The Drowning City

by Amanda Downum

  “What are you doing?” Her voice wasn’t as steady as she would have liked.

  “What do you think I’m doing?” His other hand traced the angle of her jaw, tilted her face up.

  “I think you’re trying to distract me.”

  “Is it working?”

  He kissed her; she didn’t stop him. The taste of his magic spilled over her tongue. The strangeness was there too, some subtle flavor she didn’t understand. She leaned in, mouth opening, free hand rising to cup the curve of his skull.

  He flinched from her touch and pulled away. Her pulse beat in her lips.

  “I’m sorry.” He took her left hand carefully, not touching the ring. “Not this, please. Not after…”

  She looked down at the diamond, black and still now, no fire in its depths. She might demand the same of him, but the bruised look on his face stopped her. Beyond foolish, but she was tired of being alone. She twisted the ring free, slipped it into her inside coat pocket and offered him her naked hand.

  “No ghosts.” That was a lie and they both knew it; their ghosts were always with them.

  He kissed her fingertips, her palm, and pulled her close. The lamps flickered and died as he led her to his bed. For an hour or two, at least, they might banish them.

  Isyllt woke with a start, reaching for a weapon that wasn’t there. The bed was empty and cold, and the room as well. A draft gusted over her, teasing gooseflesh across her skin and tightening her breasts.

  She reached down, found her clothes where she’d left them and checked her pocket. Her ring was still there; she slipped it on, shaking her head at her own stupidity. At least the diversion had been pleasant. She pressed her face to the pillow and breathed in the scent of sweat and spices.

  Isyllt rose and dressed, followed the humid draft into the sitting room, where the balcony door stood open. Rain hissed against the leaves, dripped over Asheris’s bare shoulders as he leaned out into the night. A shining rivulet snaked down his back, soaking into the waist of his trousers. He scrubbed a weary hand across his face and flung droplets away.

  She bit her lip and nearly turned away. She knew that tired antipathy—she’d seen it in Kiril a dozen times, in her own reflection. But mercy was so rarely an option, for yourself or the enemy.

  “Lie back and think of the Empire?” she asked softly.

  Asheris turned, scattering water. In the darkness his skin was nearly purple. “I’m sorry,” he said after a pause.

  “For what? Not wanting me?” She smiled wryly; it stung more than she liked to admit. “You counterfeit it rather well.”

  “I’ve had practice.”

  She remembered Jodiya at the ball and glanced away. She didn’t have the luxury of regrets right now.

  “Are you planning to kill me?” she asked, catching his eyes.

  He arched an eyebrow. “I wasn’t—should I be?”

  “The Viceroy has condoned my death. It seemed like a wasted opportunity back there.”

  “Ah.” He stepped inside and latched the door. Steam drifted off his skin as water dried. “I have no orders to harm you. Not yet.”

  “If you want to take the initiative, now would be a good time.”

  He smiled. “It would be inconsiderate to wake the house. Besides”—his smile twisted—“I’d rather test my leash as far as I might.”

  She swallowed half a dozen questions. Pressing him too far wouldn’t serve her now. Instead she turned, deliberately giving him her back, and fetched her shoes and stray underclothes from the bedroom.

  “Will you attend the execution tomorrow?” she asked.

  His lip curled. “So I am bid. There will be blood and death to go around this season.”

  And likely more than he realized. But warning him of tomorrow’s attack was more leash than she cared to test.

  “Good night.” She left him in the dark and returned to her own cold bed.

  Chapter 14

  The execution began at noon.

  Isyllt gathered with the other spectators around the dais. Councillors mostly, she guessed, and other bureaucrats who worked at the Khas. Some observers from the city had been allowed in, and servants lingered on the skirts of the crowd, shifting nervously. The sky was gray in the lull before the afternoon rains.

  Asheris stood with the Viceroy and executioner on the dais; Isyllt had never seen him in an Imperial uniform before. His face might have been a wooden mask.

  The prisoners knelt on the stone—two men and a woman, stripped to the waist, their hands bound to posts behind their backs. They didn’t speak; one man kept his eyes closed, while his companions stared defiantly at the crowd.

