One more time, I tell myself. I will try one more time.
I do my best to keep my voice calm. “Will you please just listen to me?”
“I’m listening, Isoka,” Hasaka says.
He’s not. We’re in the headquarters conference room, and he’s going over the big map of the city, making notes. Jakibsa, the burned Tartak adept, sits beside him and assists with a floating pencil. If nobody had told me the pair are lovers, I would have guessed it from the way they bicker.
I grab a spare pencil and put a big ugly X on the map, up at the north end of rebel territory, where the wall separates the Third Ward from the Eighth. Jakibsa gives me a questioning glance, and Hasaka just sighs.
“This is where we came through, and we got a good look at the Imperial defenses,” I tell them. “There’s nothing there that would stand up to a real attack. It’s a few Ward Guard officers in charge of conscripted peasants with sharpened sticks, and when they run away I’m not sure which is more likely to be at the front of the pack. I could punch through that rotting line myself.”
“So you’ve mentioned,” Hasaka says. “Several times.”
“Because you don’t seem to be paying attention. I’m telling you there’s enemy territory ripe for the taking. We could push all the way up to the First Ward wall.”
“And then what?” Hasaka’s voice is controlled, but his face makes it clear he’s only barely reining in his temper. I wish he would lose it, shout at me. Then I could shout back. “Say we capture the Second and Third Wards. Now we have a longer circuit of wall to defend, without the benefit of any the preparations we’ve made over the past few weeks.”
“There’ll be supplies there. Food. Maybe hostages.”
“She has a point,” Jakibsa says. “Those are big houses with deep cellars.”
“Enough to matter?” Hasaka says. “For the whole city?”
“Probably not,” Jakibsa concedes. Hasaka turns back to me, as though this proves his point.
“What’s the alternative?” I shoot back at him. “What’s your plan?”
“I’ve already explained it,” he says. “You were here for the meeting.”
I can’t help but snort in disgust. Some plan. The Red Sash commanders filed into the conference room and listened in silence while Hasaka gave them assignments—shore up the wall here, keep an eye on a troop concentration there, move ammunition to one spot and food to another. Then they filed out, muttering to one another, no doubt asking what I was doing there, while I sat by ready to explode.
One more time.
“If not the north,” I say, “then the waterfront. If we can—”
“Isoka,” Hasaka growls. “Please. Leave this to us.”
“Why? Because you’re doing such a good job?” I find myself rising from my chair. “I’m only here because you let my little sister get rotting kidnapped under your nose—”
“Don’t talk to me about Tori,” Hasaka says, standing himself. “You weren’t here. What in the Rot do you know—”
“I think,” Jakibsa says, “that’s about enough.”
“That’s for rotting sure.” I manage to say it under my breath instead of at the top of my lungs, but I can’t help shoving the chair aside with a clatter as I head for the door. Hasaka starts to reply, but Jakibsa cuts him off. I slam the door shut and stalk downstairs, fuming.
Rotting Red Sashes and their rotting stupidity. Guards and civilians alike hurry to get out of my way. I suppose word has gotten around that the beloved leader’s rotscum sister isn’t someone to mess with. Tori, why in the Blessed’s name did you get involved with these idiots?
We’re staying in Tori’s old quarters, a building on the headquarters square given over to her and her Blues. Four of them guard the front door, watching with silent, emotionless stares as I approach. I ignore them, and they don’t even twitch as I wrench the door open.
I can hear quiet conversation as I approach the rooms Meroe and I share. Another Blue steps aside to let me pass, and I find Meroe at the sitting room table with Giniva, going over a closely written report. Meroe takes a look at my face, raises an eyebrow, and gets up.
“I appreciate the information,” she says to Giniva, who also rises. “Let me know if you come up with anything more.”
“I will.” Giniva looks from Meroe to me and back. “Good luck.”
I’m practically shaking with the effort of holding still while Giniva leaves. When she finally shuts the door behind her, I take a deep breath, and Meroe holds up a hand.
“Not too loud, unless you want the rebel spymaster to hear you,” she says. “The walls are thin here.”
“Rutting bloody rotscum,” I rasp, in a stage whisper. “Blessed’s pustulant boils.”
“Meeting went that well, did it?” Meroe says.
