The Drowning City

Chapter 12

Zhirin paced. Her head was still achy and muddled from crying, and movement didn’t help, but she couldn’t sit still. Every time she did, the images caught up with her: blood in the water, drowning screams, Vasilios’s black and swollen face. She scrubbed a hand across her eyes as fresh tears welled.

But she couldn’t hide in her room forever either. Her mother had knocked three times already and eventually she’d demand Zhirin answer.

She paused beside her window, leaned her forehead against the cool glass. Raindrops trickled down the pane, fat beads of rain darkening the stone and trickling through the gutters before eventually joining the river. Zhirin wished she could lose herself in the water so easily. Already the current rolled on, washing away the blood and corpses, easing the shock of shattered stone; the river took all the pain.

She straightened, wiping the oily smudge of her skin off the expensive glass. Nearly noon-she had to go downstairs sooner or later. She rubbed her eyes again and opened her wardrobe, wafting the fragrance of imported cedar into the air. It had been a long time since she’d worn her mourning clothes, but they were still tucked inside, gray trousers and long blouse. Her mother would never let her leave the house with ashes in her hair.

After dressing and twisting her tangled hair up in sticks, Zhirin eased open her bedroom door. The third floor was quiet, no lamps burning against the rainy gloom. Rain-streaked windows cast rippling shadows over the tiles at the end of the hall.

On the second floor she heard soft voices from her mother’s study. She shook her head at the familiarity of it-had it been only seven days since she’d last come home? This time, she paused outside the door and listened.

“When will your next shipment be ready?” Fei Minh asked.

“At this rate, who knows?” Porcelain clinked and Faraj sighed; Zhirin was becoming far too familiar with the sound of his muffled voice.

“I can’t just order my ships to sit in harbor all season. People will talk. Not to mention the money I’d lose.”

“We’ll lose more than money if this fails. And we only need one ship.”

Zhirin swallowed; the pit of her stomach chilled, but she was too tired for true shock. Oh, Mira. Not you too.

“The Yhan Ti,” Fei Minh said after a moment. “She’s dry-docked anyway. I’ll tell the captain to take her time with the repairs.” A cup rattled against a saucer. “You have to do something about these terrorists, Faraj. My daughter could have been killed.”

The fierce protectiveness in her mother’s voice made Zhirin’s eyes sting again. She pressed a hand over her trembling mouth to stifle a sob. Swallowing tears, she knocked on the door and pushed it open.

Her mother rose, and Faraj set aside his cup.

“Darling-” Fei Minh raised a hand, let it fall again.

“Do you know yet?” she asked Faraj. “Who murdered Vasilios?”

“No. Asheris is investigating. Do you know anything that might help him?”

“They asked me that last night. No. He was…a good mage. A good master. An old man.” Her voice sounded hollow; she was hollow. No blushing now, no stammering. Was this how Isyllt did it? Scrape out everything that mattered, leave nothing but the cold?

“I’m sorry,” Faraj said, not meeting her eyes. He rose, straightening his coat. “Will you come to the ball tonight?” he asked Fei Minh.

Zhirin’s brow creased. “You’re still having a ball?” The festival usually lasted for days, but after last night she couldn’t imagine anyone celebrating.

He spread his hands and shrugged. “It’s a victory for them if we don’t. We can’t let them grind us down so easily.”

She swallowed half a dozen answers, pressed her lips tight.

“I don’t know yet,” Fei Minh said, carefully not glancing at her daughter.

“I understand. Again, Miss Laii, I’m sorry for your loss.” He waved Fei Minh back as she stepped toward the door. “I can see myself out.”

Zhirin waited till she heard the front door close to pour herself a cup of tea from the cooling pot. Fei Minh watched her carefully-afraid she’d start crying again, perhaps. Tea washed away the taste of tears, bitter replacing salt; leaves clung to the sides of the cup, swirled lazily in the dregs.

“Your business with Faraj,” she said at last, “your personal investment. It’s stones, isn’t it? It’s diamonds.” A tea leaf stuck in her throat and she fought a cough.

Fei Minh blinked, dark lashes brushing her delicately powdered cheeks. Pale as any pure-blooded mountain clan, and she had always taken care to show it, instead of counterfeiting bronzen Assari skin as some tried.

“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 inappropriate.”

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.

“Then I’m sorry for your grief.” They drew together, nearly breast to breast. “I know you have no reason to trust me and a dozen not to, but I think our goals may lie in similar directions.”

That pulled her eyebrows up. She met his eyes-green-and-gold-flecked and terribly earnest. She envied him; she doubted she’d looked so innocent since she was ten years old.

“What if they don’t?” Another step apart, another twirl. “We’ve only just met-are we to become enemies so soon?”

