The Drowning City: The Necromancer Chronicles Book One (24 page)

“She ran,” Jabbor said, gesturing toward the closest building. “We have to get out of here.”

“I can’t let her get away—”

“You think you can catch her like this?” He pulled her to her feet, holding her steady as she wobbled. “Besides, you were
out for minutes—who knows where she is by now. We’re leaving.”

And he ran, dragging her along. Stumbling and cursing, Isyllt ran too, the other Tigers flanking them. She risked a glance
back, saw soldiers closing on the rooftop. A suicide mission—or a distraction for something else?

As they reached the shelter of the pomegranate trees, another group of people broke from cover behind the eastern hall. Sivahri,
and armed, but they bolted for the wall, paying no attention to Isyllt and the Tigers. One man held a child in his arms.

Four soldiers guarded the gates, nervous and distracted by the clamor across the grounds. As Jabbor and his people fell on
the first three, Isyllt stretched out a bloody hand to the fourth.

“Help me,” she gasped. “Please.”

He hesitated for an instant, pistol half raised. Long enough for Isyllt’s magic to wrap around him, to close cold fingers
over his heart. He fell, gasping, brown face drained gray.

Jabbor cast a horrified glance at the man as they wrestled the locks open; he huddled on the ground, shaking and moaning—if
he had that much strength left, Isyllt doubted he would die.

Outside, knots of people gathered on the sidewalks and alarm bells rang. A skiff poled toward the landing as they slipped
through the gate, and Jabbor and the Tigers bolted for it. Isyllt followed, too slow, and wondered if they would leave her
behind. Then someone shouted her name.

She spun, slipping on damp stone, and saw Adam waving from another boat. “Go on,” she shouted at Jabbor, and ran for the other
skiff.

The craft rocked as she stumbled aboard and Adam grabbed her arm, dragging her down. She cried out and fell, scraping her
good palm against the wooden bench. The steersman poled away, face and hair shrouded in a scarf—Vienh.

“Blood and iron,” Adam muttered, crouching beside her. He reached for her wounded hand, and she jerked away.

“I met your other assassin.”

“Is she still alive?”

“Unfortunately.”

“Show me where you’re hurt, damn it,” he said as she flinched away again.

She swallowed the taste of pain, nearly choked on it, and held out her left hand. Skin gaped—a perfect double-edged stab wound.
A wonderful example to show a class of investigators. Some pale flashed amid the blood; tendon perhaps, or bone.

She started to laugh, high and shrill. Then Adam touched her hand and she passed out again.

Consciousness returned swift and cruel while they circled the canals of Straylight, making sure they weren’t pursued. When
Adam and Vienh were satisfied, they set out for Merrowgate, and the narrow waterway behind an inn. Not the Bride—Isyllt couldn’t
fault Vienh for that; she didn’t trust her luck either.

Adam draped his cloak over her to hide the blood as they docked, held her steady up three flights of stairs to the room. The
bleeding had slowed enough that she didn’t leave a trail up the steps, at least.

“I need bandages and needle and thread,” Adam said as Isyllt fell into a chair. “And clean water.”

Isyllt bit her tongue while Adam cut away her ruined sleeves; when half-clotted scabs peeled loose she hissed. Her right arm
was still bleeding, but it was nothing compared to the left. She could only stare at her curled hand, at the naked skin where
her ring should be. Vienh returned with the supplies and Adam scrubbed his hands.

The water was tepid but burned like vitriol in her wounds. Adam cleaned her right arm first and opened a tube of ointment,
nodding thanks to Vienh.

“I don’t need that.”

His eyebrows rose. “Humor me.”

The cream smelled of tea-tree oil, sweet-sharp and faintly resinous. It also stung, and she glared at him while he smeared
it on. The needle was a proper surgeon’s tool, curved and razor-tipped; light gleamed and splintered off the tip. She wondered
how many patrons the innkeeper stitched up. Adam’s hands were steady as he threaded it.

Isyllt braced herself and swallowed. Her head ached, the edge of her vision too dark—more magic would only make it worse.

Her resolve lasted till the third stitch. Then the cold came, sweet and soothing. The throb in her temple became a spike,
but instead of fire and wasp stings in her arm, she felt only the soft pop of skin, the slide and tug of the thread.