“Hasaka is—” I look around, breathing hard. I want to hit something. If we were on Soliton, I’d find the nearest crab, but all that offers itself here is some inoffensive furniture. “He doesn’t understand how unutterably screwed he is, and that means he doesn’t want to do anything about it. And nobody will tell him except for me, so he just thinks—I don’t rotting care what he thinks, but he won’t listen. None of them will.”
“Tori didn’t tell you to take command,” Meroe says, fetching a pot of tea and pouring two cups. “She just asked you to help.”
“I’m trying to help.” I’m pacing again, brushing the walls of the room with my fingertips before turning on my heel. “The longer this goes on, the closer we get to the moment where the Legions show up and squash us like roaches. If this rebellion is going to get anywhere we have to do something, keep pushing on Naga until something breaks.”
“You think attacking is going to convince him to back off?”
“No, I think we’re all rotting doomed,” I snap. “But sitting here behind the walls definitely isn’t going to accomplish anything.”
“Sit,” Meroe says. “Drink tea. Please.”
My face twists into a snarl, but I swallow it and throw myself onto the cushion. Meroe settles down, cupping a steaming mug in her hands.
“Hasaka is … afraid,” she says. “Giniva was telling me about him. He’s been part of this ever since it started, but he never asked to be in charge. Now that he is, I think it terrifies him.”
“It should,” I mutter. “I was rotting terrified of being in charge, too, remember?”
“And did a little bit of sulking as well.” Meroe sips her tea thoughtfully. “Yes, I remember.”
“And then you hit me.” I shake my head. “Somehow I don’t think me slugging Hasaka is going to be helpful.”
“Probably not. But you might try to understand where he’s coming from, at least a little.”
“It’s not that I don’t understand.” I lean back on my elbows, staring at the ceiling. “I get it. Everyone here is in an impossible position. They’ve climbed way out over the cliff and there’s no way back. It’s just a matter of time before the rocks give way, but they’re holding on as hard as they can. I get it. But—”
“But?” Meroe raises an eyebrow again.
“There’s nothing I can rotting do about it.” I let my elbows slide out and end up lying on my back. “I’m trying to come up with something, and I can’t. And every minute in the back of my mind, I’m wondering what Naga’s doing to Tori, whether he’s finally lost patience and he’s going to start sending me her fingers.”
That, of course, is what makes the situation unbearable, what pushes my temper so close to the surface. It’s been three days, and we’ve had no word from Naga and the Immortals, no demand for Soliton or offer to negotiate. Nothing. And with every hour that passes, I imagine—
Well. In certain areas, I have a vivid imagination.
“All I want to do is find her,” I say, closing my eyes. “And I feel like I can’t even try, because I’m too busy patching all the holes in a sinking ship, and nobody else can see that we’re already going down.…”
“That’s probably enough metaphors,” Meroe says, close by. “I get the picture.”
I open my eyes and find her leaning over me, a soft smile on her face. She kisses me, and just for a moment I relax, feeling the muscles in my shoulders unknot.
What did I do to deserve her? Sometimes I really don’t know.
There’s a knock at the door. Meroe sits up, and I roll to my feet with a pang of regret. “Come in.”
A couple of Blues enter, a man and a woman, dressed in simple workers’ clothes, each carrying a sword. The woman’s trousers are too long, I notice, and the cuffs are filthy. She doesn’t appear to be bothered.
“Miss Gelmei,” she says, in the flat tone they all use. “Miss Nimara. Masters Jack and Zarun have returned, and wish to see you.”
“Send them up,” I say.
She nods, and her eyes flicker for a moment. The Blues can talk to each other, instantly and silently. It reminds me of the link between Prime and his minions, and the comparison makes my stomach churn.
“I will escort them up,” the woman says.
“Afterward, have someone do something about your pants,” I tell her. “You’re liable to trip.”
She glances down. “Understood. If you’ll excuse me.”
The man, still silent, slides the door shut behind them. I let out a breath and glance at Meroe, whose brow is creased with a frown.
“Something wrong?” I ask her.
“I still don’t like them,” she says.
“Believe me, I’m not fond of them, either.”
“It has to be Kindre.”
I shrug, uncomfortably. I certainly can’t think of a better explanation, but I know almost nothing about the strange Well of Mind. Supposedly, powerful users are rare, less common even than Ghul adepts, and their abilities are undetectable except to other Kindre users. I’ve also heard that the Immortals search them out almost as assiduously as ghulwitches, for all the obvious reasons.
