The Drowning City Page 20

  “No,” her mother said as Zhirin turned toward the door. “Don’t even think about it. Stay and wait for the criers.”

  Her spine stiffened at Fei Minh’s tone, but Zhirin had never been much good at rebelling. And it was no use running anywhere if she didn’t know what was happening. Instead she nodded and hurried toward the bathroom.

  Water splashed into the basin, rising quickly to the brim. She stilled the surface with a pass of her hand and pushed her nerves away. “Jabbor,” she whispered to her rippling reflection.

  No image came. He was beyond the river’s sight. Isyllt’s name brought no response either, nor did Faraj’s. Zhirin bit back an angry hiss, rinsed her hands in ritual ablution before unplugging the drain and sending the water back to the river. She dried her hands and returned to the parlor, and the volume of Laii clan poetry.

  The criers started an hour later. Zhirin and her mother stood on the front step and listened to story after story—the Dai Tranh had attacked the Khas; the Tigers had stormed the execution; the Viceroy had been shot; Asheris had been shot; the Vicereine had been attacked; the Vicereine’s daughter had been attacked. Zhirin’s stomach twisted tighter and tighter at each new rumor—no matter how wild, all agreed that the Tigers had been at the execution. But no one could agree on who was truly dead.

  The rain drove them inside before the dusk bells, and Fei Minh helped Mau with supper while Zhirin paced the front hall. Someone knocked at the door as they laid out dishes. Zhirin hurried to answer it, fingers knotting in the hem of her shirt. Surely the Khas would send a message to her mother. Surely Jabbor would let her know what had happened—

  A young mehti girl stood on the doorstep, rain dripping off the hood of her oilcloak.

  “I’ve a message for Zhirin Laii.”

  She swallowed. “I’m Zhirin.”

  The girl’s eyes narrowed as she glanced through the open door. “Isyllt wants to meet you.”

  At least someone was alive. “When? Where?”

  “At dawn, at the Bridge of Splinters.”

  Zhirin tightened her jaw to keep her mouth from falling open. If Isyllt had left the Khas—“Do you know what happened today?”

  The girl shook her head. “Only rumors. What answer should I give her?”

  “I’ll be there. Wait a moment.” She ducked into the tradesman’s parlor, fished a few pennies out of the tip-box. The girl palmed them neatly and they vanished into a pocket. “Thank you. And tell her…Never mind. Just tell her I’ll be there.”

  The girl nodded and hurried down the steps.

  “What is it?” Fei Minh asked as Zhirin shut and bolted the door.

  “Only Vasilios’s housekeeper sending a message.” Her voice caught on his name, but at least she had reason enough for that. “She wants me to help dispose of the house tomorrow.” Fei Minh might not be swayed by sentiment, but the proper disposition of wealth would move her.

  Her mother frowned, and for an instant Zhirin thought she would argue. But all she said was, “Dinner’s ready,” and turned back to the kitchen.

  Zhirin followed her to the table, hoping food would clear away the taste of lies.

  Zhirin woke with a start, darkness pressed tight against her window. She’d told Mau to wake her well before dawn, but she was alone, her door latched.

  She jumped as a pebble rattled against the shutter, then let out a breath. She threw off the covers, wincing as she caught her toe on the edge of a rug, and hurried to the window. Easing the latch open, she waited a few heartbeats to be sure no more rocks were inbound before she leaned out.

  Jabbor crouched on the wall between her house and their neighbor’s. For an instant relief was so sharp in her chest she thought she’d cry. Shaking it off, she closed the window and pulled on clothes. She paused in the hallway, listening carefully, but her mother still slept. Sleep charms, at least, were easy to manage.

  The garden was a walled-in square behind the house, shaded by a pair of spice-fragrant cassia trees. In the center a fountain welled—or hiccuped, now; she’d never gotten around to fixing it. Dwarf kheymen slept beside the water, their bodies barely as long as her hand, tails sharp as whips. Their eyes flashed gold and green as she padded across the damp mossy flagstones, but they didn’t move. Her parents’ room overlooked the garden, but that hadn’t stopped her when she was fourteen, sneaking out with Sia. She looked up anyway, to be sure the curtains hung straight and still.

