The Drowning City: The Necromancer Chronicles Book One (25 page)

“Are you sure that’s smart?”

“Losing it in the first place was stupid enough. I’m not leaving without it.” She fumbled another button and snarled.

“Need help?” Adam asked, nearly smiling.

Pride fought pragmatism and lost soundly. “Yes, damn it.”

She watched his nimble calloused fingers and swallowed a laugh. He caught her expression and his lips quirked as he undid
the last button and helped her slip the remnants of the sleeve off her left arm. Her linen undershirt was stiff with dried
blood and sweat—it itched, but not so badly that she’d rather be naked.

Adam turned toward the door an instant before someone knocked. He eased the latch up, double-checking before he opened it
wide enough for Vienh to slip in. She carried bamboo cartons of food and—saints bless her—a change of clothes. Isyllt’s stomach
clenched at the smell of curry.

Dusk bells tolled slow and sonorous as they ate, and Vienh lit the room’s single lamp. Isyllt was halfway through a carton
of rice and lentils when Adam tensed again. A heartbeat later someone else knocked. Isyllt swallowed a mouthful and glanced
at Vienh—the smuggler shook her head sharply.

“I wasn’t followed, I swear,” she whisper-hissed when Adam glared at her.

He stood, easing a dagger from his boot as he edged toward the door; the quarters were too close for swords. Isyllt thought
of her knife safely packed across the city and swore under her breath even as she edged out of the door’s line of sight.

“Please let me in,” a familiar voice asked softly. “I’ll attract more attention standing out here.”

Vienh drew her knife and moved behind the door. Adam glanced at Isyllt. “Only one,” he mouthed. She nodded slowly, and he
reached for the latch.

Siddir slipped in—cautiously, when he saw Adam’s blade. The mercenary checked the hall quickly and shut the door. Siddir pulled
a scarf away from his tousled curls. Isyllt tensed, waiting for soldiers’ footsteps, for the brush of hot magic, but none
came.

Siddir smiled at her expression and bowed, stopping when Adam’s knife drew closer to his throat.

“They’ll charge more if you make a mess in the room, you know,” he said.

Isyllt started to cross her arms, but thought better of it. “How did you find me?”

Siddir cocked an eyebrow. “I am a spy, after all. I wanted to talk to you without the whole Khas looking on.”

She gestured toward the hard wooden chair. “So sit and talk.”

His gaze slid along her bandaged arms. “Did that happen at the execution?”

“Yes. You were there?”

“I was, but I didn’t feel the need to be in the thick of things. Luckily for me.”

“What happened? Is the Khas looking for me?”

“The Khas is a bit preoccupied at the moment. Nineteen people are dead, not counting the Dai Tranh—three councillors, the
rest bureaucrats, servants, and soldiers. And it turns out the attack may have only been a distraction.”

Isyllt retrieved her food, nodding for him to continue.

“While all the shooting and dying was happening, more rebels kidnapped the Viceroy’s daughter. Lady Shamina was injured in
the fight. Faraj is…distraught. I’m afraid recovering you won’t be the first thing on his mind.”

Isyllt swallowed and blinked. The man fleeing with a child—Murai. “Have they made demands for her return?”

“We’ve heard nothing.”

She cocked an eyebrow. “We?”

Siddir smiled. “A figure of speech. As I told you, my loyalty is not to the Khas.”

“Where is it, exactly?”

“To the Empire.” His smile stretched at her expression. “To the Empire, but not to Rahal.”

She set the curry down again. The pressure in her head had become a stabbing pain above one eye. She rubbed her temple, wincing
as the movement tugged stitches.

“Would you please just tell me what the hell is going on?”

One brown cheek dimpled as he nodded. “The Emperor’s dreams of expansion are no secret in Ta’ashlan, but not all the Senate
supports him. The Senate has consistently refused to increase taxes for military spending. But that doesn’t seem to be stopping
Rahal. The money keeps coming in—never fast enough to be conspicuous, but enough that some senators have become suspicious.”

Isyllt reached for her cup of ginger beer and wished it were something stronger. “And they think it’s coming from Symir.”

“I’m almost certain of it. But we’re not sure where. At first we thought he was skimming from the tithes, but the Khas’s records
balance—far too neatly, for a known hive of graft and corruption. Something’s happening off the books, but I don’t know what.”