“In Nimar,” Meroe says, “Kindre users serve in a kind of holy order. They’re required to use their abilities for the benefit of everyone, searching out lies in courts of law and the like. Actually altering someone else’s mind is … an abomination.”
“I assume they don’t get a choice about whether to join.”
Meroe shakes her head, and I force a smile.
“And the same set of rules,” I add, “would condemn you, a Ghul adept, to immediate execution for having the power you’ve used to save my life at least twice.”
“I know,” Meroe says. “And Tori … probably had her reasons. But when I see them, I can’t help but … I don’t know.”
“Tori?” My brow creases.
“The Blues served her, until she ordered them to serve you. And she sent that message. She has to be the Kindre adept, doesn’t she?”
“Tori’s not an adept. She’s not even a mage-blood.”
“She—” Meroe stops. “We can figure that out later, I suppose.”
She turns away, searching for more tea mugs. I’m still lost in thought. Tori couldn’t really be an adept, could she? Even if she’d come into her powers late, I would have noticed something. Besides, why would she hide that from me?
The door slides open again, and Jack and Zarun come in. They’ve changed from their Soliton-made clothes into ordinary Imperial garb, the better to go unnoticed, and both bear the dust of a long day on the streets. Zarun accepts a cup of tea from Meroe with a grunt of thanks, and Jack gives a broad grin.
“Truly,” she says, “you have a grace worthy of a queen. Thirsty Jack offers her thanks.”
“And?” I ask, unable to contain my impatience. “Did you find anything?”
“We made some progress,” Jack says, “but were ultimately stymied.”
“People in this city aren’t exactly eager to chat with strangers right now,” Zarun says. “And even gold isn’t as persuasive as it might be.”
“I suppose there’s not much to spend it on,” Meroe says.
Jack nods, sipping her tea. “We sought out those who’d seen the Immortal’s flight with Tori. They went north, for certain, and we tracked them to a cemetery in the Sixth Ward where they spent the night.”
“They?” I’m trying to keep my voice level. “You’re sure Tori was alive?”
“Certain,” Zarun says quietly. “When we went there we found one of the old crypts opened and cleaned out. It’d make a fine cell to stash somebody for the night. A couple of beggars who live in the alley nearby saw an Immortal heading north again in the morning, carrying something.”
“They passed over the ward wall into the Second Ward,” Jack says. “After that, we couldn’t follow, for which Jack is regretful.”
“But I can’t see them going to this much trouble to extract a body,” Zarun says. “This was a kidnapping. They wanted her alive, and they got her.”
“Yeah,” I mutter. We’d guessed that much, but I try to take comfort in the confirmation. Tori was alive two nights ago. They have no reason not to keep her that way.
Meroe puts a hand on my shoulder, sensing my turmoil. “The question,” she says, “is what Naga is up to. If he intends to use Tori to threaten Isoka, why hasn’t he sent us a message?”
“Maybe he just wants you to stew,” Zarun says. “Or maybe we’re wrong and he doesn’t know you’re here, but he’s got some plan for her as leader of the Red Sashes.”
“No.” I take a deep breath. “Meroe was right the first time. He must know I’m here, or else why attack then? I think leaving me to stew is more likely. The bastard is good at twisting people. It’s just like him to leave me waiting for—”
Another knock at the door. I jump, and Jack and Zarun look at one another. Hesitantly, Meroe says, “Yes?”
“A messenger,” says a Blue’s flat voice.
“From Naga?” I blurt out.
“No,” the Blue says. “From the western defenses. The wall has been breached, and the Fourth Ward is under attack.”
“‘Under attack’” is an understatement. By the time we reach the scene, the Fourth has all but fallen.
From the top of one of the ward wall towers, we have a good view to the west, over the roughly triangular patch of city that makes up the Fourth Ward. It’s a densely packed district, more orderly than the tenements of the Eleventh or the ramshackle slums of the Sixteenth, a neat grid of streets lined with four and five-story timber-and-plaster buildings, broken up by older stone structures. There’s a gentle downward slope toward the outer wall, which sweeps diagonally across the grid from the military highway gate in the north to a junction with the Tenth Ward wall in the south.
