The Drowning City: The Necromancer Chronicles Book One (19 page)

On the second floor she heard soft voices from her mother’s study. She shook her head at the familiarity of it—had it been
only seven days since she’d last come home? This time, she paused outside the door and listened.

“When will your next shipment be ready?” Fei Minh asked.

“At this rate, who knows?” Porcelain clinked and Faraj sighed; Zhirin was becoming far too familiar with the sound of his
muffled voice.

“I can’t just order my ships to sit in harbor all season. People will talk. Not to mention the money I’d lose.”

“We’ll lose more than money if this fails. And we only need one ship.”

Zhirin swallowed; the pit of her stomach chilled, but she was too tired for true shock.
Oh, Mira. Not you too.

“The
Yhan Ti,
” Fei Minh said after a moment. “She’s dry-docked anyway. I’ll tell the captain to take her time with the repairs.” A cup
rattled against a saucer. “You have to do something about these terrorists, Faraj. My daughter could have been killed.”

The fierce protectiveness in her mother’s voice made Zhirin’s eyes sting again. She pressed a hand over her trembling mouth
to stifle a sob. Swallowing tears, she knocked on the door and pushed it open.

Her mother rose, and Faraj set aside his cup.

“Darling—” Fei Minh raised a hand, let it fall again.

“Do you know yet?” she asked Faraj. “Who murdered Vasilios?”

“No. Asheris is investigating. Do you know anything that might help him?”

“They asked me that last night. No. He was…a good mage. A good master. An old man.” Her voice sounded hollow; she was hollow.
No blushing now, no stammering. Was this how Isyllt did it? Scrape out everything that mattered, leave nothing but the cold?

“I’m sorry,” Faraj said, not meeting her eyes. He rose, straightening his coat. “Will you come to the ball tonight?” he asked
Fei Minh.

Zhirin’s brow creased. “You’re still having a ball?” The festival usually lasted for days, but after last night she couldn’t
imagine anyone celebrating.

He spread his hands and shrugged. “It’s a victory for them if we don’t. We can’t let them grind us down so easily.”

She swallowed half a dozen answers, pressed her lips tight.

“I don’t know yet,” Fei Minh said, carefully not glancing at her daughter.

“I understand. Again, Miss Laii, I’m sorry for your loss.” He waved Fei Minh back as she stepped toward the door. “I can see
myself out.”

Zhirin waited till she heard the front door close to pour herself a cup of tea from the cooling pot. Fei Minh watched her
carefully—afraid she’d start crying again, perhaps. Tea washed away the taste of tears, bitter replacing salt; leaves clung
to the sides of the cup, swirled lazily in the dregs.

“Your business with Faraj,” she said at last, “your personal investment. It’s stones, isn’t it? It’s diamonds.” A tea leaf
stuck in her throat and she fought a cough.

Fei Minh blinked, dark lashes brushing her delicately powdered cheeks. Pale as any pure-blooded mountain clan, and she had
always taken care to show it, instead of counterfeiting bronzen Assari skin as some tried.

“How—” She smiled fleetingly. “My daughter.”

“Diamonds, Mira! Soul-stones. How can you have any part of that?”

Her mother’s jaw tightened. “Now you sound like your father. Aren’t mages supposed to know better than foolish superstition?
As for how—” She sat again, crossing her legs and straightening the seam of one trouser-leg. “Those diamonds are the reason
Faraj is Viceroy, and not some politician from Ta’ashlan. Those diamonds are the reason I sat on the council, and that all
the other clans have their representatives.”

All the loyalist clans, you mean.
Zhirin held her tongue.

“It’s our arrangement with the Emperor,” Fei Minh continued. “He gets our diamonds, unregulated by the Imperial Senate, and
we get home-rule. If these Dai Tranh madmen keep interfering, we’ll be awash in Imperial soldiers again.”

“What happened to Zhang, exactly, that Faraj was afraid to repeat?”

Fei Minh cocked an eyebrow. “He lost ships in a storm and panicked. Thought the stones were cursed. The man couldn’t guard
his tongue—he was going to make a spectacle of himself.”

“And what happened?”

“I don’t know,” she said with a shrug. “He’d been drinking too much, perhaps, and fell. Accidents do happen, especially to
the foolish.” Black eyes narrowed. “Zhirin, have you spoken of this to anyone?”

“No, no one. Why—am I likely to have an accident as well?”

