Page 12 of City of Stone and Silence

“Meroe—” I begin.

“Deepwalker!” someone shouts.

We both turn. A young man with a long spear skids to a halt, breathing hard.

“We caught an intruder!” he says. “He wants to talk to whoever’s in charge.”

Meroe and I exchange a look.

Aifin, the boy we’d once called the Moron, is waiting beside the stranger, a short sword in hand. He’s motionless, but a faint golden light surrounds him. Aifin can’t hear or speak, but he’s an adept in Rhema, the Well of Speed, and fully capable of slashing the prisoner’s throat between eyeblinks.

He and Meroe exchange a string of hand signs. I’ve learned a few for use in a fight, but the two of them have been slowly fleshing out a whole vocabulary. Aifin nods and takes a step back, though the golden light of his Well remains.

The stranger is on his knees. He’s a man in his early twenties, with Imperial features. His hair is long, bound up in a tight queue that’s coiled in a complicated knot on the back of his head. In combination with his clothes—a long, somewhat threadbare gray robe with voluminous sleeves and a white under-tunic—it makes him look like an actor in a historical drama, something about the Rockfire War.

Zarun and Shiara arrive, and the prisoner looks between us. His eyes are wide with fear.

“Aifin says he came in from the forest,” Meroe whispers. “He didn’t try to hide, and he’s not armed.”

“All right,” Zarun says, looking down at the stranger. “So what are you doing here?”

“Please,” the man says. “You’re all in the gravest danger. I entreat you to listen to me.”

Zarun narrows his eyes. “Did you all catch that?”

“More or less,” I say. Among ourselves, Soliton’s crew speak a polyglot accumulation of Imperial and Jyashtani, with words borrowed from the icelings and other tongues in the mix. The stranger’s Imperial is pure and formal, archaic to my ears. I’m not surprised Zarun finds it hard to follow. It takes a conscious effort to revert to my own tongue after so many weeks speaking pidgin. “Who are you? And what kind of danger?”

The prisoner turns to me. He looks a bit shocked by my appearance—I suppose my crab-shell armor and blue-marked skin seem strange by traditional Imperial standards. But he clears his throat and says, “My name is Guran Veldi. I happened to be near the docks when Soliton came in, so I got here expediently, but it won’t be long before Prime’s creatures detect your presence. Please.” His eyes flick to Zarun. “Leave these infidels and come with me. I’m certain my lady will welcome you.”

I have so many questions I’m honestly not sure what to ask first, but a warning is a warning. “Double-check the perimeter,” I tell Zarun, “and be ready to take the reserve wherever we need it. Something bad may be coming.”

“Right.” Zarun glares at Veldi, and his lip curls. “‘Infidel.’ It’s been a while since anyone called me that.”

“Later,” I tell him. To Veldi, I say, “Start with what these creatures are. Some kind of crab?”

“Nothing so crude,” Veldi moans. “Please, we have to go. If they find us it will be too late.”

“You may not have noticed, but there’s quite a few people here,” I snap. “It’ll take time to get them moving, if we decide we can trust you.”

“Bring only the Blessed’s Children,” he says. “The others can fend for themselves.”

It takes me a moment to even parse that. “The Blessed’s Children” is an old turn of phrase from a more pious time, a way to refer to the people of the Empire that emphasizes our devotion to the Blessed One. These days people tend to say “Imperials” instead, probably because loyalty to the Emperor and the government counts for more than theological commitment.

“If we go anywhere,” I tell him, “we won’t be leaving anyone behind.” I look around and get nods from Shiara and Meroe.

“But—” Veldi begins.

He’s interrupted by a shriek, and he immediately curls in on himself as though someone had kicked him in the gut.

“Too late,” he says. “They’ve arrived.”

“Deepwalker!” Zarun shouts. “People coming fast, a hell of a lot of them!”

Rot. “See what you can get out of him,” I tell Shiara. Then to Meroe, “We may need to fall back. Get everyone ready.”

“Fall back where?” she says.

“Still working on that!” I shout over my shoulder, jogging in the direction of the cries.