“Anything important happening at headquarters?” I ask one of the others, as we set off back through the Eighth Ward.
There’s a brief pause, as she consults through the weird mental link they share. I’m not expecting much, but she says, “There is a messenger waiting for you.”
My heart jumps, but I try to restrain myself, remembering last time. “A messenger from who?”
“From Kuon Naga. He has refused to say anything more than that.”
Rotting finally. I take a deep breath and look down the empty street.
“All right,” I tell them. “Let’s run.”
* * *
Never bet against a Blue in a footrace, is all I can say. They just keep going, with a mechanical stride impervious to cramps or pain, and I imagine they wouldn’t stop until they literally keeled over.
Did Tori really do this to people? Part of me still refuses to believe it. Maybe she … found them, somehow, and took control?
A light rain has begun by the time I get back, and the crowd in front of the headquarters has thinned, people heading to the ration depots to pick up their pitiful allotments or else going home to hunker down. The Blues clear a path, and I ignore the shouts that follow me up to the gates. The Red Sash woman guarding the door salutes.
“There’s a messenger?” I ask her.
She nods. “He’s upstairs.”
“Take me to him.”
We leave the Blues and hurry up. I take a moment to catch my breath, standing in front of the door to what was once an officer’s bedroom. Okay. Let’s see what Naga has to say. I wish Meroe was here. At the same time, though, I’m glad she’s not—I’ve piled enough on her back. This is my problem, not hers.
I open the door.
The messenger is a young man in an Immortal’s blacks, but with no chain-veil. He’s dark-haired and pleasant-looking, with an aristocratic air, and he gives me a careful appraisal as I enter. I shut the door behind me, after checking to make sure no one is in a position to eavesdrop.
“Gelmei Isoka, I assume?” he says.
I rub the blue mark that runs across my cheek. “It’s hard for me to deny it. You work for Naga?”
“My name is Rakol, and I’m here to speak for Master Naga and the Emperor.”
“Where is my sister?” I try to keep my voice steady.
“She’s safe. At the moment she’s in the company of her companion Master Marka Garo, living as our guest in the palace. She has every comfort, believe me.”
Garo. Giniva gave me a brief summary of his role in the rebellion, and said that he and Tori had been close. Is he the one who led her into all this insanity? The Marka family was powerful enough that even I knew their name, one of the half-dozen noble clans who provide the high bureaucrats who run the Empire.
Naga could be lying about any of this, of course. But it gives me a sliver of hope. Tori’s alive, at least, or he wouldn’t be here trying to bargain.
“All right,” I say. “If that’s true, your master has bought himself a couple of minutes to make his case. I assume you’ve brought some kind of deal?”
“Indeed.” Rakol smiles placidly. “Master Naga abides by his commitments. The arrangement he offers is the same as what you were told at the very beginning. You will deliver the ghost ship Soliton into his control. In return, your sister will be allowed to live unmolested.”
“I want her back.”
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible. But she will continue to live at the palace, under the lightest of house arrests, and in the company of the Marka family. Master Naga notes that in view of her frankly treasonous behavior since your departure, he considers this extremely generous.”
I grit my teeth. “And what fate does your generous master have in mind for me?”
“You will leave Kahnzoka and not return,” Rakol says. “It would be better for everyone, in fact, if you left the Empire entirely. Aside from that, he isn’t concerned.”
“So exile for me, and my sister is a prisoner forever.”
“Tori will be protected forever,” Rakol says. His smile is slick, and I can hear Naga’s voice echoing through his words. “Isn’t that what you wanted for her to begin with? A better life? She’ll have the chance to live in the palace, with the family of a high noble. You couldn’t have done as much for her in a century of slaughtering street thugs.”
I’ve given up being surprised when Naga knows my secrets. I glare at Rakol, and shake my head slowly.
“How could I possibly trust you?”