Somewhere along that long sweep of wall, something has gone badly wrong. Either a gate was broken or—more likely—opened from the inside. Either way, Imperial troops have flooded through, ascending the walls and taking the surprised defenders from behind. While they worked their way north and south to widen the breach, other columns pushed into the streets, engaging the hastily mobilized Red Sashes in a running fight across the ward.
I can track their progress by the columns of smoke. Thankfully, it rained last night, and most of the city is still too damp to burn, but here and there wisps of gray curl into the sky. The closest are no more than a few blocks from the inner wall.
Our position is getting crowded. Hasaka is here, of course, and Giniva, with me and Jack and Zarun, and a few other Red Sash officers. Meroe split off when we arrived, heading for the makeshift field hospital below the wall. To either side of us, men and women are pouring onto the battlements, armed with spears and crossbows. Hasaka has called out the reserves, obviously, but so far he seems content to watch. A young woman stands beside him with a spyglass, scanning the rooftops of the ward.
“Flags on the roof of the Grayrock, sir!” she says suddenly. “It’s a message!”
I try to follow her line of sight. There’s a huge, squat stone building in the middle distance, close to the center of the ward, and I can just make out a flicker of black-and-white semaphore flags atop it. I can’t follow them, but the girl waits for a moment and says, “It’s Ralobi, sir. He says he’s holding but hard-pressed.”
I glance at Hasaka, who doesn’t seem inclined to explain. Instead I turn to Giniva, who steps closer and speaks in low tones.
“Ralobi is the commander in this sector,” she says. “The Grayrock’s an old prison, built like a fortress.”
The girl has retrieved a pair of semaphore flags of her own, and holds them at her side, waiting for Hasaka’s word. The old Ward Guard looks down at the fighting, mostly invisible in the narrow streets, and shakes his head.
“Ask her how many soldiers she has with her,” he says eventually, “and how long she can hold out.”
The girl wags the flags back and forth. A few moments later, the answer comes.
“A couple of hundred, she says,” the girl repeats. “She says they can hold the prison, but they don’t have any fresh water stored, so they can’t last long.”
Hasaka looks at the prison, and his lip twists. I can already tell what he’s thinking. The soldiers on the walls seem badly shaken, and any attempt to rescue the people trapped in the prison is likely to meet with disaster. If the next wall falls, the Imperials could overrun the whole city before anyone could stop them.
Rot, rot, rot. I suck in a breath. All right. Tori wanted me to help. Maybe I can’t command a rebellion, but this is something I can do. Hasaka is about to speak, but I cut him off.
“I’ll get them out,” I say.
Everyone turns to me. Jack is already grinning broadly.
“We can’t spare the troops,” Hasaka says. “I’m sorry, but a counterattack—”
“I won’t need any support.” Not that I’d counted on him for any. “Jack, Zarun, are you up for this?”
“Dashing Jack is always ready to spring to the aid of those in need,” Jack says, spinning grandly on one foot.
“You know I’m with you,” Zarun says. “Though Meroe might not approve.”
“Meroe wouldn’t want me to leave people to die,” I tell him. Then I turn to the man in the blue sash standing behind me, so quiet everyone has forgotten his presence. “How many Blues can you get here in the next five minutes?”
He pauses only a few seconds. “Sixty-three.”
“That’ll do. Gather them at the gate. Weapons ready.”
“Understood.”
He doesn’t move, but I imagine the orders rippling out through the weird connection the Blues share, men and women suddenly turning and heading in our direction, coming together in a silent mass. Yeah. That definitely creeps me out.
“Isoka—” Hasaka looks at me and shakes his head. “I can’t stop you, can I?”
“Nope. Stay here and hold the wall. I’ll bring those soldiers back.”
I turn on my heel and head for the stairs, with Jack, Zarun, and the Blue following.
“Good luck!” Giniva calls after us, amid the silence.
The gate in the ward wall is still open, manned by nervous Red Sashes ready to swing it closed at the first sign of the enemy. Refugees and wounded stream through, screams and shouts overwhelming the barked orders of the rebel sergeants.
As promised, sixty-three Blues have gathered in the shadow of the gate, ordinary-looking men and women in plain, ragged clothing, each with a sword or spear. I beckon one of them forward, knowing that’s as good as addressing them all, and huddle close with Jack and Zarun.
