Page 7 of City of Stone and Silence

Up and down the length of Soliton’s enormous deck, the angels are stirring.

At some level, I’d always known the angels were—not alive, but capable of action. I’d fought one, after all—two, if you counted the rogue the crew called a dredwurm. When I’d first come aboard, I’d found them deeply unsettling, like sculptures out of a nightmare, animal parts thrown together in illogical ways and mixed with disturbing human touches, faces and hands that seemed to reach out imploringly.

But the dread had faded, over the weeks I’d been aboard. The angels stood along the edges of the deck, as still as if they were statues in fact, and after a while they became just another part of the landscape. Legend among the crew say they’ll hunt down anyone who tries to leave the ship, or attack anyone who tries to get aboard if they were too old or not a mage-blood, but I’d never seen either.

Now, though. Now they’re all moving together, a tide of misshapen, multi-legged forms sweeping up the length of the ship from Stern to Bow. Their heavy footfalls set the metal decks ringing, a constant rumble like endless thunder.

Meroe and I retreat inside, and Thora closes the door behind us, for all the good it will do. We’d held the Garden against a horde of crabs, but angels were another matter entirely; the things were absurdly strong and practically indestructible, their stone-like substance animated by Eddica power. Still, I shout orders as we hurry down the stairs—fighters with me, to the main doors, and non-combatants to stay in place and wait.

I’d hoped the doors would slow them down, but I should have known better. The same guiding intelligence that controls the angels commands the rest of Soliton, and the huge doors at the front of the Garden fold smoothly outward as the horde approaches. We wait on the grass of the Garden’s first level, everyone who can hold a weapon or throw a bolt of flame. Zarun stands beside me, Jack and Thora, mute, deadly Aifin. The angels pause for a moment, and we wait.

One of them comes forward. It has five legs, three on one side and two on the other, giving it a strange, lopsided gait. Its crystal eye glows blue, high on what passes for a head, a lumpy protrusion equipped with three human-looking mouths complete with long, lolling tongues. A small forest of arms reach out, hands twitching and grasping blindly.

I step forward to meet it, not yet igniting my blades. It moves slowly—if it were any other creature, I would have said carefully—stepping lightly enough that it leaves only shallow footprints in the grassy ground. I stop a few feet away from it, and it comes forward another step. Its arms reach out for me, and it takes all the self-control I can muster not to summon my armor. The thin, sickly fingers tug at me, pushing. Up the hill. Deeper into the Garden. Toward the Bow.

I tense, and try to step forward, toward the line of angels. The hands tighten—not to the point of pain, but enough to stop me. I give another tug, and the thing holds me effortlessly in place. It’s like pushing on a marble statue. When I step in the other direction, it lets me go.

Options. We could attack the angels, and they’ll kill us all. No rotting question.

Or … what?

Other angels are moving forward, toward the rest of the fighters. Myrkai fires ignite, and spears are leveled. Time to decide.

“Stop!” I shout. “Everyone stop. I don’t think they want to hurt us.”

A second angel, this one shaped like an upside-down jellyfish on a trio of baby’s legs, nudges a few of the crew in the front rank with its dangling tentacles. It pushes them, not violently, but insistently, toward the Bow.

“What in the hell do they want, then?” Zarun says.

I watch the angels spreading out, pushing, prodding. Gentle, but firm. “They want us out of here.”

It’s a guess, but it turns out to be a good one.

We have time to send runners upstairs, to where Meroe is waiting with the non-combatants. The angels follow our people up, some of the smaller ones making their way up the stairs while others descend from the deck. Our people gather whatever happens to be within reach—clothes, food, water, weapons, and tools. The angels form a cordon, forcing us forward and downward, and they don’t seem inclined to let anyone slip past to grab something they forgot. When I find Meroe, she’s carrying her telescope and several other instruments under one arm and a bundle of clothes in the other, constantly on the verge of dropping one or both. I take the clothes, and she gratefully hugs the delicate gadgets to her chest.

It turns out there’s another door, on the far side of the Garden. It opens, smooth and silent, as the cordon of angels contracts, pushing the entire crew together into a single mass. At Meroe’s suggestion, I take the lead, getting people to start walking ahead of the advancing line to keep anyone from getting crushed or trampled. No one has ever explored on this side of the Garden, but there’s nothing here except a wide corridor, leading straight toward the ship’s Bow.

We pass several hours this way, trudging awkwardly forward, arms full of whatever we managed to grab. Some of the younger crew are crying. When someone trips, the angels stop, waiting patiently for them to rise again. By the time we reach the Bow itself, the sun outside has slipped past the horizon, and the sky visible through the innumerable gaps in the ship’s skin is purple fading to black.

The corridor stops at a broad, flat space. The angels stop, too, blocking the way back, but no longer pushing us forward. The crew mills around, voices rising. I push my way through, glaring at the angels.

“All right, we’re rotting here,” I tell them. “Now what?”

Blue crystal eyes stare back at me. Then, with a groan like a dying whale, the skin of the ship starts to open. A huge flap of bow folds down, turning itself into a ramp. It strikes the dock with a sharp clang, and the groan stops. I take a deep breath—the salt-and-rust smell of the ship is cut by something else, the earthy scent of trees and soil.

The angels shuffle forward. An arm comes down and pushes me, very gently.

Meroe catches my eye, her arms full of telescope. She gives me a brave smile. “I think we get off.”

3

TORI

Kahnzoka rises out of the sea, as Isoka once put it, like the enormous corpse of some great fish washed ashore. That might not be exactly how I would describe it, but the broad shape of the city is something like a fish head, narrowest at the top and widest at the base. The peak, set on the crown of the hill, is the Royal Ward, with the palaces of the First Ward just below it. The Second and Third Wards sit side by side below that, across the military road from one another, and so on as the city approaches the harbor. The farther down the hill you go, the poorer the people are, and the more tightly they’re packed within the constricting ward walls.

This doesn’t mean all the lower wards are the same, though. There are shades to poverty. The Sixteenth Ward, where my sister and I lived before she fought her way out, is unique, a broad strip encompassing the entire shoreline, where all activity is focused on the docks. The constant comings and goings of ships and sailors mean the Ward Guard barely cares about anyone who isn’t actually trying to burn the place down, and what order there is comes from criminal bosses and their enforcers, like my sister.

(She doesn’t think I know about that. I’m glad to keep it that way if it makes her happy.)