The Drowning City: The Necromancer Chronicles Book One (9 page)

Her parents had fled civil war in Vallorn when she was seven, but she had only vague memories of her parents’ worry, her mother’s
tears in the night and their hasty descent from the mountains. Memories of their home were vaguer still. And after her parents
died in the plague sixteen years ago, she’d moved from one shelter to another until Kiril found her. Until Kiril and the Arcanost,
home was any tenement she could afford or anywhere she could hide, anything better than an alley. Nothing worth fighting for,
or dying for.

She tried to picture it, foreign soldiers in the streets of Erisín, the house of Alexios cast out of the palace. Even though
she’d spied and schemed and killed for Selafai—for Kiril—she couldn’t imagine how Xinai felt, how the ghost of Deilin Xian
felt.

She drew a breath sweet with spices and flowers in the garden. Across the kitchen, the housekeeper kneaded bread dough, gnarled
brown hands slapping and shaping with practiced ease. Flour dusted her apron, smudged the scarf that held back her iron-gray
braids. She was the only servant Isyllt had seen; the peace in the house was nearly soporific.

But still her nerves sang, like a child first sent to bazaar alone. Ridiculous.

Or not, perhaps. Her other assignments had been paltry things compared to this—an ear in the shadows, a knife in the dark.
Nothing so grand as revolution.

Footsteps distracted her, light and uneven. She glanced up as Vasilios came in, his limp not quite hidden beneath his robes.

“I always did hate the waiting most of all,” he said with a wry smile, pulling out a chair. “Kiril was the patient one. I
always wanted to be
doing
something—it nearly got me killed a time or two.”

Isyllt smiled; Kiril had told her a few of those stories. “When did you leave the service?”

“After the old king died. I married, and my wife wanted me to keep my skin intact. I still took an occasional job. It gets
in your blood after a time.”

She nodded.

His eyes narrowed. “My wife died ten years ago and I hadn’t the heart to stay in Selafai. Memories are worse than ghosts.
I told myself I’d retired, but when I learned of the rebellion here…”

Isyllt lifted a hand, palm up, baring the blue veins in her wrist. “In your blood.”

More footsteps approached and Zhirin paused diffidently in the doorway. “Am I disturbing?” The cook slid a pan of dough over
glowing coals before retreating to give them privacy. Zhirin waited till the slap of her sandals faded, then moved closer.

“I’ve sent word to Jabbor. We’re to meet tomorrow, near the Kurun Tam. I’m sorry it can’t be sooner—”

“I understand,” Isyllt said, lips quirking. “Some things shouldn’t be rushed.”

The girl shifted her weight, slippers rasping on tile. “I’m going into the city today, meliket, to look for a costume for
the festival. I thought perhaps you’d like to come.”

“Yes.”
Relax
, she told herself.
Play the tourist. With less wine.
“Yes, I’d like that.”

Market Street was wider than most in Symir, more of a plaza, and packed nearly wall to wall with people. Assari and Sivahri
voices tangled together as vendors haggled and hawked their wares. Silks and spices, brass and silver and steel, screeching
birds and lazing lizards—Isyllt saw barely half the offered merchandise as she kept up with Zhirin, trying to find the rhythm
of the crowd. Her height gave her an advantage but made her conspicuous as well. At least Adam had gone elsewhere to look
around; an armed shadow would have drawn even more attention in a place like this.

She struggled not to flinch away from the careless brush of shoulders and arms. Erisín had its share of crowded places, but
even the worst recognized the need for personal space. This was a thief’s playground. Or an assassin’s.

Zhirin led them out of the press eventually, into a narrow second-story shop. The crowds opened enough to move without touching
anyone and Isyllt drew a grateful breath. Bolts of cloth piled on tables and shimmering swaths draped the walls.

“What sort of costumes do you wear to the Dance?” Isyllt asked, taking in the riot of colors and textures.

“Traditionally, people dress as spirits, to honor those that bring the rain. We give the masks to the river afterward. Though
it’s not as traditional as it once was.”

“Selafai celebrates the winter solstice with a masque. It’s meant to keep the hungry ghosts from finding you when they crawl
through the mirrors that night.” She smiled as Zhirin’s eyes widened.

“Do you have so many ghosts in the north?”

“In Erisín, at least. The city is built on bones. I don’t know your spirits—what do you think I should wear?”

