The Drowning City

“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 Erisin, 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.”