“Of course not!” Fei Minh stood, caught Zhirin’s arm. “You’re my daughter and I won’t let anything happen to you. But for
the love of all our foremothers, hold your tongue. Especially around your father. Do you understand how important this is
to everyone?”

“Yes, Mira.”

Her mother pulled her close and she didn’t resist, though she couldn’t relax either. “I’m worried about you, gaia. What was
that master of yours mixed up in? What are you mixed up in?”

No more than you, at least.
“I don’t know,” she said again, and the lie still came easily. “I don’t know who could have killed him, or why.”

“And you’re sure it’s not that foreign witch? I don’t want you getting involved with such dangerous people.”

It was all she could do not to laugh. “I know it wasn’t Isyllt, Mira. I was with her, after all. You sound like a Dai Tranh,
blaming all our troubles on foreigners.”

Fei Minh snorted softly. “I want you to be careful, darling.”

“I will.”

“Oh, a message came for you this morning.” She picked up a folded piece of parchment from the table. The seal was broken,
and Zhirin didn’t bother to complain. Plain red wax, on solid but inexpensive parchment. The sort anyone might use for a quick
note.

Miss Laii
, the looping Assari script read in a fine scribe’s hand.

It grieves me to learn of Lord Medeion’s death, and I extend my deepest condolences.

I know how hard this time must be for you, but I beg a favor nonetheless. My associate Lady beth Isa was also close to your
master, but I have lost track of her recently, and don’t know where to reach her with this terrible news. I would hate for
her to learn of it through the criers. If you have any way to reach her, please do so. I stand ready to offer any aid or support
that I can in our time of mutual grief, if only she will send word of her wishes.

I shall await a reply from either of you, at your convenience.

Yours in sorrow,

Asa bin Adam

Zhirin blinked stupidly at the paper for a moment.

“What is it?” her mother asked, as though she hadn’t just read the message herself.

“A friend of Vasilios,” Zhirin said, lowering the letter. “He wants me to take word of…what happened to someone else they
knew, but I don’t think I can help him.”

“News travels fast.”

“I’m sure police and Khas were swarming all over the house.” That brought a fresh lump to her throat—unknowing, uncaring feet
tramping through the house, rifling through her master’s belongings. “Everyone in the neighborhood must know by now.”

She swallowed. So much for staying at home with her grief. “Are you going to the ball?” she asked after a moment.

“I’d planned to, but I won’t leave you here alone.”

“I could come with you.”

Fei Minh frowned. “Are you sure? After everything that’s happened?”

“I don’t want to sit here all night and think about it over and over again.” That much was true at least, nor was the catch
in her voice feigned. “I need lights and music and distraction. And besides, it’s the Khas—where else would be safer?”

“I suppose you’re right,” her mother said after a moment. She laid a soft hand on Zhirin’s. “So brave,” she said, and the
unexpected gentleness of her smile tightened Zhirin’s chest. Then it vanished, replaced by her usual cool good humor. “But
you certainly can’t go dressed like that.”

Rain or no, Isyllt intended to explore the palace, but the arrival of her luggage early in the afternoon distracted her. Everything
was intact save for her blue gown; insurance, no doubt, in case Asheris decided to charge her with murder after all. He’d
even left her knife, though a white ribbon delicately spelled with a peace-bond looped the hilt.

By sunset she and her newly assigned maid had her clothes steamed and ironed, and by dusk she was dressed in a skirt and bodice
of rough pewter silk. Even laced tight, the corset was loose at her waist; she needed to eat more than just breakfast for
a few decads. The maid, Li, couldn’t entirely conceal her discomfiture at the sight of Isyllt’s ribs. The fabric was stiff
enough that the mirror in her pocket didn’t ruin the line of the skirt.

After pinning up her hair, Li helped her line her eyes with kohl and smoky amethyst powder. The woman’s hands were sure as
a physician’s, and the fatigue shadows around Isyllt’s eyes soon vanished beneath brushes and creams.

A knock sounded at the door as Li put up the cosmetics, and she turned to answer it. Isyllt rose, shaking out her skirts,
and slipped her feet into her slippers. And hissed as her blister pinched and pain shivered the length of her body, tightening
her jaw and leaving a sour taste on her tongue. With a careful thought, she numbed the ball of her foot, stopping as the deadening
cold tingled along her instep. Not an ideal solution, but it would let her dance.

Li opened the door and Asheris stepped inside, dark and vivid in burnt orange. Gold thread gleamed on his sleeves and collar.
He smiled as he straightened from a bow, shaking his head slightly. “Did you know that gray is the color of mourning in Sivahra?”