“I hope not. But perhaps the risk is worth it.”

She stepped back into his arms, wishing she could scent deception as some mages claimed they could. All she smelled was wine and sweat and the cloying mix of a dozen perfumes. “Are you prepared to tell me you’re plotting against the Khas?” she whispered.

“No.” His breath warmed the side of her face. “I’m plotting against the Emperor.”

She drew back, struggling to keep up with the dance steps while she looked at his face. If he was lying, she couldn’t tell. Choices dizzied her. But she had to do something, so why not risk?

“We aren’t enemies, then.”

Zhirin and her mother arrived unfashionably late, after the dancing had begun. Their argument over the proper amount of mourning-wear had lasted nearly an hour. In the end Fei Minh lent her a sari, deep green silk shot with gold and orange thread, still trimmed in gray since the death of Zhirin’s great-aunt two years ago.

Lanterns and garlands dripped from the trees of the Pomegranate Court; rain bruised the flowers and decay tainted their waxy sweetness. Usually the court was open to guests, but now soldiers patrolled amid the trees and no couples sat in the rain-sheltered alcoves. They passed the wide lion fountain, twin to the one in the Kurun Tam, and climbed the steps to the council hall. The smell of sweat and wine and perfume wafted through the doors, mingling with the cloying flowers and the sharpness of the rain. Zhirin swallowed nervous spit.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” Fei Minh asked.

Zhirin forced a smile. “Of course.”

It wasn’t much of a crowd, she told herself as they stepped inside. Much smaller than other parties she’d attended here. But still too many; her vision blurred, marble rippling like water, the guests a shimmering haze of gold and silk and gems. No one else wore gray. How many of these people would feel like dancing if they’d watched a nakh sink its teeth into a man’s throat?

Her courage nearly fled, but her stomach rumbled and the sharp edge of hunger cleared her head. She hadn’t eaten anything today but tea, and her body no longer cared about her grief. She grounded herself in the practical concern; she’d survived last night, she could survive a party.

“Oh, look,” Fei Minh said. “Lu Zhin is here.” She waved to the matriarch of the Irezh family, bracelets chiming softly. “And Min is back from the university.”

Zhirin barely stopped her eyes from rolling. That was a conversation she planned to stay far away from. “I’m going to find something to eat. I’ll join you later.”

“Good idea.” Her mother’s eyes narrowed. “You’re looking a bit sallow-not that the color helps.” She flicked a fingernail against a gray ribbon.

Zhirin pushed Fei Minh lightly toward the Irezhs. “I’ll see you later, Mira.”

The dancing distracted people from the food, and Zhirin filled a plate with cakes and century eggs wrapped in pickled ginger. The finer red wines were nearly gone, but plenty of chilled white Mareotis remained, goblets sweating on the linen tablecloths.

She found a chair against the wall and balanced her plate on her knees, nibbling a cardamom cream-cake and watching the dancers circle. She had no idea if Isyllt would be here, she realized. For all she knew Asheris had locked her in a lead-lined cell somewhere.

Then the crowd shifted and Zhirin saw her. She nearly choked on a bite of cake and washed it down with wine. More specter than living woman, with her gown the color of ashes and bone-pale skin. Like something out of a play, the White Bone Queen stalking a ball for her next victim. It took a moment to recognize her dance partner-the man from the festival. At least he didn’t look as though he’d fall over dead anytime soon.

Across the room servants opened the terrace doors; the heat of so many dancing bodies threatened to overcome the building’s cooling spells. Almost at once couples began to trickle out in search of privacy.

The song ended and Isyllt and her partner moved toward the refreshment tables. Zhirin rose to join them-she nearly set her plate down, but the sight of Isyllt’s shoulder blades rippling beneath too little flesh made her hold on to it.

Color burned in Isyllt’s cheeks and she smiled at something the man said as they collected wineglasses, but it seemed strained. The pleasant expression fell away when she saw Zhirin.

“How are you?”

Zhirin shrugged. “All right. Considering. You?”

“The same. Excuse me-Zhirin, meet Siddir Bashari.”

Not a name she recognized-maybe her mother knew who he was. She nodded politely. “Excuse me, but I need to speak to Lady Iskaldur for a moment. Come outside with me?”

Isyllt nodded and bade farewell to Bashari.

The rain had stopped, save for the steady drip of the gutters. Lanterns swayed lazily, tongues of light lapping across the wet grass. Whispers drifted from shadowed corners. Zhirin left the terrace, moving toward a covered bench on the lawn. Damp seeped between her toes and stray blades of grass clung to her sandals.

“Adam sent me,” she said softly. “He wants to know what he should do.”

