The Drowning City - Amanda Downum [13]
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.
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.