The Drowning City: The Necromancer Chronicles Book One (20 page)

“Our original entertainers are unable to perform tonight—”

“Because they ended up in a canal last night,” Asheris whispered dryly.

“But luckily,” Faraj continued, “the Blue Lotus troupe has agreed to dance for us, accompanied by the Kurun Tam’s own Jodiya
al Sarith.” An expectant murmur rose in the crowd.

The drums began a steady throbbing rhythm as Faraj stepped aside. A side door opened and five masked dancers stepped out,
two men and three women. Centermost among them was al Najid’s young apprentice. She wore blue, the others green, loose trousers
and short snug vests. Scarves trailed from their wrists and Jodiya’s chestnut hair hung loose and shining. Their masks shimmered
with sequins and peacock feathers. Flutes and strings joined the drums.

They moved like water, rushing and gliding and rippling. Every motion seemed effortless, seamless as they dipped and twirled
and leapt—Isyllt knew how much effort such grace required. All professionals, but Jodiya was the best. But for all their skill
it was still choreographed, just a performance, with none of the wild celebration of the dancers in the street.

The music ended with a flurry of drums like thunder and rain and the dancers sank to their knees, faces upturned, masks discarded.
Applause filled the hall; as soon as it quieted, a lively dance tune began and guests crowded the floor. A woman took Asheris’s
arm and he followed her, giving Isyllt a rueful glance.

She retreated from the press, exchanging her empty cup for a goblet from a sideboard. A Chassut red, the sort of vintage that
sold for griffins in Erisín. One of the privileges of Imperialism, she thought, rolling herbs and tannin across her tongue.

“Good evening, Lady.” She looked up to find Siddir smiling at her. He claimed a cup of wine and stood beside her. “I’m still
waiting for the explosion.”

“It’s early yet. I’ve always thought explosions would enliven most government parties.”

He chuckled, his eyes on the dancers. His curls were oiled, but stray strands frizzed in the humidity. Beneath the wine, he
smelled of amber and spices.

“You certainly seem to find trouble, my lady.”

She shrugged. “Perhaps I’m a storm-crow.”

“Storm-crow, or spy.”

“An interesting accusation, my lord.” She sipped her wine, wishing now for something stronger.

“Not an accusation, simply an observation. A foreign sorcerer with a knack for being at interesting places at interesting
times. And I’ve heard of your master and his role in Selafaïn politics. What in Sivahra interests Lord Orfion?”

Before she could answer, a Sivahri matron dripping silk and jeweled bangles slipped free of the crowd and seized Siddir’s
hand.

“Lord Bashari, how wonderful to see you.”

“Good evening, Madam Irezh.”

“My daughter is here tonight, the one I’ve told you about. I must introduce you.” She glanced at Isyllt then and blinked.

“Go on,” Isyllt told him sweetly. “I’m sure we can talk later.”

When they were gone she finished her wine and set the goblet aside, stopping herself when she nearly reached for another.
Getting drunk wouldn’t help, no matter how pleasant it sounded. As soon as she got home she would buy a bottle and charge
it to the expense account.

She retreated farther from the crowd and lights, looking for Asheris’s dark head above the crowd. After a moment, she spotted
him.

Jodiya had steered him away from the dance, into the shadow of a column near the dais. She slipped one hand beneath his jacket
and the other rose to his jeweled collar. He didn’t touch her, not even to push her away, but Isyllt could see the tension
trembling through him from yards away. The girl tilted her face to kiss him and his lips blanched.

It was none of her business, and Asheris doubtless knew how to close his eyes and think of the Empire.

But his hands shook like frightened birds and she couldn’t walk away.

Isyllt moved toward them, tugging her gloves off. “Excuse me,” she said too sweetly, leaning close. “May I steal Asheris for
a dance?” She reached out her left hand, the diamond leaking bitter chill. Jodiya recoiled just in time to keep Isyllt from
touching her shoulder.

“Of course.” She recovered quickly, but her smile was brittle, kohl-darkened eyes narrow. A stray sequin flashed on her cheekbone.
Blue silk hissed as she strode away. Brazen for an apprentice—what other services did she perform for the Kurun Tam, or for
the Empire?

“Am I interrupting?” Isyllt tucked her gloves into a skirt pocket, shaking her hands lightly to dry her palms.

