The Drowning City: The Necromancer Chronicles Book One (21 page)

“What is it?” Isyllt asked, watching her.

She almost held her tongue, but she’d trusted the woman this far…“It’s more complicated than we realized.” Haltingly, she
told Isyllt about the diamonds, about the warehouse raid and the conversation with her mother.

Isyllt whistled softly when she was finished. “That’s quite a thing to keep hidden. And why bother, when the Emperor could
simply claim the stones as tithe?”

Zhirin shook her head; her mouth was dry and tepid wine did nothing to help. The sour smell of the eggs turned her stomach.

She nearly dropped the goblet as Isyllt grabbed her arm, cool fingers digging into her flesh. She followed the woman’s nod
in time to see a man and a woman cross the terrace; lantern-light flashed on long brown hair and the man’s familiar hook-nosed
profile. They walked to a shadowed corner and the hedges blocked the sight of them.

“Can we get closer?” Zhirin whispered.

“I have an easier way.” Isyllt reached into her skirt pocket and pulled out a silk-wrapped shape. A mirror—black glass gleamed
as she unwrapped it. “Be quiet. Sound travels both ways.” She turned toward Zhirin and held the mirror between them.

The surface shimmered like water and images rose and vanished one after another—strangers’ faces, lights and ceilings and
floors, a dizzying series of angles and views. Finally one remained, a scattering of darkness and light. After an instant
Zhirin realized it was water dripping into a puddle, as seen from below the surface. Looking closer, she saw a man’s outline
reflected in the rippling pool.

“What is it?” Faraj’s voice drifted faintly from the mirror, dull with annoyance or resignation.

“The Laii girl has been snooping around.” Jodiya. “She may already know about the mine, and she keeps company with the Jade
Tigers. I can make sure she doesn’t talk.”

“No. I need her mother’s ships, and if Fei Minh even suspects we hurt her daughter, she’ll make more trouble than Zhang could
have dreamed of. I’ll tell Fei Minh to keep her quiet, but you don’t lay a finger on the girl.”

“What about the foreign witch, the necromancer? She’s taking more interest in Asheris than I like.”

“Her you can dispose of, if you need something to keep yourself occupied. But for the love of heaven, not here. The last thing
I need is an international incident. Make it quiet, and quick.”

“They’ll never find the body.”

A moment later they were gone, and Isyllt wrapped the mirror again.

“What are we going to do?” Zhirin whispered. Her hands shook and she clenched them tight in her lap.

Isyllt shrugged. “Be careful. Watch our backs.”

“I could go into the forest with Jabbor.”

“And that will be exactly the excuse that little assassin needs to kill you when she finds you and blame it on the Tigers.
And we still don’t know who murdered Vasilios. If it wasn’t Faraj or his killers, then even more people want to put knives
in our backs.” Her expression softened. “Stay quiet and don’t draw attention to yourself.”

Zhirin shook her head hard enough to shift a braid in its pins. “How do you do it? How do you live like this?”

Isyllt smiled, quick and rueful. “I don’t remember any other way.”

Clouds rode the jungle canopy, blurring the tops of the trees in gray. Not yet heavy enough to rain, but the air below was
thick and sticky and clung to Xinai’s skin in a clammy false sweat. The ground was soft with rain, the soggy leaf-litter crawling
with beetles and centipedes. Already plants half-dead from summer heat greened again, and the smell of jasmine and satinwood
flowers threaded through the richer scents of wet earth and leaves, rot and moss.

Shaiyung returned an hour or so after they left Xao Par Khan, her chill presence stronger than ever. She didn’t speak, and
Xinai was happy not to be distracted. So many years away from home had dulled her sense of the jungle, and she struggled to
keep up with Riuh as they moved through the dense vegetation.

They took game trails when they found them, but much of the going was scrabbling up muddy slopes and slipping down the other
side. More than once birds took flight at their passage, and once a long-tailed macaua flung a half-eaten pomelo at them in
startlement. At least the lands north of the mountain were scarcely populated—most of the clansfolk had gravitated toward
the river and the city, or fled to the northern highlands where the Assari rarely ventured. Xinai couldn’t remember which
clans had lived in these hills, and shook her head at her own ignorance. How many villages lay in ruins, choked by the jungle?
How many ghosts haunted dying heart-trees?