  When the last of the noon bells died, Faraj stepped forward to face the prisoners. His voice, however, was pitched to reach the crowd.

  “Bai Xian, Yuen Xian, and Thuan Xian-Zhu. You are found guilty of conspiring against the Empire and the Khas Maram and murdering Khas soldiers. In addition, you have been implicated in the destruction of Imperial property, and the attacks on Amina Abbasi’s shop on Market Street and the Floating Garden, which resulted in the deaths of over thirty citizens of Symir. The sentence for these crimes is death. But you’ve been offered leniency if you renounce your allegiance to the terrorist organization called the Dai Tranh, and I’ll extend this offer once more. Will you repudiate these murderers and help us bring peace to the city?”

  The woman, Yuen, spat on the stone. The others remained silent.

  “Very well.” He turned to the crowd. “Before the sentence is carried out, is there anyone present who would speak, either for or against the condemned?”

  The silence stretched, not even a muttered word to break it. But as Faraj drew breath to speak again, footsteps crunched on the gravel path and a murmur rippled through the crowd.

  “I’ll speak.”

  Spectators cleared the path to admit Jabbor Lhun. Two Sivahri flanked him and soldiers with drawn weapons surrounded them all. The three wore honor-blades at their hips and gray sashes at their waists. A pattern of tiger stripes decorated their bare upper arms—ocher paint on Jabbor’s dark skin, black on his companions’.

  Isyllt bit down an annoyed sigh. All their plans would be for nothing if the Tigers got themselves killed or arrested on some foolish point of honor.

  Faraj blinked, but recovered quickly. “And who do you speak for? More terrorists and murderers?”

  “The Jade Tigers are no murderers and you know it. I speak for the Tigers, and also for Clan Lhun, since we are denied a seat in the House of the People.”

  “Clan Lhun may claim its seat whenever it chooses to swear the council’s oaths. You stay apart by your own choice. But why are you here? Do you intend to defend the condemned?”

  “I don’t condone the actions of the Dai Tranh when they cost innocent lives, but I know that these people were arrested days before the attack on the festival. If you mean to condemn them, perhaps you should choose crimes they might’ve had the chance to truly commit.”

  Yuen Xian bared her teeth in an ugly smile. Faraj’s lips thinned.

  “They have admitted their involvement with the Dai Tranh, and the Dai Tranh’s with these attacks. They choose to protect their compatriots and endanger the lives of still more innocents.”

  “But their blood won’t undo the damage done, nor heal Sivahra’s wounds, will it?”

  “No, but perhaps it can ease the pain of some of the victims’ families.” He raised a hand when Jabbor would have replied. “If you wish to continue this conversation, Mr. Lhun, you’re welcome to bring it before the council. We certainly have matters we’d like to discuss with you. But today, sentence has been passed and will be carried out.”

  The soldiers tightened their circle around the Tigers, weapons steady. Faraj signaled the executioner and the man drew his sword. A kris-blade, long and waving; patterns rippled like water along the steel.

  The swordsman stood behind the first prisoner, aimed the sword at the valley above the man’s collarbone. Down th
rough the lung, into the heart—it would be a clean kill, at least, if done properly. The watchers held their breath.

  Faraj lowered his hand, and the swordsman thrust. The prisoner gasped and shuddered but didn’t scream. A bubble of blood burst on his lips. The executioner twisted the blade and tugged it free. The man wavered on his knees for several heartbeats, crimson spilling in waves down his chest, then toppled over. Blood washed over the dais, seeping between the stones.

  The swordsman wiped the blade with a cloth, but rust-colored stains clung in the patterned grooves. He moved behind Yuen and raised the sword again.

  And fell with an arrow sprouting from his chest.

  Someone screamed and the crowd scattered. Shots cracked from a rooftop and Asheris seized Faraj, hauling him off the dais. A wall of shimmering air enveloped them. Isyllt ducked against a tree trunk, dodging fleeing spectators. Arrows rained with the bullets, but more accurately. A councillor fell in front of her, a feathered shaft through his throat.

  One of the soldiers beside Jabbor fell too, his face shattered by a bullet. Another stabbed at Jabbor, but the Lhun woman gutted him before the stroke could land. Cursing, the Tigers fought their way free and ducked behind a row of hedges.

