The Drowning City

courtyard of the Kurun Tam.

The Corundum Hall. A long building of crimson granite, pillared and domed in Assari style. Faces watched them from the wall, bound spirits staring through stone eyes. Neat green lawns stretched within the walls, shaded by slender trees and pruned topiaries-all the jungle’s wildness tamed.

A young stablehand appeared to take charge of their horses, and Isyllt dismounted with a wince and brushed at the dust on her clothes. The gray-green linen hid the worst of it, at least. She breathed deep, tasted magic like spiced lightning in the back of her throat. It tingled down her limbs and prickled the nape of her neck.

They climbed broad red steps and entered a columned courtyard. Isyllt sighed as cool air washed over them-a subtle witchery and a welcome one. A fountain played in the center of the yard and she worked her dry tongue against the roof of her mouth. The air smelled of flowers and incense and clean water.

Isyllt washed her face and hands in the basin beside the door, and she and Adam added their boots and socks to the neat row of sandals and slippers. She didn’t hear the footsteps approach over the splash of the fountain until Adam spun around. She turned as a shadow fell across the stones at her feet.

“Roshani,” the man said, bowing low. Light gleamed on the curve of his shaven head, set mahogany skin aglow. He wore robes of embroidered saffron silk, the hem brushing the tops of his bare feet. “Or should I say good morning?” he asked in Selafain. “You must be Lady Iskaldur.”

“Yes.” She lifted her ring in warning as he offered a hand. “I’m hadath.” Unclean. Had she been born in Assar, she would go gloved and veiled and touch no one but the dead.

“Ah. It’s not often we see necromancers here.” He took her hand and raised it to his lips; his skin was warm, his magic warmer still as it whispered against her. His smile was wry and charming. “I’m not devout. My name is Asheris. Vasilios mentioned that he was expecting you. I’ll take you to him.”

“Wait for me,” she said to Adam, and followed Asheris down a shadowed arcade.

Zhirin was late again. The sundial in the Kurun Tam’s courtyard told her it was nearly noon-she should have been at lessons an hour ago. But as Jabbor escorted her up the steps, she couldn’t bring herself to care.

“You shouldn’t come in,” she said as they paused on the threshold. It might have been more convincing if she’d taken her hand off his arm.

“Why?” His smile crinkled the corners of his dark eyes. “Will your magic strike me down?”

“Hush.” She stepped inside, toeing off her sandals. Two new pairs of boots rested beside the familiar row of shoes. “You’ll get me in trouble.”

“You’ll get yourself in trouble, you mean.” Jabbor stepped through the doorway, glancing about curiously. He didn’t take off his shoes; Zhirin rolled her eyes but didn’t chide him. It was progress enough that curiosity overcame his distrust of all things Imperial-politeness could come later.

He turned away from a stone face on the wall. “I haven’t been struck down yet, and you’re not in trouble.” His flippancy died as he folded her hand in his broader, darker ones. “Zhir, are you sure-”

She shook her head sharply. “Not here. And yes, I’m sure. I’ll know by tonight.”

He nodded. “Be at the ferry by sunset, then. And thank you.” He leaned down to kiss her, then froze.

“Jabbor?”

He spun, one hand falling to the hilt of his kris-knife. Zhirin followed his gaze across the courtyard and jumped. A man sat in the shadows beside the fountain, eyes half closed as if he drowsed. No one she recognized, neither Assari nor Sivahri. Her cheeks stung as she tried to remember what he might have overheard.

The man blinked lazily and brushed black hair away from his face. “Roshani.”

If he spoke Assari, perhaps he hadn’t understood anything. Not that she’d said anything she shouldn’t. She’d done nothing to feel guilty for. Yet.

“Go on,” she told Jabbor in Sivahran, shoving him toward the door. “I’ll see you tonight.”

She turned back to the man and bobbed a shallow bow. “Excuse me.” He didn’t look or feel like a mage; the cut of his clothes was foreign, as was the line of the sword at his hip. “May I help you?”

