The Drowning City - Amanda Downum [18]
A trio of young men passed them, armed and swaggering. Isyllt felt their angry stares and her fingers twitched. Adam’s hand settled lightly on his sword hilt. “I think we’ve outstayed our welcome,” she whispered. She traced a careful charm in the air—not worth it. The men kept walking.
She and Adam turned a corner onto another well-spelled lane. The street marker had been broken off its post, an octagonal wooden sign nailed in its place. A lantern swayed above it, rippling light and shadow over Sivahran letters.
“What does that say?” Isyllt asked.
“Salt Street. I’d guess it also translates to No Assari welcome.”
“Or any other foreigners.”
The spirits were quiet here. Warded away, or frightened. Isyllt heard human voices instead, raised in emotion. A woman stood in the street, arguing in Sivahran with an older woman framed in a shop door. The old woman spat in the gutter and slammed the door as they approached.
“That,” Adam murmured in Isyllt’s ear, “was nothing polite.”
The woman in the street sobbed angrily, shoulders slumping. She turned toward them and light fell over her face—the customs inspector from the Mariah.
“Miss Xian-Mar?” Isyllt stepped closer; the woman’s eyes were swollen and shining, but she wasn’t crying now.
She blinked, dragged a hennaed hand through her unbound hair. “Lady Iskaldur.” She straightened, tugging at her coat.
“Are you all right?” Impossible not to feel the black worry that hung over the woman like a pall.
“My niece is ill. She needs help, but that jhanda—Forgive me. The witches won’t help me.”
“Is there no physician you can go to?”
“It’s no longer an ailment for medicine.” Her voice was calm now, but her face was ashen and her hands twisted together.
Isyllt paused for several heartbeats. “Can I be of some assistance?”
Anhai’s eyes flickered toward Isyllt’s left hand. “Lady, I couldn’t impose on you for a family problem.” Her voice cracked.
“What’s wrong with your niece?”
Anhai stopped arguing and started walking, Isyllt and Adam trailing along. “It started as a simple fever. A common childhood complaint, rarely serious…I was taking care of her while her mother was away.” She shook her head, a wealth of anger and fear in that gesture.
“And it’s beyond the physicians now?” Isyllt shivered. “I’m a mage, but I have no miracles for you.” Kiril had tried that, and she’d seen the good it did.
“Not beyond—outside. A ghost found her, slipped through my wards, and now I can’t cast it out again.”
Isyllt smiled. “Ghosts I can handle.”
Anhai’s house sat on the far side of Jadewater, in a quiet, well-kept neighborhood past the temple spires. Isyllt recognized the reek of illness and anger and death before the woman led them up the steps. She felt the ghost as they crossed the threshold, felt strength and madness. A shudder crawled down her back and her blood quickened.
An old woman opened the door for them, gray hair tousled beneath her scarf. She stared at Isyllt and Adam.
“How is she?” Anhai asked.
“No better. Her mother is with her now.”
Adam caught Isyllt’s arm, pulled her close. “How dangerous is this?”
She shrugged and tugged free of his grip. At least the hall wasn’t spinning. “Take me to her,” she said to Anhai.
The girl lay on a narrow bed, curtains and blankets pulled back. A pleasant cluttered room—toys piled on shelves and books and quills scattered across the low desk, but the specter’s presence filled the room like rank fog, drained it of warmth and color. Salt lined the windows and door, but it was too little too late. Another woman sat beside the bed, gray and drawn, henna-streaked hair in tangles around her face.
“What’s her name?” Isyllt asked, leaning over the bed. The girl looked no more than ten or eleven, darker skinned than the other women but ashen now. Sweat-damp curls clung to her face and sprawled across the pillow. Bruise-shadowed eyes were closed and her narrow chest rose and fell too fast.
“Lilani.” The other woman looked up, eyes widening as she saw Isyllt. “Who are you?”
“A mage.” She crouched beside