Amanda Downum - The Drowning City

“Mrau,” said the cat, leaping onto the kitchen counter.

Zhirin pressed a hand over her hammering heart and laughed. “Gavriel! You know you’re not supposed to be up there.” She bit her lip as she realized there was no one left to care what counters or shelves he climbed. She stroked his cream-colored head and he leaned into the touch, rumbling loudly.

“I’m sorry I forgot about you,” she said, scratching between his shoulder blades. “You can come home with me today.” She glanced down at his bowls, frowned to find them full of clean water and fresh meat.

“Who’s been taking care of you?” she asked softly, but Gavriel only butted his head against her arm. Had the police thought to do it? Conscientious burglars?

She checked to be sure the ground floor was empty, then crept upstairs. By the time she reached the second floor, she knew she wasn’t alone. No voices or footsteps, but a prickling down her back, a tingle of otherwise senses. She drew a silence around her with a whisper.

The second story was empty too-she shuddered as she passed the library where her master’s body had lain-but when she reached the third she heard someone moving quietly in Vasilios’s private study. Her pulse echoed in her ears as she crept toward the door.

Then she recognized Marat and sighed aloud. The woman spun, hand dropping to her trouser pocket. Zhirin raised a hand.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

The old woman recovered quickly. “And I didn’t expect to find you here, child. Have you brought the executors, then, to dispose of things?”

“No. I just wanted to look through the house.” Her eyes slid to the silver-chased box in Marat’s other hand. Zhirin recognized it instantly-her master’s jewel coffer. She swallowed; stealing from the dead was ill-luck indeed. Would her luck be any better?

“If you need money, I’ll make sure you get it. I haven’t gone over the estate records yet, but-”

She stopped as Marat chuckled.

“I’m sure you would. You always were such a thoughtful child.”

Zhirin flinched from the ugly mockery in the words. “What did I do to you?”

“Nothing. You’ve never done anything, and that’s the problem. Not that I could expect much from someone raised by your Assari whore of a mother.”

Zhirin stiffened, cheeks burning. “You don’t know anything about what I do.”

“What, because you run around with the Jade Tigers, you’re a revolutionary? It’s not that easy.”

“No.” The word came out nearly a whisper. “It isn’t.”

Marat’s face didn’t soften, but her voice gentled. “Go home. Or better yet, leave the city. Go with your lover and spare yourself judgment for your mother’s crimes.”

“A woman stealing from the dead has little room to cast stones. Give me that box.”

Marat’s hand tightened on the silver coffer. Her other emerged from her pocket, fingers wrapped around the hilt of a knife. “Go home, girl, or you’ll end up like your master.”

Her hands began to tingle, and Zhirin swallowed sour spit. “It was you, wasn’t it? You killed him.”

“He should never have involved himself in Sivahra’s problems. Foreigners bring us nothing but trouble.”

“So you murder them?”

“Leave it alone.” Marat started toward the door.

Zhirin didn’t move, though fear and shock flooded her. “Put the box down.” She didn’t know how she managed to speak with her pulse so thick and fast in her throat.

Marat’s blade flashed toward her face and Zhirin ducked, grabbed for the woman’s wrist like she’d seen knife-fighters do. Fighters stronger than she-Marat pulled away easily, and the knife traced a line of heat across the edge of Zhirin’s hand. She gasped and jerked away, but didn’t step aside.

With a curse Marat shoved her and Zhirin lost her balance. She kicked as she fell, tangling her feet in the old woman’s ankles. Marat stumbled across the threshold, went down hard on her knees. The silver box clattered across the tiles-the sound was dull and distant through the roar of blood in Zhirin’s ears.

Marat tried to stand, gasped and fell again, one knee popping loudly. Pain twisted her face as she turned and lunged for Zhirin. The old woman’s weight drove the breath from her lungs and she barely threw up an arm in time to keep the blade from her throat.

Even three times Zhirin’s age and injured, Marat was stronger. The knife crept closer and closer, and her arm trembled and burned. She clawed at Marat’s face with her wounded hand, but did little more than smear blood on the woman’s cheek. No weapon in reach.

No-she had the river.

She’d never reached out to the Mir in fear before-the strength of the response shocked her. It rose through her like a wave, the power of rain and river and relentless tides. Her bleeding hand tightened on Marat’s face-flesh and blood, earth and water.

Marat coughed, narrow shoulders convulsing. Moisture seeped between her tea-stained teeth, trickled from her lips, splashing Zhirin’s face, and the pressure on the knife eased. She coughed again, choked. The woman jerked away from her grasp, knife falling forgotten as she reached for her throat.

Water leaked from around Marat’s panic-wide eyes, dribbled from her nose and mouth. Not tears, not saliva-silty river water. Zhirin scrambled up, staring in horror as the flood kept coming. Marat tried to speak, but liquid bubbled up instead, a rushing torrent that soaked her clothes and spread across the tiles.

It felt as though she took an hour to die, choking and writhing and vomiting water, but doubtless only moments passed before the old woman lay still. Water flooded the hallway, trickled over the edge of the railing and splattered against the floor below. Zhirin could hardly breathe and realized her hand was pressed against her mouth hard enough to ache. The smell of blood and river water filled her nose, coated her tongue, and she turned away to vomit up her breakfast on the study’s expensive carpet.

“Forgive me, Lady,” Izzy said, “but you’re being a fool.”

Isyllt wished she could argue; instead she shrugged. Sweat crawled against her scalp and the stink of oil and salted fish unsettled her stomach. Adam stood at her back, and Vienh at Izzy’s elbow-the heat of four people and the lamps was stifling in the Bride’s cramped storeroom.

“Have you ever seen a city rioting?” the dwarf asked, leaning forward. Lamplight gleamed in his eyes, shadowed a crosshatched scar on his left cheek. “I was in Sherezad in 1217, and nearly got caught in Kir Haresh in 1221. The cities burned, and ships with them. I knew captains who lost everything because they were too damned slow lifting anchor.” He looked at her bandaged hand, cast a pointed glance at his own maimed arm.

“I won’t lose the Dog because you don’t know when to cut your losses.”

Isyllt ran a hand over her face. “I can’t offer you cash, but I’ll see you compensated, I swear.”

“A dead woman’s promises are worth dust in the desert.”

Her lips curled, hard and sharp. “Even a dead necromancer’s?” Izzy swallowed, but she didn’t have the heart to toy with him. “If I die, my master will honor my bargains.”

“I would rather keep the Dog than trust in the honor of spies.”

Her hand twitched and Izzy’s eyes narrowed. But threats were useless, and she wasn’t going to kill him for being sensible. Saints knew someone should be. She looked at Vienh.

The woman frowned, ran her tongue over her teeth as if she tasted something sour. “Must I choose between my captain and my family’s honor, then? I’ll repay the debt, but I’ll be little use without a ship.”

Izzy turned, tilting his head back to glare at her. “You’d leave the Dog so easily?”