“Okay,” I tell them. “It’s chaos out there, so we shouldn’t run into any really organized resistance until we get to the prison itself. The most important thing is to keep moving. We’ll meet with this Ralobi and punch through back to the gate.” I look at the Blue. “You all stay together, and focus on keeping our backs clear. Don’t get bogged down, whatever happens. Got it?”
“Understood,” the man says, as unconcerned as if I’d given him a dinner order.
“We’ll clear a path,” I tell Jack and Zarun. “And keep an eye out for Immortals or any other mage-bloods.”
“A fresh hunt,” Jack crows.
“I’m not sure if I’d rather be going after blueshell,” Zarun says. “Crabs don’t call for help.”
“Just follow me and stay close,” I tell them. “Here we go.”
We press forward, breasting the stream of fleeing civilians. They shy out of the way, unsettled by the Blues, and before long we’re into the street on the other side. The columns of smoke are all ahead of us—this area is, for the moment, held by the rebels, but that won’t last. I take a moment to orient myself, pick the street that leads most directly toward the Grayrock, and start jogging.
For a few blocks we don’t see anyone apart from more civilians hurrying in the opposite direction. Then I catch the flash and bang of Myrkai fire from up ahead, mixed with the shouts and screams of combat. I break into a run, Zarun on my left and Jack on my right, the mass of Blues pounding along behind me.
There’s a barricade made of furniture blocking the street ahead of us. Two dozen rebels are fighting hand to hand with twice that many militia, the Red Sashes desperately fending off the Imperials’ attempts to get up and over the obstacle. Five Ward Guard with crossbows bring up the rear of the Imperial assault, led by an officer whose hands glow with flames. As I watch, she hurls another bolt, which explodes at the top of the barricade in a shower of flaming splinters. The rebels duck for cover, and the Imperials surge forward.
“I’ll take the officer,” I bark, without looking back. The barricade is coming up fast, and some of the rebels have noticed us, gawking at this strange force charging to the rescue. I ignore them, too, and jump atop an upside-down couch, leaping from there to a chest of drawers badly scorched by sorcerous flame. Two militia with spears backpedal, not sure what to make of an unarmed girl coming at them full speed.
When I ignite my blades, they get the picture. One of them drops her spear and runs. The other thrusts his weapon at me, a panicked attack I twist away from easily. I hack the shaft in two with one swipe, then take his hand with the next, leaving him howling behind me.
Ahead, the Ward Guard are shouting to one another. Crossbows twang, but none of the bolts come close. I switch one blade to a shield and charge down the other side of the barricade. The Myrkai user unleashes a bolt, which slams into my shield without much effect, and barely has time to snarl an oath before I’m on top of her, gutting her with my blade. She falls away, choking, and I move to the next Ward Guard, cutting him down as he struggles to load his crossbow. Jack appears in front of me, stepping from a shadow to spit another man on her spear.
Behind me, the Blues are cresting the barricade, laying into the shocked militia. Zarun is with them, pulling Imperial troops into the air with Tartak and flinging them aside, like a child playing with dolls. I see one Blue woman take a crossbow bolt to the chest and collapse, but in only a few seconds the militia are running for their lives, scrambling away down side streets.
“Leave them!” I shout. “Keep moving to the prison!”
We run. We should be past the front line, now, but a fight like this doesn’t have a front line, and we keep running into both Red Sashes and Imperial troops. It’s hard to say who’s more surprised to see us. Most of the Imperials take one look and scatter, but a few try to fight, and we cut them to pieces. The rebels mostly flee, too, but some take it into their heads to follow—when I look back, the crowd behind me has grown, Red Sashes mixed in with the Blues. I suppose they think following me is as safe as anything else.
Block by block, the prison gets closer. Crossbowmen fire at us from the upper windows of nearby buildings, and Zarun grabs them with Tartak and plucks them out to fall screaming to the street below. An officer on a horse bellows to a crowd of fleeing conscripts, trying to rally a defense, until Jack materializes out of his shadow and slits his throat.
We turn a corner, and Grayrock is suddenly there, a looming mass of stone that takes up most of a block. Giniva was right about it being a fortress—it’s a single solid building, with one main door and a stable gate around the side, but no other entrances and only slits for windows. The Imperials aren’t even trying to attack it—they’ve settled down for a quick siege, several hundred of them gathered in the streets outside, just waiting.
