Siege of Rage and Ruin Page 6

  “He seemed honest,” Meroe says. “But he may have been misinformed.”

  “So you want to head north, then?” Zarun says. “Find Ofalo and get the whole story?”

  “We don’t have the time.” I grit my teeth. “Two weeks to Jinzoka, two weeks back. This rotting rebellion will be dead and buried by then, and if Tori is here, she could easily get killed with it. Not to mention that’s nearly a month for Kuon Naga to figure out we’re back and send the Immortals after us. We have to go inside now.”

  “That’s not going to be easy,” Zarun says. “In or out.”

  “I know. But it’s the best chance we have.” I shake my head. “I can go in alone. This is going to be much more dangerous than we thought—”

  “Isoka,” Meroe says, “please stop being ridiculous.”

  “Agreed,” Jack says. “A few rebels do not frighten the bold conquerors of Prime’s ziggurat.”

  “I always figured this would be a mess,” Zarun says. “Everything seems to be, with you.”

  “Thanks.” I take a deep breath, and try to let some of the tension out with it. My friends. At least something good has come out of all this.

  “Any ideas on how we get past the lines and over the wall?” Meroe says.

  “That shouldn’t be the difficult part.” I glance to the south, toward the ward wall, though from here it’s invisible behind a screen of trees. “It’s the Ward Guard running the show. And if there’s one thing I learned in the Sixteenth, it’s that a Ward Guard officer never met a rotting bribe he didn’t like.”

  * * *

  As the old joke goes: how do you find a corrupt Ward Guard officer?

  First, throw a rock. Second, pay him off so he doesn’t run you in for rock-tossing.

  You might think that being in the middle of an actual siege against rebels would inspire an increased devotion to duty, but you would be wrong. At times like these, all the regular rules and procedures go out the window, which means even more opportunity to line one’s own pocket. Sure enough, at the first section of wall we approach, the Ward Guard officer in charge proves willing to have a quiet conversation about the disposition of our cart full of supplies. With a little bit of Soliton gold in his hand, he readily agrees to slip us past his own sentries.

  “Mind you, I can’t guarantee that it’ll be open,” the man says, blowing at the corners of an enormous mustache. “And dealing with the rebels on the other side is your business. As is getting out again.”

  “Don’t worry about that,” I tell him. “The rebels pay well enough that we can afford it.”

  The officer gives a snort. “Not as though it’s going to matter either way. The Legions will be here before they have the chance to starve.”

  He bids us to wait until nightfall, to reduce the chance of discovery—less because he’s worried about getting in trouble, I gather, than because anyone who stumbles onto us would want a share of the bribe. The four of us pull the cart into a side street, out of sight of the troops camped below the wall, and we wait an hour for the sun to slip below the horizon.

  Zarun is glaring in the direction of the Ward Guard officer and his men, looking disgusted.

  “Is there a problem?” I ask him.

  “Not for us,” he says. “I’m just surprised that a soldier would let us supply his enemies for a pocketful of gold.”

  “Ward Guard aren’t proper soldiers,” I tell him. “They’re just bullies in uniform, and the militia are farmers and tradesmen doing a month’s service.”

  “Everyone seems confident the Legions will deal with the rebels when they arrive,” Meroe says.

  I shrug. “They’ve got good reason. If you’re a commoner born a mage-blood and you’re not taken by a noble family as breeding stock, you probably end up in the Legions. With that much sorcery, they can roll over any non–mage-blood force.”

  She grimaces. “The way you Imperials treat your mage-bloods is…” Meroe glances at me, and trails off.

  “Barbaric?” I supply.

  “I didn’t want to be insulting.”

  “Go ahead. I spent half my life dodging the Immortals because of my Well, and when they caught up with me they threw me on Soliton. I’m not going to defend them.”

  “Jack has a similar tale of woe,” Jack says, which makes me perk up a little. Jack has never shared much about her past. But she only adds, “On the other hand, if not for being exiled to Soliton, there would have been no relationship with the lovely Thora.”