“Yes, and I thank you for it.” Asheris laid a hand against her waist, the heat of his flesh soaking through cloth and stays.
“Your timing is wonderful.” She could still feel his tension as he took her hand, but the tightness in his jaw eased.

The dance was a simple one, measured steps that required little thought. They moved in silence for a time. Asheris smiled
pleasantly, but his eyes were hooded, unreadable.

“Does it bother you not at all to bind ghosts?” he asked at last. His thumb slid across the knuckles of her left hand, not
quite touching the ring. “To enslave them? Not even spirits, but the souls of your own kind.”

“Every ghost I’ve bound committed crimes that would see living men imprisoned or executed. You wouldn’t let a living man who
tortured or murdered his family go free—why let him do such things in death?”

His lips twisted. “I know many torturers and murderers who walk free, and I suspect you do too. Even so, it still seems…cruel.”

She reached up, breaking the form of the dance, and brushed his shirt away from the golden collar. The yellow diamond burned
at his throat, much too fiercely to be empty. “Do you think it less cruel to trap spirits?”

He caught her hand, hard enough to hurt, and his eyes narrowed. A heartbeat later his face smoothed and he kissed her knuckles
apologetically. “Every bit as cruel. Believe me, Lady, I take no pride in this stone.”

The music ended and he released her too quickly for courtesy. “Excuse me a moment. I need a drink.”

Isyllt let him go. The musicians struck up a livelier beat, and she turned to find Siddir weaving toward her through the crowd.
She let him claim her hand, not yet sure if she should be amused or worried, and they spun into the dance.

“For someone who thinks I attract ill-luck,” she said as the steps brought them close, “you seem quite willing to keep my
company.”

“You never answered my last question.”

“What makes you think my presence here has anything to do with Kiril? If you know so much about him, you might know we had
a falling-out last year.”

“Arguments are easily counterfeited.”

She twirled, skirts spinning, and touched his outstretched hand. Her slipper clung damp and sticky to her foot; the blister
had broken. “Let me assure you, Lord Bashari, there is nothing counterfeit in the unpleasantness between me and Lord Orfion.”
Truth, raw and bitter, straining her voice. His pleasant expression faltered.

“Then I’m sorry for your grief.” They drew together, nearly breast to breast. “I know you have no reason to trust me and a
dozen not to, but I think our goals may lie in similar directions.”

That pulled her eyebrows up. She met his eyes—green-and-gold-flecked and terribly earnest. She envied him; she doubted she’d
looked so innocent since she was ten years old.

“What if they don’t?” Another step apart, another twirl. “We’ve only just met—are we to become enemies so soon?”

“I hope not. But perhaps the risk is worth it.”

She stepped back into his arms, wishing she could scent deception as some mages claimed they could. All she smelled was wine
and sweat and the cloying mix of a dozen perfumes. “Are you prepared to tell me you’re plotting against the Khas?” she whispered.

“No.” His breath warmed the side of her face. “I’m plotting against the Emperor.”

She drew back, struggling to keep up with the dance steps while she looked at his face. If he was lying, she couldn’t tell.
Choices dizzied her. But she had to do something, so why not risk?

“We aren’t enemies, then.”

Zhirin and her mother arrived unfashionably late, after the dancing had begun. Their argument over the proper amount of mourning-wear
had lasted nearly an hour. In the end Fei Minh lent her a sari, deep green silk shot with gold and orange thread, still trimmed
in gray since the death of Zhirin’s great-aunt two years ago.

Lanterns and garlands dripped from the trees of the Pomegranate Court; rain bruised the flowers and decay tainted their waxy
sweetness. Usually the court was open to guests, but now soldiers patrolled amid the trees and no couples sat in the rain-sheltered
alcoves. They passed the wide lion fountain, twin to the one in the Kurun Tam, and climbed the steps to the council hall.
The smell of sweat and wine and perfume wafted through the doors, mingling with the cloying flowers and the sharpness of the
rain. Zhirin swallowed nervous spit.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” Fei Minh asked.

Zhirin forced a smile. “Of course.”

It wasn’t much of a crowd, she told herself as they stepped inside. Much smaller than other parties she’d attended here. But
still too many; her vision blurred, marble rippling like water, the guests a shimmering haze of gold and silk and gems. No
one else wore gray. How many of these people would feel like dancing if they’d watched a nakh sink its teeth into a man’s
throat?

