Siege of Rage and Ruin

by Django Wexler

  Block by block, the prison gets closer. Crossbowmen fire at us from the upper windows of nearby buildings, and Zarun grabs them with Tartak and plucks them out to fall screaming to the street below. An officer on a horse bellows to a crowd of fleeing conscripts, trying to rally a defense, until Jack materializes out of his shadow and slits his throat.

  We turn a corner, and Grayrock is suddenly there, a looming mass of stone that takes up most of a block. Giniva was right about it being a fortress—it’s a single solid building, with one main door and a stable gate around the side, but no other entrances and only slits for windows. The Imperials aren’t even trying to attack it—they’ve settled down for a quick siege, several hundred of them gathered in the streets outside, just waiting.

  Or at least, they were just waiting. Someone must have managed to beat our little army there with a message, because when we arrive whoever’s in command is drawing up his forces for battle. These troops aren’t as scattered as those that have fanned out through the ward, and they line the street in neat ranks, spearmen in front, crossbows behind. Officers on horseback canter back and forth behind the line, swords drawn.

  We’re about a block away. I hesitate, but we can’t wait for long—if the Imperials get too organized, they’ll surrounded us. No way out but through.

  “Zarun! Can you stop crossbow bolts?”

  He grimaces. “Not well. I’ve never been too agile with Tartak.”

  “Clever Jack has an idea!” Jack says, spinning out of Zarun’s shadow. She points to a wagon loaded with barrels, its team long since cut away, sitting abandoned by the side of the street.

  “Right,” Zarun says, with a smile. “That I can handle.”

  He spreads his hands, and pale blue light grips the wagon. It starts to roll, slowly at first but gathering momentum, headed for the Imperial lines.

  No time for much in the way of battle cries. I wave to the mob of rebels behind me—more Red Sashes than Blues now, somehow—and gesture with my blade. “Follow me!”

  Zarun jogs to keep up with the wagon, and I follow. As we get closer, he makes a fist, and the wagon flips up on its side, scattering its barrels. They roll into the Imperial lines like projectiles, causing chaos, while the flat bed screens us. When the crossbowmen open fire, the wagon shudders under the impact of dozens of bolts. Some Imperials aim high, and those on the wings shoot around the barrier, bolts finding men and women in the mass and sending them spinning to the ground.

  It’s not enough to stop us, though. Zarun shoves his palm out, and the pincushioned wagon flies forward, bouncing end over end across the cobbles until it collides with the Imperial line. Soldiers dive aside or are knocked flat, the neat ranks of spearmen breaking up. I lower my head into a sprint, a blade on each arm, and dive into the melee with Zarun at my side.

  Once we’re in close, it’s almost too easy. There’s no shortage of targets, terrified militia scrambling to bring their clumsy weapons to bear. I twist, turn, and dodge, blades crackling and smoking as they slash through flimsy armor and flesh. Stray blows send waves of heat washing across me, drawing bursts of shimmering green energy. A head goes flying, and blood sprays, drops pattering on my face.

  It’s every fight I ever had in the Sixteenth Ward, all rolled into one. The criminals and thugs I exterminated for the organization were never a real threat to me—a few knives and clubs, occasionally a crossbow or a weak Myrkai touch. Since boarding Soliton, I’ve nearly died more times than I can count—against monstrous crabs, Prime’s walking corpses, the Scholar’s angel, or vicious mage-blood fighters like the Butcher. Now I feel like I’ve stepped back in time, to the days when I walked through the street trash like a god, sheathed in Melos armor and invincible.

  It gives me a thrill, I can’t deny it. The rush of power. I’d almost forgotten what it’s like. But something has changed. I see the faces of the people around me, eyes wide with terror under their cheap mass-issue helmets, knuckles white on their cheap mass-issue weapons, and they feel like—people.

