The Drowning City

by Amanda Downum

  Zhirin could imagine the stern lines of Imran’s face in the silence that followed. The soft scratch of chisel on stone continued. “Very well,” he said at last. “We shall make do, I’m sure.”

  Their footsteps—Faraj’s sandaled and Imran’s booted—moved away, and a moment later the door opened and shut. Hyun’s chisel kept up its rhythm. Zhirin’s breath left in a rush, loud as thunder to her heightened hearing. She leaned against the wall until her pulse slowed.

  And she’d thought the ruby mines were bad enough. She moved out of the shrubbery, scuffing a footprint out of the soft earth of the flower bed. Did Vasilios know, she wondered, and cursed the thought. But what if he did—?

  Movement in the corner of her eye distracted her. Turning, she found Jodiya watching her from the far end of the building.

  Sweet Mother, had the girl caught her spying? But Jodiya didn’t approach and Zhirin forced herself to keep walking. She didn’t trust her voice if she had to speak, and they weren’t friends, for all they were the same age and the only female apprentices. She’d made a few shy overtures, missing Sia, but Jodiya was too sly, silent most of the time and sharp-tongued the rest. Being Imran’s apprentice was likely a thankless occupation, but it couldn’t entirely explain Jodiya’s coldness. But if she was an Imperial agent as well, that might.

  Now that she thought of it, the girl reminded her of Isyllt. Swallowing nervous metallic spit, she glanced over her shoulder; Jodiya had gone. Zhirin rubbed her arms, shivering in the warm sun, and hurried to find Jabbor.

  By the time they returned to the Kurun Tam, the sun hung orange and swollen in the western sky and the meeting with Jabbor was hours past. Isyllt wanted only to sink into a bath or a comfortable chair. Instead she rinsed the taste of the road from her mouth and slipped away to find the others in Vasilio’s study.

  The old mage squinted over texts while Adam studied maps and Zhirin sat by the window and fidgeted. As Isyllt slipped in, the apprentice sprang to her feet.

  “There’s still time,” she whisper-hissed as soon as the door swung shut. “He’ll wait until sunset.”

  Isyllt sighed. “All right. Let’s go, then. Where do we meet?”

  “Past the fourth ward-post, on the eastern side of the road, there’s a game trail. Follow it a mile and you’ll find a clearing. He’ll be there.” Before Isyllt could turn away, the girl laid a hand on her arm. “Your ring—I didn’t tell them you were a necromancer. They…wouldn’t like it.”

  Isyllt nodded and twisted the ring off her finger; a ghost-band remained beneath it, a strip of white on her sun-reddened hand. She slipped the diamond into her pocket, where its weight settled cool against her hip.

  Vasilios gathered his things and the four of them made their way back to the courtyard. “I’ll wait for you by the ferry,” Vasilios said as he stepped into the carriage.

  The fourth ward-post lay half a league down the hill, the game trail a shadowed gap in the trees. Isyllt and Adam dismounted and let their horses follow the carriage. She tried not to think of her aching feet, or the walk to the ferry.

  As they stepped off the road, Isyllt stopped to scoop up a handful of dirt and pebbles. With a word of confusion, she scattered them across the trail. Then she ducked into the green and violet shadows of the jungle.

  The last of the sun bled through the canopy when they reached the clearing and she feared they’d missed their chance. Then the trees rustled and Adam’s sword hissed free.

  “No need for that,” a voice said. “If you’re who you say you are.” A Sivahri man stepped into the clearing, his face half-hidden by a scarf. “Are you the foreigners who wish to treat with me?”

  Adam’s hand brushed her arm, a warning pressure.

  “We’re here to treat with Jabbor Lhun.”

  “I am he.”

  She laughed softly. “Don’t you know better than to lie to a mage? Send out Jabbor.”

  He hesitated; Isyllt folded her arms under her chest and waited. A moment later leaves rustled again and another man stepped out. Dark-skinned, his black curls twisted into nubs against his scalp. Adam let go of her arm.

  “Hello, Jabbor. Did Zhirin tell you why I’m here?”

  “She did. Come with us, Lady Iskaldur, and we’ll speak further.” He gestured toward the southern slope. “The jungle is no place to linger at night.”

