City of Stone and Silence

by Django Wexler

  “I don’t think she ever planned to get arrested by Immortals—”

  Jakibsa puts one of his mutilated hands on his lover’s arm. “Hasa,” he says. “She’s right. If they’ve sent the Immortals, they know we’re here. Eventually they’ll find us.”

  Garo nods agreement. Hasaka’s lip twists for a moment, but then he gives a sigh.

  “All right,” he says. “We’ll get everyone ready, and take as much food as we can. Maybe some of Grandma’s friends can help us once the heat comes off.” He turns to one of the waiting men. “Tano, go upstairs and start getting the kids together. Try not to panic anyone.”

  Tano, barely more than a kid himself, gives a nod and hurries upstairs.

  “You’d better go with him,” Hasaka says to me. “People will listen to you. See if you can organize something to help the old men move faster—stretchers or chairs.”

  “I can do that.” Something to do will help keep my mind occupied. The fact that Grandma has been arrested—the polestar of my world, casually removed—still hasn’t settled into my mind, churning as it is with thoughts of Isoka. “What about—”

  My Kindre senses give me a flicker of warning. One moment the tunnel beyond the secret door seems empty. The next there are a dozen minds in there, burnished with determination and the copper tang of violent intent. I shout a warning—

  And the door explodes from its hinges, shattering outward in a blast of wooden fragments. A figure in black armor rolls forward, chain veil jingling. Immediately behind it, an identical shape raises both hands and sprays bolts of flame.

  Everything turns to chaos in an instant. Hasaka, Jakibsa, and I are standing behind the makeshift barricade, and we duck instinctively at the sound. Blasts of Myrkai flame hit the pile of sacks, detonating with a roar and spraying rice everywhere. The rest of Hasaka’s people, spread out around the room, aren’t as lucky. I see a boy barely older than me hit by a bolt that wraps his body in brilliant flames, and he stumbles shrieking toward his attacker. An older woman, leaning against the opposite wall, is blown backward by a blast and left in a tumbled heap.

  After the initial volley, the Immortal who dove forward gestures sharply, and a wall of blue Tartak force springs up, sealing off the tunnel entrance. Hasaka jumps to his feet, fire swelling around his hands, and the other refugees do likewise. Bolts of flame fly back across the room, toward the dark-armored soldiers, but they slam into the blue energy and gutter and die. Immortals are piling into the room behind the shield of force, carrying swords and crossbows.

  More blue energy joins the fray, slamming into the shield with a shower of sparks and a sound like steel on glass. Behind me, Jakibsa grunts, his careful technique abandoned for brute force, tearing at the shield with Tartak power of his own. For a moment the blue curtain parts, and Hasaka triumphantly slams a bolt of fire through, wrapping one Immortal in a shimmering wreath of flame. It vanishes an instant later, though, under the influence of another soldier’s own Myrkai power, leaving the victim smoking but still on his feet.

  “Out!” Hasaka barks. “Everybody out! Jak, get Tori!”

  I shout an objection, but it’s lost in the roar of the mêlée. The Immortals, clear of the confining tunnel, drop their shield of force and attack. Crossbow bolts, aimed by the preternaturally accurate senses of Sahzim talents, zip across the room. Jakibsa picks some of the bolts out of the air, but others find their targets. A girl goes down, clutching at the fletching emerging from her throat. Bolts of fire slam back and forth, bursting and burning.

  An Immortal comes forward, sword in each hand, surrounded by a golden glow and moving so fast she blurs. She’s coming right for me, and I don’t have time to do more than throw up my arms. Then the world around me turns blue, and I’m yanked backward, crashing roughly against a sweating Jakibsa. Garo steps into the sword-wielding Immortal’s path, Melos gauntlets shimmering green on his arms, blocking her strikes with a scream of metal against magic. He slams one gauntlet in her face, hard enough to send her tumbling backward in a jangle of chains, then crosses his arms as a flaming bolt explodes against him, Myrkai energy warring with Melos.

  My Kindre senses are shut down in self-defense, blotting out the pain and death. Stumbling behind Jakibsa, I force them open, trying not to choke in the sudden tide of fear and rage from the fighters, mixed with agony and despair from the dying. I reach out to the Immortals, as I did to the Ward Guard in Nirata’s restaurant, and flatten their thoughts.

