She shook her head and quickly regretted it.
“Good. I need to know where it hurts.”
Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes as he tested each finger, put gentle pressure on her palm. She could move her thumb and her first and last fingers, but the middle two curled uselessly, and she whimpered when he touched them. The nearly healed cut from the exorcism had torn open again, a four-rayed star cupped in her palm. Her hand felt too light without the diamond.
“I think a bone is cracked,” he said at last. “And the tendon’s severed.”
She swallowed, lips pressed tight; for a moment she thought she would be sick. She’d seen enough dissections to understand the worst of it. The physicians at the Arcanost might repair such an injury, but it had to be done quickly. Nearly a month of water lay between her and Erisín. And she still had work to do.
“Pack it,” she said at last. “Pack it and splint it and wrap it tight.”
Adam nodded and reached for the ointment again.
The markers didn’t entirely lie. Traces of ghost-blight lingered in the woods: barren patches of earth and withered trees, patches of sickly grass. Xinai felt spirits flittering through the jungle around them—curious, cautious, but not malevolent. Whatever evil had happened here, it was long cold.
The worst scare came when they finally crossed a kueh trail before the bird had left it. Xinai looked up, and up, and found herself staring at a sharp, curving beak. A male, by the brilliant blue neck and crimson wattle. A dark bone crest curved from the top of its beak to the back of its skull. It rasped a loud kweh and flared its wings—black on the outsides, bronze shading to dark gold beneath.
Xinai’s breath caught as one golden eye fixed on her. Claws longer than her hand scratched the earth. Her hand tightened around a knife hilt, but could she draw faster than the bird could kick?
Before she had to answer, a freezing wind whipped over them. The kueh shrieked and flapped, hopped backward awkwardly before it turned and bolted into the brush.
Xinai’s blood tingled, stabbed pins and needles. She let out a shuddering gasp and pried her half-numb hand off her knife.
“Ancestors,” Riuh hissed. “Is that a ghost?”
Xinai grinned past him, where Shaiyung faded from sight. “Don’t worry, she’s with us. But you can walk ahead for a while.”
Lingering excitement sped them up for a while, though they finally forced themselves to a steadier pace. The diamond pulsed against Xinai’s chest, and she knew they were going the right way now. The sun had begun its westward slide when Riuh caught her arm and drew her to a halt.
“What is it?” she whispered.
“Look.” He pointed toward a broken vine, a thread snagged in tree bark. “There are men about. We’ll rush straight into them if we’re not careful.”
So they edged south till the diamond’s throb slowed, and crept in slow and soft. Once or twice they heard men passing nearby, but Xinai’s charms and Riuh’s stealth held up. Soon she heard voices and distant splashing. The trees thinned and they crouch-crawled through the brush till they reached the edge of the woods.
Now Xinai began to sense something, a creeping sense of wrong that she hadn’t felt at the markers. The nape of her neck prickled and she felt Shaiyung’s icy discontent, but her mother kept quiet as they crept on.
The ground sloped into a valley, and a broad, lazy river unwound below them. One of the many veins of Sivahra that flowed to meet the great artery of the Mir. She didn’t know its name, but all lesser rivers were Gai—the mother’s daughter.
Buildings lined the shore, solid enough to have stood for years. Locks of wood and stone enclosed stretches of river perhaps a hundred yards long, the water between them brown and silty. People stood in the river, a dozen for every stretch, scooping mud into loosely woven baskets. Every so often one would pull something out of the mud, rinse it clean, and tuck it into a bag. For a moment Xinai thought they were fishing, but what fish or crab was so valuable it needed armed guards lining the shore?
The men and women on the shore wore forest garb, the mismatched styles that had become common among the people of the lowland jungles. Mostly Assari, but not all, skin ranging from teak to honeyed cream. No uniforms, no badges or colors, but she recognized the way they moved, their circuits and posts, the watchful ease with which they stood. Mercenaries. Or soldiers.
The diamond throbbed against Xinai’s chest, and slowly she realized what she was watching. The taste of blood filled her mouth; she’d bitten her lip. Her jaw ached from clenching it.