“That’s one reason Master Naga has allowed Tori to stay with Garo and his family. Lord Marka has considerable influence. If he takes it on himself to defend Tori, she will be safe.”
“From Naga?” I snort. “Don’t expect me to believe that.”
“It would be … more difficult, at least.” Rakol spreads his hands. “And Master Naga has no reason to lie. He cares little about either of you. It’s Soliton that he wants.”
“And the rebels? What happens to the Red Sashes?”
“Not your concern, and it never was. Leave the city, and leave the politics of the Empire to those who understand them.”
His smile is getting on my nerves.
“When does Naga want an answer?”
“Within a day. If I don’t return to the palace by then, there are … other contingencies. I hope I don’t have to spell them out.”
“If anything happens to Tori—”
“You’ll take a terrible revenge on me, I’m sure.” Rakol shrugs. “Hazards of the job.”
I want to spit in his face. Instead I control myself long enough to say, “Stay here, then. I’ll have food brought to you. And an answer, when we’re ready.”
I leave the room, closing the door hard enough that it clatters against the frame. A couple of Blues are waiting for me.
“I want this door guarded,” I tell them. “Nobody speaks to the man inside. Deliver his meals yourselves.”
“Understood,” one of them says, and they take up positions.
However creepy they are, they’re rotting useful. It’s nice to have someone I can count on to do exactly as they’re told.
I return to the chambers Meroe and I have been sharing, chase out the waiting orderly, and start pacing. Naga’s offer is … not completely unexpected, but I still have a hard time parsing my feelings.
What I want, of course, is to tear the rotting bastard into tiny scraps. To charge in, find Tori, kill anyone in my way. But …
The palace. Of course. In addition to being on the other side of the siege lines, the Imperial Palace is naturally one of the most heavily guarded places in the Empire. While they’ve assumed the duties of a secret police, the Immortals were originally constituted as the Emperor’s personal guards. No doubt a healthy contingent still protects the palace along with detachments from the Legions, all soldiers of a different caliber than the poor conscripts we’d cut through in the Fourth Ward. Much as it appeals to me, an assault would be doomed.
Plus, of course, Naga would never let me rescue Tori alive.
The same goes for entering the palace by stealth. Sahzim users make unparalleled watchmen. And sneaking around was never my strong suit.
Which leaves me with … what? Either let Naga torture Tori, or take the deal and hope he keeps up his end of the bargain?
It would mean never seeing Tori again. But that’s the point, isn’t it? Maybe it would be better, in a way. Before all this started, I’d tried to limit how often I visited Tori, knowing every contact put her in danger. I’d never been able to stay away for too long, though. I needed her, needed to see her face to remind myself that everything I was doing down in the Sixteenth Ward was worthwhile. That I wasn’t just a monster.
But things have changed. I have changed. I felt that, in the fight in the Fourth Ward.
Meroe and I could leave. Go beyond the Empire. We probably can’t go back to Nimar, considering her father tried to kill her, but there are other kingdoms in the south.
Or we could visit Jyashtan with Zarun. Either way, we could certainly help ourselves to a fortune from Soliton before leaving.
And Tori would be safe.
I try to make it fit in my head, this vision of Meroe and I just … living. Not fighting for our lives every moment. It reminds me of our trip north, those precious few liminal days between one crisis and the next, when we’d had the chance to breathe. The image is a blur, but a powerfully attractive one. I don’t know what it would be like, but I wouldn’t mind finding out.
And Tori would be safe.
But …
There are a hundred buts. I reach the opposite wall, slap my hand against it for the tenth time, and start back the other way. I’ve been pacing long enough that the sun is setting, the light gray and fading under a layer of clouds. Rain still patters gently against the waxed-paper windows.
A knock at the door.
“I don’t need anything.”
“There’s a report…” someone says, hesitantly.
“Take it to Hasaka,” I snarl. “I’m busy.”
“Miss Meroe requested that it be delivered to you.” This is the flat, affectless voice of one of the Blues.
