Page 85 of City of Stone and Silence

Monster. I take a deep breath. What would a monster do?

“Down with the Immortals!” I shout, as loud as I can. Garo, startled, stops speaking. “Down with the Immortals, down with the draft! Down with the Immortals, down with the draft!”

He blinks, swallows, and raises his voice with mine. “Down with the Immortals and down with the draft!”

I open my Kindre senses, and the tide of emotion floods in. Copper anger, caustic fear, bubbling excitement, all rushing back and forth across the market like waves in a bathtub, feeding on one another. Right now, fear is winning, a chain reaction that might send the mob flying apart. But I spread my will, rippling outward like a stone cast into the tub.

It’s easier than I expected. Easier, even, than twisting the mind of a single individual. The currents of emotion run from person to person even without my help, and all I have to do is ride the wave, suppressing one feeling and strengthening another. I feel giddy, almost drunk, power flooding through me and spreading heat across my skin. Fear withers away, melting like fog in the sun, and I draw in righteous anger to take its place.

The chant spreads, gathering momentum, rolling downhill like a loose boulder.

“Down with the Immortals! Down with the draft!”

“Down with the Immortals! Down with the draft!”

“The Immortals are here!” Garo, whatever his faults as a speaker, can take a hint. “A nest of them, right in the Eleventh Ward! They have prisoners, innocent people from Grandma Tadeka’s hospital!” His voice sounds hoarse, pained, dangerous. “Are we going to leave them in chains?”

“No!” The single word, chorused back from a thousand throats, is accompanied by a burst of emotion so powerful it nearly drowns me. I stagger, and desperately slam my Kindre senses closed. Garo grabs me before I hit the cobblestones, his arm around my shoulder, propping me up.

“Tori? Are you all right?” he says.

“Yes.” I haul myself back to my feet. “You have to lead them. Now.”

“I don’t—I’m not sure I—”

“Garo.”

“Right.” He straightens up. “Lead.” He pulls away from me, raises his hands again. “To Leftmark Road!”

The roar that answers is like the sound of the sea.

By the time the mob reaches Leftmark Road, it feels like half the city is with us.

It can’t be, of course. It can’t even be half of the Eleventh Ward. But the street is packed solid, the crowd spreading out into the alleys on either side. Packs of children follow across the roofs. There are torches everywhere, flaring and smoking, matched by more lights in the windows as we pass by. The chant never stops, like a heartbeat: “Down with the Immortals! Down with the draft!”

Garo and I have managed to secure a place in the front rank. Most of the other would-be leaders have been left behind, but Hotara is still with us, along with Vekata, Giniva, and the others from the sanctuary. Two of these are Tartak talents, and they’ve taken on the task of surreptitiously shoving people away to keep us from getting crushed.

It’s not hard to tell which building is our target. The Immortals have seen the mob coming—how could they not?—and have opted not to hide. The place—an old factory—is set back from the street by the width of a gravel drive, and there’s a line of Ward Guard soldiers stretching from the wall of one neighboring building to another, blocking off the main entrance. Behind them, a few paces back but still in plain view, a dozen Immortals in black armor and chain veils wait in stoic silence.

The Immortals have chosen their position with care. A multi-story tenement rises behind their hideout, and the buildings to either side are solid brick. There’s no easy way in except across that driveway, under the eyes of the guards. Unless—I glance up at the roof, see two pairs of Ward Guard crossbowmen keeping watch, and shake my head.

Garo makes a similar assessment. “This is going to be ugly,” he whispers in my ear.

“Ask for a parley,” I tell him. “They have to know this won’t go well if it comes to a fight. Tell them they can leave as long as they give up their prisoners.”

He nods. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

“Fine. Just a little … overwhelmed.”

In truth, I feel an angry itch all along my back and shoulders. I wonder if it’s the beginnings of powerburn. I’ve never done anything like that before—the memory of it still makes me giddy. I was riding the crowd, letting their emotion carry me along, but guiding it at the same time. I imagine being atop a champion racehorse, a solid mass of muscle and bone carrying you faster than you could ever hope to run, but still responding to the lightest touch on the reins.

The first rank of the mob comes to a halt, a dozen paces from the spear-wielding guards. Garo and I push forward, stepping out in front, with the others from the sanctuary close behind.

“Who’s in charge here?” Garo barks.

The Ward Guard look at one another. There’s a sergeant in the center of the line, but she’s not ready to pretend she’s in command, not with the Immortals standing in plain view. After a strained moment, three of the black-armored figures glide forward, chain veils jingling softly. They pass through the line of soldiers and face us.

One of them, a tall, broad-shouldered woman, squares off against Garo. Her voice is a rasp. “Explain to me why I shouldn’t arrest you.”