The Drowning City: The Necromancer Chronicles Book One (30 page)

And she called the ghosts. They burst free like a whirlwind, faces ghastly and misshapen. Two flew shrieking toward the canal
and the others turned right. A scream echoed down the alley.

“Go!”

Adam and Vienh bolted. A heartbeat later Isyllt stepped into the rain. Two of the killers broke and fled at the sight of the
raging dead. One vanished toward the street, but a ghost caught the second and he fell, screams turning to choking gasps.

Deadly as they were, ghosts couldn’t stop bullets, but animating took more concentration than she cared to spend, and she
wasn’t skilled enough to make her corpse-puppet truly dangerous. Isyllt let him fall. Only a few more yards and she could
reach the street—and pray a dozen more false Dai Tranh weren’t waiting there.

The last assassin held her ground, pistol steady, not flinching as a ghost shrieked past her. Warded. She was veiled, but
her graceful walk was familiar. Faraj’s pet killer had come out to play.

“Odd,” Isyllt said, “I’ve never seen a Dai Tranh with blue eyes before. Put down the pistol and I’ll put down the ghosts.
Don’t tell me you don’t like to get your hands dirty.” She spread her arms, witchlight flickering around her fingers. Magic
ached in her bones, a relentless, empty cold that reached deeper than the grave.

Jodiya’s shoulders shook in a silent laugh. Slowly, she lowered her pistol.

And flung the grenade she held in her other hand.

The fuse kindled in midair, burning unnaturally fast. No chance to outrun the explosion.

Instead, Isyllt caught it. She hissed at the pain in her left hand, at the precious fraction of fuse being consumed. As soon
as iron touched her skin, her magic began to work. Rust blossomed across damp metal, corroding at preternatural speed. Within
heartbeats the iron shell crumbled in her hands, black powder hissing to the ground. She turned her head just in time as the
fuse caught the last of the gunpowder and sprayed her with sparks.

Her hands twisted with the pain of it, but she bared her teeth at Jodiya. “Again?”

The girl raised her pistol, but before she could fire the water rushing through the gutter rose, uncoiling like a snake charmer’s
asp. The water serpent struck Jodiya hard enough to send her sprawling, then dissolved with a splash.

“Come on!” Zhirin called from the end of the alley.

Smoke poured from the ruin of the Storm God’s Bride, but Isyllt only spared it a glance. Someone shouted as they bolted across
the street and down another alley, but she couldn’t tell if it was another assassin. No one appeared behind them as they ducked
through Merrowgate’s back streets.

“Good timing,” Isyllt said as they crossed a canal.

“You’re lucky traffic wasn’t worse,” Zhirin gasped, her cheeks flushed dark. “I heard you call me and then you didn’t answer.”
She slowed, pressing a hand against her side. “Who was that?”

“Khas assassins trying to pass themselves off as Dai Tranh.” Her lungs burned, one more little agony to join the chorus. “Where
are we going?”

The girl paused, frowning. “Out of the city.”

In the wake of the attack, ferries stopped running from Merrowgate to the Northern Bank—no one wanted to be accused of helping
Dai Tranh escape. Wrapped in spells of distraction, Zhirin and Isyllt fled to Jadewater, where they found a skiff willing
to take them across. No simple charm could keep Isyllt from being memorable up close, though—pallid and sunken-eyed, with
fierce red burns scattered across her cheek and singed hair frizzing around her face. She moved like an old woman, left arm
cradled against her chest. Zhirin felt as though she should help her aboard the boat but couldn’t nerve herself to do it;
she’d watched iron dissolve in the woman’s hands, and the bitter scent of the magic clung to her still.

The skiff had no top and they were rain-drenched and shivering by the time they reached the shore, docking at the closest
jetty in Lhun lands. As they moored, Zhirin counted out coins—she had enough for the passage, but if she paid extra to keep
the ferryman’s mouth shut she’d have little left. She should have refilled her purse while she was home.

“Let me,” Isyllt said as she dithered over the bribe, and scooped the coins out of her hand. Zhirin fought a flinch at the
necromancer’s cold touch. Isyllt handed the money to the pilot with a whispered word. The man’s hands closed on the coins
and his eyes dulled, mouth slackening.

“Hurry,” Isyllt said, climbing onto the dock. “It won’t last long.”

Zhirin glanced over her shoulder as they hastened away, saw the man stir and shake his head in confusion.

“Where now?” Isyllt asked. Rain dripped from her hair and her teeth had begun to chatter, which Zhirin didn’t like; it wasn’t
that cold.