  Jabbor waited in the shadow of the wall, apparently unhurt. Zhirin thanked all the waters silently. She breathed in the smell of his clean sweat as he took her in his arms, salt and cedar and drying rain.

  “What happened?” she asked, pulling away sooner than she would have liked.

  “I went to the execution.”

  She folded her arms under her chest. “Why?”

  “Because it’s our right to speak out, and what use is that if no one will? If the Dai Tranh had tried talking before burning, things might be different.”

  “You could have been killed!”

  He shrugged. “I nearly was, and the Khas wasn’t the worst of it.”

  She turned away, paced to the edge of the fountain. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “You would have worried.”

  “And I wasn’t worried today, hearing the bells and not knowing what happened? Listening to criers say you were dead?” Her voice rose, and she forced it down again. The fountain choked and gurgled.

  She drew a breath, exhaled the scent of damp stone and cinnamon. No use in being angry about it now. Instead she propped a knee against the fountain, damp soaking her trousers as she dipped a hand into the water. Only a fraction of the Mir’s rush and depth, but it still soothed her. The problem was easy to find—a buildup of sand and clay in the narrow pipe. A bit of pressure, a gentle push, and the debris broke apart and washed away. The fountain gave one last hiccup, then began to splash rhythmically again.

  Jabbor smiled, shaking his head. “Sometimes I forget what you can do.”

  She sighed. “Everyone does, don’t they? That’s what I’m good for.”

  “I’m sorry.” He shook his head. “I don’t mean it that way. I know how you’ve helped us. I know what you’ve risked.”

  “Not all of it, you don’t.” She cut him off. “First, tell me what happened today.”

  “I went to the execution to speak, but the Dai Tranh came too. They started shooting and everything went to hell. They attacked your foreign witch too. She escaped with us, then left with her own people. I’ve heard rumors about deaths and kidnappings, but I don’t know what’s true or not, yet. None of the Tigers were hurt. I saw the mage al Seth fall, but I don’t think he’s dead.”

  She thought of Asheris swallowing an inferno and shivered. “No, I suspect he’s hard to kill.” She scrubbed her wet hand against her thigh. “I found out what’s happening with those diamonds.” Her eyes darted toward her mother’s windows again, and she didn’t look away until she was done telling him about the diamonds, and her mother, and Jodiya’s threats. As she fell silent, the midnight bells began to toll—once, twice, thrice, deep and solemn.

  “Ancestors,” Jabbor swore when the last echo died. He caught her arm, tugged her gently into the shadows. “Come with me. The Tigers can keep you safe. We can be in the jungle before dawn.”

  Zhirin succumbed to temptation for a moment, leaned her head against his shoulder and let his warmth soak into her. “I can’t.” She straightened, stepped back. “Not tonight. I have to meet Isyllt tomorrow.”

  “Zhir—Leave it. At this rate her supplies won’t come in time and the city isn’t safe. The Dai Tranh and the Khas will be after her.”

  Her jaw tightened. “Then she’ll need my help, won’t she?”

  “This isn’t a game!”

  “No.” Her chest tightened at his expression. “Was I ever a game piece to you?”

  He opened his mouth, shut it again. “Not at first. When I first saw you, you were a pretty girl, a girl I wanted to
walk with, to flirt with. Then I found out who you were, and…yes. Yes, I thought of what you could do for us, and decided it was worth the risk. But I swear, Zhir, I won’t use you. I won’t be like the Khas that way, like the Dai Tranh.”

  She stretched onto her toes to kiss him. “I believe you. But I’m still staying. You don’t have anyone else to overhear Faraj’s plans.”

  “I’m sorry I underestimated you.”

  She flushed. “It’s not bravery,” she said, forcing her voice light. “I don’t want to sleep in the jungle.”

  He laughed and bent to kiss her again. It was harder to pull away this time.

  “You should go,” she whispered. “I need some sleep before dawn. Can I leave word in the usual places?”

  “I think so.” Heat soaked her arms where he held her. “Be careful, Zhir.”