Her courage nearly fled, but her stomach rumbled and the sharp edge of hunger cleared her head. She hadn’t eaten anything
today but tea, and her body no longer cared about her grief. She grounded herself in the practical concern; she’d survived
last night, she could survive a party.

“Oh, look,” Fei Minh said. “Lu Zhin is here.” She waved to the matriarch of the Irezh family, bracelets chiming softly. “And
Min is back from the university.”

Zhirin barely stopped her eyes from rolling. That was a conversation she planned to stay far away from. “I’m going to find
something to eat. I’ll join you later.”

“Good idea.” Her mother’s eyes narrowed. “You’re looking a bit sallow—not that the color helps.” She flicked a fingernail
against a gray ribbon.

Zhirin pushed Fei Minh lightly toward the Irezhs. “I’ll see you later, Mira.”

The dancing distracted people from the food, and Zhirin filled a plate with cakes and century eggs wrapped in pickled ginger.
The finer red wines were nearly gone, but plenty of chilled white Mareotis remained, goblets sweating on the linen tablecloths.

She found a chair against the wall and balanced her plate on her knees, nibbling a cardamom cream-cake and watching the dancers
circle. She had no idea if Isyllt would be here, she realized. For all she knew Asheris had locked her in a lead-lined cell
somewhere.

Then the crowd shifted and Zhirin saw her. She nearly choked on a bite of cake and washed it down with wine. More specter
than living woman, with her gown the color of ashes and bone-pale skin. Like something out of a play, the White Bone Queen
stalking a ball for her next victim. It took a moment to recognize her dance partner—the man from the festival. At least he
didn’t look as though he’d fall over dead anytime soon.

Across the room servants opened the terrace doors; the heat of so many dancing bodies threatened to overcome the building’s
cooling spells. Almost at once couples began to trickle out in search of privacy.

The song ended and Isyllt and her partner moved toward the refreshment tables. Zhirin rose to join them—she nearly set her
plate down, but the sight of Isyllt’s shoulder blades rippling beneath too little flesh made her hold on to it.

Color burned in Isyllt’s cheeks and she smiled at something the man said as they collected wineglasses, but it seemed strained.
The pleasant expression fell away when she saw Zhirin.

“How are you?”

Zhirin shrugged. “All right. Considering. You?”

“The same. Excuse me—Zhirin, meet Siddir Bashari.”

Not a name she recognized—maybe her mother knew who he was. She nodded politely. “Excuse me, but I need to speak to Lady Iskaldur
for a moment. Come outside with me?”

Isyllt nodded and bade farewell to Bashari.

The rain had stopped, save for the steady drip of the gutters. Lanterns swayed lazily, tongues of light lapping across the
wet grass. Whispers drifted from shadowed corners. Zhirin left the terrace, moving toward a covered bench on the lawn. Damp
seeped between her toes and stray blades of grass clung to her sandals.

“Adam sent me,” she said softly. “He wants to know what he should do.”

Isyllt sighed a little, as if in relief. “Tell him to get a mirror, a small one that will fit in a pocket, and carry it with
him. Glass if he can manage, but brass or bronze will do. Beyond that, we’ll have to see. I don’t know yet if I need a daring
rescue or not.”

Across the yard, a stone platform shone pale in the darkness, each corner marked by a column. Zhirin grimaced at the sight.

“The execution yard,” she said when Isyllt raised a questioning eyebrow. “The stones will be blooded soon, my mother says.”

“Oh?”

“Three members of Clan Xian have been linked to the Dai Tranh and will be charged for the attack on the festival. Never mind
that they were arrested days before it happened.” She put her back to the square as they reached the bench. “What happened
with Asheris?” she asked, testing the stone for dampness before she sat.

“He’s keeping me close. It’s all very polite, but I can’t leave the Khas.”

“What will you do?” Zhirin set her plate on the bench, nudging it toward Isyllt.

Shadows rippled across the woman’s face as she frowned. “I don’t know. Escape would only give him reason to arrest me.”

“You could leave, couldn’t you? Go home. You’ve done what you came to do.”

“Not until the supply ship arrives and Jabbor has the cargo. I won’t leave the job half finished.” Isyllt took a pastry, tearing
off a bit of crust.

The job. Zhirin picked at a black-marbled egg. Revolution must be easier if you didn’t have to stay to watch. If you didn’t
have to live in the ashes.