When he clipped the last knot, she tilted her arm to look. Ugly, thread black and stark against her skin and the red edges
of the wound; at least the stitches were neat. Adam dabbed on more ointment, then bound her arm in bandages.

The pain had dulled to a queasy red blur by the time he was done. She stank of blood and sweat, and breathing ached where
Li had landed on her ribs. All her luggage was at the Khas.

“Now this,” Adam said softly, reaching for her left hand. The concern in his voice was no comfort. “Have you numbed the pain?”

She shook her head and quickly regretted it.

“Good. I need to know where it hurts.”

Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes as he tested each finger, put gentle pressure on her palm. She could move her thumb
and her first and last fingers, but the middle two curled uselessly, and she whimpered when he touched them. The nearly healed
cut from the exorcism had torn open again, a four-rayed star cupped in her palm. Her hand felt too light without the diamond.

“I think a bone is cracked,” he said at last. “And the tendon’s severed.”

She swallowed, lips pressed tight; for a moment she thought she would be sick. She’d seen enough dissections to understand
the worst of it. The physicians at the Arcanost might repair such an injury, but it had to be done quickly. Nearly a month
of water lay between her and Erisín. And she still had work to do.

“Pack it,” she said at last. “Pack it and splint it and wrap it tight.”

Adam nodded and reached for the ointment again.

The markers didn’t entirely lie. Traces of ghost-blight lingered in the woods: barren patches of earth and withered trees,
patches of sickly grass. Xinai felt spirits flittering through the jungle around them—curious, cautious, but not malevolent.
Whatever evil had happened here, it was long cold.

The worst scare came when they finally crossed a kueh trail before the bird had left it. Xinai looked up, and up, and found
herself staring at a sharp, curving beak. A male, by the brilliant blue neck and crimson wattle. A dark bone crest curved
from the top of its beak to the back of its skull. It rasped a loud
kweh
and flared its wings—black on the outsides, bronze shading to dark gold beneath.

Xinai’s breath caught as one golden eye fixed on her. Claws longer than her hand scratched the earth. Her hand tightened around
a knife hilt, but could she draw faster than the bird could kick?

Before she had to answer, a freezing wind whipped over them. The kueh shrieked and flapped, hopped backward awkwardly before
it turned and bolted into the brush.

Xinai’s blood tingled, stabbed pins and needles. She let out a shuddering gasp and pried her half-numb hand off her knife.

“Ancestors,” Riuh hissed. “Is that a ghost?”

Xinai grinned past him, where Shaiyung faded from sight. “Don’t worry, she’s with us. But you can walk ahead for a while.”

Lingering excitement sped them up for a while, though they finally forced themselves to a steadier pace. The diamond pulsed
against Xinai’s chest, and she knew they were going the right way now. The sun had begun its westward slide when Riuh caught
her arm and drew her to a halt.

“What is it?” she whispered.

“Look.” He pointed toward a broken vine, a thread snagged in tree bark. “There are men about. We’ll rush straight into them
if we’re not careful.”

So they edged south till the diamond’s throb slowed, and crept in slow and soft. Once or twice they heard men passing nearby,
but Xinai’s charms and Riuh’s stealth held up. Soon she heard voices and distant splashing. The trees thinned and they crouch-crawled
through the brush till they reached the edge of the woods.

Now Xinai began to sense something, a creeping sense of wrong that she hadn’t felt at the markers. The nape of her neck prickled
and she felt Shaiyung’s icy discontent, but her mother kept quiet as they crept on.

The ground sloped into a valley, and a broad, lazy river unwound below them. One of the many veins of Sivahra that flowed
to meet the great artery of the Mir. She didn’t know its name, but all lesser rivers were Gai—the mother’s daughter.

Buildings lined the shore, solid enough to have stood for years. Locks of wood and stone enclosed stretches of river perhaps
a hundred yards long, the water between them brown and silty. People stood in the river, a dozen for every stretch, scooping
mud into loosely woven baskets. Every so often one would pull something out of the mud, rinse it clean, and tuck it into a
bag. For a moment Xinai thought they were fishing, but what fish or crab was so valuable it needed armed guards lining the
shore?