Isyllt paused. “I didn’t, no. Should I find something else?”

He cocked his head, studying her. “No. It suits you. And under the circumstances, the color is not inappropriate.” His gaze
slid down her throat and across her bare shoulders. “Opals, I still say. A pity I have none at hand.”

She glanced at the clothes still strewn on the bed; she’d contemplated a jacket or shawl, to spare the Assari the sight of
so much death-tainted flesh. But the night was too muggy, and Asheris’s smile too encouraging. Instead she tugged on a pair
of long gray gloves as a concession to tact. Pearl buttons gleamed against the insides of her wrists.

Outside it rained again, gleaming silver-bright past windows and columned arcades. Lanterns glowed green and gold and crimson,
cast wavering pools of color on polished floors. Asheris led her downstairs and through a series of corridors and covered
walkways.

She expected a grand entrance, but instead they slipped through a narrow side door. The great hall wasn’t unlike the throne
room in the palace at Erisín, though instead of the malachite throne the dais held a crescent of chairs, all the same size.
Red-and-green-striped cloth draped the seats, and the lamps on the platform were unlit, though the rest of the hall blazed.
Garlands of lotus and gardenia and hyacinth coiled around the columns and swayed over the doors. Petals already littered the
floor.

“Normally this is a masque,” Asheris said, “but this year Faraj decided that was inappropriate.”

Isyllt snorted softly. Perhaps forty people had arrived so far, though the room could hold many more. Conversations buzzed
and chattered, mingling with the quiet music. Occasionally laughter rose above the flutes and strings, only to die swiftly.
This had none of the festival’s frenetic energy. Gaudy silks and flashing jewels, but the guests were too subdued. She saw
the Viceroy among the crowd, his wife and daughter beside him. The tall mage al Najid was there as well, dour as ever.

Asheris made no move to join the conversations and Isyllt was content to lurk, but it wasn’t long till someone noticed them.

“Asheris.” An Assari man approached. “When did you sneak in? And who’s your companion?”

Isyllt fought to keep her face politely blank. The man from the fabric shop, the fox from the festival. Taller than Asheris,
but slender and narrower of shoulder; tonight he wore elegantly draped green linen. Gold flashed in his ears and on his long
brown hands.

“Isyllt,” said Asheris, “meet Siddir Bashari, of Ta’ashlan. Lord Bashari, this is Lady Iskaldur, of Erisín.” Perfectly polite,
but his voice and manner cooled, stiffened. She read a challenge in Siddir’s hazel eyes, one Asheris had no desire to take
up.

Siddir bowed over her hand. “So you’re the foreign mage Asheris is protecting.” He made the last word sound like a euphemism
for something besides house arrest. “My condolences on the death of your colleague.”

“Thank you.”

He looked as though he might say more, but smiled instead. “Excuse me,” he said, the curl of his lips sharpening as he glanced
up at Asheris. “I should finish making my rounds. Perhaps you’ll save me a dance later this evening. Always a pleasure catching
up, Asheris.”

She cocked a curious eyebrow at Asheris when Siddir was gone, but he studiously failed to notice. Instead he claimed two cups
from a passing servant’s tray and offered her one. The liquid inside was clear and warm—she frowned at the pungent aroma.

“
Miju
,” he said, smiling at her expression. “A local rice wine. It may be an acquired taste.”

She took a sip and coughed as the liquor evaporated on her tongue and seared her throat. “I can see why.”

They sipped their drinks, watching the growing crowd. “Are you going to
protect
me all night?” she asked, mimicking Siddir’s inflection. “I don’t want to keep you from the party.”

He waved a dismissive hand. “I don’t mind being kept. Faraj expects me to attend these things, but I don’t have much taste
for it tonight.”

The quiet music trailed away, so softly it took a few heartbeats to notice its loss. Conversations faltered and stilled, and
a moment later drums rolled.

“The dancing is about to begin,” Asheris said.

The guests retreated to the edges of the room, leaving Faraj alone in the center. “Good evening,” he said, his voice carrying
through the vaulted chamber, “and welcome. I’m glad that so many of you could attend tonight, especially after yesterday’s
tragedy. In light of recent events, the Khas will be convening early this season. Official notices will go out tomorrow, so
try to enjoy yourselves tonight. And if you enjoy yourselves too much, we can always roll you into your session chambers.”
Polite laughter rippled and died.