The Drowning City: The Necromancer Chronicles Book One (4 page)

“No, shakera.” Amusement colored his voice beneath the foreign vowels and she drew herself up straighter. Of course, she was
blushing like he’d walked in on a tryst—which was very nearly true. “My mistress is visiting. I’m just waiting for her.”

“Visiting whom?” She tried to mask the wariness with polite curiosity; letting strangers in unquestioned would get her in
more trouble than tardiness.

“Vasilios Medeion.”

“Oh!” Her cheeks flushed hotter as she remembered why her master had asked her to be on time today. “Excuse me.” She bobbed
a curtsy, then turned and fled down the hall.

*   *   *

Power soaked the walls of the Kurun Tam, residual magic steeping the elegant soapstone lattices and frescoes. It reminded
Isyllt of the Arcanost in Erisín, though this building was much younger and less austere. That it was primarily a research
facility and not a school made its beauty all the more impressive. The corridors around them were silent and echoed empty
to her
otherwise
senses.

“Many have gone to the mountain today,” Asheris said, catching her unspoken question. “They won’t return till nightfall.”
He arched one dark brow. “Have you seen the mountain yet, Lady Iskaldur?”

“No, I only arrived last night.”

“You must. I’d be happy to show you, as your time permits. It’s a much more pleasant journey before the rains begin.”

“Thank you.” She caught herself studying his bright amber eyes, the planes and angles of his jaw, and forced her gaze elsewhere;
she didn’t need a pretty distraction.

He had more than pretty eyes to distract her—his presence lapped over her, warm and rich. A powerful mage, from the diamond
he wore on a narrow gold collar. Spices and smoky incense clung to his robes, and his magic left the taste of crackling summer
storms on her tongue. No doubt she smelled of bones and death to him.

The stones chilled underfoot as they left the sunlight behind and entered a corridor lit by golden witchlights. Elaborate
arabesque friezes lined the walls, and the tops of the columns were carved in delicate lotus blossoms. Asheris stopped before
a brass-studded door and rapped the polished wood lightly. Someone called out a muffled “Come in.”

They stepped into a narrow study, lit by lamplight and tall windows. The air was thick with the scent of leather and vellum
and wood polish; books and scroll casings lined the walls. An old man looked up from his book, forehead creasing in curiosity.

“You must be Isyllt,” he said before Asheris could begin introductions. Wrinkles rearranged as he smiled. “It’s not every
day I see Vallish girls anymore.”

Isyllt inclined her head with a smile. “Vasilios of Medea, I take it.”

“I am he. Not that I’ve seen Medea in a good many years.” He rose and moved around his cluttered desk to greet her, favoring
his left leg. A tall man, but he stooped till he was barely of a height with Isyllt. Gnarled, ink-stained hands clasped hers
affectionately. A benevolent tutor, his smile said, a kindly grandfather—not a spy.

“Welcome, my dear. Kiril has told me good things about you.”

“He speaks fondly of you as well.”

“Told you stories of our misspent youth, has he?” Pale eyes glinted under creased olive lids.

Hard to believe this bent old man was only five years Kiril’s senior. Even after her master’s heart had nearly given out a
year ago, he hadn’t aged so much.
He wants me to see this, to see what age has in store for him.
Her smile ached as she held it in place.

“Have you by chance seen my wayward apprentice?” Vasilios asked Asheris.

The dark man cocked his head. “No, but I think I hear her now.”

Bare feet slapped the hall outside and an instant later a young woman appeared in the doorway, plump tea-brown cheeks flushed
cinnabar. “Forgive me, master,” she gasped. “I didn’t mean to be gone so long.”

Vasilios waved a negligent hand. “I’d be more concerned if you suddenly became punctual. This is our guest, Lady Iskaldur.
Isyllt, this is my apprentice, Zhirin Laii.”

“Roshani, Lady.” The girl bowed low, one narrow braid uncoiling from its twist to bounce over her shoulder.

“Have you had lunch, Isyllt?” Vasilios asked, fetching a cane from beside his chair.

“No,” she said, realizing that she’d forgotten breakfast as well.

“Come, let’s remedy that, shall we? Asheris, would you care to join us?” And he herded them out the door.

