The Drowning City: The Necromancer Chronicles Book One (23 page)

“Just tired.” He sank into a chair. “Some things I can’t quite grow used to.” He waved toward the dinner tray on the table.
“Tea? I’m afraid it’s cold.”

“That’s all right.” Isyllt poured a cup, swirled bitter black liquid around for a moment. Leaves eddied and swirled against
porcelain; a pity she’d never been much for divination. After a moment she set it down again and rose to pace beside the window.
“You need a proper team of necromancers.”

“I know. The Emperor has other priorities.”

She paced another circuit, pausing as she passed his chair. His robe hung open, and for the first time she saw his collar
clearly. Gold wire looped and whorled around his neck in delicate vining tendrils. Tiny rubies gleamed like drops of blood.
She followed the twisting lines, but didn’t find a clasp. She raised a hand, stopped before she touched him.

“What deserves such a prison?” The power of the diamond whispered against her hand, a rhythm she didn’t recognize. Something
strange about the feel of it.

Asheris turned, caught her hand and kissed her fingertips. This kiss was neither chaste nor courteous. Heat spread from his
lips, shivered the length of her arm. He stood, still holding her hand, and warmth lapped over her.

“What are you doing?” Her voice wasn’t as steady as she would have liked.

“What do you think I’m doing?” His other hand traced the angle of her jaw, tilted her face up.

“I think you’re trying to distract me.”

“Is it working?”

He kissed her; she didn’t stop him. The taste of his magic spilled over her tongue. The strangeness was there too, some subtle
flavor she didn’t understand. She leaned in, mouth opening, free hand rising to cup the curve of his skull.

He flinched from her touch and pulled away. Her pulse beat in her lips.

“I’m sorry.” He took her left hand carefully, not touching the ring. “Not this, please. Not after…”

She looked down at the diamond, black and still now, no fire in its depths. She might demand the same of him, but the bruised
look on his face stopped her. Beyond foolish, but she was tired of being alone. She twisted the ring free, slipped it into
her inside coat pocket and offered him her naked hand.

“No ghosts.” That was a lie and they both knew it; their ghosts were always with them.

He kissed her fingertips, her palm, and pulled her close. The lamps flickered and died as he led her to his bed. For an hour
or two, at least, they might banish them.

Isyllt woke with a start, reaching for a weapon that wasn’t there. The bed was empty and cold, and the room as well. A draft
gusted over her, teasing gooseflesh across her skin and tightening her breasts.

She reached down, found her clothes where she’d left them and checked her pocket. Her ring was still there; she slipped it
on, shaking her head at her own stupidity. At least the diversion had been pleasant. She pressed her face to the pillow and
breathed in the scent of sweat and spices.

Isyllt rose and dressed, followed the humid draft into the sitting room, where the balcony door stood open. Rain hissed against
the leaves, dripped over Asheris’s bare shoulders as he leaned out into the night. A shining rivulet snaked down his back,
soaking into the waist of his trousers. He scrubbed a weary hand across his face and flung droplets away.

She bit her lip and nearly turned away. She knew that tired antipathy—she’d seen it in Kiril a dozen times, in her own reflection.
But mercy was so rarely an option, for yourself or the enemy.

“Lie back and think of the Empire?” she asked softly.

Asheris turned, scattering water. In the darkness his skin was nearly purple. “I’m sorry,” he said after a pause.

“For what? Not wanting me?” She smiled wryly; it stung more than she liked to admit. “You counterfeit it rather well.”

“I’ve had practice.”

She remembered Jodiya at the ball and glanced away. She didn’t have the luxury of regrets right now.

“Are you planning to kill me?” she asked, catching his eyes.

He arched an eyebrow. “I wasn’t—should I be?”

“The Viceroy has condoned my death. It seemed like a wasted opportunity back there.”

“Ah.” He stepped inside and latched the door. Steam drifted off his skin as water dried. “I have no orders to harm you. Not
yet.”

“If you want to take the initiative, now would be a good time.”

He smiled. “It would be inconsiderate to wake the house. Besides”—his smile twisted—“I’d rather test my leash as far as I
might.”

She swallowed half a dozen questions. Pressing him too far wouldn’t serve her now. Instead she turned, deliberately giving
him her back, and fetched her shoes and stray underclothes from the bedroom.

