“No,” she said, realizing that she’d forgotten breakfast as well.
“Come, let’s remedy that, shall we? Asheris, would you care to join us?” And he herded them out the door.
It was a pleasant meal, though the presence of Asheris and Vasilios’s wide-eyed apprentice left them unable to speak of Isyllt’s true reasons for visiting. Not that she would have felt comfortable discussing such things inside the walls of the Kurun Tam-stone had a long memory, and clever mages could convince it to repeat what it heard. So they ate and lingered over tea, and Isyllt answered questions about Erisin and Kiril and Selafain politics and arranged to visit Vasilios the next day at his house in the city, before letting Asheris escort her through the library and halls and gardens, where he flirted with great charm and little sincerity.
Wheels and hooves rattled into the courtyard as they returned to the fountain. Isyllt glanced through the doorway to see an ox-drawn cart rolling through the gates, flanked by a dozen soldiers in full Imperial livery.
Asheris excused himself and stepped into a pair of sandals before descending the steps to inspect the cart, counting crates and accepting a scroll case from an officer. The driver urged the oxen on, steering the cart to the back of the hall, while a man and woman not in uniform dismounted.
“Shipments from the mines,” Asheris said as he returned to Isyllt’s side. “We charge the stones here and ship them to Assar.” His mouth twisted. “Nowhere as interesting as the mountain, I’m afraid. Though of course I’m happy to have stayed behind, since it meant meeting you.”
She smiled at the graceful save, but her attention stayed on the cart as it clattered around the corner. Sapphires and rubies from Sivahri mines were one of the country’s greatest assets to the Empire. That cart alone must contain a fortune’s worth; after they were charged with energy, their value would more than double. Lesser stones couldn’t contain as much power without fracturing, and diamonds such as Isyllt’s-or the yellow stone around Asheris’s neck-were saved for binding ghosts and spirits.
“Are you going to introduce us, Asheris?” the woman called, tethering her horse. She crossed the courtyard, graceful and light on her feet. Young and very fair for an Assari, with striking kohl-rimmed blue eyes. She pulled aside her riding veil and dipped a shallow curtsy. “It’s not often we have visitors.” Her eyes widened briefly as she saw Isyllt’s ring; she didn’t offer her hand.
“Of course,” Asheris said, straightening his shoulders. “Lady Iskaldur, this is Jodiya al Sarith, one of our apprentices, and her master, Imran al Najid.” He gestured to the man who had joined them. “Lady Iskaldur has just arrived from Erisin, to study with Vasilios.”
Al Najid bowed, also not offering his hand. As he straightened, a stone gleamed at his neck-a diamond, also yellow-hued. The Kurun Tam didn’t lack for powerful magi. She wondered what unlucky spirits lay trapped at their throats.
“Roshani. I trust Asheris has made you welcome.” She guessed him near fifty, tall and lean. He should have been handsome, but all the lines carved on his long face were dour, and his greeting was more perfunctory than polite.
“I managed some degree of civility,” Asheris drawled.
“Indeed he did,” Isyllt said as Imran’s dark eyes narrowed. “The hall is quite impressive.”
“Shakera. Please excuse us, meliket, but we must see to the stones. Enjoy your visit.” With a nod, he turned and strode away, Jodiya at his heels.
Isyllt tried to school her face but couldn’t keep an inquisitive brow from rising. Asheris smiled faintly, but the corners of his eyes were tight. “Yes, his company is always so pleasant. We’re as close as siblings here. I’m sure it’s the same at your Arcanost.”
Isyllt chuckled. “Of course.”
He pulled on a more convincing smile. “Forgive me, but I too must see to the stones. I hope we’ll meet again soon.”
“I’d like that.” As he bowed over her hand in farewell, she even meant it.
The last sonorous dusk-bells echoed across the water as the carriage finally rattled onto the ferry dock, and the sun sank into the sea, trailing veils of violet and carnelian. Zhirin worried the inside of her lip and tried to look unconcerned. She was late-again-but no magic at her disposal could have packed her master’s books and instruments any faster.
