all. Smoke and dust billowed, eddied to reveal a hole in the wall and the sidewalk littered with shattered stone. The wind shifted and Isyllt choked on the reek of smoke and char and sour magic.
This was no accident. She wrapped a concealment around her, and a ward against the flames, and crossed the street.
Her ring blazed as she entered the shop, pushing back the crackling heat-no survivors inside. Flames consumed the doors and wall hangings, rushed over the ceiling to devour the rafters. Lamps melted on shelves, brass and silver charring wood as they dripped to the floor. Witchlight flickered around her in an opalescent web, holding guttering flames at bay. But it wouldn’t keep the ceiling from crushing her when it came down.
The smell of charred flesh and hot metal seared her nose, and something else. The air was heavy with intent, with sacrifice. The magic that turned the shop into an inferno had been dearly paid for.
A spell so powerful must have left a trace. She nearly stepped in a puddle of brown-burnt blood, nudged a body aside with her toe. The man’s eyes melted down his charred cheeks and Isyllt frowned; intact, he might have shared his dying vision with her. Not that she had time to scry the dead.
There. A red glitter caught her eye, beside a body so mangled it must have been near the center of the explosion. She tugged a handkerchief out of her pocket-the silk insulated whatever magic was left in the crystalline shards as she scooped them up, and spared her hands the heat.
The ceiling groaned, loud even over the roar and rush of the flames. Isyllt uncoiled from her crouch and leapt through the door, gasping as the air outside rushed damp into her lungs.
The ringing in her ears drowned the noise of the crowd, but she caught sight of red uniforms forcing their way through the press. No more time to investigate.
Zhirin waited in the alley-mouth, one hand pressed tight over her mouth like she was trying to keep in hysterics. The man from the fabric shop stood beside her, holding her arm. Isyllt let her spells drop as she ducked off the street and they startled. Sparks crackled in her hair as she moved, stung her skin like wasps as the magic bled away. The humid breeze off the canal made her face tingle.
The man’s eyes narrowed, measuring. He glanced at her hand, and his own twitched in a warding gesture.
“Are you all right?” Zhirin asked, her chin trembling.
“I’m fine, but I wouldn’t mind getting away from the thick of things.” Already she felt death lapping over her, cold threads swirling through warm air. Her limbs crawled with gooseflesh and sweat prickled her scalp. At least a dozen dead, probably more, and one of the wounded wouldn’t survive.
So much senseless death. The kind she was here to encourage.
Excitement hummed in her blood, dizzied her worse than any wine. And that was the true reason she was here, the reason she would go where she was sent, no matter how ugly the mission. Not for king and country, not even for Kiril, but because danger sang to her like a siren, and after the first giddy brush with death, the rush of knowing that she was still alive, she’d known she could never stop.
She ran a hand over her face, smearing ash and sweat. Her fingers came away red; her nose was bleeding. “Excuse us,” she said to the man, taking Zhirin’s arm.
He stepped aside. “Be careful, ladies.”
Isyllt nodded, wondering how many ways he meant it. She led Zhirin down the alley, away from the smell of smoke and death.
Isyllt wasn’t sure how long she and Vasilios spent studying the shattered stone, but by the time Adam returned her back was stiff from leaning over the table. She straightened with a wince as the mercenary slipped into the study. Not yet sunset, but they’d drawn the shutters and stark witchlights lit the room.
“What happened?” Adam asked.
“Someone blew up an Assari shop, and everyone in it.” Isyllt shook her head, hair crackling. “He blew himself up too.” Her face still stung from the fire and itched with dried sweat. Adam’s eyes narrowed as he studied her, and she wondered how awful she looked.
He turned to the table and the pile of red dust and crystal shards glittering there. “A ruby?” He reached out a cautious hand; gooseflesh roughened his arm as he felt the heat still radiating from it.
Vasilios nodded. “They didn’t let the news out, of course, but we’d just readied a shipment of charged stones to be shipped to Assar. They were in the warehouse that burned-whoever started the fire must have taken the rubies. This Dai Tranh was dangerous enough with gunpowder and flash bombs, but now-” He shook his head. “But this stone was flawed, and we never charge flawed stones. Too easy for things like this to happen. They must have a mage working with them.”
“Zhirin?” Adam said, echoing Isyllt’s thought.
The old mage’s eyes narrowed. “I cannot believe that of her.”
Adam shrugged eloquent skepticism, but Isyllt believed the girl’s horror at the market had been unfeigned-if Zhirin had helped the rebels get their hands on these weapons, she doubtless regretted it now.
“Did they leave anything else behind?” Adam continued. “Today, I mean.”
Isyllt frowned. “I hadn’t the leisure for a proper search. I’ll go back after the soldiers have gone. I didn’t sense any ghosts lingering, but they might return.” It was a scant hope, but her best one.
Vasilios ran a hand over his face; his skin was gray and drawn in the unflattering light. “I cast a tracing on the stone, but it must have been covered until it was used. If I could find something of the assassin’s, I might trace it further.”
“We’ll see what we can find.” Isyllt glanced at Adam, tilted her head inquiringly. “The sooner we go in, the better our chances.”
“Tonight,” he said with a nod. “After the soldiers have left.”
Vasilios lowered himself into a chair. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t join you in sneaking around in the dark. I’ll keep working with the stone. Maybe there’s something I’ve missed. We won’t have a proper dinner tonight, but you can ask Marat to make you something.”
Isyllt and Adam left him to rest, following the scent of spices downstairs to the kitchen. All the houses in Symir seemed to follow the same pattern-tall and narrow, with the family’s rooms on top and only the ground floor open to strangers.
Isyllt frowned as she watched Adam descend the stairs. “You’re limping.”
He glanced down, flexed his right leg. “An old wound. I landed on it badly during the mess at the market.” He caught the question in her eyes. “I’ll be fine by tonight. What about you?”
She ran a hand over her frizzing hair, wincing as her fingers brushed her tender cheek. “No worse than a sunburn. Did you have any luck today?”
He shrugged. “Xin will do better than me. Vienh Xian-Lunh might be helpful, though-within reason. She has no love for the Dai Tranh.”
“Zealots are easier to use than to love. But maybe the Tigers will be use enough for us.” In spite of the cold practicality she tried to summon, she couldn’t be rid of the images of Lilani Xian’s fevered face or the corpses in the market. Practicality could only excuse so much.
Covered plates sat on the kitchen table, and a sweating carafe of ginger beer. Marat arranged more food on a tray as they came in.
“I know what it means when he locks himself in his study that way,” she said. “I’m amazed any of you sorcerers live so long, if this is how you take care of yourselves.” She shot a narrow-eyed glance at Isyllt.
Isyllt waved Adam into a chair and served them both. “Where’s Zhirin?” Her voice was steady, but her hands trembled, beer splashing too loudly into their cups. Now that she wasn’t distracted with spellcraft, she could feel the strain and hunger stealing over her.
“Sleeping.” Marat snorted. “At least someone in this house lets herself rest.” She lifted the tray, balancing it easily on one hand; muscles shifted in her forearm as her sleeve fell back. “I’m going to force something down the master’s throat now. If you need anything later, just ring.”
“Will you be all right by tonight?” Adam asked as Isyllt slid a plate of bread and goat curry in front of him.
The sky outside was orange fading to gray; still hours left before it would be safe to return to Market Street. “Of course.” She nudged his foot with her toe. “Let me see your leg.”
He stretched out the injured limb and she crouched beside him, laying light hands on his knee. Closing her eyes, she sent tendrils of power lapping curiously through his skin. Nothing serious, but she felt the strain in the