Or at least, they were just waiting. Someone must have managed to beat our little army there with a message, because when we arrive whoever’s in command is drawing up his forces for battle. These troops aren’t as scattered as those that have fanned out through the ward, and they line the street in neat ranks, spearmen in front, crossbows behind. Officers on horseback canter back and forth behind the line, swords drawn.
We’re about a block away. I hesitate, but we can’t wait for long—if the Imperials get too organized, they’ll surrounded us. No way out but through.
“Zarun! Can you stop crossbow bolts?”
He grimaces. “Not well. I’ve never been too agile with Tartak.”
“Clever Jack has an idea!” Jack says, spinning out of Zarun’s shadow. She points to a wagon loaded with barrels, its team long since cut away, sitting abandoned by the side of the street.
“Right,” Zarun says, with a smile. “That I can handle.”
He spreads his hands, and pale blue light grips the wagon. It starts to roll, slowly at first but gathering momentum, headed for the Imperial lines.
No time for much in the way of battle cries. I wave to the mob of rebels behind me—more Red Sashes than Blues now, somehow—and gesture with my blade. “Follow me!”
Zarun jogs to keep up with the wagon, and I follow. As we get closer, he makes a fist, and the wagon flips up on its side, scattering its barrels. They roll into the Imperial lines like projectiles, causing chaos, while the flat bed screens us. When the crossbowmen open fire, the wagon shudders under the impact of dozens of bolts. Some Imperials aim high, and those on the wings shoot around the barrier, bolts finding men and women in the mass and sending them spinning to the ground.
It’s not enough to stop us, though. Zarun shoves his palm out, and the pincushioned wagon flies forward, bouncing end over end across the cobbles until it collides with the Imperial line. Soldiers dive aside or are knocked flat, the neat ranks of spearmen breaking up. I lower my head into a sprint, a blade on each arm, and dive into the melee with Zarun at my side.
Once we’re in close, it’s almost too easy. There’s no shortage of targets, terrified militia scrambling to bring their clumsy weapons to bear. I twist, turn, and dodge, blades crackling and smoking as they slash through flimsy armor and flesh. Stray blows send waves of heat washing across me, drawing bursts of shimmering green energy. A head goes flying, and blood sprays, drops pattering on my face.
It’s every fight I ever had in the Sixteenth Ward, all rolled into one. The criminals and thugs I exterminated for the organization were never a real threat to me—a few knives and clubs, occasionally a crossbow or a weak Myrkai touch. Since boarding Soliton, I’ve nearly died more times than I can count—against monstrous crabs, Prime’s walking corpses, the Scholar’s angel, or vicious mage-blood fighters like the Butcher. Now I feel like I’ve stepped back in time, to the days when I walked through the street trash like a god, sheathed in Melos armor and invincible.
It gives me a thrill, I can’t deny it. The rush of power. I’d almost forgotten what it’s like. But something has changed. I see the faces of the people around me, eyes wide with terror under their cheap mass-issue helmets, knuckles white on their cheap mass-issue weapons, and they feel like—people.
A girl swings at me, desperately, with the butt of her spear. She has a pug nose, red hair, and freckles, evidence of non-Imperial blood. Maybe her mother was from the islands, or her father was a Jyashtani trader. She grew up on a farm, most likely, did chores and tended animals. Has she found a boy or a girl she likes, kissed them, gotten tangled and sweaty in some hayloft?
And then, one day, someone with an Imperial seal comes to the farm and tell her there’s an emergency levy. They hand her a spear and helmet, take her to the capital, tell her to wait, dig here, march there, line up with the rest. Then there’s me, soaked in blood, glowing green, coruscating sparks arcing off my skin, crackling blades of otherworldly power on my arms. There’s not even room to jab with her spear, so she swings the butt. It glances off my thigh, deflected by my armor, I barely notice as I turn—
—and this is how her story ends, this girl, this person, with a family and a life and a heart, throat torn out by a sorcerous blade, choking and drowning in her own blood and not even understanding a little bit of what’s happening. One story after another, extinguished, left to litter the streets like garbage.
