“How—” She smiled fleetingly. “My daughter.”
“Diamonds, Mira! Soul-stones. How can you have any part of that?”
Her mother’s jaw tightened. “Now you sound like your father. Aren’t mages supposed to know better than foolish superstition? As for how—” She sat again, crossing her legs and straightening the seam of one trouser-leg. “Those diamonds are the reason Faraj is Viceroy, and not some politician from Ta’ashlan. Those diamonds are the reason I sat on the council, and that all the other clans have their representatives.”
All the loyalist clans, you mean. Zhirin held her tongue.
“It’s our arrangement with the Emperor,” Fei Minh continued. “He gets our diamonds, unregulated by the Imperial Senate, and we get home-rule. If these Dai Tranh madmen keep interfering, we’ll be awash in Imperial soldiers again.”
“What happened to Zhang, exactly, that Faraj was afraid to repeat?”
Fei Minh cocked an eyebrow. “He lost ships in a storm and panicked. Thought the stones were cursed. The man couldn’t guard his tongue—he was going to make a spectacle of himself.”
“And what happened?”
“I don’t know,” she said with a shrug. “He’d been drinking too much, perhaps, and fell. Accidents do happen, especially to the foolish.” Black eyes narrowed. “Zhirin, have you spoken of this to anyone?”
“No, no one. Why—am I likely to have an accident as well?”
“Of course not!” Fei Minh stood, caught Zhirin’s arm. “You’re my daughter and I won’t let anything happen to you. But for the love of all our foremothers, hold your tongue. Especially around your father. Do you understand how important this is to everyone?”
“Yes, Mira.”
Her mother pulled her close and she didn’t resist, though she couldn’t relax either. “I’m worried about you, gaia. What was that master of yours mixed up in? What are you mixed up in?”
No more than you, at least. “I don’t know,” she said again, and the lie still came easily. “I don’t know who could have killed him, or why.”
“And you’re sure it’s not that foreign witch? I don’t want you getting involved with such dangerous people.”
It was all she could do not to laugh. “I know it wasn’t Isyllt, Mira. I was with her, after all. You sound like a Dai Tranh, blaming all our troubles on foreigners.”
Fei Minh snorted softly. “I want you to be careful, darling.”
“I will.”
“Oh, a message came for you this morning.” She picked up a folded piece of parchment from the table. The seal was broken, and Zhirin didn’t bother to complain. Plain red wax, on solid but inexpensive parchment. The sort anyone might use for a quick note.
Miss Laii, the looping Assari script read in a fine scribe’s hand.
It grieves me to learn of Lord Medeion’s death, and I extend my deepest condolences.
I know how hard this time must be for you, but I beg a favor nonetheless. My associate Lady beth Isa was also close to your master, but I have lost track of her recently, and don’t know where to reach her with this terrible news. I would hate for her to learn of it through the criers. If you have any way to reach her, please do so. I stand ready to offer any aid or support that I can in our time of mutual grief, if only she will send word of her wishes.
I shall await a reply from either of you, at your convenience.
Yours in sorrow,
Asa bin Adam
Zhirin blinked stupidly at the paper for a moment.
“What is it?” her mother asked, as though she hadn’t just read the message herself.
“A friend of Vasilios,” Zhirin said, lowering the letter. “He wants me to take word of…what happened to someone else they knew, but I don’t think I can help him.”
“News travels fast.”
“I’m sure police and Khas were swarming all over the house.” That brought a fresh lump to her throat—unknowing, uncaring feet tramping through the house, rifling through her master’s belongings. “Everyone in the neighborhood must know by now.”
She swallowed. So much for staying at home with her grief. “Are you going to the ball?” she asked after a moment.
“I’d planned to, but I won’t leave you here alone.”
“I could come with you.”
Fei Minh frowned. “Are you sure? After everything that’s happened?”
“I don’t want to sit here all night and think about it over and over again.” That much was true at least, nor was the catch in her voice feigned. “I need lights and music and distraction. And besides, it’s the Khas—where else would be safer?”