She’d expected something worse. Scars carved in rock, caverns full of glittering stones, chained prisoners with picks and shovels. From above these looked like children, searching streambeds for polished pebbles or blue crabs for stew. But these must be the missing prisoners—they’d gone to the mines after all, just not the mine the Khas claimed.
“There are ghosts down there,” Shaiyung whispered in her ear. “On the far side of the river. A lot of them, all unsung.” Her face was grim and ghastly as ever, but her voice cracked with anger and sorrow.
The air chilled and the shadows deepened around them; the sun had moved behind the mountain, casting the valley in a false twilight. Beside her, Riuh’s face was ashen, his shoulders stiff.
“We should go,” Xinai whispered, touching his arm; his muscles trembled with tension.
“This is where they all go. My father might be down there.”
She glanced at her mother.
“I don’t know,” Shaiyung said in answer to the unspoken question. “And the ghosts are in no shape to help us—they’re trapped, weak and faded.”
Xinai shook her head sadly. “We could never take them, and you know it. Come on—we have to tell Selei.”
A guard whistled and she flinched, but it was only the sign for the prisoners to come in. One by one they trudged out of the river, revealing rope hobbles barely long enough for a short woman’s pace. The guards took their bags away and frisked them thoroughly, checking under their tongues.
One of the prisoners closest to the lock dawdled as the others left the water, leaning down as if to scoop more mud. From her vantage, Xinai saw he wasn’t using his basket at all, but reaching for his ankles.
An escape attempt. Her breath caught; Riuh stiffened.
The lock below was empty. After that, the river flowed free. If he could only make it…
If he made it, could they help him? Should they? He’d only slow them down. Her hand tightened on her knife hilt.
The prisoner bolted. Xinai winced at the sound of splashing feet, at the shout of the guard. One, two, three, four strides and he was nearly at the lock. A guard drew his bow—the sound of a pistol shot would carry too far over the water.
He reached the lock. Riuh crouched on the balls of his feet, ready to run. The twang of a bowstring carried through the air. The prisoner arched into a dive.
And fell gracelessly as the arrow pierced his back. If he cried out, Xinai couldn’t hear it. He surfaced, clawing the water, then sank again. Riuh let out a painful breath, as if he’d been struck.
Below them, the body drifted gently toward the last lock. Scarlet ribbons spooled into the current, dissolved into mud and brown as the guards ambled down to retrieve the corpse.
“Let’s go,” Xinai said, her voice hollow.
Riuh didn’t answer, only stared at the guards, his face twisted with anger and pain.
“Let’s go!” she hissed, tugging his arm. “We’ll avenge them all, but not today.”
He shook his head, braids rattling. After a long moment he moved, following her into the trees. She pretended she didn’t see his tears.
He came to her in the dark that night, silent and trembling, his cheeks slick with salt. No icy touch of possession this time, only a tangle of pain and grief and need, of guilt and desire. She didn’t push him away.
Chapter 15
After Adam had doctored her wounds, Isyllt cleaned up as best she could whil
e Vienh went out for food. The room still stank like a surgery in spite of the cracked-open window. She felt better having an emergency exit, though she doubted she’d survive the two-story drop in her present condition.
“How much money do we have left?” she asked, trying to undo her shirt buttons one-handed and mourning all the clean clothes she’d abandoned in the Khas. She could sell the silver chains in her kit if she had to, but she carried nothing else of value.
“Enough for a few days here or a cheap passage home. Sleeping-on-deck cheap. I hope you don’t need anyone bribed.”
“At this point it’d be easier to kill people.” Her fingers slipped off a button for the third time and she swore.
Adam’s smile was a ghost in the deepening gloom. “It usually is.”
“They’ll have someone watching the embassy by tomorrow. At least the supply ship is already on its way.” She cursed foreign assignments and buttons silently. “I have to get my ring back.”
“Are you sure that’s smart?”
“Losing it in the first place was stupid enough. I’m not leaving without it.” She fumbled another button and snarled.
“Need help?” Adam asked, nearly smiling.