They followed the ward-posts that circled the mountain, but gave the markers a wide berth. Xinai couldn’t read the nature
of all the magic woven into them and didn’t want to risk tripping any alarms. Her lip curled at the sight of the things.

They kept on till dusk settled and even tracker’s eyes strained against the gloom. The familiar fatigue of a forced march
dragged at her, but the diamond’s pulse was stronger against her chest and she knew they were going the right way. Anywhere
from two to five more days, she guessed, depending how far around the mountain they had to go.

They slept in watches; neither had caught any sign of pursuit, but they’d crossed several sets of three-toed claw marks in
the mud. Kueh tracks—flightless birds taller than a man and vicious if startled. And there were always tigers in the mountains.

In the middle of the rain-soaked third watch, Xinai slipped out of their woven-leaf shelter to relieve herself. When she returned,
the air beside her cooled. A nearby nightjar fell silent, though insects and frogs continued their songs; only animals large
enough to attract attention feared ghosts and spirits. Only men were brave enough—or stupid enough—to seek them out.

She crouched in a tangle of hibiscus shrubs and listened to the rain and distant thunder and Riuh’s soft snoring. Hunger sharpened
in her stomach, till she fished a strip of jerky from her pouch. Dry and salty, but she always craved meat before her courses
came and they had no time to hunt. The silence stretched and she shivered as her wet hair chilled.

“Hello, Mother,” she murmured at last.

Shaiyung materialized, shimmering and pale. Stronger now, clearer, the color of her skin less sickly. The wound in her throat
still gaped—the unsung dead would always bear their death-marks while they lingered.

“That stone you wear,” she whispered. “It’s an ugly thing.”

“I know. I hope I won’t wear it long.” Xinai swallowed salt and a dozen questions. “Can you scout ahead for us?”

Shaiyung shook her head. “It’s still hard for me to see when I’m not with you. Hard for me to leave the Night Forest. I can
find spirits and ghosts, but not works of man.”

“What’s it like, the twilight lands?”

“Strange,” Shaiyung said after a pause. “Even after all these years. Before you came home, there was only the dreamtime. I
saw things…distant cities…I can barely remember now. I hear the songs of our ancestors on the eastern wind.”

“Will you go to them?”

“One day, perhaps.” Her smile was kind and ghastly. “When Cay Lin is rebuilt. When I see your children playing by the tree.”

“Mother—” Xinai shook her head, frowned at the half-eaten piece of meat in her hand. “I know how much this means to you, but
what you did by the river—” Even now she couldn’t force the word past her teeth. Possession. “You can’t do that again.”

“It would have been good luck, a child conceived with the rain.”

“Worry about the Khas first. I won’t be much use in a fight if I’m pregnant.”

Shaiyung’s eyebrows rose. “The northlands made you soft. I was leading raids a month before you were born. My mother still
had enemy blood on her hands when I came. Your foremothers are warriors, child.”

Xinai turned her head, cheeks warming. “I haven’t forgotten.”

“It’s not the fighting, is it? You’re still thinking about that foreigner of yours.”

She pulled a knee close to her chest, her heel digging a rut in soft earth. “I know I shouldn’t—”

“Oh, darling.” A cold hand stroked her back. “I know. Your father wasn’t the first man I cared for. I know what it’s like
to lose, to let someone go. You can’t help what you feel. But you can’t let it cloud your thoughts either, or dull your blades.”

“I know, Mama—”

Leaves rustled and Xinai stiffened. But it was only Riuh. He rolled over, propped himself up on one elbow. “Who are you talking
to?” He blinked sleepily, but his knife was in his hand.

Xinai let out a breath. “Just ghosts.” Her mother’s coldness faded.

Riuh stared at her for a moment, the question—
Are you joking?
—plain on his face. But finally he rolled over and tugged the blanket back over his head.

She wasn’t sure if she was grateful for the reprieve.

T
hunder came in the dead hours of morning, with wind to rattle the windows and arcs of blue lightning. Despite her bravado
with Zhirin, Isyllt barely slept. Twice she woke from nightmares of faceless assassins and cold blades, of seeing her body
lifeless in the street as uncaring crowds stepped around her.

As the storm eased into a gray dawn, she finally started to doze again, only to be startled awake by a knock at the door.
Louder and more insistent than Li. Fumbling for her robe, she rose to answer it. Assassins didn’t usually knock first.