I stalk back to the door and wrench it open. The Blue, an older woman, stands with their usual calm, beside an obviously agitated boy in a red sash.
“What did she say?”
“She says not to do anything hasty,” the Blue replies.
“What?” I frown. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“It’s the food distribution,” the boy squeaks. “The Returners announced they would be giving away rice at the old Eighth Ward market. But so many people showed up that the square was packed, and then someone started a rumor that there wouldn’t be enough to go around—”
“Oh, Blessed’s rotting arsehole,” I shout, and the boy cringes away. The Blue stares at me, unmoved. “Meroe’s all right?”
“She is unharmed,” the Blue says. “Three of us are with her. But she and the Returners have been trapped in a storefront with Giniva and her guards. Several people have been killed, and the building is surrounded by a crowd.”
“Hasaka says he’s organizing a force to break it up,” the boy says, “but they’re outside headquarters, too, and—”
I ignore him and address the Blue. “Get everyone you can to the outskirts of the mob. Find Zarun and Jack and have them meet me downstairs.”
“Understood,” the Blue says, and her eyes go distant.
“What are you going to do?” the boy says.
I’m trying very hard not to imagine what could happen to Meroe at any moment. “Whatever I rotting need to,” I snarl.
* * *
The mob is, if anything, bigger than the one that had gathered outside rebel headquarters. The shops of the Eighth Ward market, once a mix of cheap food and religious curio-sellers catering to pilgrims, are now shuttered and dark. But the irregular cobbled space between them is packed with people, many of them carrying torches, so it looks like a bobbing sea of lights. The rain has gotten harder, slicking hair and soaking clothes. Here and there, wood-and-paper umbrellas shift about like buoys in a rough storm.
At the periphery, most of those gathered are quiet, or even curious. The more frantic and energetic have pushed their way to the center, where several bonfires are raging, consuming piles of window shutters and furniture. The tightest knot of the crowd surrounds an older stone building, pounding at the door and throwing themselves against the windows. There’s a wagon parked outside, which I guess delivered the first of the food Kosura had shared—its bed is empty now, and the team is gone. Probably butchered for meat.
Behind me are Zarun, Jack, and a squad of thirty or forty Blues. More are converging from across the city, but not enough.
“Is Hasaka sending soldiers?” I ask.
The closest Blue nods. “He says it will take several hours to gather a sufficient force without weakening the defenses on the walls.”
“Then we’re not waiting.” I look at Zarun. “We’re getting Meroe and the others out. Zarun, can you clear a path?”
“I … could.” Zarun looks grim, his hair hanging and sodden, skin slick with rain. “But not gently.”
“I don’t give a rotting toss about gently,” I growl. “Wait for my signal. But if they come at us, break them.”
He nods. I turn to Jack.
“You get to Meroe and stay with her, whatever happens. Even if I get dragged down. Leave me behind. Understand?”
Jack, her purple hair hanging in a fringe in front of her eyes, gives a solemn nod. “Faithful Jack will protect fair Meroe with her life. But she trusts it will not come to that.”
“I don’t rotting trust anything. Not today.” To the Blue, I say, “Have your people stay here and form a line. Watch our way out.”
“Understood,” the soldier says. The closest parts of the crowd shy away as they form up, leveling spears.
I gesture the line to open, and step through. Rain splashes all around me, rivulets running between the cobbles, puddles already forming. I can feel Zarun and Jack at my back, and I face the wall of bodies with a snarl. I draw in a breath and shout.
“Everyone clear a path!”
As I expected, this doesn’t get much response. A few people edge sideways, misliking the look of the Blues, but most aren’t paying attention. The air is full of shouts and the pounding of the rain.
Fair enough.
I ignite my blades with a snap-hiss. They stand out in the gray darkness, two flares of brilliant green, hissing and spitting as I raise them over my head. I shape them, making them longer and narrower, closer to spears than swords. Then I bring them together, one across the other.
