The Drowning City - Amanda Downum [11]
“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 Erisín, 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