  Isyllt blessed her mage-trained senses as she followed Jabbor’s masked companion through the trees; without them she’d have killed herself falling over rocks and roots. Even Adam moved with less silence than usual. Others slipped through the shadows beside them—at least four.

  Night had settled thick and black by the time they reached the village, a tiny collection of clay-and-thatch buildings gathered around a river. Not the Mir, but some smaller tributary. Isyllt waved aside a thick cloud of gnats.

  “Here,” Jabbor said, pointing to a building that rose on stilts at the water’s edge. A tavern, from the smell.

  A few people sat quietly inside; when they saw Jabbor they either vanished quickly or drew closer. They claimed a table in the back and Isyllt sat gratefully. A girl brought them a pitcher of beer and clay mugs and left without a word. Half a dozen other men and women sat down around them.

  “Now, Lady Iskaldur,” Jabbor said, filling their cups. “Tell me what it is you propose.”

  Her cup was empty by the time she finished, and her mouth was dry again. Silence settled over the table, broken only by the pop and sizzle of a gnat flying too near a lamp.

  “She isn’t lying,” one of the women said at last.

  A murmur circled the table and died. Jabbor frowned, full lips twisting. She couldn’t read his slanting dark eyes.

  “You want our blood to buy your freedom.”

  Isyllt shrugged. “If you’re going to bleed anyway…” Someone muttered behind her; Adam tensed. “You wear a yoke. We can help you remove it. If you want idealistic fervor instead of practicality, then I’m sorry—I have none. But I do have gold.”

  After a moment, Jabbor nodded. “Fair enough.”

  Isyllt reached for the pitcher, refilled her cup. “Zhirin says you don’t want bloodshed.”

  Someone laughed, but a glance from Jabbor silenced him. “Zhirin has all the idealism you lack. And of course we don’t want bloodshed—we’re not madmen like the Dai Tranh. But we want our freedom, or at the very least the equality the Empire claims to offer to all its citizens. And if that takes a war, then so be it.”

  She sipped enough spiced beer to wet her tongue. “The Dai Tranh. Those responsible for the attack in the market?”

  “Yes. The Khas calls us all radicals and murderers, but only the Dai Tranh goes to such extremes.”

  “You don’t ally yourselves with them?”

  “They wouldn’t have me.” He raised one dark hand. “I’m not pure enough for their cause. Though my father was Isethi, and that country has forgotten more Assari oppression than Sivahra has ever known.” He shrugged. “Anyway, I don’t approve of the Dai Tranh’s methods.”

  “Do we have an arrangement, then?”

  Jabbor looked around the room—none of his people spoke. “It seems we do.”

  She held out a hand to Adam, who pulled a purse from inside his shirt. The bag chimed and rattled softly as she took it. “A gesture of good faith. More will follow.”

  Jabbor opened the pouch, poured coins and gems carefully into his hand. Unstamped gold and silver, garnets and amethysts—not mage stones, but still expensive.

  “I could only carry so much, but I can have a ship sent. Gold, weapons, medicines—tell me what you need and I can arrange it.”

  “Good luck,” he said with a humorless snort. “Perhaps you noticed the new port tariffs? Only foreign goods,” he went on when she nodded, “because everything we need we can get from Assar. It’s also a convenient excuse to search foreign ships, or the ships of merchants who don’t toe the Khas’s line.”

  She nodded. “I understand. Let me worry about that.�
��

  “And what happens if you’re discovered? Zhirin says you’ve already drawn the attention of the Emperor’s pet mage.”

  Isyllt smiled. “If the Empire captures me, my master will disavow me and I’ll be left to the mercies of the Khas’s soldiers. It would be some time before he could send another agent, if at all.”

  “Then I’ll give you advice, since you’re worth more to us alive. Walk carefully around that mage, no matter how charming he seems. And stay away from the Dai Tranh. They have no love for foreigners, even ones bearing gifts.”

  She nodded. “We will.”

  Jabbor stood, ending the meeting. Chairs scraped the floor as the other Tigers rose as well. “Follow the river—it joins the Mir by the ferry dock.” He offered her a hand to clasp. “We’ll speak again soon, Lady Iskaldur.”