It was a pleasant meal, though the presence of Asheris and Vasilios’s wide-eyed apprentice left them unable to speak of Isyllt’s
true reasons for visiting. Not that she would have felt comfortable discussing such things inside the walls of the Kurun Tam—stone
had a long memory, and clever mages could convince it to repeat what it heard. So they ate and lingered over tea, and Isyllt
answered questions about Erisín and Kiril and Selafaïn politics and arranged to visit Vasilios the next day at his house in
the city, before letting Asheris escort her through the library and halls and gardens, where he flirted with great charm and
little sincerity.

Wheels and hooves rattled into the courtyard as they returned to the fountain. Isyllt glanced through the doorway to see an
ox-drawn cart rolling through the gates, flanked by a dozen soldiers in full Imperial livery.

Asheris excused himself and stepped into a pair of sandals before descending the steps to inspect the cart, counting crates
and accepting a scroll case from an officer. The driver urged the oxen on, steering the cart to the back of the hall, while
a man and woman not in uniform dismounted.

“Shipments from the mines,” Asheris said as he returned to Isyllt’s side. “We charge the stones here and ship them to Assar.”
His mouth twisted. “Nowhere as interesting as the mountain, I’m afraid. Though of course I’m happy to have stayed behind,
since it meant meeting you.”

She smiled at the graceful save, but her attention stayed on the cart as it clattered around the corner. Sapphires and rubies
from Sivahri mines were one of the country’s greatest assets to the Empire. That cart alone must contain a fortune’s worth;
after they were charged with energy, their value would more than double. Lesser stones couldn’t contain as much power without
fracturing, and diamonds such as Isyllt’s—or the yellow stone around Asheris’s neck—were saved for binding ghosts and spirits.

“Are you going to introduce us, Asheris?” the woman called, tethering her horse. She crossed the courtyard, graceful and light
on her feet. Young and very fair for an Assari, with striking kohl-rimmed blue eyes. She pulled aside her riding veil and
dipped a shallow curtsy. “It’s not often we have visitors.” Her eyes widened briefly as she saw Isyllt’s ring; she didn’t
offer her hand.

“Of course,” Asheris said, straightening his shoulders. “Lady Iskaldur, this is Jodiya al Sarith, one of our apprentices,
and her master, Imran al Najid.” He gestured to the man who had joined them. “Lady Iskaldur has just arrived from Erisín,
to study with Vasilios.”

Al Najid bowed, also not offering his hand. As he straightened, a stone gleamed at his neck—a diamond, also yellow-hued. The
Kurun Tam didn’t lack for powerful magi. She wondered what unlucky spirits lay trapped at their throats.

“Roshani. I trust Asheris has made you welcome.” She guessed him near fifty, tall and lean. He should have been handsome,
but all the lines carved on his long face were dour, and his greeting was more perfunctory than polite.

“I managed some degree of civility,” Asheris drawled.

“Indeed he did,” Isyllt said as Imran’s dark eyes narrowed. “The hall is quite impressive.”

“Shakera. Please excuse us, meliket, but we must see to the stones. Enjoy your visit.” With a nod, he turned and strode away,
Jodiya at his heels.

Isyllt tried to school her face but couldn’t keep an inquisitive brow from rising. Asheris smiled faintly, but the corners
of his eyes were tight. “Yes, his company is always so pleasant. We’re as close as siblings here. I’m sure it’s the same at
your Arcanost.”

Isyllt chuckled. “Of course.”

He pulled on a more convincing smile. “Forgive me, but I too must see to the stones. I hope we’ll meet again soon.”

“I’d like that.” As he bowed over her hand in farewell, she even meant it.

The last sonorous dusk-bells echoed across the water as the carriage finally rattled onto the ferry dock, and the sun sank
into the sea, trailing veils of violet and carnelian. Zhirin worried the inside of her lip and tried to look unconcerned.
She was late—again—but no magic at her disposal could have packed her master’s books and instruments any faster.

The dock was empty, and for a moment she feared she was too late. But as the dockhands arrived to help unload the coach, she
recognized two of them. Not Jabbor, and she swallowed a rush of disappointment, but likely he was already busy. Games and
trysts were for drowsy afternoons—by night he and his people worked.

Instead Temel and Kwan came to meet her—silent Temel, whom she might call friend; and sharp-tongued Kwan, whom she wouldn’t.
She restrained the urge to smile at Temel and instead helped him unstrap a box from the carriage rack.

“Tonight,” she whispered, leaning close as she fumbled at a buckle. “The dockside warehouse.” Her palms were sweating, fingers
slick on the rough leather straps. “Seven crates, three too flawed to use—those are marked.

