The Drowning City: The Necromancer Chronicles Book One

by Amanda Downum

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

  “So you murder them?”

  “Leave it alone.” Marat started toward the door.

  Zhirin didn’t move, though fear and shock flooded her. “Put the box down.” She didn’t know how she managed to speak with her pulse so thick and fast in her throat.

  Marat’s blade flashed toward her face and Zhirin ducked, grabbed for the woman’s wrist like she’d seen knife-fighters do. Fighters stronger than she—Marat pulled away easily, and the knife traced a line of heat across the edge of Zhirin’s hand. She gasped and jerked away, but didn’t step aside.

  With a curse Marat shoved her and Zhirin lost her balance. She kicked as she fell, tangling her feet in the old woman’s ankles. Marat stumbled across the threshold, went down hard on her knees. The silver box clattered across the tiles—the sound was dull and distant through the roar of blood in Zhirin’s ears.

  Marat tried to stand, gasped and fell again, one knee popping loudly. Pain twisted her face as she turned and lunged for Zhirin. The old woman’s weight drove the breath from her lungs and she barely threw up an arm in time to keep the blade from her throat.

  Even three times Zhirin’s age and injured, Marat was stronger. The knife crept closer and closer, and her arm trembled and burned. She clawed at Marat’s face with her wounded hand, but did little more than smear blood on the woman’s cheek. No weapon in reach.

  No—she had the river.

  She’d never reached out to the Mir in fear before—the strength of the response shocked her. It rose through her like a wave, the power of rain and river and relentless tides. Her bleeding hand tightened on Marat’s face—flesh and blood, earth and water.

  Marat coughed, narrow shoulders convulsing. Moisture seeped between her tea-stained teeth, trickled from her lips, splashing Zhirin’s face, and the pressure on the knife eased. She coughed again, choked. The woman jerked away from her grasp, knife falling forgotten as she reached for her throat.

  Water leaked from around Marat’s panic-wide eyes, dribbled from her nose and mouth. Not tears, not saliva—silty river water. Zhirin scrambled up, staring in horror as the flood kept coming. Marat tried to speak, but liquid bubbled up instead, a rushing torrent that soaked her clothes and spread across the tiles.

  It felt as though she took an hour to die, choking and writhing and vomiting water, but doubtless only moments passed before the old woman lay still. Water flooded the hallway, trickled over the edge of the railing and splattered against the floor below. Zhirin could hardly breathe and realized her hand was pressed against her mouth hard enough to ache. The smell of blood and river water filled her nose, coated her tongue, and she turned away to vomit up her breakfast on the study’s expensive carpet.

  “Forgive me, Lady,” Izzy said, “but you’re being a fool.”

  Isyllt wished she could argue; instead she shrugged. Sweat crawled against her scalp and the stink of oil and salted fish unsettled her stomach. Adam stood at her back, and Vienh at Izzy’s elbow—the heat of four people and the lamps was stifling in the Bride’s cramped storeroom.

  “Have you ever seen a city rioting?” the dwarf asked, leaning forward. Lamplight gleamed in his eyes, shadowed a crosshatched scar on his left cheek. “I was in Sherezad in 1217, and nearly got caught in Kir Haresh in 1221. The cities burned, and ships with them. I knew captains who lost everything because they were too damned slow lifting anchor.” He looked at her bandaged hand, cast a pointed glance at his own maimed arm.

  “I won’t lose the Dog because you don’t know when to cut your losses.”

  Isyllt ran a hand over her face. “I can’t offer you cash, but I’ll see you compensated, I swear.”

  “A dead woman’s promises are worth dust in the desert.”

  Her lips curled, hard and sharp. “Even a dead necromancer’s?” Izzy swallowed, but she didn’t have the heart to toy with him. “If I die, my master will honor my bargains.”

  “I would rather keep the Dog than trust in the honor of spies.”

  Her hand twitched and Izzy’s eyes narrowed. But threats were useless, and she wasn’t going to kill him for being sensible. Saints knew someone should be. She looked at Vienh.

  The woman frowned, ran her tongue over her teeth as if she tasted something sour. “Must I choose between my captain and my family’s honor, then? I’ll repay the debt, but I’ll be little use without a ship.”