  Isyllt crouched, ready to run toward them, but movement on the dais distracted her. Yuen Xian had slipped her bonds and claimed the executioner’s sword. She freed her clansman, then turned on Asheris and Faraj. His shield would stop bullets and arrows, but could it turn a blade?

  Run, Isyllt told herself, run. But she kept watching. Even if she shouted, she doubted he’d hear her over the chaos. Yuen raised the sword.

  And screamed as flames encased her. The sword fell with a shower of sparks as she stumbled back and dropped to the blood-drenched stone, trying to roll out the flames.

  But an instant’s distraction was enough to cost Asheris his shield. Another pistol fired and he fell.

  And Isyllt, cursing herself for a fool, bolted toward him, ducking behind the edge of the dais. Faraj crouched with his back to the stone, face drained ashen.

  Isyllt grabbed Asheris’s arm, hauled him into the dubious cover. Blood stained his left shoulder, spreading around the hole in his coat. Sweat glistened on his brow and his breath came short and sharp.

  “Don’t—” he whispered as she tugged torn cloth aside.

  “Damn it, let me see.” Not the heart, at least. She laid her hand on his shoulder, searching for death-echoes in the wound. Not that she could do a damned thing if it was mortal—

  She sucked in a breath and watched as the misshapen copper ball melted and oozed out of the wound. His diamond pulsed and sparked in time with his pulse, but her own magic was silent. He carried no trace of death in his flesh.

  “What are you?”

  He only shook his head, that hollow look in his eyes again. Faraj frowned and grabbed at her arm, but Isyllt pulled free and ran. Gunsmoke hung in the air, along with the reek of blood and death. She glanced up, glimpsed crouching figures on the nearest rooftop before a bullet struck the path in front of her, kicking up dust and shards of gravel. She dove sideways, scrambling across the grass, nearly tripping over the dead councillor as she regained the shelter of the tree.

  Jabbor and his Tigers were still pinned down across the path. They had no cover for yards if they ran for the main gate.

  Leaves rustled behind her and she turned to find Li creeping toward her.

  “Be careful,” Isyllt hissed, beckoning the woman closer. She didn’t see the knife till Li was nearly on her.

  She caught the first stroke with her forearm instead of her neck; the blade traced a line of fire below her elbow. Isyllt drove her knee into the woman’s ribs, falling back on her good arm. Li grunted, dodged a kick and lunged, driving Isyllt flat against the ground and knocking the air from her lungs. The sky darkened as Li leaned over her, knocked her left arm aside. She threw up her wounded arm to block the blow—

  But Li wasn’t aiming for her heart or her throat. The knife came down and Isyllt screamed as it skewered her left palm, nailing her hand to the ground. Her vision washed red and black; the weight left her chest, but she still couldn’t breathe.

  She didn’t realize she’d lost consciousness till she came to at the sound of her name. Hands on her shoulders, dragging her up, and she gasped as bone grated on steel.

  “Mother’s bones.” Jabbor crouched beside her. “Hold still,” he said, reaching for the knife. “This will hurt.”

  She sobbed as he eased the blade free; metal slid past layers of skin and muscle and tissue, scraped bone. Blood pooled in her palm, ran down her wrist as she lifted her arm. She couldn’t move her fingers. Li was gone and so was her ring.

  “Where did she go?” She rose to her knees, cradling her useless hand against her chest. Blood soaked her shirt, dripped off her other arm as well. “Damn it, where did she go?”

  “She ran,” Jabbor said, gesturing toward the closest building. “We have to get out of here.”

  “I can’t let her get away—”

  “You think you can catch her like this?” He pulled her to her feet, holding her steady as she wobbled. “Besides, you were out for minutes—who knows where she is by now. We’re leaving.”

  And he ran, dragging her along. Stumbling and cursing, Isyllt ran too, the other Tigers flanking them. She risked a glance back, saw soldiers closing on the rooftop. A suicide mission—or a distraction for something else?

