The Hidden City (13 page)

If, he amended grimly, discovered in time, and by the right people. There were stories of mage-born boys and girls who had destroyed whole villages before their unchecked talent had consumed them; these were told by Priests and Priestesses of any temple across the Empire, cautionary tales meant to frighten the parents of young children.

There were darker stories yet, of healer-born children who had been discovered and taken for personal use. These were spoken of less often—far less often—as if in the speaking, the speakers might be tempting the unscrupulous to attempt to do the same.

The bard-born were possibly the most common; theirs was the most subtle of the powers, and existed to a greater and lesser extent; the men and women who used the voice, as it was often called, used it to entertain, to move, to plead.

And the maker-born? They were the merchant class of the talent-born. The Guild of the Makers had no monetary rivals in the Empire. The talent-born could work in their compulsive and obsessive silence within the grand halls upon the Isle; they could work in the lesser halls in the large cities that were scattered across the Empire. Their work commanded the highest of prices, and it could not be mistaken for the work of lesser craftsmen; there was, in each detail, a sense that life had been captured or perfected. Maker-born artists were legend, but the maker-born turned their skills to many things: jewelry, furniture, mirrors—anything at all that caught their attention.

Had Rath been able to choose a gift, it would have been that one—but Rath, like the vast majority of citizens of Averalaan, had been born without the grace of even this faint touch of magic.

But there were other talents, older and rarer.

Seer-born.

Rath sat in his room, listening for any sound that Jewel might make, acutely aware now of the possible significance of her nightmares. The word itself—seer-born—felt like something out of the dark side of dreaming to him.

Not only had Rath never encountered a man or woman who claimed to be seer-born—not even the fatuous fakes in the festival stalls were bold enough to claim that—he had never heard of one that wasn't part of some historical lay. And those seers were of a stature that Jewel, at ten, could not possess. They were also more reliably, more wildly, powerful. At their whim, and by their word, whole armies marched, and baronies rose and fell.

If
she were seer-born, and she fell into the hands of the right person, she would never have to worry about hunger again.

But she was ten, poor, and barely schooled. What were the chances, he thought bitterly, that she would fall into those hands? If she was willing to parlay what she could barely be brought to speak about into something that she could barter and sell, what were the chances that she would actually be believed?

The pipe went out six times as he thought in the darkness, giving up on the idea of sleep. If he had been a different man, he could answer those questions. If he had chosen a different life, avenues that would aid the girl would now be open to him.

But had he, he would likely never have met her; he would never have chosen to live in the hundred holdings, where her poverty would draw her to him.

As it was, he didn't need to be able to see the future to see hers. It was here, in the holdings, starvation giving way to desperation, and desperation to a short, miserable life.

Unless he could think of a way to use the girl himself. If he could somehow do that, he could justify her presence here. For both their sakes.

Health had curbed part of her tongue; it had given excessive rein to the other half; she was, as her family had told her, possessed of a temper.

“Jay,” he told her, opening her door, “it's morning. You can get up now.”

She practically leaped out of the sleeping bag; he wondered how long her promise had actually kept her tethered. She was a bit paler than she had been when she'd first taken his satchel, and she was a lot thinner, to his eye.

“I want to ask a few more questions.”

She shriveled.

“I believe you,” he told her, speaking quietly. He was amazed at how easily his tone conformed to her, and he wasn't certain he liked it. “And I want to know more.”

She shrugged. “I told you everything.”

“You told me everything you could think of telling me,” he countered. “Just this, then. Do you always know when you're in danger?”

She frowned. “Not always,” she said at last.

“And when you do?”

She shrugged. “Sometimes things just feel
wrong
. Bad wrong. I avoid those, if I can.”

“Like what?”

“Some parts of the holdings.”

“Always?”

“No, not always. Just sometimes.”

“People?”

She hesitated. “Sometimes.”

“Me?”

“I knew you didn't need the money,” she said at last.

“I didn't look like a—”

“No, you didn't. But—I just
knew
. You didn't. You wouldn't starve.”

“If I asked you to stay, would you stay?”

She became utterly still. He couldn't tell what was going on behind her face; her lips were thin, and her eyes were fastened on loose stitching. “Why?”

“Because I think you might be useful.”

“How?” The single word was muted, almost dead.

“The warning—”

“I
can't
do it all the time,” she said, and a hint of something that might have been anger showed through. “If you asked me now—if you told me where you were going—it wouldn't make a difference. I don't
know
when these feelings are coming, Rath. They're not—I can't count on them.” She took a deep breath. “And if you think you can, and that's why you want me to stay . . . I can't stay.”

“But that night—”

“I heard him,” she said. “I heard him first. Like in a dream. I thought I was dreaming,” she added.

Fever. He nodded. Rose. “How much do you know about this city, Jay?”

She shrugged. “The Isle's that way,” she said, pointing. She was, however, pointing in the wrong direction. “And the Common. Some of the other holdings.”

He rose. “I'm going to the market,” he told her, and held the door open. “I don't think you're strong enough, but getting out of the darkness will probably do you some good. Do you want to come with me?”

She hesitated.

“I don't want you to run off,” he added softly. “I'll find you, if I have to.” Wasn't certain why he'd said it. He'd been counting the days until he was rid of her. Would have sworn he'd be glad to be rid of her.

She would have, too. So much for sight.

He shrugged. “It's up to you.”

And she nodded.

“I'll have to teach you a few things,” he said, as he walked. His long stride had to be shortened considerably in order to make certain that Jewel didn't lag behind. She shadowed him, casting furtive glances toward all the intersections, all the streets.