Zhirin glanced around, turned toward a bolt of rough white silk. Rainbow luster danced along the edges as she lifted a fold.
“You would make a good
kixun
.”

“What are they?”

“Spirits of moonlight and fog. They take the shape of foxes or women in white and lead men into the forests at night.”

Isyllt cocked an eyebrow. “And eat them?”

“Sometimes. They’re not very kind.”

Isyllt stroked the silk; it ran cool and slick as water between her fingers. “What does that say of your opinion of me?” The
girl flushed and Isyllt chuckled. “I’m only joking—”

She broke off as someone bumped into her. Immediately a steadying hand closed on her elbow.

“Excuse me.”

She turned to face an Assari man, his hazel eyes crinkling in consternation. Automatically, her hand twitched toward her purse;
his lips quirked as he caught the motion.

She gave him a crooked apologetic smile. “No harm—”

Thunder crashed outside the shop, rattling the floor. A scream followed, then another, till Isyllt’s ears rang with panicked
cries. Someone jostled Zhirin on their way to the window and the girl fell into Isyllt. The Assari man caught her shoulder,
holding them both steady. Another crash followed and dust and plaster drifted from the ceiling.

Isyllt twisted, pushing Zhirin into the man’s arms as she moved toward the window. With a whispered word she chilled the air
around her, until the spectators retreated from winter’s bite and gave her room. She pushed aside the mesh curtain and leaned
out.

Smoke billowed from a building across the street and flames licked its doorway. The cacophony of the crowd nearly deafened
her as shoppers fled, tripping over one another in their haste. Already people in the room were rushing for the stairs, shoving
down the narrow hall.

“Is there another way out?” she asked the shopkeeper. Wide-eyed, he pointed toward a curtained doorway in the back wall. Isyllt
ducked through it, heard footsteps following her as she darted past a storeroom and through the back door. It opened onto
a narrow stair above a canal; the steps creaked and the railing left splinters in her palm as she rushed down.

She ducked down a narrow alley and emerged into the street across from the burning shop. People lay crumpled on the ground,
knocked down by the blast or by their neighbors. The wounded were mostly Assari, but not all. Smoke and dust billowed, eddied
to reveal a hole in the wall and the sidewalk littered with shattered stone. The wind shifted and Isyllt choked on the reek
of smoke and char and sour magic.

This was no accident. She wrapped a concealment around her, and a ward against the flames, and crossed the street.

Her ring blazed as she entered the shop, pushing back the crackling heat—no survivors inside. Flames consumed the doors and
wall hangings, rushed over the ceiling to devour the rafters. Lamps melted on shelves, brass and silver charring wood as they
dripped to the floor. Witchlight flickered around her in an opalescent web, holding guttering flames at bay. But it wouldn’t
keep the ceiling from crushing her when it came down.

The smell of charred flesh and hot metal seared her nose, and something else. The air was heavy with intent, with sacrifice.
The magic that turned the shop into an inferno had been dearly paid for.

A spell so powerful must have left a trace. She nearly stepped in a puddle of brown-burnt blood, nudged a body aside with
her toe. The man’s eyes melted down his charred cheeks and Isyllt frowned; intact, he might have shared his dying vision with
her. Not that she had time to scry the dead.

There. A red glitter caught her eye, beside a body so mangled it must have been near the center of the explosion. She tugged
a handkerchief out of her pocket—the silk insulated whatever magic was left in the crystalline shards as she scooped them
up, and spared her hands the heat.

The ceiling groaned, loud even over the roar and rush of the flames. Isyllt uncoiled from her crouch and leapt through the
door, gasping as the air outside rushed damp into her lungs.

The ringing in her ears drowned the noise of the crowd, but she caught sight of red uniforms forcing their way through the
press. No more time to investigate.

Zhirin waited in the alley-mouth, one hand pressed tight over her mouth like she was trying to keep in hysterics. The man
from the fabric shop stood beside her, holding her arm. Isyllt let her spells drop as she ducked off the street and they startled.
Sparks crackled in her hair as she moved, stung her skin like wasps as the magic bled away. The humid breeze off the canal
made her face tingle.

The man’s eyes narrowed, measuring. He glanced at her hand, and his own twitched in a warding gesture.

“Are you all right?” Zhirin asked, her chin trembling.