“Be careful with that,” she said, louder, as he lifted the chest free. “Our instruments are fragile.” He nodded once as he
handed the crate down to Kwan. The woman’s lips curled in a sneer.

And as easily as that, she was a rebel. A traitor. She bit back a giggle; whatever would her mother say?

Blood rushed in her ears as she swung down from the carriage and followed her master onto the boat. Not the wide, flat-bottomed
ferry that crossed to the South Bank, but a sleek-curved skiff to take them into the city. The familiar sway of the craft
as they shoved off soothed her nerves. Worry and doubt were no use now—better to let the river take them.

“What’s wrong?” Vasilios asked, settling himself beside her on the bench. He moved gingerly, and Zhirin regretted all the
haste she’d wished for on the ride down. The steersman kindled the prow lantern and its reflection glittered golden on dark
water.

“I was thinking of my family,” she said, not untruthfully. “I haven’t seen them in a month. May I go home tonight?”

After a moment he nodded. “I don’t see why not, as long as you’re back in the morning for our guests.” Thick eyebrows rose.
“And I do mean morning, my dear, not some hour of the afternoon.”

Her cheeks warmed and she glanced aside. “Yes, master.”

They sat in silence for a while, surrounded by the rhythm of the oars and the drone of insects. Something heavy moved in the
water and she brushed the coldly patient awareness of a kheyman. A glimpse of golden eyes and then it was gone, sinking into
the silt-thick depths of the river.

The last daylight died before they reached the city, but Symir burned with a thousand lamps, a filigree of light and shadow.
The scent of eucalyptus drifted across the water, clean and sharp. She missed the green and the wet when she slept at the
Kurun Tam, the river’s breath against her skin.

The skiff carried her through the winding canals of Heronmark to the landing at the end of Feathermoon Lane. Her family’s
boat was moored by the stairs, and another she didn’t recognize, its oarsman drowsing at the prow; someone visiting in the
neighborhood. She bid her master good night and climbed the damp steps.

A quiet street after dark. Someone practiced a flute on an upper story, running through scales. Someone new to the instrument,
she guessed with a wince. Her own music lessons had been interrupted when she began talking to spirits, likely to her tutor’s
relief. If not for her magic, she’d be at the Imperial University in Ta’ashlan.

Lights shone in the front windows, falling like water across the steps and flower boxes. The door, engraved with the Laii
heron crest, was unlocked. Zhirin smiled as she slipped off her sandals and glanced around the entryway—the hangings and mats
had been changed, gold-patterned green now instead of crimson. Her father must have found a new geomancer, with new opinions
on fortuitous colors.

She expected her mother’s steward, Mau, or one of the servants to appear, but no one did. The ground floor was silent and
Zhirin climbed the curving staircase, polished stone cool under her feet. They must have company; her mother would never leave
so many lights burning otherwise.

Her mother’s study door was cracked open, and voices drifted out. “…and hopefully we’ll have no more unpleasantness like
Zhang’s,” a man said.

“Of course not,” Fei Minh Laii replied, in a softly rebuking tone Zhirin was all too familiar with. “What do you take me for?”

Too late, Zhirin wondered what the answer might be, but her hand was already falling to knock on the door.

“Mira, I’m home—”

The door swung open, and she froze as she recognized the man sitting across from her mother. “Oh!” She dipped a hasty bow.
“Your Excellency, excuse me.”

Fei Minh rose, setting aside her teacup. “Zhirin!”

Faraj al Ghassan, Viceroy of Symir, stood a heartbeat after his hostess, a chuckle erasing the startlement on his face.

“I’m sorry, Mira,” Zhirin said as her mother kissed her stinging cheek. “I didn’t realize—”

“Don’t worry, Miss Laii,” Faraj said. “I should be going anyway. Thank you for the tea, Fei Minh, and for your help.”

He inclined his head to Zhirin, and it was all she could do to smile and nod. Her face burned as though her crimes were branded
there for him to read. Rebel. Traitor. But he only turned away to clasp hands with her mother.

“It’s my pleasure,” Fei Minh said, following him down the stairs. “You must visit again soon. Bring Shamina and Murai.”

“After the festival, perhaps.” He stepped into his slippers and bowed again, silk coat whispering. “Good evening, ladies.”

“What are you doing home?” Fei Minh asked as she shot the bolt behind him.