City of Stone and Silence

by Django Wexler

  “Okay,” I tell him. “I have an older sister.”

  “Is that the big secret?”

  “Not exactly.” I shake my head. “When we met, you said you could tell that I wasn’t a … a streetwalker, or even from the Eleventh Ward. And it’s mostly true. I live in the Second Ward, but I didn’t start there. My sister Isoka and I grew up in the Sixteenth Ward, on the street.”

  “Fascinating.” Garo strokes his chin. “My father always said that more commoners would rise higher, if they were given a chance. It was one of the views that kept him out of the Council of State. Your parents must be remarkable people.”

  “I never knew my parents,” I tell him. “My mother was dead by the time I was old enough to walk, and Isoka never talked about her. She raised me herself.”

  “Even more remarkable.”

  You don’t know the half of it. I’m walking a fine line here. I trust Garo, mostly, but I haven’t told him I’m a mage-blood, and I’d rather not tell him about Isoka’s powers, either. Not unless I have to. I feel guilty that I can’t confide in him completely, but my harder self—the part that hasn’t changed since the old days—balls up that guilt and tosses it aside. Focus.

  “Isoka works for…” I hesitate again, then take the plunge. “A criminal organization. I’m not supposed to know about it. She’s the boss of the Sixteenth Ward. That’s how she’s been able to afford to keep me away from … all of this.”

  “I see.” He tilts his head. “Now that would make an interesting question for moral philosophers.”

  “I’m not interested in moral philosophy,” I say. “Something’s happened to her. She was supposed to come visit today.”

  “You don’t think she’s just busy?”

  “Not today. It’s my birthday.” I color slightly; making a big deal over birthdays makes me feel like a child. “She always visits.”

  “Congratulations,” he says, automatically. “So. You think something has gone wrong? That she’s in trouble?”

  “I’m sure of it.”

  “All right.” He mulls that as we cross a busy side street, sidestepping a loitering sedan chair. “So how do we find her?”

  I can feel trust pulsing off him, a smell like warm honey, and a rising tang of excitement. Something unknots in my chest, a tension I hadn’t realized I’d been carrying. I’m not certain I can do this without him.

  “I know her boss’ name,” I say. “But not where to find him. I figure we’ll march into the first shady establishment we see and ask for an appointment.”

  “Not exactly subtle,” Garo says, with a raised eyebrow.

  “I don’t have time for subtle,” I tell him. “She might need our help.”

  “Fair enough,” he says. “How do we find a shady establishment?”

  “In the Sixteenth Ward?” I shrug. “Throw a rock.”

  * * *

  The southern, downhill gate from the Eleventh Ward is directly across from one of the Sixteenth Ward’s three northern gates, with a wide military road called the Cross-Harbor running between them perpendicular to the main military highway. The Sixteenth Ward is unusual for a number of reasons, but the most basic is its shape—unlike the other wards, which are rough rectangles, the Sixteenth is a strip, long and thin, stretching along the city’s entire harborfront and inland perhaps a quarter of a mile. The ward wall that separates it from the rest of the city is higher and more heavily guarded than the rest, being an extension of Kahnzoka’s outer defenses. Any attacker sailing into the bay, after fighting past the Imperial Navy and the forts on the headlands, would have to land at the docks and then immediately launch an assault against a fortification nearly as formidable as the landward walls.

  In addition to its defensive function, the ward wall also serves to keep the untidiness of the Sixteenth’s streets away from the rest of Kahnzoka. The city authorities long ago decided that a certain amount of criminal activity is impossible to separate from the normal business of the docks, and gave up trying to do more than keep a lid on things. The Sixteenth’s Ward Guard barely patrols the streets, and never after dark. Bodies are hauled away to the paupers’ cemetery with no fanfare, and other crimes only investigated if the victim has money for bribes. I’m not naïve enough to think there aren’t criminal organizations in the upper wards, but here they work openly, their enforcers—like Isoka—more trusted than any representative of the government. The merchants who load and unload goods here pay protection money to be left in peace.

