The Drowning City: The Necromancer Chronicles Book One by Amanda Downum Read Free Book Online Page B

greens and grays, swirled red
     and black around his hands and sword. “You’re good at it.”
    “I am.” For an instant his eyes gleamed green-gold like an animal’s and a sharp-toothed shadow hung over his.
    “What are you?” she whispered. “Not just an orphan brat.”
    He smiled a wolf’s smile. “Tier Danaan. Half-breed, at least.”
    Isyllt blinked, colors fading. Adam was just a man again—a man she was leaning on drunkenly in the middle of the street. She
     straightened and took a step back. “I’ve never met one before.”
    “People in civilized places usually haven’t.” He started walking and she fell in beside him. “I wasn’t raised among the Tier.”
     The careful flatness in his voice warned her away from the subject.
    They crossed an arching bridge over one of the broad canals that bordered the districts; someone sang from a passing skiff
     below. The breeze tugged strands of Isyllt’s hair free of their pins, stuck them to her sweat-damp shoulders. And they called
     this the dry season.
    Descending the bridge steps, Isyllt tripped on an uneven stone. Adam caught her before she fell. The streetlamp’s glow revealed
     a crack in the rock, several inches deep.
    “The street is sinking,” Adam said, pointing down the side of the canal where the pavement sloped sharply toward the water.
    “Lovely. Let’s hope it doesn’t finish the job tonight.”
    The streets in Straylight were narrow and cracked and the houses tilted drunkenly, some leaning so close their gardens grew
     together. Wards dripped from shop signs, shimmered in windows and doorways. Many lamps were out, only a few puddles of orange-gold
     glow marking their way. Someone stirred in the blackness of an alley, racked with a consumptive’s cough. Isyllt heard death
     waiting in that wet rattle.
    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