The Drowning City: The Necromancer Chronicles Book One (2 page)

Of course not—Imperial mages would hardly be burdened with problems like taxes. It was much the same in the Arcanost in Erisín.

“Are these tariffs only in Sivahra?” she asked.

“Oh, no. All Imperial territories and colonies are subject.”

Not just sanctions against a rebellious population, then, but real money-raising. That left an unpleasant taste in the back
of her mouth. Twenty-five days with no news was chancy where politics were concerned.

The other officials emerged from the cargo hold a few moments later and the captain grudgingly paid their fees. The woman
turned back to Isyllt, her expression brightening. “If you like, meliket, I can take you to the Silver Phoenix myself. It
will be a much shorter route than getting there from the docks.”

Isyllt smiled. “That would be lovely. Shakera.”

Adam cocked an eyebrow as he hoisted bags. Isyllt’s lips curled. “It never pays to annoy foreign guests,” she murmured in
Selafaïn. “Especially ones who can steal your soul.”

She tried to watch the commotion on the docks, but the skiff moved swiftly and they were soon out of sight. A cloud of midges
trailed behind the craft; the drone of wings carried unpleasant memories of the plague, but the natives seemed unconcerned.
Isyllt waved the biting insects away, though she was immune to whatever exotic diseases they might carry. As they rowed beneath
a raised water gate, a sharp, minty smell filled the air and the midges thinned.

The inspector—who introduced herself as Anhai Xian-Mar—talked as they went, her voice counterpoint to the rhythmic splash
of oars as she explained the myriad delta islands on which the city was built, the web of canals that took the place of stone
streets. Xinai’s mask slipped for an instant and Isyllt saw the cold disdain in her eyes. The mercenary had little love for
countrymen who served their Assari conquerors.

Sunlight spilled like honey over their shoulders, gilding the water and gleaming on domes and tilting spires. Buildings crowded
together, walls of cream and ocher stone, pale blues and dusty pinks, balconies nearly touching over narrow alleys and waterways.
Bronze chimes flashed from eaves and lintels. Vines trailed from rooftop gardens, dripping leaves and orange blossoms onto
the water. Birds perched in potted trees and on steep green- and gray-tiled roofs.

Invaders the Assari might be, but they had built a beautiful city. Isyllt tried to imagine the sky dark with smoke, the water
running red. The city would be less lovely if her mission succeeded.

She’d heard stories from other agents of how the job crept into everything, reduced buildings and cities to exits and escape
routes, defenses and weaknesses to be exploited. Till you couldn’t look at anything—or anyone—without imagining how to infiltrate
or corrupt or overthrow. She wondered how long it would take to happen to her. If she would even notice when it did.

Anhai followed Isyllt’s gaze to the water level—slime crusted the stone several feet above the surface of the canal. “The
rains will come soon and the river will rise. You’re in time for the Dance of Masks.”

The skiff drew up against a set of stairs and the oarsmen secured the boat and helped Adam and Xinai unload the luggage. A
tall building rose above them, decorated with Selafaïn pillars. A carven phoenix spread its wings over the doors and polished
horn panes gleamed ruddy in the dying light.

Anhai bowed farewell. “If you need anything at all, meliket, you can find me at the port authority office.”

“Shakera.” Isyllt offered her hand, and the silver griffin she held. She never saw where Anhai tucked the coin.

The she stepped from the skiff to the slime-slick stairs and set foot in the Drowning City.

The Phoenix was as decadent as Xinai had promised. Isyllt floated in the wide tub, her hair drifting around her in a black
cloud. Oils shimmered on the water, filled the room with poppy and myrrh. Lamplight gleamed on blue and green tiles and rippled
over the cool marble arch of the ceiling. She was nearly dozing when someone knocked lightly on the chamber door.

“Don’t drown,” Adam said, his voice muffled by wood.

“Not yet. What is it?”

“Dinner.”

Her stomach growled in response and she shivered in water grown uncomfortably cold. She stood, hair clinging to her arms and
back like sea wrack, and reached for a towel and robe.

The bedroom smelled of wine and curry and her stomach rumbled louder. The
Mariah
’s mess had been good enough, as sea rations went, but she was happy to reacquaint herself with real food.