  A girl swings at me, desperately, with the butt of her spear. She has a pug nose, red hair, and freckles, evidence of non-Imperial blood. Maybe her mother was from the islands, or her father was a Jyashtani trader. She grew up on a farm, most likely, did chores and tended animals. Has she found a boy or a girl she likes, kissed them, gotten tangled and sweaty in some hayloft?

  And then, one day, someone with an Imperial seal comes to the farm and tell her there’s an emergency levy. They hand her a spear and helmet, take her to the capital, tell her to wait, dig here, march there, line up with the rest. Then there’s me, soaked in blood, glowing green, coruscating sparks arcing off my skin, crackling blades of otherworldly power on my arms. There’s not even room to jab with her spear, so she swings the butt. It glances off my thigh, deflected by my armor, I barely notice as I turn—

  —and this is how her story ends, this girl, this person, with a family and a life and a heart, throat torn out by a sorcerous blade, choking and drowning in her own blood and not even understanding a little bit of what’s happening. One story after another, extinguished, left to litter the streets like garbage.

  The understanding, the strange sense of identification with my enemies, comes and goes in an instant. I pull the blow that’s already headed for the red-haired girl’s throat, cracking her in the face with my elbow instead; her nose breaks with a crunch, and her eyes roll back in her head as she slumps to the cobbles, hidden at once by the press of battle. I stand still for a moment, not sure what comes next. I want to shout, but no one would hear me. And then another militiaman is coming at me with a spear, teeth bared in a snarl, and the moment is gone. My blades once again crackle and spit as they sever flesh and bone.

  I can’t stop. Not now. But Meroe is right. I’ve changed—she’s changed me. Even if the Sixteenth Ward hadn’t burned, I could never have gone home again.

  I’m not sure if it’s a comforting thought or a terrifying one.

  The militia breaks, in spite of having twice our numbers. Their officers are dead, cut down by a slim girl who laughs as she dances in and out of the shadows, and nothing they have can stand up to the pair of Melos adepts who chop through everyone their weapons reach with horrible, effortless ease. Within a few minutes of the first blows, the Imperials are scattering, dropping their weapons and running, and in a few minutes more the street is empty except for us, the wounded, and the dead.

  I resist the urge to try to find the red-haired girl. She matters no more and no less than any of the others sprawled in the dirt or curled around pools of blood. There are plenty of Red Sashes on the ground, too, and quite a few Blues, though the latter don’t scream or whimper.

  A small postern beside the prison’s massive main gate swings open, and a squad of a half-dozen Red Sashes emerges, cautiously. I stride over to them, and they flinch from the sight of me. I can only imagine what I look like, scarred and marked and sodden with blood.

  “What’s going on?” one of the rebels manages. “Are we taking the ward back?”

  I shake my head. “The ward’s lost. We don’t have much time before the Imperials regroup. We’re getting everyone back to the inner wall.”

  The man shakes his head. “Ralobi will have to give the order—”

  “Then rotting get her out here,” I growl. “Now.”

  He swallows hard and ducks back inside.

  * * *

  Fortunately Ralobi, when she emerges, turns out to be eminently reasonable. She’s an older woman, heavyset and well-muscled, with the leathery skin of someone who has spent a lifetime laboring in the sun. I’m half-convinced she became an officer by sheer volume—her voice carries from one end of the prison to the other. Red Sashes start spilling out of the building and forming up in the street. We gather our wounded, hastily triaging those who might survive and leaving the rest behind, and start back toward the wall.

  No organized Imperial force tries to stop us. I’m not sure if their commanders have decided it�
�s not worth it, or if there’s still such confusion in the ward that nobody really understands what’s happened. Either way, we retrace our steps and encounter only the occasional band of militia, all of whom flee immediately at the sight of three hundred rebel soldiers moving with purpose. More Red Sashes fall in with us as we go, emerging from hiding places.

  It can’t be more than a fraction of those who were fighting to defend the district. But it’s something, and the cheers and shouts of joy when we reach the gate ring loud in my ears. I wait for the rest to stream through before following, Jack and Zarun still with me.