  Stop.

  I’m prepared for revulsion, for the sick-making feeling of other people’s minds cracking under the force of my will. What I’m not ready for is nothing. The wave of my Kindre power slides off an invisible barrier, dissipating harmlessly into the miasma of emotions. I try again, pushing as hard as I can, my skin growing feverishly hot as power floods through me. Something—someone—is blocking me, parrying my clumsy thrusts.

  Of course they have a defense. Kindre users are rare, but I can’t be the only one. The Emperor’s personal killers could hardly be left vulnerable to such crude manipulation. Despair wells up, turning my legs to jelly, as Garo backpedals desperately in the face of a fresh assault and Hasaka barely ducks a bolt of flame. Jakibsa duels with one of the enemy Tartak users, force grinding against force, and eventually gets in an unguarded shot that lays the man senseless on the floor. It’s only a small victory, and a moment later he’s forced onto the defensive, blocking another volley of crossbow bolts.

  We’re all going to die. Blessed defend, rot and ruin, we’re all going to rotting die here in the next few seconds—

  The Tori who lives in the Second Ward would have fainted by now. Pampered and protected, shielded from blood and illness and danger, she would lie senseless and helpless, until someone cut her throat.

  Thankfully, I’m more than that. I’m not Isoka—I don’t have her steel, her fire—but I can pretend to be.

  “Back!” My voice sounds like a screech. “Garo, Hasaka, everyone upstairs! Jak, push them back, just for a second!”

  Jakibsa glances at me, sweat already pouring down his face, his ruined hands hanging at his sides as he fights a complex battle with only his mind. But I see him grit his teeth, and blue energy flares, slamming across the room in a solid wave. Broken bits of crate go flying, ricocheting off the shield erected by the Immortal Tartak adepts, then back off Jak’s barrier. Eventually the two collide, and the scraps of wood are pulped between them. For just a moment, the room is split in half.

  In that moment, we flee. Garo stumbles back toward me, and between us we haul the immobile Jakibsa up the stairs. The rest of the defenders follow, leaving the dead and dying behind them. Hasaka comes up last, dragging a sobbing young man by the collar.

  The stairs up from the storeroom pass through a narrow doorway into the kitchens. I pull Jakibsa to one side, catching him as he collapses, his skin already welting into bright red lines. I’ve read about powerburn, the aftereffect of overexertion, though I’ve never seen it. From the heat still rising from my own skin, I may get to experience it firsthand.

  Garo grabs a heavy table and shoves it forward, Melos power amplifying his blows to send the wooden barrier shuddering against the door. Two more defenders put another one in place behind it, just as the first starts to shiver and jump under assault from below.

  “It won’t hold them long,” Garo says.

  “We’re not staying long,” I pant. “Everyone out. We’re going to the safe house.” I turn to Hasaka, who is standing over Jakibsa, speaking quietly. “Can you carry him?”

  He nods. “But not everyone is going to be able to run.”

  I know that, and my heart is already tearing.

  * * *

  In a panic, the sanctuary empties.

  The children go first, in groups of a dozen accompanied by a leader. I wait by the back door, sending each group on its way and telling them where to go. Then the slower groups, the wounded, the old soldiers, splitting up to make their way through the city as best they can.


  A few remain behind, Tartak users to hold the storeroom door, a handful of others to make a last stand. Old Sewa is with them, waiting at attention, Myrkai fire burning on his hands. No trace of confusion in his eyes now. Waves of pure force clash in the doorway, gradually reducing the thick tables to splinters. The Immortals are stronger, better trained, more coordinated. We can’t hold for long.

  Not to mention, there are other ways to get to us. Even if they can’t force the door, surely they’re searching for a way around. It might take them a few minutes to figure out which building houses the sanctuary, but—

  Hasaka stumbles past, with Jakibsa on his back. “Come on,” he tells me. “They’re nearly through!”

  “Where’s Garo?” He’d gone back, to round up the last few stragglers.