The men and women on the shore wore forest garb, the mismatched styles that had become common among the people of the lowland
jungles. Mostly Assari, but not all, skin ranging from teak to honeyed cream. No uniforms, no badges or colors, but she recognized
the way they moved, their circuits and posts, the watchful ease with which they stood. Mercenaries. Or soldiers.

The diamond throbbed against Xinai’s chest, and slowly she realized what she was watching. The taste of blood filled her mouth;
she’d bitten her lip. Her jaw ached from clenching it.

She’d expected something worse. Scars carved in rock, caverns full of glittering stones, chained prisoners with picks and
shovels. From above these looked like children, searching streambeds for polished pebbles or blue crabs for stew. But these
must be the missing prisoners—they’d gone to the mines after all, just not the mine the Khas claimed.

“There are ghosts down there,” Shaiyung whispered in her ear. “On the far side of the river. A lot of them, all unsung.” Her
face was grim and ghastly as ever, but her voice cracked with anger and sorrow.

The air chilled and the shadows deepened around them; the sun had moved behind the mountain, casting the valley in a false
twilight. Beside her, Riuh’s face was ashen, his shoulders stiff.

“We should go,” Xinai whispered, touching his arm; his muscles trembled with tension.

“This is where they all go. My father might be down there.”

She glanced at her mother.

“I don’t know,” Shaiyung said in answer to the unspoken question. “And the ghosts are in no shape to help us—they’re trapped,
weak and faded.”

Xinai shook her head sadly. “We could never take them, and you know it. Come on—we have to tell Selei.”

A guard whistled and she flinched, but it was only the sign for the prisoners to come in. One by one they trudged out of the
river, revealing rope hobbles barely long enough for a short woman’s pace. The guards took their bags away and frisked them
thoroughly, checking under their tongues.

One of the prisoners closest to the lock dawdled as the others left the water, leaning down as if to scoop more mud. From
her vantage, Xinai saw he wasn’t using his basket at all, but reaching for his ankles.

An escape attempt. Her breath caught; Riuh stiffened.

The lock below was empty. After that, the river flowed free. If he could only make it…

If he made it, could they help him? Should they? He’d only slow them down. Her hand tightened on her knife hilt.

The prisoner bolted. Xinai winced at the sound of splashing feet, at the shout of the guard. One, two, three, four strides
and he was nearly at the lock. A guard drew his bow—the sound of a pistol shot would carry too far over the water.

He reached the lock. Riuh crouched on the balls of his feet, ready to run. The twang of a bowstring carried through the air.
The prisoner arched into a dive.

And fell gracelessly as the arrow pierced his back. If he cried out, Xinai couldn’t hear it. He surfaced, clawing the water,
then sank again. Riuh let out a painful breath, as if he’d been struck.

Below them, the body drifted gently toward the last lock. Scarlet ribbons spooled into the current, dissolved into mud and
brown as the guards ambled down to retrieve the corpse.

“Let’s go,” Xinai said, her voice hollow.

Riuh didn’t answer, only stared at the guards, his face twisted with anger and pain.

“Let’s go!” she hissed, tugging his arm. “We’ll avenge them all, but not today.”

He shook his head, braids rattling. After a long moment he moved, following her into the trees. She pretended she didn’t see
his tears.

He came to her in the dark that night, silent and trembling, his cheeks slick with salt. No icy touch of possession this time,
only a tangle of pain and grief and need, of guilt and desire. She didn’t push him away.

A
fter Adam had doctored her wounds, Isyllt cleaned up as best she could while Vienh went out for food. The room still stank
like a surgery in spite of the cracked-open window. She felt better having an emergency exit, though she doubted she’d survive
the two-story drop in her present condition.

“How much money do we have left?” she asked, trying to undo her shirt buttons one-handed and mourning all the clean clothes
she’d abandoned in the Khas. She could sell the silver chains in her kit if she had to, but she carried nothing else of value.

“Enough for a few days here or a cheap passage home. Sleeping-on-deck cheap. I hope you don’t need anyone bribed.”

“At this point it’d be easier to kill people.” Her fingers slipped off a button for the third time and she swore.

Adam’s smile was a ghost in the deepening gloom. “It usually is.”

“They’ll have someone watching the embassy by tomorrow. At least the supply ship is already on its way.” She cursed foreign
assignments and buttons silently. “I have to get my ring back.”