  At least there aren’t any draft patrols to worry about. With so many foreigners in residence—the Sixteenth is the only ward in which noncitizens are permitted to rent rooms or travel without a special pass—the pickings would be slim. I’m worried about trouble at the gate, but we pass through the Low Market—a rowdier, less organized place than the High, stinking of the fish that’s the main commodity—and join a slow-moving queue. There are a dozen guards, but they only watch to make sure nobody tries to slip back the other way without documentation.

  After the gate in the thin inner wall, we follow the crowd over the Cross-Harbor and through the second gate in the much larger seaward wall. Again, the guards aren’t paying attention to anyone going this direction. The crowd is mostly men, many of them pushing wheelbarrows, porters and vendors returning from their days in the upper wards. A few, better dressed, cluster in small groups, talking and laughing. I assume these are patrons heading for the Sixteenth’s bars and brothels, which are legendary.

  The buildings on the other side of the wall are similar to those that crowd the Eleventh Ward, multi-story tenements with sloping slate roofs and external stairways, but everything is more dilapidated. Great cracks run through the plaster, and whitewash peels off the exterior in strips. Hardly any windows are glassed, and many are covered over with boards or bars. A half-dozen narrow lanes meander into the mess of twisty little streets in no particular pattern.

  Garo stares around, until I grab his arm and pull him after me.

  “Stop looking like a tourist,” I mutter.

  “Sorry.” He lowers his voice. “To be honest, this is more what I expected when I first went to visit the lower wards. Lots of…” He waves a hand vaguely at a nearby gutter, so full of waste it threatens to overflow its banks. “Filth.”

  “This is where I grew up.” I shake my head. “It hasn’t changed.”

  It’s shocking how familiar everything is, actually. It’s been years since I’ve visited the Sixteenth, and yet I can still look down an alley and see the hiding spots, where two buildings don’t quite touch; the places where a skinny girl might squeeze into for the night to get out of the wind; the kitchen doors of restaurants, good for a few minutes warming your hands until the owners chased you away. It’s still late summer, a warm night, but even so I shiver in memory of winters past.

  Garo frowns. “I don’t mean to pry…”

  “You may as well,” I say, leading him down a slender road, buildings packed tightly on either side. More fish smells issue forth from a doorway, while from another I hear the sound of drunken voices raised in song. Real estate this close to the gate is valuable enough that most of the bottom stories are occupied by businesses, and my eyes scan the signs.

  “Why would you and your sister stay here?” Garo says, eyeing a pile of steaming fish guts someone has dumped in the street. Two lean dogs are already fighting over it.

  “Where else were we supposed to go?”

  “Up to the Eleventh Ward? You’re Imperial citizens, aren’t you?”

  I give a hollow laugh. “Sure. Born and bred here in Kahnzoka. Though I couldn’t tell you where our father came from.”

  “So why not?”

  “You need a chit certifying you to get into the other wards, to prove you’re a citizen.”

  He nods. “The Bureau of Migration provides them on request.”

  “Maybe if you live in the First Ward,” I say. “Down here if you don’t want your papers to get lost, you have to pay.” I have a vivi
d memory of Isoka swearing up a streak about some petty extortion, pacing back and forth across our tiny room. “Pay the Bureau man who issues it, pay the Ward Guard who approves it, probably another Ward Guard on the other side.”

  “That’s … not how things are supposed to work.”

  I shrug. “It’s what happens. Besides, we could never afford to live in the Eleventh Ward. Up there if the Ward Guard find you sleeping on the street, they haul you away. Down here, you can usually find a place to lie down, at least.” I wave my hand. “Away from the gates, half the buildings are empty.”

  “Ah.” Garo looks vaguely horrified. I find myself taking a perverse pleasure in shocking him.

  “Staying warm was harder. The winters…” I shiver again. “There were times when Isoka almost turned us over to the slave-brothels just to keep from freezing.”

  “There aren’t slaves in—” At my expression, he stops and shakes his head. “Sorry. I’ll try to be less of a hopeless aristocrat.”