  Izzy turned, tilting his head back to glare at her. “You’d leave the Dog so easily?”

  Vienh folded her arms under her breasts. “She saved my daughter’s life, Izzy. What do you want me to do?”

  Adam unhooked two gold rings from his ear, untied a leather pouch from his neck. “If you need cash—” Metal glittered as he tossed the rings onto the table. An uncut amethyst followed with a quiet thump.

  Izzy snarled, baring a gold tooth; Adam’s gold vanished off the table. “Rot your eyes. One more day.” He turned back to Vienh. “You know how much I value you, but you’ll be first mate of charred boards if we’re not lucky.” He swung down from his chair and left the room as fast as his short legs would carry him.

  “I’m sorry,” Isyllt said to Vienh when the door swung shut.

  The woman shrugged, though her jaw was still tight. “Not your fault, is it? Sivahra might be a lot better off if no one cared about family or honor. But you’d better do what you can before sunset tomorrow, or I may be rowing you to Selafai on a stolen fishing skiff.”

  Before Isyllt could reply, her mirror began to shiver in her pocket, a tingle of magic that raised gooseflesh on her arms. She pulled back the grimy silk wrapping and Zhirin’s splotchy red-eyed face rose in the black glass.

  “Are you all right?” Isyllt asked, eyebrows knitting.

  The girl rubbed a hand against her nose. “I’m not hurt. I have the ring, and I found out what happened to Vasilios.” She glanced down, jerked her head up again. “I need—I have to do something with a body.”

  Isyllt and Adam exchanged a glance. “Wait there. We’ll come as soon as we can.”

  She broke the spell and wrapped the mirror. “Corpses before lunch—this will be an interesting day.”

  Vienh fell in beside them as they left the bar, and Isyllt arched a curious eyebrow. The smuggler’s grimace might have been meant as a smile. “I’m coming with you. Izzy’s angry with me anyway, and everyone else thinks I’m a traitor to one cause or another—I might as well do something to earn it.”

  The swamp was thick with midges, the whining clouds enough to overwhelm the charms they wore. Zhirin waved and slapped, scratched stinging welts on her wrists and face. More insects bothered Adam and Isyllt—she wondered idly if it was just her own eucalyptus perfume keeping the worst away, or if their paler skin was more attractive. A breeze might have cleared the midges away, but too much magic could draw unwelcome attention.

  Silty water slopped against her thighs, squelched between her toes. A pity the Dai Tranh didn’t have a convenient city hideout, but Isyllt’s spell had drawn them out of Symir, past the expensive houses and estates on the Southern Bank and into the thick mangrove swamps that lined the bay. Mostly fisherfolk lived here, in houses high on stilts to avoid the grasping tides and houseboats anchored beyond the trees. Such a simple place to hide, but effective—all the news of the rebels centered around the Xians and the Lhuns, northern forest clans. Who paid attention to a few mud-fishers in the south? Zhirin wasn’t even sure whose lands these had been.

  Clouds hid the moon and stars and they risked no witchlights, only a shuttered lantern carried by Isyllt’s sailor companion. Zhirin moved carefully, avoiding submerged root-spears and crab-traps. Fish and snakes brushed past her; larger creatures swam lazily in the bay, and she kept one otherwise ear trained on them. The cold and hungry minds of eel-sharks were a welcome distraction from her own bruised thoughts.

  “Are we there yet?” Vienh muttered, crawling aroun
d a thicket of roots. The sailor took point while Adam trailed behind, the two mages slogging in between.

  Isyllt touched Vasilios’s ring where it hung against her chest, and Zhirin clenched her jaw. A white diamond set in gold—it was hers if she wished to claim it. She couldn’t decide whether she wanted to keep it in remembrance of her master or toss it into the depths of the bay. At least he’d kept no spirits bound in it.

  “Not yet,” Isyllt said, “but the pull is stronger. We’re getting closer.” She held her bandaged hand against her chest, away from the water.

  Zhirin curled the fingers of her own wounded hand. It only hurt when she thought about it, didn’t even need stitches. She’d cut herself worse on broken shells in the river. But the shells hadn’t been trying to kill her.