  As they reached the shelter of the pomegranate trees, another group of people broke from cover behind the eastern hall. Sivahri, and armed, but they bolted for the wall, paying no attention to Isyllt and the Tigers. One man held a child in his arms.

  Four soldiers guarded the gates, nervous and distracted by the clamor across the grounds. As Jabbor and his people fell on the first three, Isyllt stretched out a bloody hand to the fourth.

  “Help me,” she gasped. “Please.”

  He hesitated for an instant, pistol half raised. Long enough for Isyllt’s magic to wrap around him, to close cold fingers over his heart. He fell, gasping, brown face drained gray.

  Jabbor cast a horrified glance at the man as they wrestled the locks open; he huddled on the ground, shaking and moaning—if he had that much strength left, Isyllt doubted he would die.

  Outside, knots of people gathered on the sidewalks and alarm bells rang. A skiff poled toward the landing as they slipped through the gate, and Jabbor and the Tigers bolted for it. Isyllt followed, too slow, and wondered if they would leave her behind. Then someone shouted her name.

  She spun, slipping on damp stone, and saw Adam waving from another boat. “Go on,” she shouted at Jabbor, and ran for the other skiff.

  The craft rocked as she stumbled aboard and Adam grabbed her arm, dragging her down. She cried out and fell, scraping her good palm against the wooden bench. The steersman poled away, face and hair shrouded in a scarf—Vienh.

  “Blood and iron,” Adam muttered, crouching beside her. He reached for her wounded hand, and she jerked away.

  “I met your other assassin.”

  “Is she still alive?”

  “Unfortunately.”

  “Show me where you’re hurt, damn it,” he said as she flinched away again.

  She swallowed the taste of pain, nearly choked on it, and held out her left hand. Skin gaped—a perfect double-edged stab wound. A wonderful example to show a class of investigators. Some pale flashed amid the blood; tendon perhaps, or bone.

  She started to laugh, high and shrill. Then Adam touched her hand and she passed out again.

  Consciousness returned swift and cruel while they circled the canals of Straylight, making sure they weren’t pursued. When Adam and Vienh were satisfied, they set out for Merrowgate, and the narrow waterway behind an inn. Not the Bride—Isyllt couldn’t fault Vienh for that; she didn’t trust her luck either.

  Adam draped his cloak over her to hide the blood as they docked, held her steady up three flights of stairs to the room. The bleeding
had slowed enough that she didn’t leave a trail up the steps, at least.

  “I need bandages and needle and thread,” Adam said as Isyllt fell into a chair. “And clean water.”

  Isyllt bit her tongue while Adam cut away her ruined sleeves; when half-clotted scabs peeled loose she hissed. Her right arm was still bleeding, but it was nothing compared to the left. She could only stare at her curled hand, at the naked skin where her ring should be. Vienh returned with the supplies and Adam scrubbed his hands.

  The water was tepid but burned like vitriol in her wounds. Adam cleaned her right arm first and opened a tube of ointment, nodding thanks to Vienh.

  “I don’t need that.”

  His eyebrows rose. “Humor me.”

  The cream smelled of tea-tree oil, sweet-sharp and faintly resinous. It also stung, and she glared at him while he smeared it on. The needle was a proper surgeon’s tool, curved and razor-tipped; light gleamed and splintered off the tip. She wondered how many patrons the innkeeper stitched up. Adam’s hands were steady as he threaded it.

  Isyllt braced herself and swallowed. Her head ached, the edge of her vision too dark—more magic would only make it worse.

  Her resolve lasted till the third stitch. Then the cold came, sweet and soothing. The throb in her temple became a spike, but instead of fire and wasp stings in her arm, she felt only the soft pop of skin, the slide and tug of the thread.

  When he clipped the last knot, she tilted her arm to look. Ugly, thread black and stark against her skin and the red edges of the wound; at least the stitches were neat. Adam dabbed on more ointment, then bound her arm in bandages.

  The pain had dulled to a queasy red blur by the time he was done. She stank of blood and sweat, and breathing ached where Li had landed on her ribs. All her luggage was at the Khas.

  “Now this,” Adam said softly, reaching for her left hand. The concern in his voice was no comfort. “Have you numbed the pain?”

  She shook her head and quickly regretted it.