  When they finally reached Vasilios’s house, Isyllt indulged in a long bath, but not yet in sleep. Instead she pulled on a robe and combed her wet hair, then removed the shroud of black silk from the tall mirror in her chambers. An old one—the tarnished silver backing mottled her reflection, made her a wraith by shadows and candlelight.

  The night was late in Erisín as well, though not quite so late as here, but she doubted Kiril would be asleep. She hesitated for a moment, then laid her left palm against the glass and whispered his name.

  The mirror clouded, darkened till it matched her diamond, and she fought not to sway as the spell leeched strength from her. Perhaps she should have waited for morning after all; the distance made it difficult, and the vast salt-thick ocean between them didn’t help. But she tightened her jaw and held on.

  At last the mist cleared, revealing a room she knew as well as her own. Lamplight and gloom, a worn brocade chair and a desk cluttered with books and quills and empty teacups. Atop a stack of papers lay a pair of spectacles that would never leave the room—magecraft could hone the senses keen as a beast’s for a short while, but couldn’t undo time. No matter how much anyone prayed otherwise.

  “Kiril.”

  A moment later he appeared, sinking into the chair and turning to face the glass. “Isyllt.” Heartbeats slipped by as they watched each other. “You look well,” he finally said.

  “You look tired. You should rest.” His hair had been streaked with gray as long as she’d known him, but now it was paler still, and white peppered his auburn-black beard. The shadows beneath his dark eyes had become permanent in the last year, the seams around his mouth starker.

  He smiled, spiderweb wrinkles deepening around his eyes. “Maybe later.” An old argument, more a joke by now. Isyllt swallowed. “But how are you? How goes the trip?”

  “I’ve spoken to the people I needed to, and made arrangements.”

  “Wonderful. I knew you would.”

  She admonished herself for the warm rush of pride in her chest. “Vasilios and Adam send their regards.”

  “How are they?”

  “Well. Adam’s upset that he hasn’t got to kill anything yet.”

  Kiril chuckled. “Likely better if he doesn’t. I’ll find him bloodier work when you get back. How long do you plan to stay?”

  “We need to make arrangements for supplies, and a fast ship with a clever captain. I’ll stay until the ship arrives. I’ll contact you when I know where it should put in to port.”

  He nodded. One long, ink-stained hand twitched, as though he meant to raise it to the glass. “Just be sure to bring yourself safely home.”

  She swallowed all the things she might have said, only nodded instead. Before she could change her mind, she pulled her hand away and let the vision fade. The glass showed her own face again, pale and stiff as a mask. She draped the mirror and turned away, praying for a dreamless night.

  The night was full of ghosts and spirits. Xinai leaned against the crumbling doorway and listened to their fluting whispers and soft animal noises. She had no salt, but the firelight kept them away for now. Or perhaps they were afraid of Shaiyung; her mother lingered in the shadows of the room, watching with sunken eyes.

  Not their family’s house—Xinai hadn’t the heart to find it yet—but another small clay building, one that had best survived the years and the banyan tree’s stretching roots. Phailin dozed by the fire, her breath rough with pain.

  Xinai wasn’t sure how long it had been since Riuh had gone; it seemed hours, but she couldn’t see the stars. She turned away from the night, leaned against the wall and watched the fire instead.

  Heat and jungle noises lulled her. She woke with a start and berated herself for drowsing. Phailin still slept, but the spirits had quieted. Xinai drew her daggers and listened through broken shutters. Footsteps, stealthy through the brush. Then Riuh whistled their all-clear signal, and she sighed.

  He stepped into the light, Selei and a handful of warriors with him. Xinai sheathed her blades.

  “I feared—” She paused, and Selei smiled.

  “You feared I’d be no match for soldiers.” The woman knelt beside the fire and kindled a lantern. “Don’t worry, child, I’m neither toothless nor helpless quite yet.” She drew Xinai aside as Phailin’s relatives entered the room. “Let them tend her. I need to speak with you.” Her milky eye flickered toward Shaiyung. “Both of you.”

  They followed Selei into the thicket of the banyan tree, and the light cast their shadows wild and writhing amid the branches. Shaiyung stood close to Xinai, a line of cold down her left side.

  “You can see her?”

  Selei snorted. “I’ve been speaking to ghosts since before your mother first propositioned your father, girl.”

  “You knew she was here.”