  “You too.” She kissed him again, a quick brush of lips, and fled back inside.

  Part III

  Deep Water

  Chapter 16

  Bright chimes faded as dawn crept damp and gray through the streets of Merrowgate, replacing nocturnal business with diurnal. From the front of a narrow tea shop, its windows opened wide to catch the breeze, Isyllt watched shopkeepers unroll awnings over the sidewalk, set out crates and barrels. Children wheeled carts of fruit and bread onto the bridge and sat on the warped wooden railings, legs dangling as they called to passersby. Others crouched with fishing lines on the slick steps of the canal.

  A cool morning, but Isyllt sweated and shivered in turns beneath her cloak. Her magic fought off any infection that crept into her blood, but the battles left her feverish. If she had the luxury of half a day’s sleep, she’d hardly notice it.

  Her back itched with drying sweat and paranoia—she twitched at every sudden footfall, every flickering shadow, but moving made her harder to track, and people in Merrowgate seemed to make a habit of minding their own business. No one’s head turned at another cloaked figure. With any luck, the men’s clothes she wore—all that would fit—might fool a casual glance. Adam had laughed as she bound her breasts, but Zhirin, at least, had looked twice before recognizing her.

  The girl returned to the table, carefully holding three bamboo cups. Ribbons of steam twined and tattered as she set them down and turned back to the counter for milk and honey. Isyllt cradled lacquered wood between her gloved hands—hiding bandages now. Not much warmth seeped through, and her left hand stung, but the gesture was comforting.

  “What now?” Zhirin asked. Soft, but not furtive; casual—the girl was learning.

  “I have to find my ring. And who knows, maybe that will lead me to Murai as well.”

  “Do you think that will change anything? If you bring her back?”

  Isyllt shrugged. “I don’t know. Perhaps they’d send me home in chains on an Imperial ship, instead of killing me.” She still hadn’t told anyone about Asheris, though she couldn’t say exactly why she felt the need to keep his secrets. Or why his lies still stung when she thought about them.

  “Will you try to help her?”

  Somewhere on the street a child laughed and she thought of the girl standing on the edge of the volcano, face flushed in delight at Asheris’s magic tricks. No child deserved to suffer for their parents, or for their country, but they always did. “If I find her.” She’d seen what happened to people who tried to live for everyone but themselves—most often they ended up dying for nothing. “If not, the more distracted the Khas is right now, the better.” She couldn’t help a quick glance toward Adam, but he sat silent as a statue, his eyes turned to the street.

  Zhirin’s lips thinned and Isyllt waited for the recriminations, but the girl only stirred her tea, adding milk and honey till it was the same shade as her skin. “How will you find the ring?”

  “If I’m close enough I’ll feel it. But for anything farther than a building away I need to cast a finding. For that I’ll need space, a map of the area, and a stone—probably quartz. Another diamond would be better, but I doubt I’ll find one of those in the market.”

  “No—” Zhirin paused, frowning. “Do you remember, was Vasilios wearing any rings when…we found him?”

  Pressing her tongue between her teeth, Isyllt tried to remember all the details—the cold flicker of the witchlight, the old man’s discolored face, one gnarled hand curled against the carpet…

  “I don’t think so,” she said after a moment.

  “His hands swelled in the rainy season.” Zhirin’s voice caught, throat working as she swallowed. “He sometimes took his rings off when he wasn’t working. They might still be in the house. I’ll check.”

  She was quiet for a moment and the sounds of the street rippled over them, the muted rattle and clatter from the kitchen. “Jabbor wants me to go with him. Into the jungle. He thinks he can keep me safe.”

  Isyllt sipped her drink. The shop used a lot of cardamom; the taste spread rich and bittersweet across the back of her mouth. “Do you think that?”

  Zhirin’s mouth twisted. “I don’t know. I would have, only a month ago. But I think you’re right—I can do more here. I hope so, at least.”

  “Do you know any more about the next shipment?”

  “Not the schedule. But the ship is the Yhan Ti, docked southside at the seventh berth.” She stared at her milky tea as if she meant to scry it, set it down barely tasted. “I’m going to the house. Is there anything you need, besides the stone?”

