Page 53 of City of Stone and Silence

I’m not madly in love with him, I swear. He’s just … nice to look at, and unfailingly polite, and genuinely interested in what I have to tell him. And he seems to believe in doing good, even if his sheltered upbringing has given him a somewhat skewed idea how to go about it.

All right, I’ve been having some … inappropriate dreams. And perhaps spending more time in the closet than strictly necessary. (In addition to storing my lower wards clothes, my hidey-hole is a good place to masturbate if you don’t want the maids walking in on you.)

If the Blessed One is watching my thoughts while I pray, I hope he forgives me.

Isoka usually turns up around midday, so I wait patiently through the morning audience. There are a dozen couriers waiting, sent by families of our acquaintance, bearing congratulations and small gifts. The household servants assemble, too, in order of rank, and wish me a prosperous year. Ofalo goes last, bowing his head to the floor in formal obeisance and telling me how honored he is to serve.

I wonder, if I’d been born to this life like Garo, if I’d take all of this seriously. As it is, I know the truth. The servants—even Ofalo—are here because Isoka pays them to be here. They do their jobs, but I don’t fool myself that they love me. I remember too well how loyalty fractures when the money runs out.

Next comes the entertainment. I vaguely recall talking my way out of clowns and ending up with a theater troupe. They’re really quite good, three men and three women taking turns acting, singing, and playing the three-string. Unfortunately, Narago has gotten his hands on their scripts, and so they present A Series of Vignettes to Elucidate Correct Morals for Youth instead of anything actually interesting. The actors give it their all, but smoldering glances between A Young Man and A Young Lady are about as intense as it gets. (And the Lady, of course, ignores the Young Man’s Inappropriate Attentions in favor of the suit of A Gentleman, who courts her in the Proper Manner by first approaching her father for permission, taking her on exciting outings to the temple for extra prayers, and so on.)

I had hoped that Isoka would be there for the show, since then at least we’d be able to laugh about it later, in private. But there’s no sign of her, even though I ask Ofalo to send someone down to the road to see if her carriage is on its way. So I suffer in silence, keeping my snide remarks to myself. When the players are finished, I applaud politely and accept their bows and congratulations.

The kitchen has laid a late lunch of—again at my insistence—dumplings and plum juice, Isoka’s favorites. But she still hasn’t arrived by the time we sit down. I keep glancing at the door, expecting someone to burst in and tell me her carriage has pulled up outside, but word never comes. I tear the dumplings from their skewers and try not to feel ill.

You can’t pace properly in a kizen, but I give it my best shot. Ofalo hovers, offering various amusements—books, games, a trip to the market—and I ignore him. Finally, watching me wear a hole in the floor mats, he heaves a heavy sigh.

“Lady Tori,” he says, his voice quiet so none of the other servants overhear. “You know Lady Isoka has a great many concerns.”

He doesn’t know the half of it. As far as Ofalo is aware, Isoka is some kind of rich merchant. I reach the wall and turn, slippers shuffling.

“I’m certain she has some pressing matter to attend to,” he says. “She will be here by and by, or perhaps tomorrow.”

“She never misses my birthday.” I hate the way my voice sounds, weak and trembling. “She promised me she wouldn’t.”

“I know,” Ofalo says. He sounds genuinely pained. “But the world sometimes conspires to make us break our promises, even to people we love.”

He doesn’t understand. How can he? He thinks I’m a spoiled little girl, angry that her sister has better things to do than come to her birthday party.

I’m not angry. I’m terrified.

There’s no chance Isoka just has something better to do. If she’s not here, it’s because something has happened. Ofalo thinks she’s stuck in a meeting or dealing with paperwork or something trivial, but he doesn’t know the nature of Isoka’s job. My sister would never admit it, but a great deal more can go wrong in a ward boss’ life than a missing shipment of tea.

Isoka is a Melos adept, I tell myself. She can take care of herself. She’s probably not bleeding out in some trash-strewn alley after a knife fight. It’s more likely she’d decorate the alley with pieces of anyone who tried to stop her. But—

But there are still things that can go wrong. There are other mage-bloods in the underworld. There are ambushes, or poisons. And worst of all, there are the Immortals, and the Emperor’s vengeance for the crime of being born an adept but not a noble.

By dinner, Ofalo has stopped pretending Isoka’s arrival is imminent. There’s a great feast, with more prayers by Narago, but my stomach is in a roil and I can barely touch the food. For once, when I tell Ofalo I don’t feel well, he doesn’t look doubtful.

“Go to bed, my lady,” he tells me. “I’m sure we’ll have something from Lady Isoka tomorrow. A note, at least.”

I retire to the bedroom, let the maids undress me, and dismiss them for the evening. I don’t, however, get in bed. Something has gone wrong, and tomorrow might be too late.

Garo is waiting for me in the High Market, in front of Kamura’s, a noodle stall we both like. Of late I’ve been walking him to the hospital—just in order to make sure he doesn’t fall afoul of the draft squads. The fact that it gives us a few minutes alone every evening is … a side benefit.

Today he’s prodding his bowl suspiciously with his chopsticks. The top of the soup looks like a frothing, frozen sea, with limp tentacles a few inches long reaching out of it. In spite of the circumstances, I find myself grinning.

“You ordered the sea monster?” Kamura leaves it on the menu with no explanation.

“I was curious.” He pokes one of the tentacles. “And I am not disappointed.”

“It’s egg white. I got him to show me how he makes it. Froth it up, pour it over boiling soup, garnish with squid. Sea monster.”

“Remarkable.” He grabs one of the tentacles, pops it free, and takes a bite, nodding approvingly. Then, looking over at me, he notices I haven’t sat down. “Is something wrong?”

“Yes.” There isn’t time to beat around the bush. “Do you trust me?”

Garo blinks, sets down his chopsticks, and turns to face me. “Of course.”