“I suppose you’re right,” her mother said after a moment. She laid a soft hand on Zhirin’s. “So brave,” she said, and the unexpected gentleness of her smile tightened Zhirin’s chest. Then it vanished, replaced by her usual cool good humor. “But you certainly can’t go dressed like that.”
Rain or no, Isyllt intended to explore the palace, but the arrival of her luggage early in the afternoon distracted her. Everything was intact save for her blue gown; insurance, no doubt, in case Asheris decided to charge her with murder after all. He’d even left her knife, though a white ribbon delicately spelled with a peace-bond looped the hilt.
By sunset she and her newly assigned maid had her clothes steamed and ironed, and by dusk she was dressed in a skirt and bodice of rough pewter silk. Even laced tight, the corset was loose at her waist; she needed to eat more than just breakfast for a few decads. The maid, Li, couldn’t entirely conceal her discomfiture at the sight of Isyllt’s ribs. The fabric was stiff enough that the mirror in her pocket didn’t ruin the line of the skirt.
After pinning up her hair, Li helped her line her eyes with kohl and smoky amethyst powder. The woman’s hands were sure as a physician’s, and the fatigue shadows around Isyllt’s eyes soon vanished beneath brushes and creams.
A knock sounded at the door as Li put up the cosmetics, and she turned to answer it. Isyllt rose, shaking out her skirts, and slipped her feet into her slippers. And hissed as her blister pinched and pain shivered the length of her body, tightening her jaw and leaving a sour taste on her tongue. With a careful thought, she numbed the ball of her foot, stopping as the deadening cold tingled along her instep. Not an ideal solution, but it would let her dance.
Li opened the door and Asheris stepped inside, dark and vivid in burnt orange. Gold thread gleamed on his sleeves and collar. He smiled as he straightened from a bow, shaking his head slightly. “Did you know that gray is the color of mourning in Sivahra?”
Isyllt paused. “I didn’t, no. Should I find something else?”
He cocked his head, studying her. “No. It suits you. And under the circumstances, the color is not inappropriate.” His gaze slid down her throat and across her bare shoulders. “Opals, I still say. A pity I have none at hand.”
She glanced at the clothes still strewn on the bed; she’d contemplated a jacket or shawl, to spare the Assari the sight of so much death-tainted flesh. But the night was too muggy, and Asheris’s smile too encouraging. Instead she tugged on a pair of long gray gloves as a concession to tact. Pearl buttons gleamed against the insides of her wrists.
Outside it rained again, gleaming silver-bright past windows and columned arcades. Lanterns glowed green and gold and crimson, cast wavering pools of color on polished floors. Asheris led her downstairs and through a series of corridors and covered walkways.
She expected a grand entrance, but instead they slipped through a narrow side door. The great hall wasn’t unlike the throne room in the palace at Erisín, though instead of the malachite throne the dais held a crescent of chairs, all the same size. Red-and-green-striped cloth draped the seats, and the lamps on the platform were unlit, though the rest of the hall blazed. Garlands of lotus and gardenia and hyacinth coiled around the columns and swayed over the doors. Petals already littered the floor.
“Normally this is a masque,” Asheris said, “but this year Faraj decided that was inappropriat
e.”
Isyllt snorted softly. Perhaps forty people had arrived so far, though the room could hold many more. Conversations buzzed and chattered, mingling with the quiet music. Occasionally laughter rose above the flutes and strings, only to die swiftly. This had none of the festival’s frenetic energy. Gaudy silks and flashing jewels, but the guests were too subdued. She saw the Viceroy among the crowd, his wife and daughter beside him. The tall mage al Najid was there as well, dour as ever.
Asheris made no move to join the conversations and Isyllt was content to lurk, but it wasn’t long till someone noticed them.
“Asheris.” An Assari man approached. “When did you sneak in? And who’s your companion?”
Isyllt fought to keep her face politely blank. The man from the fabric shop, the fox from the festival. Taller than Asheris, but slender and narrower of shoulder; tonight he wore elegantly draped green linen. Gold flashed in his ears and on his long brown hands.
“Isyllt,” said Asheris, “meet Siddir Bashari, of Ta’ashlan. Lord Bashari, this is Lady Iskaldur, of Erisín.” Perfectly polite, but his voice and manner cooled, stiffened. She read a challenge in Siddir’s hazel eyes, one Asheris had no desire to take up.
