The Drowning City: The Necromancer Chronicles Book One (5 page)

“Vasilios is staying in the city for the festival, and I thought I’d visit.”

“About time you thought of that.” She smiled to take the sting from the words, one cheek dimpling. Delicate lines fanned from
her eyes and framed her mouth, but Fei Minh’s skin was still soft as almond-milk and honey. “You picked a bad night for it,
I’m afraid. Your father and Sungjin are visiting on the South Bank for a few days.”

That was no surprise; her father and brother had started spending most of their time at Cay Laii when Fei Minh began her first
term on the Khas thirteen years ago. Only propriety and habit kept him coming home at all, Zhirin suspected. And since her
mother’s last term had ended a year ago, she knew how bored and restless Fei Minh had been.

Zhirin’s brow creased as she eyed her mother’s hair, unbraided and held up loosely with sandalwood sticks. Absent servants,
late visits…“Mother, are you having an affair?”

Fei Minh blinked, then began to laugh. “Oh, darling. With Faraj? Wouldn’t that be a scandal?” She wiped delicately at one
eye. “No, dear, I’m afraid not.”

“What are you helping him with, then?”

“Just business. He’s using some of our ships for a private investment.” She took Zhirin by the elbow and steered her toward
the kitchen. Her perfume was still jasmine and citrus; the scent was as much home to Zhirin as the smell of the river. “You
missed dinner, but I’ll make tea. And since you’re here, perhaps you can look at the fountain—it’s not flowing properly, and
your father will rip it out and rearrange the whole garden if I give him half an excuse.”

“You paid quite an apprentice-price for me to become a plumber.”

Fei Minh snorted softly. “Think of it as part of your repayment—I want to see some return on my investment. Now, sit down
and tell me about your lessons.”

Zhirin woke to midnight bells, the bedside candle a puddle of cold wax in its bowl. She ran a hand over her face, knuckled
gritty eyes. She’d only meant to lie down, but feather beds and the whisper of the canal had lulled her under. Jabbor had
promised to meet her, after—

The bells kept ringing and Zhirin’s stomach curdled. Not the solemn night bells after all, but brazen clashing chimes.

An alarm.

Let it be a coincidence
, she prayed as she groped for her clothes. Her mother met her in the hall, robe hastily tied and night-braids unraveling
over her shoulders. “What is it?” they asked on the same heartbeat, and chuckled breathlessly.

A few neighbors stood on their front steps, listening to the clamor. Blessedly distant—not Heronmark’s watchtower but one
farther west. Merrowgate, perhaps.

“What’s happened?” Fei Minh called to the next house.

“We don’t know. There’ve been no criers yet.”

Zhirin descended the steps to the canal, stones cool and slick beneath her feet. Water soaked her trousers as she knelt and
laid a palm on the surface. One breath, then another, and her heart began to slow as the river’s rhythm filled her, deep and
inexorable. She raised her hand, scattering ripples.

And the lapping water showed her colors, red and gray, gold and orange, dancing and twisting against the black. It took her
a heartbeat to make sense of the distorted reflection.

Fire.

“Something’s burning,” she said as she rose, scrubbing her wet hand on her trousers.

“Ancestors,” her mother whispered. “Not the docks.”

The Laiis had been a southern clan once, tenders of marshy rice fields. But these days their money came from the sea, from
swift trading ships and goods piled in dockside warehouses.

“I’m going to see what’s happened,” Zhirin said.

“No—”

“I’ll be careful, Mira.” She darted up the steps to kiss her mother’s cheek. Before Fei Minh could protest more, she unmoored
the household skiff and pushed off.

She whispered to the river and soon the current caught her, swifter and more graceful than she could have rowed. But even
with the water’s help, she didn’t want to risk the skiff dockside. She moored at the far edge of Jadewater and ran the rest
of the way.

Her side ached by the time she reached Merrowgate’s warehouse district and her breath ripped her chest like gravel and broken
shells. Her feet throbbed, likely bleeding, and she chided herself for not putting on shoes. A sullen orange glow lined the
rooftops, and bells and voices rang loud and raucous.

The crowd led her to the fire, and she skirted the edges till she could see. The street was mud-slick and cold despite the
waves of heat. Rats and insects scurried for safety; Zhirin shuddered as a finger-long cockroach crawled over her foot. City
guards surrounded the building, passing buckets down a line.