  Meroe is waiting on the other side with Hasaka, Giniva, and Jakibsa. I ignore the three rebel leaders for the moment, and wait for Meroe to reprimand me for running off on my own again. But she only smiles and kisses me, thoroughly, before slipping away to help deal with the wounded.

  Maybe I’m finally getting the hang of this.

  Reluctantly, I turn to the Red Sashes. Hasaka glares at me, then looks away, flushing.

  “That was an impressive performance,” Giniva says. “I can see why Tori was so interested in getting you on our side.”

  I shrug. “It needed doing.”

  “Rot,” Hasaka mutters to himself, then looks up at me. “You’re right. You saved a lot of lives. I … thank you. I know I haven’t been … that is…”

  “It’s all right. I get it.” I look up at the wall behind us, now thick with rebel soldiers. “Do you think you can hold the inner wall?”

  “Probably,” Hasaka says, his frown returning. He looks at Jakibsa. “But that may not be our biggest problem.”

  “What now?”

  Jakibsa sighs, running his gloved hand through the fringe of hair that hangs over his burned face. “The grain store. The Fourth Ward is the site of the city’s biggest rice and wheat wholesalers, and has most of the storehouses. We relocated as much of the supply as we could when we took the city, but for the most part there wasn’t anywhere else to put it.”

  “So how much did we lose?” Giniva says.

  “A lot,” Jakibsa says. “Everyone’s on half rations, as of now. And even that won’t last. Another couple of weeks, at the outside, and we’ll be down to eating rats.”

  8

  TORI

  The gardens of the Imperial Palace are, of course, the very epitome of the art. As sunlight fades in the western sky and the clouds glow delicate shades of orange and pink, fireflies emerge, hovering over the little stream that wends its careful way through the sculpted grounds. I feel like there’s a pattern to the lights, and it makes me wonder if there’s an Imperial Insect Manager somewhere, painstakingly breeding fireflies in different colors and training them to blink in unison.

  Garo walks beside me. Some time ago, he reached out and took my hand in his. His fingers are soft, his palm slightly damp with sweat. He’s nervous; I can tell by the way he won’t stop talking.

  “And then there’s the ministries. The Ministry of Taxation will be abolished, of course.”

  “Of course,” I murmur.

  “Its functions will be taken over by a new Ministry of the Interior, which will also assume the role of the Ministry of Farmland, although my father wants to preserve some of the provincial bureaucracy—”

  It’s been three days. Or possibly four—time got a little hazy when the Immortal drugged me into unconsciousness. In that time, the palace servants have treated me like an honored guest. Meals are delivered to my rooms, arranged—of course—as miniature works of art, on plates hand glazed by masters of the form. More clothes arrived, tailored for me as if by magic, gorgeous silk kizen and casual robes, shoes and slippers and jewels and combs for my hair.

  As dungeons go, it’s certainly a comfortable one.

  And Garo himself has extended every courtesy. He seems oddly unsettled around me, which I attribute to the fact that the last time I saw him I practically pushed him out a window. I haven’t seen much of Lord Marka, thankfully, but every evening after dinner I find Garo outside my room, asking politely if I’d like to walk in the gardens. Today is the first time I’ve said yes, and that’s made him even more flustered. He’s been telling me for an hour about his father’s plans for reforming the government, while I listen with half an ear and stare up at the darkening sky.

  “What’s that?” I say, interrupting a discussion of the expanded role of the Navy in maritime trade management. “The building with the silver roof.”

  It’s just visible over the wall of the garden, catching the vanishing sun and momentarily lighting up in a blaze of gleaming red. Garo follows my pointing finger, and smiles.

  “That’s the Imperial Temple, where the Emperor personally worships with the Grand Supplicator. It’s just behind the Imperial Residence.”

  I try to gauge the distance. It must be at least half a mile away—the palace is huge, with buildings widely spaced across the grounds. The Imperial Residence has to have its own walls and guards. So it’s not like I could just run into the Emperor in, say, a library. Right?

  “Have you ever met him?”

