Free The Drowning City: The Necromancer Chronicles Book One by Amanda Downum

cheeks burned crimson.
    “The empire isn’t the worst of it,” Zhirin said later, after she’d stopped blushing and stammering. She paced in front of
     the window, despite her still-aching feet; at least the carpets were soft. The cat followed her circuit with slitted eyes,
     tail-tip twitching. “Not really.”
    “No?” Isyllt cocked an eyebrow. Hard to meet the woman’s gaze for long, eyes paler than an animal’s, clearer and colder than
     river water. “I had the idea that some Sivahri were none too pleased with things Assari.”
    “Some, of course. But the Assari’s influence hasn’t been entirely bad. They built Symir, if nothing else. It’s the Khas Maram
     we fight.” Not that
she
fought anything—Zhirin shrugged the thought aside like a biting fly.
    “The Assari are conquerors, but at least they didn’t betray their own blood. The Khas deny their clans, bleed the people with
     taxes.” Taxes that paid her mother’s government pension, taxes that had bought her clothes and childhood toys.
    “They sacrifice our people in rice fields and mines. Many of the miners are prisoners, some arrested on ridiculous charges
     and forced into work camps. People die in the mines, more than the Khas will ever admit. Bodies are lost, never given burial
     rites. They disappear.” She glanced at her master and the stones glittering on his gnarled hands. Did he know about the diamonds?
     She didn’t dare ask, not yet.
    The sorceress rolled her shoulders as if against a chill. Her companions—or bodyguards—watched silently. Zhirin couldn’t place
     the man’s features, but the woman was clearly forest-clan, though she hadn’t given a clan-name.
    The sky darkened to slate and silver as the light died. Shadows thickened in the room for a moment before the lamps sprang
     to life, witchlight kindling to real flame.
    “The Khas doesn’t care about the people,” Zhirin continued. The words felt awkward in her mouth—Jabbor was the one who made
     speeches. A mimic-bird, she imagined Kwan would call her. “Their only concern is wealth, theirs and the tithes that keep the
     Empire content.”
    “Would this faction of yours rather see Sivahra independent, or only replace the Khas with less-corrupt officials?” Isyllt
     turned a cup of tea—doubtless long cold—between her hands and her ring gleamed. Zhirin had never seen a black diamond before,
     but she knew what they meant.
    She paused in her circuit, shifting her weight with a rustle of cloth. “Of course we want to see Sivahra free. But our first
     concern is the people. We don’t want violence, not if there’s any other answer. There’s been enough bloodshed in Sivahra’s
     history.”
    The Sivahri woman turned her head, lips tightening.
    “Can we meet Jabbor?” Isyllt asked, leaning forward. By lamplight her face was an ivory mask; Zhirin wondered if her skin
     was cold to the touch.
    “Yes. That is, I think so. I’ll ask him.” He hadn’t spoken of it last night, but she knew how much they needed the money they
     would have made from the stolen stones. Hard for the clanspeople to rise in revolution when they had farms to tend and no
     other way to eat.
    She turned to Vasilios, who’d been silent for most of the conversation. “How long have you known, master?”
    “Quite a while, my dear.” He smiled affectionately and she smiled back, though her stomach was cold. If he had noticed, who
     else might have?
    Xinai couldn’t sleep, even after Adam snored softly beside her. His arm draped over her stomach, hair trailing against her
     cheek. Usually the press of warm flesh comforted her, but tonight she could barely breathe for the heat. Sweat-damp linen
     scraped against her skin, snagged on her scars.
    Finally she rolled out of bed, groping for her clothes. Adam stirred, eyes flashing in the dark.
    “I’m going out,” she whispered. “Go back to sleep.”
    After a moment his breathing deepened again. She tugged on vest and trousers,