Page 73 of City of Stone and Silence

“That’s him,” she says, nodding at the judge now offering the winded boy a hand up. “That’s Gragant.”

I realize that, somehow, I’d been expecting someone older, a white-bearded ancient like the monks in dramas back home. But, of course, Gragant had been put aboard Soliton and accepted by its angels not much more than five years ago—by his own personal time, at least—and so he doesn’t look much more than twenty-five. He isn’t as tall or broad as Harak, and his skin is darker, closer to Meroe’s dark brown than Zarun’s copper. But he has the same chiseled look, muscles toned to a fine definition I’m more used to seeing on heroic statues. He has the same blue eyes as Zarun, and a mop of dark, curly hair above a surprisingly open-looking face.

When he sees us, he sets the boy on his feet, pats him on the shoulder, and gives the girl a word of encouragement. Only then does he come over, accepting the deep bow of our guide with a wave. He speaks in Jyashtani, and then, to my relief, in a more understandable pidgin. It’s not quite the same mix I’m used to from Soliton, but it’s got enough Imperial in it that I can understand.

“You must be our new friends,” he says. “Welcome to the Harbor. I am Gragant of the Minders.” He gives a very slight bow.

“Thank you.” I return the bow, to the same degree. “My name is Gelmei Isoka, sometimes called Deepwalker. These are members of our Council, Meroe hait Gevora Nimara and Zarun.”

“Do you require water? Food?”

I shake my head. “Thank you, no.”

“Straight to business, then.” He smiles slightly. “I assume it’s business that has brought you here. You don’t seem like a seeker of truth. Though I would be delighted to be wrong.” He spreads his hands. “The Divine Being is ever welcoming.”

“Business, for now,” I tell him.

“Though I would be interested in hearing more about your theology,” Meroe pipes up, then adds, at a glance from me, “sometime later.”

“Perhaps we should speak privately?” I say.

Gragant laughs. “I have no secrets from my people, I assure you. But if it would make you more comfortable, by all means. Follow me.”

He leads us out of the training chamber and down a narrow hall, accepting a spare robe from an acolyte on the way. I watch him as he shrugs into it, unable to refrain from a little … aesthetic appreciation of the play of muscles in his broad back. But there’s something about him that unnerves me—he’s too confident, moving with the easy grace of someone absolutely sure of his place in the world. Maybe that’s what faith does for you.

We end up in a small chamber with a high, Jyashtani-style table and simple wooden benches. Robed servants bring in jugs of water and clay mugs, then bow and withdraw. Gragant takes a seat, his posture achingly correct, and I settle myself uncomfortably on the too-hard surface. One thing I’ll never understand about Jyashtani—what’s wrong with a nice soft cushion on the floor?

“I’ve taken the liberty of summoning Harak,” Gragant says. “I hope you don’t mind. I often consult him before making decisions.”

“Of course,” I say.

Then, absurdly, I run out of words. This would be the point where I should start negotiating, which is what I actually came here for, but it seems ridiculous to just present my demands like I’m at the corner grocer. Why would he listen?

Fortunately, I brought Meroe, and she smoothly takes over. She says something in Jyashtani, fast enough that I can’t follow it, and Gragant replies, sounding surprised. They share a laugh, and Meroe shifts back to pidgin.

“I’m curious,” she says, “about the exercises you were overseeing back in the hall. I didn’t know Jyashtani monks were so … martial.”

Gragant laughs again, though I fancy there’s a slight edge to his smile. “We are unusual in that respect, I must admit. Our faith instructs us that closeness to the Divine Being comes from perfection of the self, both the body and the spirit. The techniques we teach are for honing oneself to that ideal.”

That explains all the rippling muscles around here. “Do you also use them for self-defense?” I ask, trying to make a contribution.

“If necessary,” Gragant says. His tone is a teacher fondly correcting an errant pupil. “But that is not their purpose.”

I feel myself bristling, and take a deep breath, striving for calm. This kind of self-confidence has always sat poorly with me. For a moment, I’m back with Kuon Naga, his spectacles aglow with lamplight, carefully peeling oranges with his long fingernails as he narrates how my sister will be kidnapped and raped if I refuse him. My throat goes tight, and I grip the edges of the table.

It’s not the same, I tell myself. I fight the urge to get in Gragant’s face, rattle his cage, unsettle him. Focus, Isoka. Follow Meroe’s lead.

The awkward moment is broken by the arrival of Harak. I’d forgotten the sheer size of the man, a head taller than Gragant and equally well-muscled. Gragant gets to his feet to greet him, and I admit to a moment of surprise when they kiss, briefly but passionately. Zarun catches me staring, and shoots me an amused look.

“Welcome,” Harak says, his pidgin more halting and awkward than Gragant’s. “I hope you have come to join our community, as I offered.”

“Not to join, I’m afraid,” Meroe says. “But we were hoping to work with you. Isoka believes we can help each other.”

“Oh?” Gragant says.

“You knew Silvoa,” I say.

He nods. “I did indeed.”