“We need to find Jabbor,” she said. “The Tigers can find us a safe place.” If she said it confidently enough, perhaps it would
be true.

The sun climbed behind its veil of clouds as they walked to Xao Mae Lhun and the Tiger’s Tail. Morning chill gave way to tepid
stickiness, but Isyllt didn’t stop shivering. Zhirin bought them hot tea doctored with brandy and paid the bartender to take
a message to the Jade Tigers. For all of Jabbor’s promises, she wondered what his reaction would be when she came penniless
with a hunted foreign spy at her side. Only days ago such doubt would have been unthinkable.

They waited in a dim corner of the bar. Isyllt drowsed, her face splotched and damp, and Zhirin chewed her lip. This was a
terrible time to pass out, especially since her own eyes ached and she wanted so badly to lay her head down. The bartender
shot her pointed glances every so often, but she couldn’t afford much more to drink and it would only have gone to waste anyway.

The noon bells died before the door opened and a familiar shadow stepped inside. Zhirin kicked Isyllt under the table as she
rose, trying to keep the desperate relief off her face. She held herself straight, even when Jabbor grabbed her shoulders.

“What happened?”

“Isyllt was attacked. We need to get out of the city. Does your offer still stand?”

“Of course it does.” But his eyes narrowed as he glanced at Isyllt. “She’s sick.”

“All the more reason to get us to a safe place quickly.”

He sighed and nodded. “Let’s go. Can you walk?” he asked Isyllt.

“Of course.” But her hand was white-knuckled and trembling on the back of her chair as she rose, and Zhirin wondered how much
farther she could go.

A pair of Tigers she didn’t know waited outside, flanking them as they moved through the village. Rivulets of mud ran down
the narrow path, twisting and eddying around stones.

They headed northwest toward the sloping mountain road, but by the time they reached the outskirts of the village Jabbor was
frowning. “We’re being followed.” He turned a fierce glare at Isyllt, and Zhirin flushed.

Turning, she found three hooded figures closing on them. Jabbor shoved her behind him, hand on his knife-hilt, but their assailants
already had pistols drawn. The middlemost pulled aside her veil, baring long brown hair.

“You’re right,” Jodiya said, gun pointed at Isyllt. “I do like to get my hands dirty. But I like getting the job done even
more. And now you’ve made this even more convenient. Lucky for me Asheris is soft.”

“And lucky for me you talk too much.”

Jodiya spun, but her companions kept their guns steady. Zhirin’s lips parted in shock.

“Mother?” she gasped, before she could stop herself.

Fei Minh stepped closer, a pistol in her manicured hand. “Really, dear. Did you think I was going to let you run off like
that without someone to keep an eye on you?” Her escort fanned around her, weapons drawn. Zhirin gaped more when she recognized
Mau among them.

“You wouldn’t dare,” Jodiya said. “You’re Faraj’s creature.”

Fei Minh’s eyebrows rose in the shadow of her hood. “I’m a politician and a merchant—you think I don’t know when to hedge
my bets? And you might consider a milder tongue, under the circumstances.”

Jodiya’s lips twisted and she whistled once, high and sharp. Zhirin tensed and Jabbor’s arm stiffened under her hand, but
Fei Minh only laughed.

“I’m sorry, but the rest of your men won’t be coming.”

Jodiya’s jaw clenched; a raindrop trickled down her cheek and dripped from her chin. “What next, then? Shall we stand here
until all our guns are too damp to fire?”

“Or perhaps you should put yours down. You’re outnumbered.”

“Yes, but you or your daughter might die with us if you shoot. Will you risk that?”

Zhirin’s fingers tightened on Jabbor’s sleeve, and she felt leather beneath the cloth. She loosened her grip, holding her
breath as a knife dropped silently into his hand. Beside her, Isyllt shifted her weight. One of Jodiya’s companions began
to tremble faintly.

Fei Minh drew a breath, perhaps to answer. Zhirin felt a prickle of gathering magic and tensed just as a shrill, icy shriek
cut the air.

Guns thundered and Jabbor pushed her down as he launched himself at the closer assassin. Zhirin slipped and hit the ground
with a splatter of mud. Someone shouted; someone else fell. She scrabbled out of the road, hands skidding across wet grass—water
everywhere, but too scattered to answer her. She looked back to see smoke fade into the rain and the last assassin fall as
Jabbor broke his knee with a kick. The knife flashed as the man went down, and he didn’t rise again.