  “It’s all right. It’s a good look for you.” Before he can respond, I find the sign I’m looking for. “Okay. In here.”

  He blinks and looks up at the shop. “‘Assorted Goods’?”

  “It’s a pawnshop.” I take a deep breath. “Let me do the talking.” Not that I’m an expert in talking to criminals, but neither is Garo, and I at least have my Kindre powers to help me.

  “What do I do, then?”

  “Loom protectively? And hopefully keep anyone from putting a knife in my back.”

  “I see.” He rubs his arms, where the Melos gauntlets would appear. “Understood. Lead the way.”

  I push through a curtain of hanging rags into the shop. It’s as dark and dirty as the pawnshops I remember from my childhood, with narrow aisles between dusty wooden shelves crammed with broken things. Anything remotely valuable is up front, where the proprietor can keep an eye on it, so the shelves by the door hold only junk: waterlogged books, broken dolls, soiled clothing, and bloodstained linens. There’s a three-string with only one string remaining, and a lantern with shattered glass.

  Toward the back of the shop, a low table sits in front of a small, banked hearth. An older man, long strings of hair teased out across a balding scalp, rests beside a strongbox and a few shelves of more intact items—clothes, knives, cookware, odd nautical tools. He looks up at us, and his mouth narrows.

  “Buying or selling?” he says.

  “Neither,” I tell him. “I need to meet Borad Thul.”

  He barks a laugh, and his mind rings with honest surprise. I glare at him, and his expression hardens.

  “You’re looking for Thul?” His eyes flick to Garo. “I don’t know what your business is, but trust me, you’d be better off elsewhere.”

  “My business is my business,” I say. “I just need you to tell me where to find him. I can pay.”

  I put my hand in my pocket, where I have my meager savings in a small pouch. When I pull it out, I can feel the pawnbroker’s derision.

  “Thul doesn’t like unexpected visitors,” he says. “He prefers people to come running when he whistles, and not before. And trust me, you don’t want him to call for you.” He shakes his head. “Look, tell me your trouble. Might be we can work something out.”

  I take a deep breath and put my hand in my other pocket, producing a small object. It’s a statue of the Blessed One, which normally adorns the shrine in my room. The little ornament is the size of my fist, and made of solid silver, with gold chasing and tiny diamonds set in the eyes.

  I hesitate for a moment before offering it. Not because I’m sentimental about the thing—it was a gift from Narago, as part of the supplicator’s campaign to make me more pious—but if it gets back to Ofalo that it’s gone, things are going to the Rot. At best, he’ll assume one of the staff stole it. At worst—

  But Isoka needs me. No time for quibbling.

  “Then I’d like to sell this,” I tell the pawnbroker, offering the statue.

  The level of greed that comes off his mind, a bilious, yellow-green fog, nearly makes me sick. It wars with the quivering high note of fear. He peers at the little thing, frowning.

  “Where’d you steal that?” he says.

  “Do you care?”

  “Little girl”—I bristle, but he ignores me—“I care if it means some aristos’ guards are going to break down my door looking for it. Plus a thing like that’s hard to shift. If I melt it down for the metal, it’s only going to be worth—”

  “A visit with Borad Thul,” I interrupt.

  His expression sours. “You have to be joking.”

  “Do you want it or not?”

  “I…” Greed and fear—fear of Thul, fear the whole thing might be a trap—war in his mind. For a moment I feel a hot wind of aggression as he considers simply taking the thing off me. But the fear grows, stronger and louder, and he shakes his head. “Get out of here,” he says. “Go on. I don’t need this kind of trouble.”

  I swallow hard. We can try to find another pawnshop, another of Thul’s minions, or—

  I lean closer to him, and lower my voice to a whisper, too soft for Garo to hear. “Let me tell you something.”

  His eyes narrow, and he leans forward, too. “Listen, girl—”

  “You’re going to take us to Thul,” I whisper. “Now.”

  And I reach into his mind.