It wasn’t enough. A canal ran behind the building, and a wide street in front, but only alleys separated it from its neighbors,
narrow enough that even she could have jumped them. The wind off the bay was gentle, but enough to blow flames onto the next
rooftop; already it had begun to smoke.

The whole district could be gone by morning.

The bucket lines moved faster, water glowing gold as it splashed the cobbles. Zhirin wanted to join them, but it was no use.
She couldn’t call a flood. Not even the Mother’s temple could, since the river had been dammed. For all her tricks, she was
useless against this.

Gongs echoed from the waterfront, warning ships to lift anchor before the docks caught. That would take a while, at least,
unless the wind shifted.

Another section of roof collapsed with a groan and roar and a flurry of sparks rode the wind like orange fireflies. Someone
screamed as flames burst through the gap. Mirrors dangling from nearby roofs threw back the firelight in angry flashes.

A moment later she realized what the burning building had been. A government warehouse. She pressed a hand over her mouth
and swallowed the taste of char.
Jabbor—

She should run home, warn her mother since she was no use here, but she could only stare. Guards appeared on the neighboring
warehouse’s roof, splashing wood and plaster and tiles in a futile bid to keep the flames at bay. A shout rose from the back
of the crowd, and she scrambled to keep out of the press as the mass of people parted to admit a man.

His face was a mask of flame and shadow, but Zhirin recognized the curve of his bare head. Her stomach tightened. She’d thought
Asheris was sleeping at the Kurun Tam tonight; his rumpled clothes looked as though he’d only just woken. But he was here.
He waved the guards away and kept walking, so close his skin must be crisping. If the building fell now it would crush him.

Pain spread down Zhirin’s arm; she’d bitten her knuckle hard enough to break the skin.

Asheris extended a hand toward the fire, palm up. Flames flickered toward him, though the wind didn’t change. Fire lapped
his fingers like a curious hound, then twisted up his arm in a glowing spiral.

Her vision blurred, tears welling against the smoke, and she watched through a crystalline glaze as Asheris called the fire
into him. The blaze died in the warehouse as the flames ran like water away from wood and stone and into flesh. The last came
in a rush, flaring around him like giant wings.

Then it was gone.

The rest of the roof fell in, billowing smoke and ash and sparks. But no more flames. The absence of light blinded her, and
her eyes ached as they adjusted. The wind stung her face.

Asheris swayed and fell to his knees, head sagging. Steam rose from his skin. Not even the guards approached him.

Zhirin bit her lip; she might be useless, but she didn’t have to be a coward. But before she could move toward the fallen
mage, a hand closed on her arm. She started, then recognized the dark fingers.

She turned, his name on her lips, but Jabbor silenced her with a shake of his head and drew her away from the crowd. Down
an alley she followed him, biting back questions as she dodged fleeing vermin. They ducked through a back door into a narrow
lamplit kitchen. Temel and Kwan followed them in—Zhirin hadn’t seen them outside. Soot smeared both their faces, and blood
dried in a dull crust along Temel’s brow.

Kwan vanished into the front of the house, returned a moment later. “It’s clear.”

Jabbor sank into a chair by the table and Zhirin sat beside him. Her filthy feet smudged clean tiles and she tucked her heels
onto a chair-rung like a child. Sweat and tears dried stiff and itchy on her face, and when she scratched her cheek her nails
came away dark with grime. Her finger was bruised where she’d bitten it.

“What happened?”

“We slipped in quietly—a few coins, drugged wine, and a little distraction. It should have been bloodless. But the Dai Tranh
came right behind us.”

Zhirin’s stomach chilled. Jabbor’s group, the Jade Tigers, were known for their peaceful—if not always legal—protests. It
was part of what drew her to them. The Dai Tranh, however, was known only for violence.

His full lips tightened, carving lines around his mouth. Sweat glistened oily between the neat rows of his hair. “They outnumbered
us. Killed the guards, looted the stones, and set the fire. We tried to put it out, but they left some of the rubies behind
for fuel.”

No wonder the blaze had been so fierce—Haroun’s fire, harnessed into stone. “But how did they know?”

Kwan’s eyes narrowed to angry black slits. “Shouldn’t we be asking you that question?”

