Page 40 of City of Stone and Silence

“Evening, Tori,” he says. “And who’s this?”

“This is Garo,” I tell him. “Garo, this is Jakibsa. He helps keep track of things up here.”

Garo gives a grave bow. “It’s an honor to meet you.”

“Very polite, this one!” Jakibsa says approvingly. The pen zips to one side, blotting itself on a cloth, and settles down.

“Your control is very impressive,” Garo says. “I don’t know many Tartak users who could do that.”

“Just a matter of practice,” Jakibsa says, but I can tell he’s pleased. He raises one arm, with obvious difficulty, and his gloved hand shakes. “The alternative isn’t pleasant for me, so I learned.”

“He writes satirical plays,” I put in. “They’re quite good.”

“Now you’re just flattering me,” Jakibsa says. “Go on, the grumblers are waiting for their dinner.”

We push the cart past him. Garo says, quietly, “He’s very open with his power.”

“He’s not a part of the sanctuary, actually. He’s got a medical discharge from the Legions, so he’s fully legal.”

Garo nods. “That must be useful for keeping up the front.”

“It can be.”

Grandma had agreed to let Garo in on the secret, and he’d readily sworn the oath as I watched his mind for falsehood. It was a little odd for me, actually—we’d accepted refugees to the mage-blood sanctuary, but he was the first new assistant to be brought into the fold since I arrived. I’m used to being the newest member of the circle.

I hadn’t, of course, let him in on my own power. And for his part Garo hadn’t volunteered anything about his abilities, though as a member of a noble family he’s certainly a mage-blood.

We lapse into silence as we reach the first door. I can feel him watching me. It’s … unnerving, if not entirely unpleasant. I try to ignore the sensation and knock.

This hallway’s residents, the ones Jakibsa calls the grumblers, are mostly old men Grandma’s taken in because they don’t have anywhere else to go. There’s a certain sameness about them—bent-backed, white-haired, with tired, rheumy eyes and liver-spotted skin. I deliver their meals and spend a few minutes with them, listening to their complaints and stories about how much better things used to be, and they pat my hand and tell me I’m a good girl. I try hard to keep my mind closed to their thoughts.

I have a hard time keeping their names straight, if I’m being honest. I feel guilty about that, but there are so many people in the hospital, with new ones arriving all the time.

I wonder if Garo can tell. He watches me with one ancient, a man who’s so thin he looks like his bones would shatter like glass in a sharp breeze. I smile at him, and his face lights up.

“They like you,” Garo says, after we close the door.

“I bring them their dinner,” I say, feeling uncomfortable.

“It’s not just that,” he says, taking hold of the empty cart. “You care about them.”

“I listen to them, at least.” I shrug. “It’s all they really want, someone to listen. It’s easy.”

“It’s more than most people would do,” Garo says. He cocks his head. “You never told me why you came here to begin with.”

“About the same reason you did,” I say, picking my words carefully. He doesn’t know about my real origins, obviously. “I was … reminded how fortunate I am. It could have been me in these beds, easily. Or worse.” So much worse, if not for Isoka.

Isoka hasn’t come to see me lately. I’d expected that, since my birthday is in less than a week, and she always comes on my birthdays. Still, I miss her.

Garo thinks about that as we drop the cart off by the dumbwaiter and trudge back down the outside stairs to the first floor. He pauses on the landing, looking out over the tight-packed tenements of the Eleventh Ward, lit by a thousand lamps and torches.

“Do you think it’s enough?” he says. “What you do here?”

“I warned you, apprentice.” I flash him a smile. “That this wouldn’t be grand or glamorous.”

“I know.” Garo sighs. “But no matter how much we do here, the basic problems won’t go away. Commoner mage-bloods will still be taken away by the Immortals, people will still starve in the winter.” He shakes his head. “The draft checkpoints are only getting worse.”

“We do what we can with what we have,” I tell him. Grandma’s phrase. “That has to be enough.”