  “Money, or anything I can easily pawn in the market.”

  The girl’s forehead creased, but she nodded. “If I get a mirror, can I use it to contact you?”

  “Yes. Just say my name. I’ll hear you.”

  “All right.” Zhirin pulled a purse out of her pocket, stacked brass and copper coins on the table. “I’ll talk to you soon.”

  Adam raised his cup as the girl left the shop, throat working as he swallowed. “Do you think we can trust her?”

  “I don’t have much choice. She may crack eventually, jeopardize the mission for foolish idealism. But she’s clever and we’re running low on allies.”

  He nodded, a crease between his brows. “What now, then? I don’t want to stay on the street.”

  “No. I think we should have a talk with Izzy.”

  Red ward-ribbons covered the front doors of Vasilios’s house, but if the house was watched, Zhirin couldn’t tell. She straightened her shoulders; she wasn’t a fugitive, and she had as much right to be here as family. She still ducked around to the back.

  The kitchen door had been warded, but the cord hung loose now, the latch undone. Zhirin slipped inside, not brushing the rope, and kicked off her shoes. The floor was dusty, smudged and dappled with footprints and dripped water.

  She paused inside the threshold, listening hard, and nearly jumped as something white moved at the corner of her eye.

  “Mrau,” said the cat, leaping onto the kitchen counter.

  Zhirin pressed a hand over her hammering heart and laughed. “Gavriel! You know you’re not supposed to be up there.” She bit her lip as she realized there was no one left to care what counters or shelves he climbed. She stroked his cream-colored head and he leaned into the touch, rumbling loudly.

  “I’m sorry I forgot about you,” she said, scratching between his shoulder blades. “You can come home with me today.” She glanced down at his bowls, frowned to find them full of clean water and fresh meat.

  “Who’s been taking care of you?” she asked softly, but Gavriel only butted his head against her arm. Had the police thought to do it? Conscientious burglars?

  She checked to be sure the ground floor was empty, then crept upstairs. By the time she reached the second floor, she knew she wasn’t alone. No voices or footsteps, but a prickling down her back, a tingle of otherwise senses. She drew a silence around her with a whisper.

  The second story was empty too—she shuddered as she passed the library where her master’s body had lain—but when she reached the third she heard someone moving quietly
in Vasilios’s private study. Her pulse echoed in her ears as she crept toward the door.

  Then she recognized Marat and sighed aloud. The woman spun, hand dropping to her trouser pocket. Zhirin raised a hand.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  The old woman recovered quickly. “And I didn’t expect to find you here, child. Have you brought the executors, then, to dispose of things?”

  “No. I just wanted to look through the house.” Her eyes slid to the silver-chased box in Marat’s other hand. Zhirin recognized it instantly—her master’s jewel coffer. She swallowed; stealing from the dead was ill-luck indeed. Would her luck be any better?

  “If you need money, I’ll make sure you get it. I haven’t gone over the estate records yet, but—”

  She stopped as Marat chuckled.

  “I’m sure you would. You always were such a thoughtful child.”

  Zhirin flinched from the ugly mockery in the words. “What did I do to you?”

  “Nothing. You’ve never done anything, and that’s the problem. Not that I could expect much from someone raised by your Assari whore of a mother.”

  Zhirin stiffened, cheeks burning. “You don’t know anything about what I do.”

  “What, because you run around with the Jade Tigers, you’re a revolutionary? It’s not that easy.”

  “No.” The word came out nearly a whisper. “It isn’t.”

  Marat’s face didn’t soften, but her voice gentled. “Go home. Or better yet, leave the city. Go with your lover and spare yourself judgment for your mother’s crimes.”

  “A woman stealing from the dead has little room to cast stones. Give me that box.”

  Marat’s hand tightened on the silver coffer. Her other emerged from her pocket, fingers wrapped around the hilt of a knife. “Go home, girl, or you’ll end up like your master.”

  Her hands began to tingle, and Zhirin swallowed sour spit. “It was you, wasn’t it? You killed him.”

  “He should never have involved himself in Sivahra’s problems. Foreigners bring us nothing but trouble.”