The Drowning City - Amanda Downum [12]
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