Zhirin’s mouth opened, but Jabbor raised a hand before she could snap a retort. “No, Kwan.” He caught her eyes and held them.
“But I’ll ask it anyway. Did you say anything to anyone else?”

She shook her head, cheeks stinging. He couldn’t afford to trust blindly, she knew that. Not even her. Maybe especially not
her. “I only told you.”

“Then they have someone inside us, or a spy of their own in the Kurun Tam.” He wiped a sheen of sweat off his face.

Kwan snorted softly but held her tongue. She found a pitcher of water and a rag on the counter and began to sponge the blood
off Temel’s face. True cousins, not just clan-kin, and the resemblance showed in the set of their cheekbones and short, flat
noses. High forest people, the Lhuns, before the Empire had claimed their lands for the Kurun Tam and sent them to live by
the river.

“We looked inside one of the crates,” Jabbor said, “before everything fell apart. One of the boxes marked for flawed stones.
Do you know what we found?”

Zhirin shook her head.

Jabbor pulled something from his pocket and held it out to her. A stone gleamed dully against his palm—the size of her thumbnail,
uncut, yellowish-white. A chunk of quartz, she thought, until she reached for it and felt the crystal’s sharp pulse.

“Sweet Mother,” she whispered, snatching her hand back. “Is that—” She swallowed the foolish question; she knew what it was.
A diamond.

She’d never seen one in the rough before, only cut and polished and gleaming on the hand or throat of a mage, and very few
of those. Unlucky, the uninitiated called them, or cursed. For the spirits or ghosts who ended up trapped in them, they must
be.

And expensive. No question about that. The stone resting on Jabbor’s palm was worth a dozen rubies in Assar.

“What’s it doing here?” She caught herself leaning back. Foolish superstition—it was just a stone, without a mage to wield
it. Her master would chide her for making warding signs against a lump of rock.

“It came from the Kurun Tam, didn’t it?” Kwan asked, setting aside the bloody ash-smeared rag.

“No! How could it? We mine rubies, sapphires—”

“We?” the other woman snapped, but Jabbor waved her silent.

Zhirin shook her head, pressing her stinging knuckle against her lips again. Diamonds came from Iseth, or lands far to the
north whose names she could never remember. Places where people bound ghosts into slavery, as well as spirits. She couldn’t
call it abomination—the Empire accepted such practices and her own master wore a diamond—but it still made her skin crawl.

“We need to find out where this came from,” Jabbor said, closing his hand over the stone. “I need you to investigate.”

Zhirin nodded. All the energy had drained from her, leaving fatigue and aches in its place. She wanted to lean into Jabbor,
to breathe in the smell of his skin and let him hold her till the world felt right again. But weakness wasn’t what he needed
from her. Her eyes stung.

“I should go,” she said, wincing as she put weight on her bruised and torn feet. Who would clean up the mess they’d made?
Perhaps whoever lived here was used to rebels tracking mud and blood across their floor. “I’ll find you when I learn something.”

Jabbor rose with her and took her hand, tracing a gentle thumb across her knuckles. “Thank you.” And she would have run twice
as far barefoot for that smile.

The crowd had thinned when she limped past the ruined warehouse, and guards roped off the shell. She didn’t see Asheris. Smoke
trailed a gray veil across the city and ashes drifted softly on the breeze.

I
syllt and Adam found a tavern in Saltlace that night, an expensive one overlooking a broad canal. The sort of place where
a bored traveler might come to waste time and money—Isyllt thought she could manage that ruse. She lifted her chin as she
crossed the threshold, letting her hips roll. Midnight blue silk swirled around her ankles and a corset cinched her waist
and kept her back straight. They drew glances like gnats to the paper lanterns as they crossed the room. Whether it was her
bare white arms or Adam glowering at her back, she couldn’t say.

They weren’t the only foreigners. Symir had a reputation as a haven for expatriates—separated from Assar and the northlands,
it was a place to escape local trouble and live in exotic decadence. If you had the money for it.

They claimed a table on the balcony and Isyllt let the waiter recommend food and wine. Skiffs paddled in the canal below and
evening crowds drifted across bridges and along the sidewalks. Xinai was out in the city somewhere—hopefully the mercenary
would have better luck finding insurgents.