  “What are we going to do when we’re through the lines?” Zarun says.

  “Try not to kill anyone,” I tell him. “Apart from that, I’m going to improvise.”

  Eventually the walrus-faced officer returns and beckons us forward. Meroe drives the cart down a narrow street, running to the base of the wall, while the rest of us walk beside it on foot. A few stakes block the road, but they’ve been pulled aside, and two sentries with torches salute the Ward Guard officer as he waves us through. As easy as that, we’re in no-man’s-land, between the Imperial positions and the rebel-held fortification.

  The gate is a small one, a double door in the base of the wall barely big enough for our cart. Like all the Third Ward’s fortifications, it was designed to keep people out, and the rebels had to hastily fit it with a bar on the other side. I watch the wall overhead for the silhouette of night patrols, but if they’re there they’re keeping out of sight.

  Meroe brings the horses to a halt in the shadow of the wall, and I go to the gate. Not much chance the rebels will open it for the asking, so I ignite my blades, first taking care that the cart is between me and anyone who might see the flare of green. It’s the work of a few seconds to carve through the bar with Melos power, and the gate swings open to a push. Beyond is another side street, leading down into the Eighth Ward, where the buildings are packed tighter but still put up a respectable façade. Shops with glass fronts line both sides of the road, though many are boarded over now. Above them are apartments with darkened windows like empty eye sockets.

  A small barricade has been set up, in case the enemy makes a push through this gate. Crates and furniture block the road, and a voice barks an order. Men and women rise up from behind the obstacle, at least a dozen of them, all with leveled crossbows. More lean out of the doorways of the nearest shops, and there’s a few on the wall behind us.

  All right. So the rebels aren’t completely idiotic. Probably better for us in the long run. I spread my hands, cautiously, and raise my voice. “Who’s in charge here?”

  “That would be me.” A short woman with her hair in a bun walks out from behind the line of crossbowmen, carrying a lantern. She has to be at least fifty. In the light, I can see she—and the rest of them—wear a crimson sash diagonally across their chests. “I have to say, if you lot are spies, chopping through a gate is a really stupid way to try to get through the lines.”

  “Which means we’re probably not rotting spies, right?” I grin, hoping for a laugh, and don’t get one.

  “If you’re not spies,” the woman says, “how’d you get through Imperial lines?”

  “Bribed ’em,” I answer promptly. “You know Ward Guard.”

  “And what’ve you got in the cart?”

  “Food, mostly,” I say. “Originally meant for His Imperial Majesty’s Army, now our gift to the Red Sash rebels.”

  I can see the effect this produces on the faces of the rebel soldiers. There’s a lean, pinched look to them: not starving exactly, but certainly not well fed. The officer with the lantern frowns.

  “That’s awfully generous of you,” she says. “What are we expected to offer in return for this gift?”

  “Nothing,” I say. “Except to let us be on our way.”

  “Which is exactly the sort of thing a spy would say,” she mutters. “You’re not very good at this.”

  “Or I’m just being rotting honest.”

  She beckons two of her men over, and they start a conversation in low tones. I catch the words
, “can’t get much worse,” and “rotting hungry.”

  “Think it’ll work?” Zarun says in a whisper.

  “Probably.” I shift slightly. “If it doesn’t, I’ll take the ones on the left, you take the ones on the right, and do your best to cover Meroe.”

  He grunts acknowledgment. The argument among the rebels reaches some sort of conclusion, and the officer raises her lantern.

  “Well,” she says, “we agree that you’re much too stupid to be spies. So—”

  “What’s happening here?”

  A man’s voice, utterly calm and devoid of emotion. The rebel officer freezes at the sight of three people coming down the street toward the blockade. The soldiers look over their shoulders, and a dark muttering passes among them. I hear the word “Blues,” and several people make quick signs of blessing against evil.

  The trio, once they come into the range of the lantern light, seem ordinary enough. Like the other rebel soldiers, they’re dressed in everyday worker’s clothes, running to ragged. In addition to the red sash, these three wear a blue sash running the other way. What that means, I have no idea, but the officer is instantly deferential.