  “Yes. We’ve talked, Shai and I.” She smiled at the ghost. “She’s been waiting for you.”

  “I’ll do the rites, if you’ll teach me. I’ll sing her on—”

  Shaiyung shook her head, twisting the gash in her throat wider. “No,” she hissed.

  “That isn’t what she’s been waiting for.”

  Xinai crossed her arms against the chill. “What, then?”

  “She’s been waiting for you to come and free her, so she can join our cause.”

  Shaiyung nodded.

  “A ghost?”

  “She’s not the only one in these woods.” Selei brushed dry fingertips over Xinai’s eyes. “Do you see?”

  And there, pale in the darkness, stood half a dozen ghosts, lurking among the tree roots. Xinai sucked a breath through her teeth. Most looked more substantial than her mother, but still gray and hollow-eyed, bearing the marks of their deaths.

  “You haven’t sung them on?”

  “And lose allies? This is their war too, and they’ve already paid a higher price than any of us.”

  “But they should rest.”

  “We’ll rest when the land is free again,” one of the ghosts whispered, nearly lost beneath the distant song of crickets.

  Shaiyung nodded again. “There aren’t many us of us,” she whispered. “It’s hard, hard to stay awake, to stay sane in the Night Forest. So many have faded or wandered on, or been trapped in their bones.”

  “You’re a good omen,” Selei said. “The last Lin child returned. Hope for the clan again. Maybe other clans might live again too.”

  Xinai didn’t know what to say to that—bad enough when the living pinned their hopes to her, let alone the dead. “Does everyone know of this? Riuh and Phailin and the rest?”

  “Phailin does,” Selei said. “But not everyone knows of the Ki Dai.”

  The White Hand. Xinai’s eyes widened. “Rebel ghosts.”

  “Ghosts and witches, yes. Not all our warriors can see or hear the dead, and some wouldn’t understand why we don’t sing them on. The Dai Tranh works in the land of the living—the Ki Dai works in the twilight lands as well.”

  “So Deilin Xian—”

  “Was one of us, yes. We tried to keep her away from that child, but the madness took her.” Selei’s eyes narrowed. “You know what happened, then? What your companions did to he
r?”

  She nodded. “I heard.”

  “Can we free her?”

  Xinai heard the rest of the question and swallowed. “I don’t know. But the necromancer wants to treat with you, with the Dai Tranh.”

  “We fight for a free Sivahra, not to trade one master for another. We won’t be snared in webs of foreign gold. Nor can we barter for Deilin like a fish in a market. She would understand.”

  Xinai’s shoulders sagged. “So it was all for nothing.”

  Selei clucked her tongue. “We won’t treat with foreigners, girl. You’re kin. If you want to fight with us, we welcome you.”

  She glanced from Selei to Shaiyung. The ghost nodded. “Stay,” she whispered.

  “What about my partner? He’s saved my life more times than I can count. We’re…close.”

  Selei shook her head. “He may be a good man, but he has no place with us. If you care, send him away. Will you stay?”

  Her chest felt too tight. Years of partnership, of friendship. It would hurt him. But she only hesitated a moment; she was home.

  “I will.”

  “There’s one thing I must ask of you first.”

  Xinai waited; there was always a test, a cost.

  “Shaiyung is bound to this place, to the tree. You’re the only one who can set her free.”

  She swallowed. “What do I need to do?”

  “Bleed. Shed Lin blood for the tree and take a piece of its wood in return. Shaiyung will be able to leave the walls, and to find you if you’re ever in need.”

  “All right.” Xinai drew her knife, tested the edge with her thumb; it wanted honing but would serve for the moment. She touched a young tendril that hadn’t reached the ground and glanced a question at Selei. The old woman nodded.

  “That will do.”

  She pushed back her sleeve and nicked the smaller vein running down her left thumb—the first mercenary witch she’d met in the north had laughed her out of the habit of taking blood from her palm. Pressure, then the flash of pain, then beads of blood welling black in the darkness. She tilted her arm, let the drops trace a dark rivulet into her palm.

  Harder to pierce the tree’s skin, and by the time she’d sawed through the tendril tip the last of the edge was gone from her blade. Sap smeared sticky on steel. She pressed her palm against the root, mingling her blood with the tree’s.