“Will you attend the execution tomorrow?” she asked.

His lip curled. “So I am bid. There will be blood and death to go around this season.”

And likely more than he realized. But warning him of tomorrow’s attack was more leash than she cared to test.

“Good night.” She left him in the dark and returned to her own cold bed.

T
he execution began at noon.

Isyllt gathered with the other spectators around the dais. Councillors mostly, she guessed, and other bureaucrats who worked
at the Khas. Some observers from the city had been allowed in, and servants lingered on the skirts of the crowd, shifting
nervously. The sky was gray in the lull before the afternoon rains.

Asheris stood with the Viceroy and executioner on the dais; Isyllt had never seen him in an Imperial uniform before. His face
might have been a wooden mask.

The prisoners knelt on the stone—two men and a woman, stripped to the waist, their hands bound to posts behind their backs.
They didn’t speak; one man kept his eyes closed, while his companions stared defiantly at the crowd.

When the last of the noon bells died, Faraj stepped forward to face the prisoners. His voice, however, was pitched to reach
the crowd.

“Bai Xian, Yuen Xian, and Thuan Xian-Zhu. You are found guilty of conspiring against the Empire and the Khas Maram and murdering
Khas soldiers. In addition, you have been implicated in the destruction of Imperial property, and the attacks on Amina Abbasi’s
shop on Market Street and the Floating Garden, which resulted in the deaths of over thirty citizens of Symir. The sentence
for these crimes is death. But you’ve been offered leniency if you renounce your allegiance to the terrorist organization
called the Dai Tranh, and I’ll extend this offer once more. Will you repudiate these murderers and help us bring peace to
the city?”

The woman, Yuen, spat on the stone. The others remained silent.

“Very well.” He turned to the crowd. “Before the sentence is carried out, is there anyone present who would speak, either
for or against the condemned?”

The silence stretched, not even a muttered word to break it. But as Faraj drew breath to speak again, footsteps crunched on
the gravel path and a murmur rippled through the crowd.

“I’ll speak.”

Spectators cleared the path to admit Jabbor Lhun. Two Sivahri flanked him and soldiers with drawn weapons surrounded them
all. The three wore honor-blades at their hips and gray sashes at their waists. A pattern of tiger stripes decorated their
bare upper arms—ocher paint on Jabbor’s dark skin, black on his companions’.

Isyllt bit down an annoyed sigh. All their plans would be for nothing if the Tigers got themselves killed or arrested on some
foolish point of honor.

Faraj blinked, but recovered quickly. “And who do you speak for? More terrorists and murderers?”

“The Jade Tigers are no murderers and you know it. I speak for the Tigers, and also for Clan Lhun, since we are denied a seat
in the House of the People.”

“Clan Lhun may claim its seat whenever it chooses to swear the council’s oaths. You stay apart by your own choice. But why
are you here? Do you intend to defend the condemned?”

“I don’t condone the actions of the Dai Tranh when they cost innocent lives, but I know that these people were arrested days
before the attack on the festival. If you mean to condemn them, perhaps you should choose crimes they might’ve had the chance
to truly commit.”

Yuen Xian bared her teeth in an ugly smile. Faraj’s lips thinned.

“They have admitted their involvement with the Dai Tranh, and the Dai Tranh’s with these attacks. They choose to protect their
compatriots and endanger the lives of still more innocents.”

“But their blood won’t undo the damage done, nor heal Sivahra’s wounds, will it?”

“No, but perhaps it can ease the pain of some of the victims’ families.” He raised a hand when Jabbor would have replied.
“If you wish to continue this conversation, Mr. Lhun, you’re welcome to bring it before the council. We certainly have matters
we’d like to discuss with you. But today, sentence has been passed and will be carried out.”

The soldiers tightened their circle around the Tigers, weapons steady. Faraj signaled the executioner and the man drew his
sword. A kris-blade, long and waving; patterns rippled like water along the steel.

The swordsman stood behind the first prisoner, aimed the sword at the valley above the man’s collarbone. Down through the
lung, into the heart—it would be a clean kill, at least, if done properly. The watchers held their breath.

Faraj lowered his hand, and the swordsman thrust. The prisoner gasped and shuddered but didn’t scream. A bubble of blood burst
on his lips. The executioner twisted the blade and tugged it free. The man wavered on his knees for several heartbeats, crimson
spilling in waves down his chest, then toppled over. Blood washed over the dais, seeping between the stones.