As if she was mapping routes of escape.

Rath didn't begrudge it; he begrudged the fact that she was so damn obvious about it, no more. It was, after all, what he did. While she looked, he readjusted his backpack. She'd noticed it, of course. She hadn't asked.

“What things?” she asked, to show she'd been listening.

“Things that I do,” he replied. It was evasive. She noticed. “Jewel, one day, you
will
be on your own. You can learn a trade—even one as lowly as mine—or you can ignore the opportunity. It's not easy work; it's barely safe. And I can't guarantee that it will keep you in money. But if you pay attention, and if you have
any
dexterity, it
will
keep you from starving. It may even keep you in wood during the Winter months.”

She nodded slowly. “It's not reading or writing,” she said.

“You can do that, or so you said. And no, it's not.”

She clearly wanted to ask him why, but he'd tired of that game. Or perhaps he tired of making excuses that he only half-believed himself.

“You can make yourself useful,” he added. “You can keep my place tidy, if that pleases you. I'd ask you
not
to darn my socks or mend my clothing; much of it is delicate.”

“But Rath, I don't know what you
do
.”

“Does it matter?”

She looked away. Enough of an answer. He lowered his voice, touched her shoulder. She let him.

“I survive,” he told her quietly. “I try not to steal from anyone who'd miss the money.”

If she noticed the gentle mockery, there was no sign of it on her face.

“And at the moment, I'm not required to steal much that belongs to anyone who'd miss it.”

“But you—”

He held up a finger to his lips, and she fell silent.

“Come,” he said quietly. “I have something to show you.”

Rath liked his secrets; he had to, he had so many of them. He had told Jewel his name; he wasn't certain if she'd forgotten it, and didn't care to ask. He was not, by nature, impulsive, and on the rare occasions he had been, he'd paid for it. Certainly a high enough price that he avoided it like the plague.

He was therefore slightly angry at himself, because having learned this lesson time
and
again, he had given in to impulse. He caught Jewel by the hand, and he led her into a building. It was much like the building he called home; long, squat, a few stories in height, and made, at least at base, of stone blocks. Ancient quarries had been emptied in the construction of this part of the holdings; he wondered what had transpired, in the movement of history, that had in the end deprived it of wealth.

She knew that he was exposing something; she was quiet. Not still; she couldn't be, and follow him. But she said nothing. Her brows, covered frequently by hair, could not be easily seen, but her eyes widened often, and she wore her curiosity openly across her face. One day, he thought, she would lose the ability to be surprised.

He wondered if he would be there to see it go; to see its slow decay. He didn't, he reminded himself, like children. Jewel was a child. Therefore . . .

“Be careful now,” he told her, sharply. “Here.” He handed her the magestone he'd taken out of his pocket. “If you need the light, open your hand fully. But open it carefully; I don't need to tell you just how much that cost.” On the other hand, he doubted that her previous home had been lit with magelight, so perhaps this was optimism on his part. He was seldom guilty of optimism.

He led her round the back. There, boarded over—badly—was a chute that led toward the basement. All of the old buildings had them.

He lifted the board with care, and her eyes rounded; she looked over her shoulder repeatedly, as if at any minute she expected to see a magisterial guard patrol coming round the corner.

“It's the thirty-fifth,” he told her. This didn't seem to have the same meaning to Jewel as it did to Rath, and he let it go. Instead, as he pushed the board aside just enough that there was room to squeeze through, he said, “Part of this building is rotten. The joists were worm food decades ago. No one lives in the west half, unless they're very, very desperate.”

“There are a lot of desperate people in the holdings,” she said quietly.

“Desperate people don't usually have the wherewithal to get medical help when the floor disintegrates and they break a leg—or worse. Trust me. There are mice, rats, a dozen cockroach clans—but no people.” He paused and then added, “Don't even think it. The river is a lot safer, and it's a lot more pleasant.”

“It's more exposed,” she told him.

“Depends. The roof has collapsed over there.” He pointed. “You get rain and sunlight. They've rewalled the east half of the building; it'd cost more than it's worth to try to recover the west.” He began to gingerly slide himself between the board and the ground; Jewel looked at him, her fingers a fist around the smooth magestone.

“It's safe enough below,” he told her. “More or less.”

“You—you want me to follow you?”

A dozen sarcastic replies tried to jam themselves between his gritted teeth. “Yes.”

She nodded. She'd gone that particular shade of pale that meant she was afraid, and given what he'd just said, this showed that she was sensible. He seldom resented sensible people so much.

Funny, how even the untrustworthy wanted to be trusted. “Don't climb down until I call you.”

She nodded again. “Shouldn't you take this?” She held out the magelight; it looked like a flat stone in the light of day, a thing of no value to anyone who wasn't five. Or ten.

“Not here. I know the way.”

Easy to say. He took a deep breath and caught the edges of the chute in both hands, and then lowered himself the rest of the way down; he dangled for a moment, his fingers closing reflexively before he forced them to open.

She heard the dull thud; he saw her face in the light of the space between slat and chute. Reorienting himself, he said, “Now. Put the stone in your pocket. Or your mouth, if you don't have one; I don't want to lose it.” To her credit, she didn't hesitate; she struggled through the opening—and made it look difficult, which, given she was half his width, would have been risible in other circumstances—and then froze, her hands holding her weight high above the ground.

“I'll catch you,” he told her. “Let go.”

She hesitated for another beat, and then, for just a moment, she was falling. His arms were wide, but it had been many years since he had caught anyone; he was clumsy, and a little too rough, as if she were an object, and not something that needed to, say, breathe.