  Hasaka shakes his head. I wave him on, and he doesn’t argue, staggering off into the street. A few onlookers have gathered, curious at this sudden exodus. But so far—

  Our luck runs out. A squad of Ward Guard rounds the corner, uniformed and carrying spears. Their officer gestures, and they break into a run.

  Still no Garo. My skin is already hot, but I reach out with Kindre again, sending a wave of power against their minds. I find fear there, suppressed under the discipline of camaraderie and orders, but still present, and I pull it out and bring it to full flower. A river of fear flows down the street, almost visible as a shimmer in the air.

  The soldiers stop in their tracks, spears clattering to the ground. Then they run, consciousness submerging in the torrent of horror. The bystanders join them, my power terrifying and indiscriminate. I don’t know how long they’ll keep running, but for now the street is empty.

  Almost. A lone solder remains, a woman, her eyes wide with terror, but apparently rooted to the spot. I give her another push, power crackling across my skin, leaving welts and burns. With a scream, she runs, but forward, directly toward me.

  Panic, I realize, is unpredictable. She still has her spear, and she lowers it like a lance, aiming directly at me. I back up as far as I can, against the wall of the ruined building, then shift sideways at the last minute as she charges home. It’s not fast enough, and I feel the tug as my sleeve tears. No pain, not yet, just a numb tingle in my arm and the feeling of warm blood running across my skin.

  The spear embeds in the plaster, and the maddened Ward Guard can’t get it loose. I try to slip sideways, and she abandons the weapon, reaching for me with her bare hands, her eyes wild. I grab her right arm, pushing it wide, but my other hand won’t respond. Her fingers curl around my throat, and she pins me against the wall with a yell.

  I’m calm. That’s the strangest thing. I’m calm. I wonder if this is how Isoka feels, when she faces some criminal in a dark alley. Isoka has Melos blades, though, and armor, a supernatural powerhouse few can match. Whereas my power, clumsily applied, has produced this berserker, and I have no weapons but—

  —a dagger, on the woman’s hip.

  I can’t breathe.

  I grab for the dagger with my good hand. It comes free of its sheath, and I nearly fumble it. The guard doesn’t even notice, both hands around my throat now, squeezing hard. She’s still screaming. I scream back, or try to, as I bring the knife up, slashing into her belly. She grunts at the first strike, but her grip doesn’t slacken, so I stab her again and again, until the dagger gets stuck between her ribs.

  I must pass out for a moment, because the next thing I know Garo is rolling the slack corpse off of me. I’m covered in blood, and I don’t know how much of it is my own. My skin is boiling, and the world rolls and shudders around me.

  “Tori!” His voice is distant. “Tori!”

  My eyes close. I really would have liked to kiss him, I reflect, as I sink into darkness.

  14

  ISOKA

  This time, there are only four of us leaving the ziggurat.

  There’s no question of Meroe staying behind, of course. We’re going to talk to the Minders, and I want her at my side for that, just as I’d want Zarun with me in a fight. Besides, if I tried to make her stay, she’d probably just punch me again.

  Zarun himself is coming, too, both to give us a little backup and for his knowledge of the Jyashtani language. And Jack accompanies us as far as the base of the ramp, then steps aside with an elaborate bow.

  “Fare well, bold travelers,” she says. “I hope to see you again ’ere I return.”

  “Good luck,” I tell her. “Be careful.”

  “Clever Jack is always careful. And handsome. And clever.” She grins. “I will find the Lady Shiara and inform her of your plans.”

  “Thank you,” Meroe says.

  Jack bows again, then turns and jogs off around the building. We strike out in the opposite direction, heading for the third of the great ziggurats, the one occupied by the Minder monks.

  I find myself watching the woods with considerably more anxiety than on my first trip, even though it’s early and we’re not going anywhere near Prime’s domain. His monsters don’t usually move about in the day, but that doesn’t mean never. He wants my power, and I don’t intend to give him an easy shot at it.

  Zarun, too, seems jumpy. He argued for bringing more fighters with us, but Meroe and I agreed that it wouldn’t help. If the Minders attack us, a few more crew won’t stop them, and we certainly don’t want to attack them. And, as long as we’re careful, he and I should be able to handle a few walking corpses.