Adam lit one of the scented-oil lamps and sneezed as the smell of eucalyptus filled the room. The city stank of it at night—like
mint, but harsher, rawer. Linen mesh curtained the windows and tented the bed. The furniture and colorful rugs were Assari,
but black silk covered the mirror, true Selafaïn fashion.

Adam sat, keeping the windows and doors in sight as he helped himself to food from the platter on the table. He’d traded his
ship’s clothes for sleek black, and the shadows in the corner swallowed him.

“Where’s Xinai?” Isyllt asked, glancing at the door that led to the adjoining room.

“Scouting. Seeing how things have changed. The curry’s good.”

She tightened the towel around her hair and sat across from him. The bowls smelled of garlic and ginger and other spices she
couldn’t name. Curries and yogurt, served with rice instead of flat bread, and a bowl of sliced fruit.

“We should find our captain tonight.” She stirred rice into a green sauce. “The Kurun Tam may take all day tomorrow.”

The
Black Mariah
’s legitimate business would keep her in port at least half a decad, but Isyllt wanted to make sure their alternate transportation
was resolved before anything unexpected arose. She scooped up a mouthful of curry and nearly gasped at the sweet green fire.
A pepper burst between her teeth, igniting her nose and throat.

The sounds of the city drifted through the window, lapping water and distant harbor bells. Night birds sang and cats called
to one another from nearby roofs. Footsteps and voices, but no hooves or rattling carriage wheels—the city’s narrow streets
left no room for horses or oxen.

“You don’t want to be here, do you?” Adam asked after a moment. Shadows hid his face, but she felt the weight of his regard,
those eerie green eyes.

She sipped iced-and-honeyed lassi. “It isn’t that, exactly.”

“You’re angry with the old man.”

She kept her face still. She hadn’t cried since the first night at sea, but emotions still threatened to surface when she
wasn’t careful. “I know the job. My problems with Kiril won’t interfere.” Her voice didn’t catch on his name, to her great
relief.

“I hope not. He’ll skin me if I don’t keep you safe.”

Isyllt paused, cup half raised. “He said that?”

Adam chuckled. “He left little room for doubt.”

Wood clacked as she set the drink down. “If he’s so bloody concerned, he could have sent someone else.” She bit her tongue,
cursed the petulant tone that crept into the words. The side door opened with a squeak, saving her from embarrassing herself
further.

Xinai slipped in, feet silent on marble. “I found Teoma. He frequents a tavern on the wharf called the Storm God’s Bride.”
Izachar Teoma had made most of his wealth and notoriety smuggling along Imperial shores, but sailed north often enough to
have encountered Kiril’s web of agents before. A ship quick and clever enough to escape harbor patrols would be useful if
they had to flee the city.

Xinai tossed a stack of cheap pulp paper onto the table. “News-scrawls, from the past decad or so. The criers will have stopped
spreading those stories by now.”

“Thanks.” Isyllt flipped through the stack—wrinkled and water-spotted, and the ink left gray smears on her fingers, but the
looping Assari script was legible. The latest was three days old. She took a moment to adjust to the Assari calendar; today
was Sekhmet seventh, not the twelfth of Janus; 1229 Sal Emperaturi, not 497 Ab Urbe Condita.

She often found the pride of nations silly. Trade and treaties between Assar and Selafai had to be twice dated, because the
founders of Selafai had abandoned all things Imperial when they fled north across the sea five hundred years ago. But if not
for the pride of nations, she’d be out of a job.

She sipped her drink again, watery now as the ice melted. Moisture slicked the curve of the cup. “Did you hear anything about
the protest we saw?”

“Not much. The guards ran them off not long after we arrived, it sounds like. There were arrests, but no real violence.” From
Xinai’s tone, Isyllt couldn’t tell if she was disappointed in that or not.

Adam rose, taking a slice of mango with him. “Finish your dinner, Lady Iskaldur.” The title dripped mockingly off his tongue.
“We’ll leave when you’re ready.”

Night draped the city like damp silk. Heat leaked from the stones, trapped between close walls; sweat prickled the back of
Isyllt’s neck. The end of the dry season in Symir, but the Drowning City would never be truly dry. Insects droned overhead,
avoiding the pungent lamp-smoke, and rats and roaches scuttled in the shadows. Charms hummed around them, soft shivers from
doors and windows.
Safe
, some murmured,
home
. Others pulsed warnings—
stay back, move on, look away.