Pride fought pragmatism and lost soundly. “Yes, damn it.”
She watched his nimble calloused fingers and swallowed a laugh. He caught her expression and his lips quirked as he undid the last button and helped her slip the remnants of the sleeve off her left arm. Her linen undershirt was stiff with dried blood and sweat—it itched, but not so badly that she’d rather be naked.
Adam turned toward the door an instant before someone knocked. He eased the latch up, double-checking before he opened it wide enough for Vienh to slip in. She carried bamboo cartons of food and—saints bless her—a change of clothes. Isyllt’s stomach clenched at the smell of curry.
Dusk bells tolled slow and sonorous as they ate, and Vienh lit the room’s single lamp. Isyllt was halfway through a carton of rice and lentils when Adam tensed again. A heartbeat later someone else knocked. Isyllt swallowed a mouthful and glanced at Vienh—the smuggler shook her head sharply.
“I wasn’t followed, I swear,” she whisper-hissed when Adam glared at her.
He stood, easing a dagger from his boot as he edged toward the door; the quarters were too close for swords. Isyllt thought of her knife safely packed across the city and swore under her breath even as she edged out of the door’s line of sight.
“Please let me in,” a familiar voice asked softly. “I’ll attract more attention standing out here.”
Vienh drew her knife and moved behind the door. Adam glanced at Isyllt. “Only one,” he mouthed. She nodded slowly, and he reached for the latch.
Siddir slipped in—cautiously, when he saw Adam’s blade. The mercenary checked the hall quickly and shut the door. Siddir pulled a scarf away from his tousled curls. Isyllt tensed, waiting for soldiers’ footsteps, for the brush of hot magic, but none came.
Siddir smiled at her expression and bowed, stopping when Adam’s knife drew closer to his throat.
“They’ll charge more if you make a mess in the room, you know,” he said.
Isyllt started to cross her arms, but thought better of it. “How did you find me?”
Siddir cocked an eyebrow. “I am a spy, after all. I wanted to talk to you without the whole Khas looking on.”
She gestured toward the hard wooden chair. “So sit and talk.”
His gaze slid along her bandaged arms. “Did that happen at the execution?”
“Yes. You were there?”
“I was, but I didn’t feel the need to be in the thick of things. Luckily for me.”
“What happened? Is the Khas looking for me?”
“The Khas is a bit preoccupied at the moment. Nineteen people are dead, not counting the Dai Tranh—three councillors, the rest bureaucrats, servants, and soldiers. And it turns out the attack may have only been a distraction.”
Isyllt retrieved her food, nodding for him to continue.
“While all the shooting and dying was happening, more rebels kidnapped the Viceroy’s daughter. Lady Shamina was injured in the fight. Faraj is…distraught. I’m afraid recovering you won’t be the first thing on his mind.”
Isyllt swallowed and blinked. The man fleeing with a child—Murai. “Have they made demands for her return?”
“We’ve heard nothing.”
She cocked an eyebrow. “We?”
Siddir smiled. “A figure of speech. As I told you, my loyalty is not to the Khas.”
“Where is it, exactly?”
“To the Empire.” His smile stretched at her expression. “To the Empire, but not to Rahal.”
She set the curry down again. The pressure in her head had become a stabbing pain above one eye. She rubbed her temple, wincing as the movement tugged stitches.
“Would you please just tell me what the hell is going on?”
One brown cheek dimpled as he nodded. “The Emperor’s dreams of expansion are no secret in Ta’ashlan, but not all the Senate supports him. The Senate has consistently refused to increase taxes for military spending. But that doesn’t seem to be stopping Rahal. The money keeps coming in—never fast enough to be conspicuous, but enough that some senators have become suspicious.”
Isyllt reached for her cup of ginger beer and wished it were something stronger. “And they think it’s coming from Symir.”
“I’m almost certain of it. But we’re not sure where. At first we thought he was skimming from the tithes, but the Khas’s records balance—far too neatly, for a known hive of graft and corruption. Something’s happening off the books, but I don’t know what.”