“I’m fine, but I wouldn’t mind getting away from the thick of things.” Already she felt death lapping over her, cold threads
swirling through warm air. Her limbs crawled with gooseflesh and sweat prickled her scalp. At least a dozen dead, probably
more, and one of the wounded wouldn’t survive.

So much senseless death. The kind she was here to encourage.

Excitement hummed in her blood, dizzied her worse than any wine. And that was the true reason she was here, the reason she
would go where she was sent, no matter how ugly the mission. Not for king and country, not even for Kiril, but because danger
sang to her like a siren, and after the first giddy brush with death, the rush of knowing that she was still alive, she’d
known she could never stop.

She ran a hand over her face, smearing ash and sweat. Her fingers came away red; her nose was bleeding. “Excuse us,” she said
to the man, taking Zhirin’s arm.

He stepped aside. “Be careful, ladies.”

Isyllt nodded, wondering how many ways he meant it. She led Zhirin down the alley, away from the smell of smoke and death.

Isyllt wasn’t sure how long she and Vasilios spent studying the shattered stone, but by the time Adam returned her back was
stiff from leaning over the table. She straightened with a wince as the mercenary slipped into the study. Not yet sunset,
but they’d drawn the shutters and stark witchlights lit the room.

“What happened?” Adam asked.

“Someone blew up an Assari shop, and everyone in it.” Isyllt shook her head, hair crackling. “He blew himself up too.” Her
face still stung from the fire and itched with dried sweat. Adam’s eyes narrowed as he studied her, and she wondered how awful
she looked.

He turned to the table and the pile of red dust and crystal shards glittering there. “A ruby?” He reached out a cautious hand;
gooseflesh roughened his arm as he felt the heat still radiating from it.

Vasilios nodded. “They didn’t let the news out, of course, but we’d just readied a shipment of charged stones to be shipped
to Assar. They were in the warehouse that burned—whoever started the fire must have taken the rubies. This Dai Tranh was dangerous
enough with gunpowder and flash bombs, but now—” He shook his head. “But this stone was flawed, and we never charge flawed
stones. Too easy for things like this to happen. They must have a mage working with them.”

“Zhirin?” Adam said, echoing Isyllt’s thought.

The old mage’s eyes narrowed. “I cannot believe that of her.”

Adam shrugged eloquent skepticism, but Isyllt believed the girl’s horror at the market had been unfeigned—if Zhirin had helped
the rebels get their hands on these weapons, she doubtless regretted it now.

“Did they leave anything else behind?” Adam continued. “Today, I mean.”

Isyllt frowned. “I hadn’t the leisure for a proper search. I’ll go back after the soldiers have gone. I didn’t sense any ghosts
lingering, but they might return.” It was a scant hope, but her best one.

Vasilios ran a hand over his face; his skin was gray and drawn in the unflattering light. “I cast a tracing on the stone,
but it must have been covered until it was used. If I could find something of the assassin’s, I might trace it further.”

“We’ll see what we can find.” Isyllt glanced at Adam, tilted her head inquiringly. “The sooner we go in, the better our chances.”

“Tonight,” he said with a nod. “After the soldiers have left.”

Vasilios lowered himself into a chair. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t join you in sneaking around in the dark. I’ll keep working
with the stone. Maybe there’s something I’ve missed. We won’t have a proper dinner tonight, but you can ask Marat to make
you something.”

Isyllt and Adam left him to rest, following the scent of spices downstairs to the kitchen. All the houses in Symir seemed
to follow the same pattern—tall and narrow, with the family’s rooms on top and only the ground floor open to strangers.

Isyllt frowned as she watched Adam descend the stairs. “You’re limping.”

He glanced down, flexed his right leg. “An old wound. I landed on it badly during the mess at the market.” He caught the question
in her eyes. “I’ll be fine by tonight. What about you?”

She ran a hand over her frizzing hair, wincing as her fingers brushed her tender cheek. “No worse than a sunburn. Did you
have any luck today?”

He shrugged. “Xin will do better than me. Vienh Xian-Lunh might be helpful, though—within reason. She has no love for the
Dai Tranh.”

“Zealots are easier to use than to love. But maybe the Tigers will be use enough for us.” In spite of the cold practicality
she tried to summon, she couldn’t be rid of the images of Lilani Xian’s fevered face or the corpses in the market. Practicality
could only excuse so much.