  “These four came through, sir,” she says. “The one with the tattoos is Melos; she cut through the gate. Say they’ve got food in the cart for the cause.”

  The closest blue-sash looks us over. There’s something strange about his eyes. Not vacant, exactly, but … unconcerned.

  “We will bring them to headquarters for questioning,” he says, in the same monotone. “And the wagon will be taken to our ration depot. Detail four soldiers for an escort, please.”

  “Of course, sir.” The officer points to four of the crossbowmen, who get hurriedly to their feet. “The rest of you, clear a path! We need to get this cart to the depot.”

  “I don’t like this,” Meroe whispers.

  “I’m not rotting crazy about it myself,” I mutter.

  “So we break out,” Zarun says.

  “Jack stands ready,” Jack adds.

  “I think we don’t, for now,” I tell them. “Keep nice and calm.”

  “You’re sure?” Zarun says.

  “They’re taking us to their headquarters, which seems like a good place to ask questions,” I tell him. “If we don’t like the answers, then we can start a fight.”

  * * *

  The rebel headquarters, it turns out, is in the old Ward Guard barracks, at the very far end of the Eighth Ward, which means we have a ways to walk. In spite of the late hour, once we get away from the vicinity of the wall there are signs of life in the streets. All the shops are closed, but there are fires at regular intervals, and small groups huddled around them. Makeshift shelters built of wood and canvas line the road. The sight of our cart draws people’s attention, and they gawk, giving the blue-sashed soldiers a respectful distance. Most watch in silence, but a few call out.

  “Spare something, sir?”

  “My daughter—she’s so hungry, please—”

  “Just a handful—”

  I’m sitting on the box with Meroe again, Jack and Zarun in the back, the blue-sashes and the crossbowmen walking alongside. Meroe’s hand finds mine, and our fingers interlace. I give her a squeeze.

  “They’re starving,” she says, quietly.

  “That’s sort of the point of a siege, yeah.” I look over the sea of hollow faces. “I think these are Sixteenth District people.” My people. “If the whole waterfront burned, and nobody wants to live near the outer walls, that’s a lot of people without roofs.”

  “It’s awful.” She pulls in closer to me. Meroe being Meroe, I know her mind is racing, trying to figure out some way to help.

  I should be thinking about that, too. This is my city, and it’s tearing itself apart. But all I can do is scan the crowds for Tori’s face. Would I even recognize her? It’s only been a few months, but you just have to look at me to see how much a few months can change a person.

  Eventually we reach the square outside the old Ward Guard barracks. A line of Red Sashes are on guard, and I look for Tori there, too, as they stand aside and let us through. The blue-sashed soldiers lead us past more guards at the front door, who stiffen. Zarun eyes the rebel soldiers, catches my gaze, and shrugs.

  I hope we won’t need to fight our way out. But I have to admit it’s comforting having him along, just in case.

  We’re hustled through a confusing warren of passages and stairs into a plain room with a round table. A blue-sashed man has stayed with us, and he asks us to sit and wait. His companions have broken off somewhere along the way, presumably to tell someone important we’re here. So far, so good. At least nobody’s taking us to the dungeon.

  A few minutes later, the door opens, admitting a big, burly man, his long arms heavily tattooed. I recognize a few bits of Ward Guard imagery, but those days are apparently behind him, because he’s wearing a red sash and the other rebels salute as he comes in. He looks down at us, the bags under his narrowed eyes speaking of too many nights without sleep.

  “Who in the Rot are you?” he says. “Thanks for the food, I suppose, but I’m not sure what you thought you were doing. If you haven’t noticed, this is a rotting siege.”

  “We’re aware of that,” I tell him. “I’m here to find my sister. That’s all.”

  “Oh, I see.” He shakes his head and slides into a chair across from us. “I’ve heard that story before. Saving her from the horrors of war, is that it?”

  “Something like that,” I say. “If you can help me find her, then we’ll be on our way.”