Siddir bowed over her hand. “So you’re the foreign mage Asheris is protecting.” He made the last word sound like a euphemism for something besides house arrest. “My condolences on the death of your colleague.”
“Thank you.”
He looked as though he might say more, but smiled instead. “Excuse me,” he said, the curl of his lips sharpening as he glanced up at Asheris. “I should finish making my rounds. Perhaps you’ll save me a dance later this evening. Always a pleasure catching up, Asheris.”
She cocked a curious eyebrow at Asheris when Siddir was gone, but he studiously failed to notice. Instead he claimed two cups from a passing servant’s tray and offered her one. The liquid inside was clear and warm—she frowned at the pungent aroma.
“Miju,” he said, smiling at her expression. “A local rice wine. It may be an acquired taste.”
She took a sip and coughed as the liquor evaporated on her tongue and seared her throat. “I can see why.”
They sipped their drinks, watching the growing crowd. “Are you going to protect me all night?” she asked, mimicking Siddir’s inflection. “I don’t want to keep you from the party.”
He waved a dismissive hand. “I don’t mind being kept. Faraj expects me to attend these things, but I don’t have much taste for it tonight.”
The quiet music trailed away, so softly it took a few heartbeats to notice its loss. Conversations faltered and stilled, and a moment later drums rolled.
“The dancing is about to begin,” Asheris said.
The guests retreated to the edges of the room, leaving Faraj alone in the center. “Good evening,” he said, his voice carrying through the vaulted chamber, “and welcome. I’m glad that so many of you could attend tonight, especially after yesterday’s tragedy. In light of recent events, the Khas will be convening early this season. Official notices will go out tomorrow, so try to enjoy yourselves tonight. And if you enjoy yourselves too much, we can always roll you into your session chambers.” Polite laughter rippled and died.
“Our original entertainers are unable to perform tonight—”
“Because they ended up in a canal last night,” Asheris whispered dryly.
“But luckily,” Faraj continued, “the Blue Lotus troupe has agreed to dance for us, accompanied by the Kurun Tam’s own Jodiya al Sarith.” An expectant murmur rose in the crowd.
The drums began a steady throbbing rhythm as Faraj stepped aside. A side door opened and five masked dancers stepped out, two men and three women. Centermost among them was al Najid’s young apprentice. She wore blue, the others green, loose trousers and short snug vests. Scarves trailed from their wrists and Jodiya’s chestnut hair hung loose and shining. Their masks shimmered with sequins and peacock feathers. Flutes and strings joined the drums.
They moved like water, rushing and gliding and rippling. Every motion seemed effortless, seamless as they dipped and twirled and leapt—Isyllt knew how much effort such grace required. All professionals, but Jodiya was the best. But for all their skill it was still choreographed, just a performance, with none of the wild celebration of the dancers in the street.
The music ended with a flurry of drums like thunder and rain and the dancers sank to their knees, faces upturned, masks discarded. Applause filled the hall; as soon as it quieted, a lively dance tune began and guests crowded the floor. A woman took Asheris’s arm and he followed her, giving Isyllt a rueful glance.
She retreated from the press, exchanging her empty cup for a goblet from a sideboard. A Chassut red, the sort of vintage that sold for griffins in Erisín. One of the privileges of Imperialism, she thought, rolling herbs and tannin across her tongue.
“Good evening, Lady.” She looked up to find Siddir smiling at her. He claimed a cup of wine and stood beside her. “I’m still waiting for the explosion.”
“It’s early yet. I’ve always thought explosions would enliven most government parties.”
He chuckled, his eyes on the dancers. His curls were oiled, but stray strands frizzed in the humidity. Beneath the wine, he smelled of amber and spices.
“You certainly seem to find trouble, my lady.”
She shrugged. “Perhaps I’m a storm-crow.”
“Storm-crow, or spy.”
“An interesting accusation, my lord.” She sipped her wine, wishing now for something stronger.
“Not an accusation, simply an observation. A foreign sorcerer with a knack for being at interesting places at interesting times. And I’ve heard of your master and his role in Selafaïn politics. What in Sivahra interests Lord Orfion?”
