Page 117 of City of Stone and Silence

“That’s good.” I stand over the table, looking down at the map of the city, now covered in scrawled pencil notes. “We have a lot of work to do.”

22

ISOKA

“Can you show me?” I ask Silvoa.

Her ghost-image looks nervous. “We don’t have much time before—”

“I know,” I say. “Please. I have to see.”

Her expression softens. She reaches out one intangible arm, and passes her fingers in front of my eyes.

In an instant it’s as though I’m standing high on Prime’s ziggurat, among the rattling strings of bones. I know it must be dark, but I can see, trees and stone outlined in Eddica ghost-light. A stream of walking corpses issues forth from the stronghold’s entrance, lurching, dried-out bodies with twiglike limbs and gray, filmy hair. They shuffle down the ramp in a tide, joining the growing swarm at the base.

Beyond them, in a loose line, are the humans of the Harbor.

The three contingents are separate, but side by side. On the right are the Minders, centered on the hulking shape of Harak, with Gragant beside him. With them are a couple of dozen men and women in gray robes, well-muscled from their years of training, now glowing with the colors of their Wells. On the other side of the line, a phalanx of Cresos warriors in wooden armor stand shoulder to shoulder, anonymous behind their carved face masks. I recognize Toranaka’s armor, with a bit of surprise, right in the center. Their retainers hold their flanks, with bows and spears or Myrkai fire.

In the center, of course, are the crew. My crew. Zarun, spitting-green Melos blade already in his hands, anchors the line. To one side are Jack and Thora—Thora must have overcome Meroe’s instructions keeping her in bed. To the other is Aifin, golden light glowing around him, sword in hand. And the others, everyone who was willing. Even the survivors of the first expedition are there, slim, ghostly Bohtal, bald-headed Kotaga, and the others, Blessed knows why. Meroe stands a few paces behind the line, and my throat goes thick at the sight of her. But of course she’s here. Just because she can’t swing a sword or blast an enemy with fire doesn’t mean she’s a fragile bloom like Tori. I learned that when we fell into the Deeps. You’d think I’d remember it better. Catoria is with her, and Shiara.

The dead move forward, driven by a single will. Among the humans, fire blooms in dozens of hands. As the corpses shamble into a run, bolts of Myrkai energy streak out, blossoming into blasts of flame that send broken bodies tumbling. Blue waves of Tartak force slam into the front ranks, pressing them back as more fire engulfs them. Then, as the swifter monsters close, a handful of Melos blades ignite to match Zarun’s.

The vision dissolves, replaced with Silvoa’s translucent face. “He’s here.”

I blink, and realize my hands are clenched tight enough to turn my knuckles white. In my mind’s eye, I can see Meroe’s face, lit by the flickering glow of multi-colored magic as corpses close in.

This was your idea, Isoka, I tell myself sternly. She has her job, and you have yours.

I wonder what Prime is thinking, if he’s more worried about the small army outside his gates than he is about me. That’s the idea, anyway. Keep his attention divided.

The pair of lizard-birds in here with me certainly don’t look distracted. I stand up, stretch, and smile at them.

The doorway explodes.

Rubble showers the room, bits of stone glancing off the bars of my cage, followed by a rolling cloud of dust. An enormous four-legged shape stalks through it, a canine angel, stone-gray mouth open in a silent snarl. The two lizard-birds, shaking grit from their feathers, charge the angel at once, but their long talons only scrape harmlessly across its side. A paw swats one of the things with the force of a falling boulder, and stone jaws close around the other’s head, crushing its avian skull.

“Hello, Hagan,” I say, as the dust starts to settle.

The angel pads closer, and Hagan’s face appears in Eddica ghost-light beside Silvoa’s. “So far, so good,” he says. “Your way in worked nicely.”

“Of course it did.” Silvoa smiles immodestly. “Now get her out of there. We haven’t got long before Prime tracks us down, even if the battle is taking up most of his attention.”

Hagan nods, and his face disappears. The angel throws its weight against the bars of the cage, the same strength the dredwurm used to tunnel through the decks of Soliton. With a screech, the ship-metal gives way, and I step out of my cell, brushing dust off my armor.

The dog-angel retreats through the shattered doorway, and I follow. Silvoa mutters directions, too fast for me to hear, but Hagan understands. The angel lopes forward, taking the first right turn, and I follow into the labyrinth of the ziggurat’s interior. The corridors, thankfully, are large enough for Hagan’s bulky form.

Most of the rooms we pass are as empty as the ziggurat the crew moved into. A few are packed with bodies in various states of decomposition, from skeletons to nearly fresh corpses. Prime must have salted them away over the centuries, saving them for a rainy day. And apparently today counts, because the bodies are starting to rise.

At the next turn, the corridor ahead of us is blocked with them, a solid mass of walking corpses. There are some of the oldest I’ve encountered, sinewy mummies that are little more than bones and gristle.

In all honesty, I’m glad to see them. Somewhere, the others are fighting, and my palms are starting to itch. I want to hurt something.

“You clear a path,” I tell Hagan. “I’ll clean up behind you.”

The dog-angel lowers its head and charges like a bull. I move into its wake, my blades igniting with a snap-hiss, and start taking the ancient dead apart.

I really rotting hope Silvoa knows where she’s going, because I am utterly lost.