“No, shakera.” Amusement colored his voice beneath the foreign vowels and she drew herself up straighter. Of course, she was blushing like he’d walked in on a tryst-which was very nearly true. “My mistress is visiting. I’m just waiting for her.”

“Visiting whom?” She tried to mask the wariness with polite curiosity; letting strangers in unquestioned would get her in more trouble than tardiness.

“Vasilios Medeion.”

“Oh!” Her cheeks flushed hotter as she remembered why her master had asked her to be on time today. “Excuse me.” She bobbed a curtsy, then turned and fled down the hall.

*

Power soaked the walls of the Kurun Tam, residual magic steeping the elegant soapstone lattices and frescoes. It reminded Isyllt of the Arcanost in Erisin, though this building was much younger and less austere. That it was primarily a research facility and not a school made its beauty all the more impressive. The corridors around them were silent and echoed empty to her otherwise senses.

“Many have gone to the mountain today,” Asheris said, catching her unspoken question. “They won’t return till nightfall.” He arched one dark brow. “Have you seen the mountain yet, Lady Iskaldur?”

“No, I only arrived last night.”

“You must. I’d be happy to show you, as your time permits. It’s a much more pleasant journey before the rains begin.”

“Thank you.” She caught herself studying his bright amber eyes, the planes and angles of his jaw, and forced her gaze elsewhere; she didn’t need a pretty distraction.

He had more than pretty eyes to distract her-his presence lapped over her, warm and rich. A powerful mage, from the diamond he wore on a narrow gold collar. Spices and smoky incense clung to his robes, and his magic left the taste of crackling summer storms on her tongue. No doubt she smelled of bones and death to him.

The stones chilled underfoot as they left the sunlight behind and entered a corridor lit by golden witchlights. Elaborate arabesque friezes lined the walls, and the tops of the columns were carved in delicate lotus blossoms. Asheris stopped before a brass-studded door and rapped the polished wood lightly. Someone called out a muffled “Come in.”

They stepped into a narrow study, lit by lamplight and tall windows. The air was thick with the scent of leather and vellum and wood polish; books and scroll casings lined the walls. An old man looked up from his book, forehead creasing in curiosity.

“You must be Isyllt,” he said before Asheris could begin introductions. Wrinkles rearranged as he smiled. “It’s not every day I see Vallish girls anymore.”

Isyllt inclined her head with a smile. “Vasilios of Medea, I take it.”

“I am he. Not that I’ve seen Medea in a good many years.” He rose and moved around his cluttered desk to greet her, favoring his left leg. A tall man, but he stooped till he was barely of a height with Isyllt. Gnarled, ink- stained hands clasped hers affectionately. A benevolent tutor, his smile said, a kindly grandfather-not a spy.

“Welcome, my dear. Kiril has told me good things about you.”

“He speaks fondly of you as well.”

“Told you stories of our misspent youth, has he?” Pale eyes glinted under creased olive lids.

Hard to believe this bent old man was only five years Kiril’s senior. Even after her master’s heart had nearly given out a year ago, he hadn’t aged so much. He wants me to see this, to see what age has in store for him. Her smile ached as she held it in place.

“Have you by chance seen my wayward apprentice?” Vasilios asked Asheris.

The dark man cocked his head. “No, but I think I hear her now.”

Bare feet slapped the hall outside and an instant later a young woman appeared in the doorway, plump tea- brown cheeks flushed cinnabar. “Forgive me, master,” she gasped. “I didn’t mean to be gone so long.”

Vasilios waved a negligent hand. “I’d be more concerned if you suddenly became punctual. This is our guest, Lady Iskaldur. Isyllt, this is my apprentice, Zhirin Laii.”

“Roshani, Lady.” The girl bowed low, one narrow braid uncoiling from its twist to bounce over her shoulder.

“Have you had lunch, Isyllt?” Vasilios asked, fetching a cane from beside his chair.