It was Isyllt’s turn to smile. “I do. But,” she continued as Siddir cocked his head, “how will this be of any use to me? Giving
the Empire a legitimate source of wealth will do nothing to keep Assari armies away from Selafaïn shores.”

“Expansion is not the will of the people in Assar. Rahal has supporters amongst the generals and the arms-makers, of course,
but too many families still mourn those who died in the Ninayan campaign, or in Iseth, or here. Assar is large enough—there
are things we want from Selafai, but another vassal country isn’t one of them.”

“And you think proof of this embezzlement would be enough to stop the Emperor?”

“Yes. Some of the senators are…willing to take steps.”

She pressed her tongue against her teeth, tasted ginger-sweet and treason. If he was lying, she couldn’t tell.

“Sivahra has a diamond mine. The Viceroy is smuggling the stones out in private ships.”

Across the room Vienh stiffened, lips parting. She subsided without speaking, though.

Siddir blinked. “Well. I’ve been underestimating Faraj, it seems, if he’s kept something like that a secret. I wonder where
Rahal is selling them.” He shrugged the question aside. “We need proof.”

“I think I know where to look. I’ll need to speak to my contacts.”

He nodded. “I encourage haste. If the situation here continues to deteriorate, the Emperor will send troops, and everything
will become more complicated.”

“I have another question for you, my lord, while we’re being so forthcoming. How well do you know Asheris al Seth?”

He didn’t blink, quite, but he stilled for a heartbeat. “Ah. Yes. Once, I knew him well. We went to the university together.
We were friends.” The word came out too quickly, too blandly. “He had no designs to be an Imperial agent in those days. He
was a middling mage at best—a lot of talent, but little dedication, more interested in carousing than serious study. His connection
to the throne was too remote to concern anyone, and mostly he was left to his own devices.”

“But?”

“Seven years ago, something changed.” He frowned, smoothed his face again. “I still don’t know what it was. He joined an expedition
into the desert—a spirit cataloging trip, very ordinary. Al Najid was with them as well. When they returned, no one heard
from Asheris for several months, and when he finally emerged he was…different. More focused, more reserved. More powerful.
It wasn’t long afterward that he began to rise in the Emperor’s confidences.”

Isyllt swallowed, her stomach cold. Seven years of feeding off a bound spirit. A spirit powerful enough to make a man immortal.
Yes, that might change someone. Her left hand tightened before the pain stopped it. No doubt his fear of death was real enough,
even if his distaste for bindings was a lie.

He would come after her. It was a secret worth protecting. He knew the taste of her magic—her magic and her skin. At least,
she thought bitterly, no one could track her by her ring.

“How can I reach you?” she asked Siddir.

“I have a box at the Imperial Post. Leave word there, and I’ll get it within the day.” He started to rise, glanced at Adam
to make sure the way was free of blades before he finished. “Thank you, my lady.”

“Thank me when this is over and I’m still alive. I’ll leave a message when I know more.”

When Siddir and Vienh had gone and Isyllt had arranged to send word to Zhirin, she sat down to finish her cold dinner. There
wasn’t an inch of her that didn’t hurt between her forehead and feet, and her stitches itched. It wasn’t safe to sleep, but
she couldn’t fight it much longer.

“Sleep,” Adam said. “I’ll keep watch.”

“To hell with it,” she muttered, sitting heavily on the bed. “I’m not running anywhere else today.”

Slats creaked as she lay down. The mattress smelled of mildew and old sweat; she wondered about fleas. By the time her eyes
closed, she’d stopped caring.

The alarm bells began at three-quarters past noon, shattering the stretched-thin peace that filled the Laii parlor. Zhirin
stumbled over a line of verse, dropped the book she’d been reading from. Fei Minh’s cup rattled against her saucer.

Zhirin cursed her cowardice—she should have attended the execution, though the thought had turned her stomach. But her mother
disdained public bloodshed, and Zhirin had allowed herself to be convinced to stay home, to speak of nothing and read poetry
aloud when neither of them had the nerve to voice their accusations and concerns.

Zhirin stood, and Fei Minh followed.

“No,” her mother said as Zhirin turned toward the door. “Don’t even think about it. Stay and wait for the criers.”

Her spine stiffened at Fei Minh’s tone, but Zhirin had never been much good at rebelling. And it was no use running anywhere
if she didn’t know what was happening. Instead she nodded and hurried toward the bathroom.