  How did you grow used to that? When did people become nothing more than threats? The necromancer had offered quiet sympathy but hadn’t tried to hide her relief—one more enemy exposed and dead. Never mind that the enemy had been an old woman whom Zhirin had known for years. She clenched her fist; the scabbed cut cracked and burned.

  Vienh paused, waved for silence and checked the lantern shutter. Isyllt and Zhirin moved closer, sloshing as quietly as they could. Ahead, the trees gave way to a narrow finger of water. A house stood on the far side of the inlet, shuttered and dark.

  Isyllt touched the diamond and frowned, then turned toward the bay. “What’s out there?” she asked, staring into the dark.

  Zhirin squinted but saw only shades of black. She dipped her hand into the water, stretched out better senses. The bay welcomed her in, dark and soothing. Roots and weeds, salt and silt, the soft tickle of fish and crabs, the growing depth and pull of the sea. The sinuous undulations of eel-sharks and sharp, clever thoughts of nakh. And there, not too far from the shore, the weight of a boat, its keel digging into her skin. Delicate shivers rippled through the hull as people walked the decks.

  Reluctantly, Zhirin eased out of the water’s embrace, retreating into the stifling solidity of flesh. “A boat. Maybe a houseboat. There are people aboard.”

  Isyllt frowned, hand on Vasilios’s ring. “That’s it. They’re there.”

  “So we swim?” Adam asked, sounding none too thrilled with the prospect.

  “Be careful,” Zhirin said before anyone could move deeper. “There are sharks in the bay. And nakh.” She frowned. “A lot of nakh.”

  “Lovely,” muttered Vienh.

  “What are they doing here?” she muttered, half to herself. Nakh always swam in the bay, but she’d never heard of so many schooled together. Not since the attack at the festival, at least.

  “What should we do?” Isyllt asked. Gratifying, to be asked so seriously, not to be treated as an apprentice, but it meant she had to think of a clever answer.

  A solution came to her quickly—it wasn’t exactly clever, but she couldn’t think of anything else.

  “I’ll distract them,” she said, before she could think better of it. “Wait a moment, then start swimming.” She unbuttoned her blouse, hung it over a tree branch. The night wasn’t cold, but gooseflesh prickled over her arms.

  Isyllt’s eyebrows rose, but all she said was, “All right.”

  Zhirin hoped it was confidence in her abilities, not callous disregard for her life.

  She tugged off her shoes too, set them dripping beside her shirt. Mother, she prayed, watch over your idiot child. Mud shifted like gritty silk between her toes. A few steps and the water closed around her ribs. Her chest swelled with breath as she slipped under.

  She hadn’t thought when she dove into the canal after Isyllt at the festival, only acted. It was much easier that way. She let the fear slip away in bubbles of air.

  When she couldn’t touch the bottom or break the surface with an outstretched hand, she called light, the sickly blue-green illumination of fireflies and fish-lures. It spread in tendrils around her, clung to bits of debris. A beacon. Blood seeped from her bandaged hand, dark threads unwinding.

  An eel-shark glided past—the light slid across its wedge-shaped head, fringed gills and long, writhing tail. Its eyes flashed in the glare. In the distance, she heard the others begin to swim, clumsy mammal strokes. The shark heard it too.

  “Stay,” Zhirin said, filling the word with power. Its air bubble didn’t float away but hung shining by her face. The shark circled, keeping to the edge of the light.

  She felt the nakh coming a heartbeat before she saw them. Pale shapes emerged from the murk, triangular faces gleaming amid clouds of hair, tails shining with dark rainbow scales and iridescent fins.

  Have you come to play with us? The words shivered through the water, echoed inside Zhirin’s head. Or to feed us?

  “What are you doing here?”

  We like these mammals. A tail flickered in the direction of the boat. They feed us well.

  “They’re murderers.” The ache in her chest grew with every word.

  What care we for mammal deaths? One of the nakh glided closer. Her—though Zhirin could only guess at gender—face was bruised.

  “If these mammals betray and kill their own so easily, do you think they’ll be more loyal to you?”

  That gave them a heartbeat’s pause. Zhirin’s lungs burned, and she eyed the nakh’s fluttering gills with envy.

  I remember you, the nakh said. Her face glowed on the other side of the light, eerily beautiful even with the dark swelling on her cheek. You chased us off the kill. One long, webbed hand rose to toy with glowing bits of debris, rolling them across her knuckles like a coin-trick. Zhirin tensed for an attack.