It was Isyllt’s turn to smile. “I do. But,” she continued as Siddir cocked his head, “how will this be of any use to me? Giving the Empire a legitimate source of wealth will do nothing to keep Assari armies away from Selafaïn shores.”
“Expansion is not the will of the people in Assar. Rahal has supporters amongst the generals and the arms-makers, of course, but too many families still mourn those who died in the Ninayan campaign, or in Iseth, or here. Assar is large enough—there are things we want from Selafai, but another vassal country isn’t one of them.”
“And you think proof of this embezzlement would be enough to stop the Emperor?”
“Yes. Some of the senators are…willing to take steps.”
She pressed her tongue against her teeth, tasted ginger-sweet and treason. If he was lying, she couldn’t tell.
“Sivahra has a diamond mine. The Viceroy is smuggling the stones out in private ships.”
Across the room Vienh stiffened, lips parting. She subsided without speaking, though.
Siddir blinked. “Well. I’ve been underestimating Faraj, it seems, if he’s kept something like that a secret. I wonder where Rahal is selling them.” He shrugged the question aside. “We need proof.”
“I think I know where to look. I’ll need to speak to my contacts.”
He nodded. “I encourage haste. If the situation here continues to deteriorate, the Emperor will send troops, and everything will become more complicated.”
“I have another question for you, my lord, while we’re being so forthcoming. How well do you know Asheris al Seth?”
He didn’t blink, quite, but he stilled for a heartbeat. “Ah. Yes. Once, I knew him well. We went to the university together. We were friends.” The word came out too quickly, too blandly. “He had no designs to be an Imperial agent in those days. He was a middling mage at best—a lot of talent, but little dedication, more interested in carousing than serious study. His connection to the throne was too remote to concern anyone, and mostly he was left to his own devices.”
“But?”
“Seven years ago, something changed.” He frowned, smoothed his face again. “I still don’t know what it was. He joined an expedition into the desert—a spirit cataloging trip, very ordinary. Al Najid was with them as well. When they returned, no one heard from Asheris
for several months, and when he finally emerged he was…different. More focused, more reserved. More powerful. It wasn’t long afterward that he began to rise in the Emperor’s confidences.”
Isyllt swallowed, her stomach cold. Seven years of feeding off a bound spirit. A spirit powerful enough to make a man immortal. Yes, that might change someone. Her left hand tightened before the pain stopped it. No doubt his fear of death was real enough, even if his distaste for bindings was a lie.
He would come after her. It was a secret worth protecting. He knew the taste of her magic—her magic and her skin. At least, she thought bitterly, no one could track her by her ring.
“How can I reach you?” she asked Siddir.
“I have a box at the Imperial Post. Leave word there, and I’ll get it within the day.” He started to rise, glanced at Adam to make sure the way was free of blades before he finished. “Thank you, my lady.”
“Thank me when this is over and I’m still alive. I’ll leave a message when I know more.”
When Siddir and Vienh had gone and Isyllt had arranged to send word to Zhirin, she sat down to finish her cold dinner. There wasn’t an inch of her that didn’t hurt between her forehead and feet, and her stitches itched. It wasn’t safe to sleep, but she couldn’t fight it much longer.
“Sleep,” Adam said. “I’ll keep watch.”
“To hell with it,” she muttered, sitting heavily on the bed. “I’m not running anywhere else today.”
Slats creaked as she lay down. The mattress smelled of mildew and old sweat; she wondered about fleas. By the time her eyes closed, she’d stopped caring.
The alarm bells began at three-quarters past noon, shattering the stretched-thin peace that filled the Laii parlor. Zhirin stumbled over a line of verse, dropped the book she’d been reading from. Fei Minh’s cup rattled against her saucer.
Zhirin cursed her cowardice—she should have attended the execution, though the thought had turned her stomach. But her mother disdained public bloodshed, and Zhirin had allowed herself to be convinced to stay home, to speak of nothing and read poetry aloud when neither of them had the nerve to voice their accusations and concerns.
The Drowning City: The Necromancer Chronicles Book One Page 19