There’s a horrible sound, a sorcerous screech like a nail scraping across glass. Energy crackles and arcs, green lightning playing over me and leaping out to ground itself on everything nearby. A wave of heat washes through me, welcome in the wet and the chill. Now everyone is watching, the strobing, coruscating display of sorcery drawing all eyes, and when I separate my blades what follows is as close to silence as I’m going to get.
“Clear a path!” My voice is a hoarse scream. “Now!”
This time, people scramble to obey. But mobs have a mind of their own—or, rather, each individual person can only do so much, hemmed in by the weight of the crowd. The cobbles open up in front of us, but only halfway to the besieged shop, a broad semicircle of clear space. I start forward, blades at my side, trying to look confident.
“Rotting rebel bastards!” someone shouts, safe in the anonymity of the crowd. “We’re rotting starving!”
“We need food, and they don’t care!”
“Naga should hang you all!”
The circle of fear moves with us, the mob opening in front and closing behind. Some of the more excitable people in the crowd try to move closer, coming up on my rear, but Zarun takes position there and ignites his own blades. They fall back again, shouting abuse. A rock strikes my shoulder, making my Melos armor crackle.
Directly in front of the shop, a few people carry swords and spears. They’ve taken them from the bodies that are sprawled in the street around the wagon and the doorway. Most of these have been pummeled so badly they’re nearly unrecognizable, literally beaten to a pulp. There are four soldiers, one wearing a blue sash and three wearing red, and another half-dozen in the gray robes of the Returners. A couple of civilians are dead, too.
The closer we get, the more the mob melts away, but the people at the very front have their blood up. Two men and a woman have been hacking at the shop door with wood axes, reducing it half to splinters. They turn to face us, rain-slick skin gleaming in the flickering green glow.
“You Red Sashes think you own the city,” the woman says, stepping forward. “But we’re the ones who suffer. Now you’ve made a deal with the Returners, and they’re going to feed you while we starve—”
“Get out of my way,” I tell her. “You have to the count of three. One. Two.”
>
“You won’t get away with it!” she screeches. “We won’t let you!”
“Three.”
She plants her feet and hefts her axe. I bring my blades across from both sides, intersecting like scissors. Her head and her axe both fall away, and for a moment a spray of warm blood joins the cold water raining down on us. Her body topples into the street, axe-handle bouncing off the cobbles. I look at the two men behind her.
“Count of three.”
They run for it, joining the mass of the crowd. I step over the body.
And what was her story? I can’t help but wonder. Why did it have to end here and now? But I crush the guilt before it has a chance to flower. She wanted to hurt Meroe. I come face-to-face with the broken door, and let my blades fade away.
“Meroe?” I hope someone inside is watching. “It’s Isoka. We’re getting you out of here.”
The door opens. The shop interior is dark, and in the shadows I only get glimpses of shuffling figures. A couple of dozen in all—three Blues, some Red Sashes, more Returners. Finally, Meroe comes into view, helping a limping Giniva. Meroe’s face is spattered with blood, and her dress is soaked.
“You all right?” I ask her.
“No.” She looks at the woman I beheaded, then at the other bodies. “Not really. But I can walk.”
“What about the rest of you?”
“Giniva’s hurt worst,” Meroe says.
“There’s food in here,” one of the Red Sashes says. “We were unloading it when they came after us.”
“Leave it,” I snap.
“They’ll fight for it,” Meroe says. “Tear each other to pieces—”
“Leave it.” I turn away. “We’re getting out of here.”
We go back the way we came. Jack fades into being at Meroe’s shoulder, and Zarun takes the lead. The crowd still won’t come close enough to risk our blades, but more missiles pelt down on us, rocks and dirt and shit. A cobble narrowly misses Meroe, and I step in front of her. The next one is gripped in a blue aura as Zarun sends it sailing out over the crowd, and we hear a scream.
Siege of Rage and Ruin Page 16