  But— The nakh flicked a luminous leaf with one clawed finger, watched it twist in the current. You’ve come to us to speak. The others have never done that. The eel-shark circled, bumped its triangular nose against the creature’s hand. She stroked its head carelessly. Like a dog, but dogs weren’t larger than their masters, and had far fewer teeth.

  “I’m afraid I can’t stay and talk much longer.” The words slipped silver and shining from her lips, and the urge to breathe in was nearly overwhelming.

  The nakh grinned, baring nearly as many teeth as her pet shark. No. But I’m curious—you say these mammals we aid now will turn on us. Would you offer us sweeter promises?

  “I won’t offer you men to eat.” The image of Marat’s body rose behind her eyes, wrapped in sheets and spells, weighed with garden stones, sinking into the canal. She forced it down. “But if you let me and my friends come and go tonight unharmed, I’ll treat with you however I can.”

  You’ll speak with us here, below?

  “I swear, by the River Mother.”

  The nakh cocked her head, eyes flashing white as she blinked. Very well, river-daughter. You and yours may pass freely tonight, and you’ll come to us again. She patted the shark on the head and it turned, gliding silently toward deeper water. We know the taste of your blood, if you lie.

  The nakh twisted away, vanishing into the black. Zhirin knew she should wait, make sure it wasn’t a trick, but her chest ached too fiercely. She kicked up, broke the surface with a choking gasp. She floated for a moment, spitting bitter water and letting the pain in her lungs ease. Then she swam for shore.

  It was a nice night for a swim through shark-infested waters. The water was cool but not icy, the tides gentle this far into the bay. Isyllt concentrated on swimming quietly and following the tug of the stone, trying to ignore the blackness all around her, the memory of the nakh’s cold touch.

  She whispered spells of silence but winced each time her arms broke the surface too loudly. Her breath rasped in her ears, and she didn’t know how anyone could fail to hear them coming. Even Adam’s stealthy grace deserted him in the water. She forced herself to swim with both arms, though instinct wanted to cradle her injured hand against her chest; the real damage was bad enough, without letting the working muscles stiffen. Her hand throbbed and the stitches burned, but numbness would cost her precious reaction time.

  She felt her diamond clearl
y now. Its presence shivered sharp and cold in her head—someone was using it.

  The boat’s lights came into view—lanterns hooded and shutters drawn, but drips and scraps still escaped. A low wide-bottomed craft, the deck mostly enclosed. Figures moved in the shadows of the eaves.

  “How many?” Adam asked, treading water beside her.

  She listened for heartbeats, felt several. The effort of keeping her head above water distracted her too much for an accurate count.

  “At least seven, but probably more.” He swore softly. “This is where you’re supposed to tell me that you’ve faced worse odds before,” she whispered.

  Adam snorted. “I have, and usually ended up half-dead.”

  “As long as it’s only half.”

  Vienh swam closer. “The sentries aren’t patrolling, just standing on the deck. Whoever’s in charge should flog them. If you can be quiet, we’ll go up the anchor chain.”

  “You’ve done this before,” Adam said.

  “Of course not.” Vienh’s grin flashed in the darkness. “I’m an honest smuggler.” She glided toward the ship, and Isyllt and Adam followed as quietly as they could.

  They found the anchor on the far side of the boat—Isyllt could never remember port from starboard—its chain descending from a gap in the railing. The rail was only a yard or so above the water, but the slick, curving hull would be nearly impossible to climb without being heard.

  With barely a splash, Vienh hauled herself up the chain and eased over the rail. When no one raised the alarm, Adam followed. Isyllt hooked bare toes into the links, keeping her weight on her legs and steadying herself with her good hand. Rust scraped her palm, tore a fingernail; the chain pinched an already blistered toe and she grimaced. She nearly lost her balance at the top, but Adam caught her arm and heaved her over the railing.

  They crouched in the shadows for a moment to catch their breath and listen. The walls were tightly woven wicker on wooden frames, the roof thatched. Shards of light glowed in a golden filigree. Without the distraction of the water, Isyllt felt the sentries nearby, and the cold pulse of her ring. And the bitter chill of the dead.