  “On your way?” He stares at me incredulously. “You have noticed that we’re surrounded by the Imperial Army?”

  “Let me worry about that,” I say. “Please. This doesn’t have to be difficult.”

  “Even if I was inclined to help, do you know how many people are in hiding, just here in the Eighth Ward? We don’t have the resources—

  “Then just let us search,” I cut in. “That’s all we ask.”

  “And very conveniently give a bunch of potential spies the run of the city.” He scratches his beard. “No, I think not. You’ll spend the night in the cells, and in the morning Tori can have a look at you. She’ll soon find out—”

  “Tori.” I’m on my feet, and the Red Sash guards level their spears. I put one hand on Meroe’s shoulder, ready to shove her behind me, and I sensed Zarun tense. “Where is she?”

  “Tori?” The Red Sash commander stares at me, incredulously. “Tori is your sister? That makes you—”

  “Isoka!” The voice is muffled, outside the room. The blue-sashed guard slides the door open, then steps aside.

  Standing in the doorway, gasping for breath, is my sister.

  4

  TORI

  There’s a long, long silence, broken by the rattle of breath in my lungs. I’d sprinted across the square from my quarters, and a stitch digs painfully into my side. I ignore it, and everything else, my eyes only on her.

  “Hasaka,” I say. “Take everyone downstairs, please, and leave us alone until I call for you.”

  “Are you certain?” His voice seems distant. “She might be dangerous—”

  “Rotting do it, please. Now.”

  Isoka’s eyes go a little wider at hearing such language from me. Of course they do. The Tori she knows wears a kizen and speaks quietly about pleasant things. What is she going to think of me now?

  You know what she’ll think. Monster, monster, monster—

  People shuffle out of the room—Hasaka, the guards, a few others whose presence I hadn’t even registered. The Blue slides the door shut behind them, and I feel the pulse of his mind as he positions himself outside. Then we’re alone.

  “Tori?” Isoka’s voice is hesitant.

  I take one step forward, then another. Then I’m running to her, throwing myself against her, already wracked with sobs.

  Isoka puts her arms around me. I have this dream, some nights, where I see her again. Around this point, s
he usually tells me I’m a monster and kills me, splitting me on her Melos blades or slashing my throat. I don’t know if this is a dream or not, and I don’t care. My heart thumps wildly against my ribs, as though trying to break through them and escape. Isoka’s hands settle on my shuddering shoulders, tentatively, like wild birds.

  I don’t know how long we stay like that, the tears spilling out of me in a great ugly torrent, soaking the front of Isoka’s shirt. She says nothing, just holds me, her chin pressed against my hair.

  By the time I raise my head, I feel empty, wrung out, like laundry put through a mangle. Isoka looks down at me, and there are tears in her eyes, too.

  “I thought you were dead.” My voice sounds strange in my ears.

  “I thought…” Her hand brushes over my face, down through my hair. “A lot of things.”

  “You look … different.”

  That is an understatement. Her hair is shorter, and some kind of tattoo stretches across her face, blue cross-hatches in a wandering line. There’s something in her expression, too, something I can’t quite place.

  “It’s been a long trip,” Isoka says. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here when … all this started. You must have thought I’d abandoned you.”

  “Of course not,” I blurt out. “I thought—I found out what happened. That Kuon Naga took you, and sent you to Soliton.” Never mind exactly how I’d found that out—squeezed out of an Immortal captain, her mind crushed like soft fruit in the grip of my power. “Nobody ever comes back from that. I thought I’d never see you again.”

  “Nothing could stop me from coming back to you.” There’s an odd glitter in Isoka’s eye. “Not if I had to go to the Vile Rot and back. Which, as a matter of fact, I did.”

  “The … the Rot?” I shake my head. “That’s—”

  “Like I said, it’s been a long trip.” Isoka’s features take on a business-like calm. “We can talk about it later. Right now the most important thing is getting you out of here. Will the rebels let you use one of the gates into the Sixteenth District?”