confidences.”
Isyllt swallowed, her stomach cold. Seven years of feeding off a bound spirit. A spirit powerful enough to make a man immortal. Yes, that might change someone. Her left hand tightened before the pain stopped it. No doubt his fear of death was real enough, even if his distaste for bindings was a lie.
He would come after her. It was a secret worth protecting. He knew the taste of her magic-her magic and her skin. At least, she thought bitterly, no one could track her by her ring.
“How can I reach you?” she asked Siddir.
“I have a box at the Imperial Post. Leave word there, and I’ll get it within the day.” He started to rise, glanced at Adam to make sure the way was free of blades before he finished. “Thank you, my lady.”
“Thank me when this is over and I’m still alive. I’ll leave a message when I know more.”
When Siddir and Vienh had gone and Isyllt had arranged to send word to Zhirin, she sat down to finish her cold dinner. There wasn’t an inch of her that didn’t hurt between her forehead and feet, and her stitches itched. It wasn’t safe to sleep, but she couldn’t fight it much longer.
“Sleep,” Adam said. “I’ll keep watch.”
“To hell with it,” she muttered, sitting heavily on the bed. “I’m not running anywhere else today.”
Slats creaked as she lay down. The mattress smelled of mildew and old sweat; she wondered about fleas. By the time her eyes closed, she’d stopped caring.
The alarm bells began at three-quarters past noon, shattering the stretched-thin peace that filled the Laii parlor. Zhirin stumbled over a line of verse, dropped the book she’d been reading from. Fei Minh’s cup rattled against her saucer.
Zhirin cursed her cowardice-she should have attended the execution, though the thought had turned her stomach. But her mother disdained public bloodshed, and Zhirin had allowed herself to be convinced to stay home, to speak of nothing and read poetry aloud when neither of them had the nerve to voice their accusations and concerns.
Zhirin stood, and Fei Minh followed.
“No,” her mother said as Zhirin turned toward the door. “Don’t even think about it. Stay and wait for the criers.”
Her spine stiffened at Fei Minh’s tone, but Zhirin had never been much good at rebelling. And it was no use running anywhere if she didn’t know what was happening. Instead she nodded and hurried toward the bathroom.
Water splashed into the basin, rising quickly to the brim. She stilled the surface with a pass of her hand and pushed her nerves away. “Jabbor,” she whispered to her rippling reflection.
No image came. He was beyond the river’s sight. Isyllt’s name brought no response either, nor did Faraj’s. Zhirin bit back an angry hiss, rinsed her hands in ritual ablution before unplugging the drain and sending the water back to the river. She dried her hands and returned to the parlor, and the volume of Laii clan poetry.
The criers started an hour later. Zhirin and her mother stood on the front step and listened to story after story-the Dai Tranh had attacked the Khas; the Tigers had stormed the execution; the Viceroy had been shot; Asheris had been shot; the Vicereine had been attacked; the Vicereine’s daughter had been attacked. Zhirin’s stomach twisted tighter and tighter at each new rumor-no matter how wild, all agreed that the Tigers had been at the execution. But no one could agree on who was truly dead.
The rain drove them inside before the dusk bells, and Fei Minh helped Mau with supper while Zhirin paced the front hall. Someone knocked at the door as they laid out dishes. Zhirin hurried to answer it, fingers knotting in the hem of her shirt. Surely the Khas would send a message to her mother. Surely Jabbor would let her know what had happened-
A young mehti girl stood on the doorstep, rain dripping off the hood of her oilcloak.
“I’ve a message for Zhirin Laii.”
She swallowed. “I’m Zhirin.”
The girl’s eyes narrowed as she glanced through the open door. “Isyllt wants to meet you.”
At least someone was alive. “When? Where?”
“At dawn, at the Bridge of Splinters.”
Zhirin tightened her jaw to keep her mouth from falling open. If Isyllt had left the Khas-“Do you know what happened today?”
The girl shook her head. “Only rumors. What answer should I give her?”
“I’ll be there. Wait a moment.” She ducked into the tradesman’s parlor, fished a few pennies out of the tip- box. The girl palmed them neatly and they vanished into a pocket. “Thank you. And tell her…Never mind. Just tell her I’ll be there.”
The girl nodded and hurried down the steps.
“What is it?” Fei Minh asked as Zhirin shut and bolted the door.
“Only Vasilios’s housekeeper sending a message.” Her voice caught on his name, but at least she had reason enough for that. “She wants me to help dispose of the house tomorrow.” Fei Minh might not be swayed by sentiment, but the proper disposition of wealth would move her.
Her mother frowned, and for an instant Zhirin thought she would argue. But all she said was, “Dinner’s ready,” and turned back to the kitchen.
Zhirin followed her to the table, hoping food would clear away the taste of lies.
Zhirin woke with a start, darkness pressed tight against her window. She’d told Mau to wake her well before dawn, but she was alone, her door latched.
She jumped as a pebble rattled against the shutter, then let out a breath. She threw off the covers, wincing as she caught her toe on the edge of a rug, and hurried to the window. Easing the latch open, she waited a few heartbeats to be sure no more rocks were inbound before she leaned out.
Jabbor crouched on the wall between her house and their neighbor’s. For an instant relief was so sharp in her chest she thought she’d cry. Shaking it off, she closed the window and pulled on clothes. She paused in the hallway, listening carefully, but her mother still slept. Sleep charms, at least, were easy to manage.
The garden was a walled-in square behind the house, shaded by a pair of spice-fragrant cassia trees. In the center a fountain welled-or hiccuped, now; she’d never gotten around to fixing it. Dwarf kheymen slept beside the water, their bodies barely as long as her hand, tails sharp as whips. Their eyes flashed gold and green as she padded across the damp mossy flagstones, but they didn’t move. Her parents’ room overlooked the garden, but that hadn’t stopped her when she was fourteen, sneaking out with Sia. She looked up anyway, to be sure the curtains hung straight and still.
Jabbor waited in the shadow of the wall, apparently unhurt. Zhirin thanked all the waters silently. She breathed in the smell of his clean sweat as he took her in his arms, salt and cedar and drying rain.
“What happened?” she asked, pulling away sooner than she would have liked.
“I went to the execution.”
She folded her arms under her chest. “Why?”
“Because it’s our right to speak out, and what use is that if no one will? If the Dai Tranh had tried talking before burning, things might be different.”
“You could have been killed!”
He shrugged. “I nearly was, and the Khas wasn’t the worst of it.”
She turned away, paced to the edge of the fountain. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You would have worried.”
“And I wasn’t worried today, hearing the bells and not knowing what happened? Listening to criers say you were dead?” Her voice rose, and she forced it down again. The fountain choked and gurgled.
She drew a breath, exhaled the scent of damp stone and cinnamon. No use in being angry about it now. Instead she propped a knee against the fountain, damp soaking her trousers as she dipped a hand into the water. Only a fraction of the Mir’s rush and depth, but it still soothed her. The problem was easy to find-a buildup of sand and clay in the narrow pipe. A bit of pressure, a gentle push, and the debris broke apart and washed away. The fountain gave one last hiccup, then began to splash rhythmically again.
Jabbor smiled, shaking his head. “Sometimes I forget what you can do.”
She sighed. “Everyone does, don’t they? That’s what I’m good for.”
“I’m sorry.” He shook his head. “I don’t mean it that way. I know how you’ve helped us. I know what you’ve
