Page 129 of City of Stone and Silence

“He’s dead,” I tell them. “He won’t bother us again.”

The monk breathes out. “Then the Harbor is going to be a different place.”

“Is it?” Catoria says, looking at me.

“I have control of the Harbor system,” I say, getting the drift. “But the only thing I plan to do is start up food and supply deliveries to our ziggurat.”

“Thank the gods,” Zarun says. “I’m not eager to move in here.”

“Beyond that, we’ll have to work out some kind of arrangement to make any decisions that come up,” I say. “A council, I suppose. It worked on Soliton.”

“Hopefully without challenges in the ring, though,” Meroe murmurs.

Gragant and Catoria glance at one another. I clear my throat.

“On that note,” I say, “there’s someone who wants to say hello.”

I send a silent message through the system, and Silvoa emerges from the corridor.

Fashioning a new angel turned out to be surprisingly easy. Silvoa did most of the work, of course, spreading Eddica energy through raw stone, animating it and directing it to shape itself according to her wishes. It still needs work, she says, but for the moment it will serve. It looks just like her ghost-image, an iceling girl about my age, barefoot and dressed in a simple robe. She makes her way over to us, hesitantly, and raises a hand.

“You—” Gragant stares, then shakes his head. “Silvoa is dead.”

“She is.” The angel’s voice is rough, not much like Silvoa’s own. “I am, I mean. But I’m also … not.”

Catoria needs no convincing. She runs forward, as Meroe did, and wraps her arms around the stony figure. Silvoa’s angel rests her hands on the girl’s shoulders, infinitely careful, as Catoria weeps on her carved shoulder.

“I think,” Silvoa says, “we have a lot to talk about.”

“And I think I speak for the rest of us,” Thora booms, “when I say that I need a drink!”

Behind her, the mass of crew—bloodied, wounded, exhausted—raise a raucous cheer.

Meroe lies in our bed, a tangle of limbs and sheets, sweat slowly drying on her brown skin. Her chest rises and falls in the slow, comfortable rhythm of sleep. I lie beside her, still sweaty myself, my body aching pleasantly from her urgent attentions. My thoughts, though, refuse to still.

The Harbor isn’t going to be a return to the grand civilization of the Ancients, like Prime wanted. But it can be something else. A refuge. Most of our crew, like the Cresos and Minders, can’t return to the lands they came from. Wouldn’t want to, in truth, because what would be left for them? Here there’s food and shelter for everyone. Now that I control the angels, the crew can retrieve the goods we left behind on Soliton. They can live here, cast-offs and exiles.

The original inhabitants, brought here by the first Prime Eddicant, ended up killing each other, of course. There’s no guarantee it won’t end that way. But they can try.

I look down at Meroe, let out a breath, and get quietly to my feet.

“Going somewhere?” Meroe says, without opening her eyes.

“Just to wash up,” I say.

“Liar.” She sits up with a yawn. “You’re going to take Soliton back to Kahnzoka and find Tori.”

“I have to.”

“I know.” She crosses her arms. “And for some idiot reason you think you’re going to leave me behind.”

“It’s safe here now,” I say. “Silvoa is running the system. And the crew needs someone to be in charge while I’m gone.”

“I don’t want to be safe, Isoka. I want to be with you. Why is that so hard for you to understand?”

I stare at her, in the semi-darkness, and slowly shake my head. “I don’t know.”

“Well. I’ll punch you as often as needed.”