The understanding, the strange sense of identification with my enemies, comes and goes in an instant. I pull the blow that’s already headed for the red-haired girl’s throat, cracking her in the face with my elbow instead; her nose breaks with a crunch, and her eyes roll back in her head as she slumps to the cobbles, hidden at once by the press of battle. I stand still for a moment, not sure what comes next. I want to shout, but no one would hear me. And then another militiaman is coming at me with a spear, teeth bared in a snarl, and the moment is gone. My blades once again crackle and spit as they sever flesh and bone.
I can’t stop. Not now. But Meroe is right. I’ve changed—she’s changed me. Even if the Sixteenth Ward hadn’t burned, I could never have gone home again.
I’m not sure if it’s a comforting thought or a terrifying one.
The militia breaks, in spite of having twice our numbers. Their officers are dead, cut down by a slim girl who laughs as she dances in and out of the shadows, and nothing they have can stand up to the pair of Melos adepts who chop through everyone their weapons reach with horrible, effortless ease. Within a few minutes of the first blows, the Imperials are scattering, dropping their weapons and running, and in a few minutes more the street is empty except for us, the wounded, and the dead.
I resist the urge to try to find the red-haired girl. She matters no more and no less than any of the others sprawled in the dirt or curled around pools of blood. There are plenty of Red Sashes on the ground, too, and quite a few Blues, though the latter don’t scream or whimper.
A small postern beside the prison’s massive main gate swings open, and a squad of a half-dozen Red Sashes emerges, cautiously. I stride over to them, and they flinch from the sight of me. I can only imagine what I look like, scarred and marked and sodden with blood.
“What’s going on?” one of the rebels manages. “Are we taking the ward back?”
I shake my head. “The ward’s lost. We don’t have much time before the Imperials regroup. We’re getting everyone back to the inner wall.”
The man shakes his head. “Ralobi will have to give the order—”
“Then rotting get her out here,” I growl. “Now.”
He swallows hard and ducks back inside.
Fortunately Ralobi, when she emerges, turns out to be eminently reasonable. She’s an older woman, heavyset and well-muscled, with the leathery skin of someone who has spent a lifetime laboring in the sun. I’m half-convinced she became an officer by sheer volume—her voice carries from one end of the prison to the other. Red Sashes start spilling out of the building and forming up in the street. We gather our wounded, hastily triaging those who might survive and leaving the rest behind, and start back toward the wall.
No organized Imperial force tries to stop us. I’m not sure if their commanders have decided it’s not worth it, or if there’s still such confusion in the ward that nobody really understands what’s happened. Either way, we retrace our steps and encounter only the occasional band of militia, all of whom flee immediately at the sight of three hundred rebel soldiers moving with purpose. More Red Sashes fall in with us as we go, emerging from hiding places.
It can’t be more than a fraction of those who were fighting to defend the district. But it’s something, and the cheers and shouts of joy when we reach the gate ring loud in my ears. I wait for the rest to stream through before following, Jack and Zarun still with me.
Meroe is waiting on the other side with Hasaka, Giniva, and Jakibsa. I ignore the three rebel leaders for the moment, and wait for Meroe to reprimand me for running off on my own again. But she only smiles and kisses me, thoroughly, before slipping away to help deal with the wounded.
Maybe I’m finally getting the hang of this.
Reluctantly, I turn to the Red Sashes. Hasaka glares at me, then looks away, flushing.
“That was an impressive performance,” Giniva says. “I can see why Tori was so interested in getting you on our side.”
I shrug. “It needed doing.”
“Rot,” Hasaka mutters to himself, then looks up at me. “You’re right. You saved a lot of lives. I … thank you. I know I haven’t been … that is…”
“It’s all right. I get it.” I look up at the wall behind us, now thick with rebel soldiers. “Do you think you can hold the inner wall?”
“Probably,” Hasaka says, his frown returning. He looks at Jakibsa. “But that may not be our biggest problem.”
“What now?”
Jakibsa sighs, running his gloved hand through the fringe of hair that hangs over his burned face. “The grain store. The Fourth Ward is the site of the city’s biggest rice and wheat wholesalers, and has most of the storehouses. We relocated as much of the supply as we could when we took the city, but for the most part there wasn’t anywhere else to put it.”
“So how much did we lose?” Giniva says.
“A lot,” Jakibsa says. “Everyone’s on half rations, as of now. And even that won’t last. Another couple of weeks, at the outside, and we’ll be down to eating rats.”