The dock was empty, and for a moment she feared she was too late. But as the dockhands arrived to help unload the coach, she recognized two of them. Not Jabbor, and she swallowed a rush of disappointment, but likely he was already busy. Games and trysts were for drowsy afternoons-by night he and his people worked.
Instead Temel and Kwan came to meet her-silent Temel, whom she might call friend; and sharp-tongued Kwan, whom she wouldn’t. She restrained the urge to smile at Temel and instead helped him unstrap a box from the carriage rack.
“Tonight,” she whispered, leaning close as she fumbled at a buckle. “The dockside warehouse.” Her palms were sweating, fingers slick on the rough leather straps. “Seven crates, three too flawed to use-those are marked.
“Be careful with that,” she said, louder, as he lifted the chest free. “Our instruments are fragile.” He nodded once as he handed the crate down to Kwan. The woman’s lips curled in a sneer.
And as easily as that, she was a rebel. A traitor. She bit back a giggle; whatever would her mother say?
Blood rushed in her ears as she swung down from the carriage and followed her master onto the boat. Not the wide, flat-bottomed ferry that crossed to the South Bank, but a sleek-curved skiff to take them into the city. The familiar sway of the craft as they shoved off soothed her nerves. Worry and doubt were no use now-better to let the river take them.
“What’s wrong?” Vasilios asked, settling himself beside her on the bench. He moved gingerly, and Zhirin regretted all the haste she’d wished for on the ride down. The steersman kindled the prow lantern and its reflection glittered golden on dark water.
“I was thinking of my family,” she said, not untruthfully. “I haven’t seen them in a month. May I go home tonight?”
After a moment he nodded. “I don’t see why not, as long as you’re back in the morning for our guests.” Thick eyebrows rose. “And I do mean morning, my dear, not some hour of the afternoon.”
Her cheeks warmed and she glanced aside. “Yes, master.”
They sat in silence for a while, surrounded by the rhythm of the oars and the drone of insects. Something heavy moved in the water and she brushed the coldly patient awareness of a kheyman. A glimpse of golden eyes and then it was gone, sinking into the silt-thick depths of the river.
The last daylight died before they reached the city, but Symir burned with a thousand lamps, a filigree of light and shadow. The scent of eucalyptus drifted across the water, clean and sharp. She missed the green and the wet when she slept at the Kurun Tam, the river’s breath against her skin.
The skiff carried her through the winding canals of Heronmark to the landing at the end of Feathermoon Lane. Her family’s boat was moored by the stairs, and another she didn’t recognize, its oarsman drowsing at the prow; someone visiting in the neighborhood. She bid her master good night and climbed the damp steps.
A quiet street after dark. Someone practiced a flute on an upper story, running through scales. Someone new to the instrument, she guessed with a wince. Her own music lessons had been interrupted when she began talking to spirits, likely to her tutor’s relief. If not for her magic, she’d be at the Imperial University in Ta’ashlan.
Lights shone in the front windows, falling like water across the steps and flower boxes. The door, engraved with the Laii heron crest, was unlocked. Zhirin smiled as she slipped off her sandals and glanced around the entryway-the hangings and mats had been changed, gold-patterned green now instead of crimson. Her father must have found a new geomancer, with new opinions on fortuitous colors.
She expected her mother’s steward, Mau, or one of the servants to appear, but no one did. The ground floor was silent and Zhirin climbed the curving staircase, polished stone cool under her feet. They must have company; her mother would never leave so many lights burning otherwise.
Her mother’s study door was cracked open, and voices drifted out. “…and hopefully we’ll have no more unpleasantness like Zhang’s,” a man said.
“Of course not,” Fei Minh Laii replied, in a softly rebuking tone Zhirin was all too familiar with. “What do you take me for?”
Too late, Zhirin wondered what the answer might be, but her hand was already falling to knock on the door.
