“And I didn’t expect to find you here, child. Have you brought the executors, then, to dispose of things?”
“No. I just wanted to look through the house.” Her eyes slid to the silver-chased box in Marat’s other hand. Zhirin recognized it instantly—her master’s jewel coffer. She swallowed; stealing from the dead was ill-luck indeed. Would her luck be any better?
“If you need money, I’ll make sure you get it. I haven’t gone over the estate records yet, but—”
She stopped as Marat chuckled.
“I’m sure you would. You always were such a thoughtful child.”
Zhirin flinched from the ugly mockery in the words. “What did I do to you?”
“Nothing. You’ve never done anything, and that’s the problem. Not that I could expect much from someone raised by your Assari whore of a mother.”
Zhirin stiffened, cheeks burning. “You don’t know anything about what I do.”
“What, because you run around with the Jade Tigers, you’re a revolutionary? It’s not that easy.”
“No.” The word came out nearly a whisper. “It isn’t.”
Marat’s face didn’t soften, but her voice gentled. “Go home. Or better yet, leave the city. Go with your lover and spare yourself judgment for your mother’s crimes.”
“A woman stealing from the dead has little room to cast stones. Give me that box.”
Marat’s hand tightened on the silver coffer. Her other emerged from her pocket, fingers wrapped around the hilt of a knife. “Go home, girl, or you’ll end up like your master.”
Her hands began to tingle, and Zhirin swallowed sour spit. “It was you, wasn’t it? You killed him.”
“He should never have involved himself in Sivahra’s problems. Foreigners bring us nothing but trouble.”
“So you murder them?”
“Leave it alone.” Marat started toward the door.
Zhirin didn’t move, though fear and shock flooded her. “Put the box down.” She didn’t know how she managed to speak with her pulse so thick and fast in her throat.
Marat’s blade flashed toward her face and Zhirin ducked, grabbed for the woman’s wrist like she’d seen knife-fighters do. Fighters stronger than she—Marat pulled away easily, and the knife traced a line of heat across the edge of Zhirin’s hand. She gasped and jerked away, but didn’t step aside.
With a curse Marat shoved her and Zhirin lost her balance. She kicked as she fell, tangling her feet in the old woman’s ankles. Marat stumbled across the threshold, went down hard on her knees. The silver box clattered across the tiles—the sound was dull and distant through the roar of blood in Zhirin’s ears.
Marat tried to stand, gasped and fell again, one knee popping loudly. Pain twisted her face as she turned and lunged for Zhirin. The old woman’s weight drove the breath from her lungs and she barely threw up an arm in time to keep the blade from her throat.
Even three times Zhirin’s age and injured, Marat was stronger. The knife crept closer and closer, and her arm trembled and burned. She clawed at Marat’s face with her wounded hand, but did little more than smear blood on the woman’s cheek. No weapon in reach.
No—she had the river.
She’d never reached out to the Mir in fear before—the strength of the response shocked her. It rose through her like a wave, the power of rain and river and relentless tides. Her bleeding hand tightened on Marat’s face—flesh and blood, earth and water.
Marat coughed, narrow shoulders convulsing. Moisture seeped between her tea-stained teeth, trickled from her lips, splashing Zhirin’s face, and the pressure on the knife eased. She coughed again, choked. The woman jerked away from her grasp, knife falling forgotten as she reached for her throat.
Water leaked from around Marat’s panic-wide eyes, dribbled from her nose and mouth. Not tears, not saliva—silty river water. Zhirin scrambled up, staring in horror as the flood kept coming. Marat tried to speak, but liquid bubbled up instead, a rushing torrent that soaked her clothes and spread across the tiles.
It felt as though she took an hour to die, choking and writhing and vomiting water, but doubtless only moments passed before the old woman lay still. Water flooded the hallway, trickled over the edge of the railing and splattered against the floor below. Zhirin could hardly breathe and realized her hand was pressed against her mouth hard enough to ache. The smell of blood and river water filled her nose, coated her tongue, and she turned away to vomit up her breakfast on the study’s expensive carpet.
“Forgive me, Lady,” Izzy said, “but you’re being a fool.”
Isyllt wished she could argue; instead she shrugged. Sweat crawled against her