Shadows pooled between buildings, leaked from narrow alleys; the glow of streetlamps drowned the stars. Voices drifted from
taverns, floated up from the canals as skiffs passed. Water lup-lup-lupped against stone and wind sighed over high bridges,
rattling the chimes that hung on nearly all the buildings. Hollow tubes and octagonal bronze mirrors flashed and clattered—in
Erisín, Selafai’s capital, no one left mirrors uncovered and even still puddles were avoided, but here it seemed they were
lucky.

The crowds had thinned after dusk, stores closed and shuttered, the last clerks and shopkeepers hurrying home. More than once
they passed guard patrols, green uniforms edged with Imperial red—a whispered word kept the soldiers’ eyes off them.

A cool draft wafted past Isyllt, and a whisper light and hollow as reeds. Her bare arms prickled and the diamond chilled on
her finger. She smiled—the touch of death was comforting, made the city feel less foreign.

She studied Adam’s easy stride, the roll of Xinai’s hips as she kept pace with him, the dangerous grace with which they moved.
At home she worked alone more often than not—probably more often than she ought—but Kiril had insisted she bring backup this
time. She could have brought someone familiar, but it was better this way. Too many people in Erisín knew her bitter history
with Kiril, offered her sympathy and sad glances. She preferred the quiet solace of strangers. And, she admitted to herself,
in this strange place she was glad of their presence.

They crossed a wide canal into the dock district—Merrowgate, the map named it. The Phoenix lay in Saltlace, the tourist and
market quarter. The night grew louder as they neared the docks, bare and sandaled feet slapping the stones, laughter and music
echoing from taverns, bells tolling to guide ships in the dark. The cloying spice-sweetness of opium drifted out of an alley
mouth.

As they passed a narrow walkway along the water Isyllt heard a soft cry, like a child’s muffled sob. She paused, searching
for the source. It sounded like it came from the water.

Xinai laid a hand on her arm as she leaned toward the black offal-reek of the canal. “Don’t. It’s a nakh.”

“A what?”

“A water spirit. Like your sirens in the north. They mimic children to lure people close to the water, then pull them in.”

Isyllt frowned down at the black water. “Then what?”

Xinai shrugged. “Eat you. Drown you. I don’t know. I doubt you’d care once you were at the bottom of the bay. The inner canals
are warded, but they slip in around the edges of the city sometimes.” She leaned over the railing and called out in Sivahran;
the word shivered with a weight of magic. Something below them croaked, then splashed and was still. Xinai turned away and
Adam and Isyllt fell in behind her.

The Storm God’s Bride lay on the far side of the district, nestled between storehouses, with cheap rented rooms stacked above
it like a child’s precarious block tower. The sound of flutes and drums drifted through the door and firelight fell from the
windows in oily-gold streaks.

Isyllt was glad to find the Bride little different from the disreputable dock taverns at home. Smoke and sweat and spilled
beer thickened the air, and the tiles were cracked and sticky. Dried plants hung from warped rafters, wards or decoration
or something else entirely.

Xinai twisted through the crowd in search of the captain; Isyllt stayed close to Adam, careful not to foul his sword-arm.
She ran a surreptitious hand over the hilt of her own knife, though the mood in the room seemed pleasant enough.

Musicians played on a low wooden platform against the far wall, mostly ignored by the custom. Sailors and dockworkers, Isyllt
guessed, watching the people slouched on low benches or gathered loudly around the gaming tables. Wiry men and women, scarred
and wind-scoured and plainly dressed, bronze skin and ocher, shades of black and brown. Ninayans and Sivahri and Assari alike
laughed and gambled and drank bowls of beer, and none seemed less welcome than the others. She even saw a few fairer heads,
from Hallach or lands farther north.

Xinai reappeared soon and led them across the room, toward a door beside the stage. As they moved down a narrow corridor,
Isyllt heard the rattle of dice. They entered a cluttered storeroom and found a man sitting alone, rolling bones across a
scarred table.

She’d known Teoma was a dwarf, but the leather cuff that capped his missing left forearm was a surprise. Dark eyes gleamed
under heavy black brows as he glanced up at them.

“Good evening. Here for a game of chance?”

Adam’s lips curled. “Since when is there chance in your games, Izzy?”

The dwarf’s grin rearranged his creased face; lamplight winked off two gold teeth. “It’s dangerous to accuse a man of cheating.”
He nodded toward his maimed arm. “Look what happened to me.”