been through.

  Clothes—a kizen, naturally, of fine, cool silk, in a delicate blue-and-white pattern. Powder and jewelry, more than I ever used on my own, but applied with an expert hand. They wheel in a long mirror, and I scarcely recognize myself. Or, rather, I do—I look like the girl I was before, before everything went wrong, before I learned I’m a person who lies and steals and kills.

  If Isoka could see me like this, I can’t help but think, I wonder what she would say?