Amanda Downum - The Drowning City

She whispered to the river and soon the current caught her, swifter and more graceful than she could have rowed. But even with the water’s help, she didn’t want to risk the skiff dockside. She moored at the far edge of Jadewater and ran the rest of the way.

Her side ached by the time she reached Merrowgate’s warehouse district and her breath ripped her chest like gravel and broken shells. Her feet throbbed, likely bleeding, and she chided herself for not putting on shoes. A sullen orange glow lined the rooftops, and bells and voices rang loud and raucous.

The crowd led her to the fire, and she skirted the edges till she could see. The street was mud-slick and cold despite the waves of heat. Rats and insects scurried for safety; Zhirin shuddered as a finger-long cockroach crawled over her foot. City guards surrounded the building, passing buckets down a line.

It wasn’t enough. A canal ran behind the building, and a wide street in front, but only alleys separated it from its neighbors, narrow enough that even she could have jumped them. The wind off the bay was gentle, but enough to blow flames onto the next rooftop; already it had begun to smoke.

The whole district could be gone by morning.

The bucket lines moved faster, water glowing gold as it splashed the cobbles. Zhirin wanted to join them, but it was no use. She couldn’t call a flood. Not even the Mother’s temple could, since the river had been dammed. For all her tricks, she was useless against this.

Gongs echoed from the waterfront, warning ships to lift anchor before the docks caught. That would take a while, at least, unless the wind shifted.

Another section of roof collapsed with a groan and roar and a flurry of sparks rode the wind like orange fireflies. Someone screamed as flames burst through the gap. Mirrors dangling from nearby roofs threw back the firelight in angry flashes.

A moment later she realized what the burning building had been. A government warehouse. She pressed a hand over her mouth and swallowed the taste of char. Jabbor-

She should run home, warn her mother since she was no use here, but she could only stare. Guards appeared on the neighboring warehouse’s roof, splashing wood and plaster and tiles in a futile bid to keep the flames at bay. A shout rose from the back of the crowd, and she scrambled to keep out of the press as the mass of people parted to admit a man.

His face was a mask of flame and shadow, but Zhirin recognized the curve of his bare head. Her stomach tightened. She’d thought Asheris was sleeping at the Kurun Tam tonight; his rumpled clothes looked as though he’d only just woken. But he was here. He waved the guards away and kept walking, so close his skin must be crisping. If the building fell now it would crush him.

Pain spread down Zhirin’s arm; she’d bitten her knuckle hard enough to break the skin.

Asheris extended a hand toward the fire, palm up. Flames flickered toward him, though the wind didn’t change. Fire lapped his fingers like a curious hound, then twisted up his arm in a glowing spiral.

Her vision blurred, tears welling against the smoke, and she watched through a crystalline glaze as Asheris called the fire into him. The blaze died in the warehouse as the flames ran like water away from wood and stone and into flesh. The last came in a rush, flaring around him like giant wings.

Then it was gone.

The rest of the roof fell in, billowing smoke and ash and sparks. But no more flames. The absence of light blinded her, and her eyes ached as they adjusted. The wind stung her face.

Asheris swayed and fell to his knees, head sagging. Steam rose from his skin. Not even the guards approached him.

Zhirin bit her lip; she might be useless, but she didn’t have to be a coward. But before she could move toward the fallen mage, a hand closed on her arm. She started, then recognized the dark fingers.

She turned, his name on her lips, but Jabbor silenced her with a shake of his head and drew her away from the crowd. Down an alley she followed him, biting back questions as she dodged fleeing vermin. They ducked through a back door into a narrow lamplit kitchen. Temel and Kwan followed them in-Zhirin hadn’t seen them outside. Soot smeared both their faces, and blood dried in a dull crust along Temel’s brow.

Kwan vanished into the front of the house, returned a moment later. “It’s clear.”

Jabbor sank into a chair by the table and Zhirin sat beside him. Her filthy feet smudged clean tiles and she tucked her heels onto a chair-rung like a child. Sweat and tears dried stiff and itchy on her face, and when she scratched her cheek her nails came away dark with grime. Her finger was bruised where she’d bitten it.

“What happened?”

“We slipped in quietly-a few coins, drugged wine, and a little distraction. It should have been bloodless. But the Dai Tranh came right behind us.”

Zhirin’s stomach chilled. Jabbor’s group, the Jade Tigers, were known for their peaceful-if not always legal-protests. It was part of what drew her to them. The Dai Tranh, however, was known only for violence.

His full lips tightened, carving lines around his mouth. Sweat glistened oily between the neat rows of his hair. “They outnumbered us. Killed the guards, looted the stones, and set the fire. We tried to put it out, but they left some of the rubies behind for fuel.”

No wonder the blaze had been so fierce-Haroun’s fire, harnessed into stone. “But how did they know?”

Kwan’s eyes narrowed to angry black slits. “Shouldn’t we be asking you that question?”

Zhirin’s mouth opened, but Jabbor raised a hand before she could snap a retort. “No, Kwan.” He caught her eyes and held them. “But I’ll ask it anyway. Did you say anything to anyone else?”

She shook her head, cheeks stinging. He couldn’t afford to trust blindly, she knew that. Not even her. Maybe especially not her. “I only told you.”

“Then they have someone inside us, or a spy of their own in the Kurun Tam.” He wiped a sheen of sweat off his face.

Kwan snorted softly but held her tongue. She found a pitcher of water and a rag on the counter and began to sponge the blood off Temel’s face. True cousins, not just clan-kin, and the resemblance showed in the set of their cheekbones and short, flat noses. High forest people, the Lhuns, before the Empire had claimed their lands for the Kurun Tam and sent them to live by the river.

“We looked inside one of the crates,” Jabbor said, “before everything fell apart. One of the boxes marked for flawed stones. Do you know what we found?”

Zhirin shook her head.

Jabbor pulled something from his pocket and held it out to her. A stone gleamed dully against his palm-the size of her thumbnail, uncut, yellowish-white. A chunk of quartz, she thought, until she reached for it and felt the crystal’s sharp pulse.

“Sweet Mother,” she whispered, snatching her hand back. “Is that-” She swallowed the foolish question; she knew what it was. A diamond.

She’d never seen one in the rough before, only cut and polished and gleaming on the hand or throat of a mage, and very few of those. Unlucky, the uninitiated called them, or cursed. For the spirits or ghosts who ended up trapped in them, they must be.

And expensive. No question about that. The stone resting on Jabbor’s palm was worth a dozen rubies in Assar.

“What’s it doing here?” She caught herself leaning back. Foolish superstition-it was just a stone, without a mage to wield it. Her master would chide her for making warding signs against a lump of rock.

“It came from the Kurun Tam, didn’t it?” Kwan asked, setting aside the bloody ash-smeared rag.

“No! How could it? We mine rubies, sapphires-”

“We?” the other woman snapped, but Jabbor waved her silent.