The Drowning City

Amanda Downum The Drowning City (The Necromancer Chronicles — 1)

For New Orleans

Drowning is not so pitiful

As the attempt to rise.

— Emily Dickinson

Hope lies in the smoldering rubble of empires.

— Rage Against the Machine

(“Calm Like a Bomb”)

Part I Waiting for the Rain

1229 Sal Emperaturi

CHAPTER 1

Symir. The Drowning City.

An exile, perhaps, but at least it was an interesting one.

Isyllt’s gloved hands tightened on the railing as the Black Mariah cleared the last of the Dragon Stones and turned toward the docks, dark estuarine water slopping against her hull. Fishing boats dotted Ka Liang Bay, glass buoys flashing in the sun. Cormorants dove around them, scattering ripples as they snatched fish from hooks and nets.

The west wind died, broken on the Dragons’ sharp peaks, and the jungle’s hot breath wafted from the shore. Rank with brine and bilge, sewers draining into the sea, but under the port-reek the air smelled of spices and the green tang of Sivahra’s forests rising beyond the marshy delta of the Mir. Mountains flanked the capital city Symir, uneven green sentinels on either side of the river. So unlike the harsh and rocky shores of Selafai they had left behind two and a half decads ago.

Only twenty-five days at sea-a short voyage, though it didn’t feel that way to Isyllt. The ship had made good time, laden only with olive oil and wheat flour from the north.

And northern spies. But those weren’t recorded on the cargo manifest.

Isyllt shook her head, collected herself. This might be an exile, but it was a working one. She had a revolution to foment, a country to throw into chaos, and an emperor to undermine with it. Sivahra’s jungles and mines-and Symir’s bustling port-provided great wealth to the Assari Empire. Enough to fund a war of conquest, and the eyes of the expansionist Emperor roved slowly north. Isyllt and her master meant to prevent that.

If their intelligence was good, Sivahra was crawling with insurgent groups, natives desperate to overthrow their Imperial conquerors. Selafai’s backing might help them succeed. Or at least distract the Empire. Trade one war for another. After that, maybe she could have a real vacation.

The Mariah dropped anchor before they docked and the crew bustled to prepare for the port authority’s inspection; already a skiff rowed to meet them. The clang of harbor bells carried across the water.

Adam, her coconspirator and ostensible bodyguard, leaned against the rail beside her while his partner finished checking over their bags. Isyllt’s bags, mostly; the mercenaries traveled light, but she had a pretense of pampered nobility to maintain. Maybe not such a pretense-she might have murdered for a hot bath and proper bed. Sweat stuck her shirt to her arms and back, itched behind her knees. She envied the sailors their vests and short trousers, but her skin was too pale to offer to the summer sun.

“Do we go straight to the Kurun Tam tonight?” Adam asked. The westering sun flashed on gold and silver earrings, mercenary gaud. He wore his sword again for the first time since they’d boarded the Mariah. He’d taken to sailor fashions-his vest hung open over his scarred chest, revealing charm bags around his neck and the pistol tucked into his belt. His skin was three shades darker than it had been when they sailed, bronze now instead of olive.

Isyllt’s mouth twisted. “No,” she said after a moment. “Let’s find an extravagantly expensive hotel tonight. I feel like spending the Crown’s money. We can work tomorrow.” One night of vacation, at least, she could give herself.

He grinned and looked to his partner. “Do you know someplace decadent?”

Xinai’s lips curled as she turned away from the luggage. “The Silver Phoenix. It’s Selafain-it’ll be decadent enough for you.” Her head barely cleared her partner’s shoulder, though the black plumage-crest of her hair added the illusion of more height. She wore her wealth too-rings in her ears, a gold cuff on one wiry wrist, a silver hoop in her nostril. The blades at her hips and the scars on her wiry arms said she knew how to keep it.

Isyllt turned back to the city, scanning the ships at dock. She was surprised not to see more Imperial colors flying. After rumors of rebellion and worries of war, she’d expected Imperial warships, but there was no sign of the Emperor’s army-although that didn’t mean it wasn’t there.

Something was happening, though; a crowd gathered on the docks, and Isyllt caught flashes of red and green uniforms amid the blur of bodies. Shouts and angry voices carried over the water, but she couldn’t make out the words.

The customs skiff drew alongside the Mariah, lion crest gleaming on the red-and- green-striped banners-the flag of an Imperial territory, granted limited home-rule. The sailors threw down a rope ladder and three harbor officials climbed aboard, nimble against the rocking hull. The senior inspector was a short, neat woman, wearing a red sash over her sleek-lined coat. Isyllt fought the urge to fidget with her own travel- grimed clothes. Her hair was a salt-stiff tangle, barely contained by pins, and while she’d cleaned her face with oil before landfall, it was no substitute for a proper bath.

Isyllt waited, Adam and Xinai flanking her, while the inspector spoke to the captain. Whatever the customs woman told the captain, he didn’t like. He spat over the rail and made an angry gesture toward the shore. The Mariah wasn’t the only ship waiting to dock; Isyllt wondered if the gathering on the pier had something to do with the delay.

Finally the ship’s mate led two of the inspectors below, and the woman in the red sash turned to Isyllt, a wax tablet and stylus in her hand. A Sivahri, darker skinned than Xinai but with the same creaseless black eyes; elaborate henna designs covered her hands. Isyllt was relieved to be greeted in Assari-Xinai had tutored her in the native language during the voyage, but she was still far from fluent.

“Roshani.” The woman inclined her head politely. “You’re the only passengers?” She raised her stylus as Isyllt nodded. “Your names?”

“Isyllt Iskaldur, of Erisin.” She offered the oiled leather tube that held her travel papers. “This is Adam and Xinai, sayifarim hired in Erisin.”

The woman glanced curiously at Xinai; the mercenary gave no more response than a statue. The official opened the tube and unrolled the parchment, recorded something on her tablet. “And your business in Symir?”