  Garo blinks, confused. “Who?”

  “The Emperor.” I shrug. “It’s just strange to think he’s … right over there, you know. The actual Emperor of the whole Blessed Empire.”

  “It’s easy to forget,” Garo says. “He doesn’t come out much. My father and I were granted an audience when we first arrived, but we didn’t actually meet him. It was all ceremony.”

  “You saw him, though? What does he look like?” By tradition, the Emperors are never depicted during their lifetimes. Cartoonists use a stylized sketch of the Imperial regalia, and in plays he’s always represented as a voice from offstage.

  “Honestly? Just a young man.” Garo shrugs. “A bit older than me, maybe, with a long queue.”

  That does match the boy I’d seen in the library. And probably half the other noble sons. I purse my lips.

  “Something wrong?” Garo says.

  “Just … thinking.” I turn to him. “Are there many nobles staying at the palace?”

  He chuckles. “There aren’t many nobles left in the city. You and your Red Sashes put the fear of the Blessed into them. All the mansions in the First Ward are empty.”

  “But you’re here.”

  “My father … came to terms with Kuon Naga. After the rebels rejected his first offer.” He coughs, uncomfortably. That had been about the time I threw him out the window. “They made an agreement around changes to the government once the rebellion is finished. Reforms. Even Naga realizes things can’t go on as they were before. My father brought us to the palace to show his support.”

  A bold move, I realize. Coming to the palace put Lord Marka in Kuon Naga’s power, when he presumably could have fled to his country estates and the safety of his own retainers. I wonder what Naga promised him.

  “Tori,” Garo says, coming abruptly to a halt. He’s still holding my hand, and his grip pulls me around to face him.

  “Yes?”

  “I know you were … involved in all of this. Deeply involved. But now…” He shook his head. “Being here, in the palace, and being privy to a little bit of what’s gone on between Naga and my father made me realize how naïve some of my ideas were. I don’t think what we fought for was wrong, exactly, but we didn’t do it the right way.”

  The right way. Begging the government for a few scraps of reform. I try to recall the fury I’d felt, back at the beginning. It’s distant now, the fire banked, layered over with everything that had happened since. The things I did.

  “We need to … step back,” Garo says. “Grow up a little. Someday, it will be our turn.”

  “Our turn,” I echo.

  “Right.” Garo takes a deep breath. “You let me kiss you once, Tori. Do you … that is … would you mind terribly if I did it again?”

  It’s my turn to blink, and really focus on him. I’ve been so lost in my own thoughts I haven’t paid enough attention. Now Garo is facing me, standing just a little too clo
se, his eyes boring into mine. The last reds of the sky are behind him, and the soft lights of the fireflies flicker all around us. A stream burbles quietly to itself, but otherwise the great palace is silent.

  And I think, why not?

  “No,” I say, then hurriedly, as his face falls, “I mean, no, I wouldn’t mind.”

  “Ah.” Garo swallows, and grins. “I … thank you.”

  He takes my other hand, and comes forward a step. Our lips brush, gently at first, then more firmly. My lips part under his, and I press closer against him. He’s strong, and warm. My heart beats fast.

  Even monsters can enjoy a kiss. Can’t we?

  “It nearly killed me to leave you behind,” he says, when he pulls away for a moment. His breath is warm against my cheek as he speaks in a whisper. “I imagined … so many terrible things. But you’re safe now. I’ll keep you safe. I promise.”

  * * *

  The next morning, as has become my habit, I return to the library.

  The last two times I came here, the carved reading tables and long, dusty stacks were empty, looking as though they’d been abandoned for centuries. I tried waiting, choosing a book at random to pass the time—a treatise on the animal life of southern Jyashtan which turned out to be fascinating, if not particularly relevant. Today, though, a familiar figure is bent over one of the tables, with a stack of books beside him.

  “Avyntea?” The name sounds strange, as archaic as the rest of the palace. It takes him a moment to respond; he looks around, puzzled, then breaks into a wide smile when he sees me.