Isyllt sighed a little, as if in relief. “Tell him to get a mirror, a small one that will fit in a pocket, and carry it with him. Glass if he can manage, but brass or bronze will do. Beyond that, we’ll have to see. I don’t know yet if I need a daring rescue or not.”

Across the yard, a stone platform shone pale in the darkness, each corner marked by a column. Zhirin grimaced at the sight.

“The execution yard,” she said when Isyllt raised a questioning eyebrow. “The stones will be blooded soon, my mother says.”

“Oh?”

“Three members of Clan Xian have been linked to the Dai Tranh and will be charged for the attack on the festival. Never mind that they were arrested days before it happened.” She put her back to the square as they reached the bench. “What happened with Asheris?” she asked, testing the stone for dampness before she sat.

“He’s keeping me close. It’s all very polite, but I can’t leave the Khas.”

“What will you do?” Zhirin set her plate on the bench, nudging it toward Isyllt.

Shadows rippled across the woman’s face as she frowned. “I don’t know. Escape would only give him reason to arrest me.”

“You could leave, couldn’t you? Go home. You’ve done what you came to do.”

“Not until the supply ship arrives and Jabbor has the cargo. I won’t leave the job half finished.” Isyllt took a pastry, tearing off a bit of crust.

The job. Zhirin picked at a black-marbled egg. Revolution must be easier if you didn’t have to stay to watch. If you didn’t have to live in the ashes.

“What is it?” Isyllt asked, watching her.

She almost held her tongue, but she’d trusted the woman this far…“It’s more complicated than we realized.” Haltingly, she told Isyllt about the diamonds, about the warehouse raid and the conversation with her mother.

Isyllt whistled softly when she was finished. “That’s quite a thing to keep hidden. And why bother, when the Emperor could simply claim the stones as tithe?”

Zhirin shook her head; her mouth was dry and tepid wine did nothing to help. The sour smell of the eggs turned her stomach.

She nearly dropped the goblet as Isyllt grabbed her arm, cool fingers digging into her flesh. She followed the woman’s nod in time to see a man and a woman cross the terrace; lantern-light flashed on long brown hair and the man’s familiar hook-nosed profile. They walked to a shadowed corner and the hedges blocked the sight of them.

“Can we get closer?” Zhirin whispered.

“I have an easier way.” Isyllt reached into her skirt pocket and pulled out a silk-wrapped shape. A mirror-black glass gleamed as she unwrapped it. “Be quiet. Sound travels both ways.” She turned toward Zhirin and held the mirror between them.

The surface shimmered like water and images rose and vanished one after another-strangers’ faces, lights and ceilings and floors, a dizzying series of angles and views. Finally one remained, a scattering of darkness and light. After an instant Zhirin realized it was water dripping into a puddle, as seen from below the surface. Looking closer, she saw a man’s outline reflected in the rippling pool.

“What is it?” Faraj’s voice drifted faintly from the mirror, dull with annoyance or resignation.

“The Laii girl has been snooping around.” Jodiya. “She may already know about the mine, and she keeps company with the Jade Tigers. I can make sure she doesn’t talk.”

“No. I need her mother’s ships, and if Fei Minh even suspects we hurt her daughter, she’ll make more trouble than Zhang could have dreamed of. I’ll tell Fei Minh to keep her quiet, but you don’t lay a finger on the girl.”

“What about the foreign witch, the necromancer? She’s taking more interest in Asheris than I like.”

“Her you can dispose of, if you need something to keep yourself occupied. But for the love of heaven, not here. The last thing I need is an international incident. Make it quiet, and quick.”

“They’ll never find the body.”

A moment later they were gone, and Isyllt wrapped the mirror again.

“What are we going to do?” Zhirin whispered. Her hands shook and she clenched them tight in her lap.

Isyllt shrugged. “Be careful. Watch our backs.”

“I could go into the forest with Jabbor.”

“And that will be exactly the excuse that little assassin needs to kill you when she finds you and blame it on the Tigers. And we still don’t know who murdered Vasilios. If it wasn’t Faraj or his killers, then even more people want to put knives in our backs.” Her expression softened. “Stay quiet and don’t draw attention to yourself.”

Zhirin shook her head hard enough to shift a braid in its pins. “How do you do it? How do you live like this?”

Isyllt smiled, quick and rueful. “I don’t remember any other way.”

Clouds rode the jungle canopy, blurring the tops of the trees in gray. Not yet heavy enough to rain, but the air below was thick and sticky and clung to Xinai’s skin in a clammy false sweat. The ground was soft with rain, the soggy leaf-litter crawling with beetles and centipedes. Already plants half-dead from summer heat greened again, and the smell of jasmine and satinwood flowers threaded through the richer scents of wet earth and leaves, rot and moss.