The swordsman wiped the blade with a cloth, but rust-colored stains clung in the patterned grooves. He moved behind Yuen and
raised the sword again.

And fell with an arrow sprouting from his chest.

Someone screamed and the crowd scattered. Shots cracked from a rooftop and Asheris seized Faraj, hauling him off the dais.
A wall of shimmering air enveloped them. Isyllt ducked against a tree trunk, dodging fleeing spectators. Arrows rained with
the bullets, but more accurately. A councillor fell in front of her, a feathered shaft through his throat.

One of the soldiers beside Jabbor fell too, his face shattered by a bullet. Another stabbed at Jabbor, but the Lhun woman
gutted him before the stroke could land. Cursing, the Tigers fought their way free and ducked behind a row of hedges.

Isyllt crouched, ready to run toward them, but movement on the dais distracted her. Yuen Xian had slipped her bonds and claimed
the executioner’s sword. She freed her clansman, then turned on Asheris and Faraj. His shield would stop bullets and arrows,
but could it turn a blade?

Run
, Isyllt told herself,
run
. But she kept watching. Even if she shouted, she doubted he’d hear her over the chaos. Yuen raised the sword.

And screamed as flames encased her. The sword fell with a shower of sparks as she stumbled back and dropped to the blood-drenched
stone, trying to roll out the flames.

But an instant’s distraction was enough to cost Asheris his shield. Another pistol fired and he fell.

And Isyllt, cursing herself for a fool, bolted toward him, ducking behind the edge of the dais. Faraj crouched with his back
to the stone, face drained ashen.

Isyllt grabbed Asheris’s arm, hauled him into the dubious cover. Blood stained his left shoulder, spreading around the hole
in his coat. Sweat glistened on his brow and his breath came short and sharp.

“Don’t—” he whispered as she tugged torn cloth aside.

“Damn it, let me see.” Not the heart, at least. She laid her hand on his shoulder, searching for death-echoes in the wound.
Not that she could do a damned thing if it was mortal—

She sucked in a breath and watched as the misshapen copper ball melted and oozed out of the wound. His diamond pulsed and
sparked in time with his pulse, but her own magic was silent. He carried no trace of death in his flesh.

“What are you?”

He only shook his head, that hollow look in his eyes again. Faraj frowned and grabbed at her arm, but Isyllt pulled free and
ran. Gunsmoke hung in the air, along with the reek of blood and death. She glanced up, glimpsed crouching figures on the nearest
rooftop before a bullet struck the path in front of her, kicking up dust and shards of gravel. She dove sideways, scrambling
across the grass, nearly tripping over the dead councillor as she regained the shelter of the tree.

Jabbor and his Tigers were still pinned down across the path. They had no cover for yards if they ran for the main gate.

Leaves rustled behind her and she turned to find Li creeping toward her.

“Be careful,” Isyllt hissed, beckoning the woman closer. She didn’t see the knife till Li was nearly on her.

She caught the first stroke with her forearm instead of her neck; the blade traced a line of fire below her elbow. Isyllt
drove her knee into the woman’s ribs, falling back on her good arm. Li grunted, dodged a kick and lunged, driving Isyllt flat
against the ground and knocking the air from her lungs. The sky darkened as Li leaned over her, knocked her left arm aside.
She threw up her wounded arm to block the blow—

But Li wasn’t aiming for her heart or her throat. The knife came down and Isyllt screamed as it skewered her left palm, nailing
her hand to the ground. Her vision washed red and black; the weight left her chest, but she still couldn’t breathe.

She didn’t realize she’d lost consciousness till she came to at the sound of her name. Hands on her shoulders, dragging her
up, and she gasped as bone grated on steel.

“Mother’s bones.” Jabbor crouched beside her. “Hold still,” he said, reaching for the knife. “This will hurt.”

She sobbed as he eased the blade free; metal slid past layers of skin and muscle and tissue, scraped bone. Blood pooled in
her palm, ran down her wrist as she lifted her arm. She couldn’t move her fingers. Li was gone and so was her ring.

“Where did she go?” She rose to her knees, cradling her useless hand against her chest. Blood soaked her shirt, dripped off
her other arm as well. “Damn it, where did she go?”