Before she could answer, a Sivahri matron dripping silk and jeweled bangles slipped free of the crowd and seized Siddir’s hand.
“Lord Bashari, how wonderful to see you.”
“Good evening, Madam Irezh.”
“My daughter is here tonight, the one I’ve told you about. I must introduce you.” She glanced at Isyllt then and blinked.
“Go on,” Isyllt told him sweetly. “I’m sure we can talk later.”
When they were gone she finished her wine and set the goblet aside, stopping herself when she nearly reached for another. Getting drunk wouldn’t help, no matter how pleasant it sounded. As soon as she got home she would buy a bottle and charge it to the expense account.
She retreated farther from the crowd and lights, looking for Asheris’s dark head above the crowd. After a moment, she spotted him.
Jodiya had steered him away from the dance, into the shadow of a column near the dais. She slipped one hand beneath his jacket and the other rose to his jeweled collar. He didn’t touch her, not even to push her away, but Isyllt could see the tension trembling through him from yards away. The girl tilted her face to kiss him and his lips blanched.
It was none of her business, and Asheris doubtless knew how to close his eyes and think of the Empire.
But his hands shook like frightened birds and she couldn’t walk away.
Isyllt moved toward them, tugging her gloves off. “Excuse me,” she said too sweetly, leaning close. “May I steal Asheris for a dance?” She reached out her left hand, the diamond leaking bitter chill. Jodiya recoiled just in time to keep Isyllt from touching her shoulder.
“Of course.” She recovered quickly, but her smile was brittle, kohl-darkened eyes narrow. A stray sequin flashed on her cheekbone. Blue silk hissed as she strode away. Brazen for an apprentice—what other services did she perform for the Kurun Tam, or for the Empire?
“Am I interrupting?” Isyllt tucked her gloves into a skirt pocket, shaking her hands lightly to dry her palms.
“Yes, and I thank you for it.” Asheris laid a hand against her waist, the heat of his flesh soaking through cloth and stays. “Your timing is wonderful.” She could still feel his tension as he took her hand, but the
tightness in his jaw eased.
The dance was a simple one, measured steps that required little thought. They moved in silence for a time. Asheris smiled pleasantly, but his eyes were hooded, unreadable.
“Does it bother you not at all to bind ghosts?” he asked at last. His thumb slid across the knuckles of her left hand, not quite touching the ring. “To enslave them? Not even spirits, but the souls of your own kind.”
“Every ghost I’ve bound committed crimes that would see living men imprisoned or executed. You wouldn’t let a living man who tortured or murdered his family go free—why let him do such things in death?”
His lips twisted. “I know many torturers and murderers who walk free, and I suspect you do too. Even so, it still seems…cruel.”
She reached up, breaking the form of the dance, and brushed his shirt away from the golden collar. The yellow diamond burned at his throat, much too fiercely to be empty. “Do you think it less cruel to trap spirits?”
He caught her hand, hard enough to hurt, and his eyes narrowed. A heartbeat later his face smoothed and he kissed her knuckles apologetically. “Every bit as cruel. Believe me, Lady, I take no pride in this stone.”
The music ended and he released her too quickly for courtesy. “Excuse me a moment. I need a drink.”
Isyllt let him go. The musicians struck up a livelier beat, and she turned to find Siddir weaving toward her through the crowd. She let him claim her hand, not yet sure if she should be amused or worried, and they spun into the dance.
“For someone who thinks I attract ill-luck,” she said as the steps brought them close, “you seem quite willing to keep my company.”
“You never answered my last question.”
“What makes you think my presence here has anything to do with Kiril? If you know so much about him, you might know we had a falling-out last year.”
“Arguments are easily counterfeited.”
She twirled, skirts spinning, and touched his outstretched hand. Her slipper clung damp and sticky to her foot; the blister had broken. “Let me assure you, Lord Bashari, there is nothing counterfeit in the unpleasantness between me and Lord Orfion.” Truth, raw and bitter, straining her voice. His pleasant expression faltered.
The Drowning City: The Necromancer Chronicles Book One Page 15