  Meroe, by contrast, looks around with the wide, fascinated eyes of a little girl, staring at every colored bird that breaks through the foliage. She laughs when we run across more monkeys—they have those in Nimar, apparently, but not the long-billed, bright green birds that Zarun says are similar to some he’s seen from southern Jyashtan. Meroe has an eye for flowers, too, which she finds everywhere—on the ground, growing from vines wrapped around trees, hanging from delicate tendrils in midair. I have to pull her onward before she starts investigating.

  “So have you thought about what you’re going to say to them?” Zarun says. “They seemed pretty emphatic about wanting us to join their order if we were going to make an alliance.”

  “I don’t need an alliance,” I tell him. “Just a one-time deal. They’re threatened by Prime and his monsters, too.”

  “Maybe. Harak didn’t seem too concerned.”

  I pause, looking sideways at him. “Can I ask an obvious question?”

  Zarun smiles. “If you don’t mind a condescending answer.”

  “Harak talked about the Divine Being,” I say. “But I always thought the Jyashtani had a whole bunch of gods.”

  That was the general impression on the Kahnzoka docks, anyway—idols with the heads of animals. In the Empire, the worship of gods is considered unbearably primitive, a practice of heretics and barbarians who haven’t yet accepted the teachings of the Blessed One. On Soliton, such matters were mostly not discussed. Zarun had never seemed like a particularly religious person, but you never know what someone does in private, and I was hoping not to offend him.

  For that matter, it occurs to me, I have no idea what Meroe thinks on the subject of the divine, and whether there are gods of Nimar. Not being a particularly dedicated scholar of the Blessed One, it hadn’t occurred to me to raise the subject. Back in Kahnzoka, I’d always stayed as far away from the supplicators as possible.

  “It’s … complicated.” Zarun scratches the back of his head. “Most Jyashtani worship the pantheon as a whole, and a few specific patrons in particular. But some priests talk about how all the gods are different aspects of one overall divinity, which presents different faces at different times. Frankly that’s about when my head starts to hurt, especially since in the stories the gods are always fighting each other, which seems like it would be hard if they were all the same person.”

  “I don’t know about the Minders specifically,” Meroe says, “but the one god or many gods question has been debated in Jyashtani theology for centuries. They’ve fought wars over
it.”

  “Of course you know Jyashtani theology,” I deadpan.

  She puts on a faux-haughty look. “A princess should be able to hold her own in any discussion.” After I dissolve in giggles, while Zarun looks a bit lost, she says, “Honestly, it’s mostly from history books. Different sects are always getting themselves declared heretics by the Grand Temple in Horimae for political reasons.”

  “If the Minders were a group that sought out mage-bloods, the Grand Temple wouldn’t have liked that at all,” Zarun says. “So maybe they packed them all off to Soliton.”

  Before long, we break out of the trees and into the open fields maintained by the Harbor’s angels. They’re a patchwork, some just harvested and plowed, others yellow or green with crops I don’t recognize. The angels move among them, slow and meticulous, multiple limbs carefully sliding along each stalk.

  We give them a wide berth, sticking to the fallow fields, and the angels pay us no attention whatsoever. Still, no one speaks until we’ve left them behind and crossed into another belt of jungle.

  “I keep wondering what happened to them,” Meroe says.

  “Who?” Zarun says.

  “The ancients.” She gestures vaguely at the strange, artificial world around us. “The ones who built this place, built Soliton. They had so much power, but…” She spreads her hand. “Where did they go?”

  “Maybe they wiped themselves out,” Zarun offers. “Like the people of the Rot did.”

  Zarun doesn’t know Meroe is a ghulwitch—at least, I think he doesn’t. I give Meroe an awkward glance, and say, “This place isn’t destroyed, though.”

  “If anything, it’s preserved,” Meroe says, nodding. “We ought to be buried under twenty feet of snow.”

  “Then maybe they left,” Zarun says, clearly impatient with the topic. “Or maybe they just got bored and decided to walk into the sea. Does it matter?”

  It might, I answer him, but silently. Zarun is visibly on edge as we come into sight of the great ziggurat, and not eager to contemplate ancient mysteries. I have the same impulse, but … Understanding what the ancients did, where they’ve gone, may be the only way I get back to Tori. I glance toward the sun, already near its zenith. There’s not much time left.