Water splashed into the basin, rising quickly to the brim. She stilled the surface with a pass of her hand and pushed her
nerves away. “Jabbor,” she whispered to her rippling reflection.

No image came. He was beyond the river’s sight. Isyllt’s name brought no response either, nor did Faraj’s. Zhirin bit back
an angry hiss, rinsed her hands in ritual ablution before unplugging the drain and sending the water back to the river. She
dried her hands and returned to the parlor, and the volume of Laii clan poetry.

The criers started an hour later. Zhirin and her mother stood on the front step and listened to story after story—the Dai
Tranh had attacked the Khas; the Tigers had stormed the execution; the Viceroy had been shot; Asheris had been shot; the Vicereine
had been attacked; the Vicereine’s daughter had been attacked. Zhirin’s stomach twisted tighter and tighter at each new rumor—no
matter how wild, all agreed that the Tigers had been at the execution. But no one could agree on who was truly dead.

The rain drove them inside before the dusk bells, and Fei Minh helped Mau with supper while Zhirin paced the front hall. Someone
knocked at the door as they laid out dishes. Zhirin hurried to answer it, fingers knotting in the hem of her shirt. Surely
the Khas would send a message to her mother. Surely Jabbor would let her know what had happened—

A young mehti girl stood on the doorstep, rain dripping off the hood of her oilcloak.

“I’ve a message for Zhirin Laii.”

She swallowed. “I’m Zhirin.”

The girl’s eyes narrowed as she glanced through the open door. “Isyllt wants to meet you.”

At least someone was alive. “When? Where?”

“At dawn, at the Bridge of Splinters.”

Zhirin tightened her jaw to keep her mouth from falling open. If Isyllt had left the Khas—“Do you know what happened today?”

The girl shook her head. “Only rumors. What answer should I give her?”

“I’ll be there. Wait a moment.” She ducked into the tradesman’s parlor, fished a few pennies out of the tip-box. The girl
palmed them neatly and they vanished into a pocket. “Thank you. And tell her…Never mind. Just tell her I’ll be there.”

The girl nodded and hurried down the steps.

“What is it?” Fei Minh asked as Zhirin shut and bolted the door.

“Only Vasilios’s housekeeper sending a message.” Her voice caught on his name, but at least she had reason enough for that.
“She wants me to help dispose of the house tomorrow.” Fei Minh might not be swayed by sentiment, but the proper disposition
of wealth would move her.

Her mother frowned, and for an instant Zhirin thought she would argue. But all she said was, “Dinner’s ready,” and turned
back to the kitchen.

Zhirin followed her to the table, hoping food would clear away the taste of lies.

Zhirin woke with a start, darkness pressed tight against her window. She’d told Mau to wake her well before dawn, but she
was alone, her door latched.

She jumped as a pebble rattled against the shutter, then let out a breath. She threw off the covers, wincing as she caught
her toe on the edge of a rug, and hurried to the window. Easing the latch open, she waited a few heartbeats to be sure no
more rocks were inbound before she leaned out.

Jabbor crouched on the wall between her house and their neighbor’s. For an instant relief was so sharp in her chest she thought
she’d cry. Shaking it off, she closed the window and pulled on clothes. She paused in the hallway, listening carefully, but
her mother still slept. Sleep charms, at least, were easy to manage.

The garden was a walled-in square behind the house, shaded by a pair of spice-fragrant cassia trees. In the center a fountain
welled—or hiccuped, now; she’d never gotten around to fixing it. Dwarf kheymen slept beside the water, their bodies barely
as long as her hand, tails sharp as whips. Their eyes flashed gold and green as she padded across the damp mossy flagstones,
but they didn’t move. Her parents’ room overlooked the garden, but that hadn’t stopped her when she was fourteen, sneaking
out with Sia. She looked up anyway, to be sure the curtains hung straight and still.

Jabbor waited in the shadow of the wall, apparently unhurt. Zhirin thanked all the waters silently. She breathed in the smell
of his clean sweat as he took her in his arms, salt and cedar and drying rain.

“What happened?” she asked, pulling away sooner than she would have liked.

“I went to the execution.”

She folded her arms under her chest. “Why?”

“Because it’s our right to speak out, and what use is that if no one will? If the Dai Tranh had tried talking before burning,
things might be different.”