“I’m sorry to wake you,” Asheris said when she opened the door, “but I have a favor to ask.” He wore riding clothes and carried
two oilcloaks over his arm.

She stepped aside and waved him in. “What is it?”

“I’ve had reports that something’s happened in one of the villages on the North Bank.”

“Something?”

He shrugged wryly. “They’re sketchy reports. But I’m told people are dead, and that ghosts or spirits may be involved. You’ve
no obligation to help, but I still don’t have a necromancer on staff.”

She blinked sleep-sticky lashes.
They’ll never find the body.
“I’ll come.”

They collected half a dozen soldiers before they left the Khas, and horses from the stable by the ferry. As they climbed the
high road they left the rain below, a shifting sea of gray covering the city and harbor. Rainbows shimmered along the tarnished
edges of the clouds as the sun rose, and Isyllt soon shed her cloak as the day warmed.

They turned off the road to the Kurun Tam onto a narrower trail and met a group of local soldiers waiting at a bend in the
path. The captain straightened, saluting Asheris. His skin was ashen and sweat stained his uniform.

“What happened?” Asheris asked.

“The villagers in Xao Par are dead, sir.”

His eyebrows rose. “All of them?”

“I’m not sure—we can’t see through that damned fog. Things are moving in the village, but I don’t think they’re alive. Forgive
me, my lord, but we couldn’t stay in there.”

“What fog?”

“Up the road. You’ll see, my lord.”

Asheris cocked his head, and Isyllt turned her horse up the path. One of the soldiers rode first, then Asheris, and Isyllt
followed close behind. The trail sloped into a narrow valley, shadowed like a wrinkle in a velvet skirt. The jungle rose up
on either side, damp and green and much too quiet.

Her ring chilled first. An instant later the wind gusted, pricking gooseflesh on her arms. Tendrils of mist snaked between
the trees. Above and below the day was clear, but inside the valley a gray brume gathered. She didn’t entirely understand
the science of weather, but she knew it took cold and heat combined to produce a fog, like breath misting on a winter day.

Or a hot day and something very cold. Her ring burned like a band of ice; the bones of her hand ached with it.

Within a few yards the fog enveloped them, damp and algid. The horses balked, tossing their heads and sidling. Isyllt could
barely see past her mount’s nose.

“Go on foot,” she called, drawing rein. “We’ll be trampled if the horses panic.”

The animals were all too happy to comply and cantered down the hill as soon as their riders released them. Isyllt moved closer
to Asheris, whose warmth was a beacon in the chill. The soldiers gathered around them, swords and pistols drawn. She hoped
none of them were nervous on the trigger.

Things moved in the fog, flickering shapes that set her neck prickling. The diamond sparked and glowed, and every breath drew
the taste of death into her mouth. Something white and faceless wafted past, and one of the soldiers whimpered softly.

“Ghosts?” Asheris asked softly.

“Oh, yes.” The mist was full of them; their hunger pressed on her. The souls in her ring stirred restlessly and she stilled
them with a thought. Water flowed close by, the rush and splash of a narrow rocky stream. A few paces more and they reached
a bridge, boards echoing beneath their boots.

“The village is close now,” one of the soldiers said, voice soft as if he feared something would snatch it away.

As they reached the far side, a shape solidified out of the haze. A woman with skin like buttermilk, dressed all in white.
She smiled and beckoned; a soldier moaned.

Not a ghost, just an opportunistic spirit. “Not today,” Isyllt said. Did Sivahri spirits understand Assari?

Maybe so—the woman smiled and winked at her, then turned and vanished into the fog with a flick of her white fox tail.

The mist was thicker on the other side and Isyllt’s teeth began to chatter. The ground squelched underfoot; they’d wandered
off the path. A soldier shouted and a pistol shot echoed. Isyllt spun, tripped over a rock, and landed on hand and hip in
wet earth. Furrowed wet earth—a garden.

“Something touched me!” the soldier gasped. His gun smoked, mingling with the fog. “A hand—”

Isyllt pushed herself up, scrubbing mud onto her trousers. Something moved beside her, retreating as she turned toward it.
Not cautious—mocking. She took a step back and her foot hit something more yielding than stone. She glanced down at a slender
dirt-streaked arm and swallowed.