Stories spoke of heroes fighting from dawn to dusk, but in truth it happened so fast she could scarcely follow. Four bodies
sprawled in the mud—Jodiya, her men, and one of the Tigers whose name she’d never learned.

“Idiot girl,” Fei Minh muttered. Zhirin wasn’t sure if she meant her daughter or Jodiya. She tucked her pistol inside her
coat and picked her way around puddles till she reached Zhirin.

“What are you going to tell Faraj?” she asked, taking her mother’s hand.

“I’ll think of something. Or perhaps nothing at all—murder is an ugly business, after all, and one can hardly be surprised
when an assassin finally makes a wrong move.”

“Mira—”

Someone shouted, and past her mother’s shoulder she saw Jodiya stir.

“Watch out!” But her shout was swallowed by a pistol’s crack. Fei Minh’s lips parted in shock and she stumbled into Zhirin’s
arms. She threw a clumsy arm around her mother and flinched; the moisture soaking her back wasn’t rain.

“Mother!”

They both fell to their knees. Fei Minh gasped, mouth moving, but Zhirin couldn’t hear the words over the roar of her heart.
Blood slicked her hands as she tried to stanch the wound, but already her mother was crumpling in her arms, her grip on Zhirin’s
hand falling away.

She might have screamed, but she couldn’t hear that either.

People were shouting. Jabbor knelt beside her, trying to tug her away. Isyllt rose shakily from beside Jodiya’s still form.
Mau fell to her knees beside her mistress, mouth working. Water rolled down Fei Minh’s face, soaking her hair and tangling
in her lashes as her eyes sagged closed. Zhirin could hardly see through the blurring rain.

Jabbor’s words finally began to make sense. “We have to go, Zhir, now. We have to go.” She couldn’t fight as he lifted her
up, could barely keep her knees from buckling. Rain ran down her face, hot and cold, washing the blood on her hands rusty
pink.

“Go,” Mau said, her voice harsh and cracking. “Get out of here. We’ll deal with this.” Mau tugged a ring off Fei Minh’s limp
hand and pressed it into Zhirin’s. Her fingers curled around it reflexively, blood smearing the gold. She couldn’t draw breath
around the pain in her chest, as if the ghost of the bullet had passed through her mother and struck her.

“Come on,” Jabbor said, tugging her away. “I’m sorry.”

They only made it a few yards before Isyllt collapsed onto the rain-soaked road.

E
ven unconscious, a trained necromancer was never truly helpless. It certainly felt that way, though, as Isyllt watched Jabbor
carry her limp body into the forest. She was lucky he didn’t leave her in the mud, especially since Zhirin was in no condition
to argue for her safety.

On the other side of the mirror, Sivahra’s forest rose thick and dark. The sky was a low ceiling of gray and violet clouds,
twilit gloom. Spirits chattered in the trees and the breeze twisted through the leaves in silver and indigo ribbons, beautiful
and disorienting.

Vertigo struck quickly, the familiar dizziness that came of casting her spirit free. On its heels came the wild rush of freedom,
the longing to run and fly unfettered by meat. It was the most dangerous part of ghostwalking, more dangerous than any lurking
spirit—if she abandoned her flesh too long, she might never return to it. She held on to the echo of her heartbeat until the
urge passed. At least, she thought bitterly, as a ghost she had two good hands.

At the Tigers’ safe house, Jabbor carried her inside and laid her body on a bedroll, less gently than she would have liked.
The living glowed blue-white with heat and life, distorted as if she watched them through water. Her own flesh was clearer
and dimmer, the light drawn in. She hadn’t realized how awful she looked, blue as milk and hollow-eyed. She could return to
her body, perhaps even wake, but she needed rest and this might be the safest place to find any.

Zhirin sank onto a pallet in the far corner. Jabbor tried to speak to her, but she wouldn’t answer and after a moment he left
her alone, closing the bamboo door behind him. When he was gone, she began to cry.

Isyllt turned away from the girl’s grief. She’d known Jodiya wasn’t dead but hadn’t acted in time. And while it was true that
she’d been so exhausted she could barely walk, that wasn’t a particularly good excuse. Not one Zhirin would want to hear,
at any rate. Even the memory of the assassin’s heart stilling beneath her hand was a hollow one.

She made sure her pulse was steady and wrapped her body in webs of wards. She needed to rest her spirit as well as her flesh,
but not just yet. And she didn’t want to fall asleep listening to Zhirin’s tears. The diamond flared as she touched it with
spectral fingers, but the girl didn’t notice.