Amanda Downum - The Drowning City

“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.

“Mira, I’m home-”

The door swung open, and she froze as she recognized the man sitting across from her mother. “Oh!” She dipped a hasty bow. “Your Excellency, excuse me.”

Fei Minh rose, setting aside her teacup. “Zhirin!”

Faraj al Ghassan, Viceroy of Symir, stood a heartbeat after his hostess, a chuckle erasing the startlement on his face.

“I’m sorry, Mira,” Zhirin said as her mother kissed her stinging cheek. “I didn’t realize-”

“Don’t worry, Miss Laii,” Faraj said. “I should be going anyway. Thank you for the tea, Fei Minh, and for your help.”

He inclined his head to Zhirin, and it was all she could do to smile and nod. Her face burned as though her crimes were branded there for him to read. Rebel. Traitor. But he only turned away to clasp hands with her mother.

“It’s my pleasure,” Fei Minh said, following him down the stairs. “You must visit again soon. Bring Shamina and Murai.”

“After the festival, perhaps.” He stepped into his slippers and bowed again, silk coat whispering. “Good evening, ladies.”

“What are you doing home?” Fei Minh asked as she shot the bolt behind him.

“Vasilios is staying in the city for the festival, and I thought I’d visit.”

“About time you thought of that.” She smiled to take the sting from the words, one cheek dimpling. Delicate lines fanned from her eyes and framed her mouth, but Fei Minh’s skin was still soft as almond-milk and honey. “You picked a bad night for it, I’m afraid. Your father and Sungjin are visiting on the South Bank for a few days.”

That was no surprise; her father and brother had started spending most of their time at Cay Laii when Fei Minh began her first term on the Khas thirteen years ago. Only propriety and habit kept him coming home at all, Zhirin suspected. And since her mother’s last term had ended a year ago, she knew how bored and restless Fei Minh had been.

Zhirin’s brow creased as she eyed her mother’s hair, unbraided and held up loosely with sandalwood sticks. Absent servants, late visits…“Mother, are you having an affair?”

Fei Minh blinked, then began to laugh. “Oh, darling. With Faraj? Wouldn’t that be a scandal?” She wiped delicately at one eye. “No, dear, I’m afraid not.”

“What are you helping him with, then?”

“Just business. He’s using some of our ships for a private investment.” She took Zhirin by the elbow and steered her toward the kitchen. Her perfume was still jasmine and citrus; the scent was as much home to Zhirin as the smell of the river. “You missed dinner, but I’ll make tea. And since you’re here, perhaps you can look at the fountain-it’s not flowing properly, and your father will rip it out and rearrange the whole garden if I give him half an excuse.”

“You paid quite an apprentice-price for me to become a plumber.”

Fei Minh snorted softly. “Think of it as part of your repayment-I want to see some return on my investment. Now, sit down and tell me about your lessons.”

Zhirin woke to midnight bells, the bedside candle a puddle of cold wax in its bowl. She ran a hand over her face, knuckled gritty eyes. She’d only meant to lie down, but feather beds and the whisper of the canal had lulled her under. Jabbor had promised to meet her, after-

The bells kept ringing and Zhirin’s stomach curdled. Not the solemn night bells after all, but brazen clashing chimes.

An alarm.

Let it be a coincidence , she prayed as she groped for her clothes. Her mother met her in the hall, robe hastily tied and night-braids unraveling over her shoulders. “What is it?” they asked on the same heartbeat, and chuckled breathlessly.

A few neighbors stood on their front steps, listening to the clamor. Blessedly distant-not Heronmark’s watchtower but one farther west. Merrowgate, perhaps.

“What’s happened?” Fei Minh called to the next house.

“We don’t know. There’ve been no criers yet.”

Zhirin descended the steps to the canal, stones cool and slick beneath her feet. Water soaked her trousers as she knelt and laid a palm on the surface. One breath, then another, and her heart began to slow as the river’s rhythm filled her, deep and inexorable. She raised her hand, scattering ripples.

And the lapping water showed her colors, red and gray, gold and orange, dancing and twisting against the black. It took her a heartbeat to make sense of the distorted reflection.

Fire.

“Something’s burning,” she said as she rose, scrubbing her wet hand on her trousers.

“Ancestors,” her mother whispered. “Not the docks.”

The Laiis had been a southern clan once, tenders of marshy rice fields. But these days their money came from the sea, from swift trading ships and goods piled in dockside warehouses.

“I’m going to see what’s happened,” Zhirin said.

“No-”

“I’ll be careful, Mira.” She darted up the steps to kiss her mother’s cheek. Before Fei Minh could protest more, she unmoored the household skiff and pushed off.