Shaiyung returned an hour or so after they left Xao Par Khan, her chill presence stronger than ever. She didn’t speak, and Xinai was happy not to be distracted. So many years away from home had dulled her sense of the jungle, and she struggled to keep up with Riuh as they moved through the dense vegetation.

They took game trails when they found them, but much of the going was scrabbling up muddy slopes and slipping down the other side. More than once birds took flight at their passage, and once a long-tailed macaua flung a half-eaten pomelo at them in startlement. At least the lands north of the mountain were scarcely populated-most of the clansfolk had gravitated toward the river and the city, or fled to the northern highlands where the Assari rarely ventured. Xinai couldn’t remember which clans had lived in these hills, and shook her head at her own ignorance. How many villages lay in ruins, choked by the jungle? How many ghosts haunted dying heart-trees?

They followed the ward-posts that circled the mountain, but gave the markers a wide berth. Xinai couldn’t read the nature of all the magic woven into them and didn’t want to risk tripping any alarms. Her lip curled at the sight of the things.

They kept on till dusk settled and even tracker’s eyes strained against the gloom. The familiar fatigue of a forced march dragged at her, but the diamond’s pulse was stronger against her chest and she knew they were going the right way. Anywhere from two to five more days, she guessed, depending how far around the mountain they had to go.

They slept in watches; neither had caught any sign of pursuit, but they’d crossed several sets of three-toed claw marks in the mud. Kueh tracks-flightless birds taller than a man and vicious if startled. And there were always tigers in the mountains.

In the middle of the rain-soaked third watch, Xinai slipped out of their woven-leaf shelter to relieve herself. When she returned, the air beside her cooled. A nearby nightjar fell silent, though insects and frogs continued their songs; only animals large enough to attract attention feared ghosts and spirits. Only men were brave enough-or stupid enough-to seek them out.

She crouched in a tangle of hibiscus shrubs and listened to the rain and distant thunder and Riuh’s soft snoring. Hunger sharpened in her stomach, till she fished a strip of jerky from her pouch. Dry and salty, but she always craved meat before her courses came and they had no time to hunt. The silence stretched and she shivered as her wet hair chilled.

“Hello, Mother,” she murmured at last.

Shaiyung materialized, shimmering and pale. Stronger now, clearer, the color of her skin less sickly. The wound in her throat still gaped-the unsung dead would always bear their death-marks while they lingered.

“That stone you wear,” she whispered. “It’s an ugly thing.”

“I know. I hope I won’t wear it long.” Xinai swallowed salt and a dozen questions. “Can you scout ahead for us?”

Shaiyung shook her head. “It’s still hard for me to see when I’m not with you. Hard for me to leave the Night Forest. I can find spirits and ghosts, but not works of man.”

“What’s it like, the twilight lands?”

“Strange,” Shaiyung said after a pause. “Even after all these years. Before you came home, there was only the dreamtime. I saw things…distant cities…I can barely remember now. I hear the songs of our ancestors on the eastern wind.”

“Will you go to them?”

“One day, perhaps.” Her smile was kind and ghastly. “When Cay Lin is rebuilt. When I see your children playing by the tree.”

“Mother-” Xinai shook her head, frowned at the half-eaten piece of meat in her hand. “I know how much this means to you, but what you did by the river-” Even now she couldn’t force the word past her teeth. Possession. “You can’t do that again.”

“It would have been good luck, a child conceived with the rain.”

“Worry about the Khas first. I won’t be much use in a fight if I’m pregnant.”

Shaiyung’s eyebrows rose. “The northlands made you soft. I was leading raids a month before you were born. My mother still had enemy blood on her hands when I came. Your foremothers are warriors, child.”

Xinai turned her head, cheeks warming. “I haven’t forgotten.”

“It’s not the fighting, is it? You’re still thinking about that foreigner of yours.”

She pulled a knee close to her chest, her heel digging a rut in soft earth. “I know I shouldn’t-”

“Oh, darling.” A cold hand stroked her back. “I know. Your father wasn’t the first man I cared for. I know what it’s like to lose, to let someone go. You can’t help what you feel. But you can’t let it cloud your thoughts either, or dull your blades.”

“I know, Mama-”

Leaves rustled and Xinai stiffened. But it was only Riuh. He rolled over, propped himself up on one elbow. “Who are you talking to?” He blinked sleepily, but his knife was in his hand.

Xinai let out a breath. “Just ghosts.” Her mother’s coldness faded.

Riuh stared at her for a moment, the question-Are you joking? — plain on his face. But finally he rolled over and tugged the blanket back over his head.

She wasn’t sure if she was grateful for the reprieve.