  It feels vile, like sticking my hand in an open sewer. The pawnbroker’s thoughts swirl furiously around me. I don’t know what I’m doing, not really, but I reach out to the bilious cloud of greed and pull. It spreads, covering everything else, smothering the fear. I find a wellspring of suspicion, like deep black oil, and stomp down on it, pressing it out of sight.

  My gut heaves, and I clamp down to keep from vomiting. The pawnbroker sits up, and blinks.

  “And you’ll give me the statue?” His mouth crooks in a grin.

  I nod, too uncertain of my voice to speak.

  “Well then,” he drawls, all trace of wariness gone. “Let’s go and talk to the boss, shall we?”

  * * *

  “What did you say to him?” Garo asks, as the pawnbroker—whose name turns out to be Nouya—locks up his shop and leads us outside.

  “Sort of a … password,” I say quietly. “I got it from Isoka, but she told me not to use it unless I really had to.”

  He nods thoughtfully. For the moment, I have my Kindre senses firmly shut down until my guts stop squirming, so I don’t know if he’s convinced. I’m too busy trying to justify what I just did to worry about it.

  I touched Old Sewa’s mind because he was going to hurt someone. And those guards back in the restaurant, when they were about to kill Garo. This is the same, isn’t it? Isoka’s in danger, and I need to help her.

  Besides, it’s not like Nouya will be harmed permanently. I think. I hope.

  Even my excuses ring hollow. It’s wrong, reaching inside someone and twisting their thoughts, violating their self. I try to imagine someone changing me, without my suspecting anything is wrong, and it makes me want to throw up all over again.

  “Tori?” Garo says. “Are you all right?”

  I look up at him, and for a moment I see only a marionette, wooden limbs and a painted face, strings coiling to lead back to my hand.…

  Isoka needs me. I blink, and the vision passes.

  “I’m all right,” I say. “Just a little … nervous.”

  “That’s understandable.” He gives a tentative smile. “For what it’s worth, you were impressive in there.”

  I risk a smile back. “Good to hear, because I’m making this up as I go along.”

  Nouya finishes locking up and beckons. “The boss will be up at the Black Flower by now. Can’t promise you’ll get to see him. I can get you in the door, but you’re on your own from there.”

  “That’s good enough,” I tell him.

  “And then you’ll give me the statue?”

  I nod. He grins, wide and guileless, and beckons again. I fall int
o step beside Garo, my heart hammering.

  The hour is getting later, and the streets are abandoned by the standards of the Eleventh Ward, where things are so crowded it’s never really quiet. Here, as we move away from the gate, it gets very dark and still. A few candles flicker, but always behind curtained windows, and people move about in big, boisterous groups with weapons to hand. In spite of my meddling, Nouya retains enough caution to move quickly and quietly, and we slip through the winding alleys without attracting attention.

  “Just so I know what to expect,” Garo says in a low voice, “do you have a plan?”

  “Not really.” I’m trying to keep my eyes on Nouya and simultaneously look in every direction at once. Each alley entrance seems to hide a dozen menacing shadows. “Find out if Thul knows anything, and go from there.”

  “What if he won’t see us?”

  “He’ll see us.” Whether he wants to or not. I’ve come this far, what’s one more atrocity?

  “All right. What then?”

  “Find Isoka. Help her.”

  “What if—”

  He cuts off as we round a corner and come into view of the Black Flower. Our path has curved around, west and north, until we’ve come up against the wall that marks the boundary of the Sixteenth Ward. The Flower is a huge, ramshackle building that leans against that wall for support like a drunk against a lamppost, slumping back and to one side as though it were moments from collapse. A broad first floor spreads out quite a ways along the wall to either side, while a narrower second story sits directly over the main entrance. Light spills out through an open doorway flanked by armed guards.

  A large, muddy area to our right is devoted to carriages, which seems to be how most people arrive here. Groups of well-dressed men and women are conducted to the entrance by more armed servants, while grooms and footmen bustle about attending to their horses. Garo, looking around, suddenly frowns.