The Hidden City (21 page)

Rath was always busy.

Jewel's suspicion that Farmer Hanson had no clue where Arann lived was borne out by a short question. The farmer, huddled under the lee of his awning, spread his thick hands in the tail end of a long shrug that started with his shoulders and stretched down the rest of his body. “I don't know where you live either, if it comes to that,” he told her, when she looked at him in silent disappointment.

“He didn't come today?”

The farmer shook his head. “He's got food enough to last another day or two, if they're careful. He's not,” he added, “a greedy boy. And he's not, more's the pity, a thick one. He knows that I'll make work for him when I have it—but he's smart enough to know how often that isn't.”

“And Lefty?”

“He never comes without Arann.”

She knew that as well, but had felt compelled to ask. She couldn't say why. “I'll see to their clothing,” she told him, as she picked over fruit that had already, by the looks of it, been handled by a hundred people.

Seeing her expression, the farmer snorted, and mist left his lips like the thin stream from an invisible pipe. But he didn't defend what was left of his food, and she didn't insult it. Worse than this—far worse—had kept her from starving while she'd lived on the banks of the river. She filled her basket, lingering by the stall in hopes of actually seeing either boy.

Hope was scant, and it stung.

“If you see them,” she said at last, “tell them I'm looking for them, okay?”

“They know how to reach you?”

“They know where I live,” she replied, with an almost guilty smile.

The farmer's smile was unfettered; broad and wide. “It's getting colder,” he said, looking up, his gaze focused on the sky the awning hid.

She nodded. “It'll get colder,” she added softly. “But Arann's not much for charity.”

“He'll take it,” the man replied sternly.

“I know. But he won't like it much.”

“We all have to do things we don't like.”

 

She made her way home, thinking of Lefty. Not certain why, and not much liking it. Her breath was a wreath that followed her, and she found herself clutching the basket as if its bent, threaded thatch was a blanket. Cold, yes. Too cold for Arann.

She took the straightest route home, pausing only to rescue a cat from a bored child—or to rescue the bored child, because with cats it was hard to tell—and made her way in through the door. It wasn't raining hard; it was raining; the key was slippery and cold in her hand, and she dropped it once, adding colorful language to the bend of knees as she retrieved it. The sky was gray, which was not her favorite color, but it cast less shadow.

Rath's door was still closed; she could see that clearly as she entered the front hall and made a small puddle as she stood, shedding what water her clothing could no longer contain. She went to the kitchen.

Stopped in the arch.

Rath was seated at the table.

And beside him, hunched and white, was Lefty.

Of all the people she had thought to find here—

“Jewel,” Rath said coldly. He raised a pale brow as she met his gaze. “Is there something you forgot to mention?”

The whole of her answer was to hand Rath the market-heavy basket. He took it without comment, waiting for words she didn't have. She passed him—it was about two steps, as the kitchen wasn't large—and came to stand beside Lefty.

To stand, in fact, between Lefty and Rath.

Lefty was staring at the table. And Lefty, she saw, was
bleeding.
He didn't look up. Was afraid to look up. His eyes were fastened to wood grain as if the table were his only anchor.

“Lefty,” she said, pitching her voice low, but forgetting to strip it of urgency, “what happened?”

Lefty began to rock. His feet didn't touch the floor. His left hand was in his lap, and his right, shoved under his left armpit. His shirt was torn in two places, and his forearm—left arm—was adorned by an ugly gash.

Uglier, she thought, by look than in fact; it wasn't deep. She couldn't see bone. “Why didn't you tend it?” she asked Rath. This time, she worked to keep accusation out of the words.

“He was not of a mind to be, as you put it,
tended
. Had I not caught him, he would not have been of a mind to enter the apartment at all.”

“He's frightened, Rath.”

“He should be. Why is he here, Jewel?” Jewel, not Jay. Rath was annoyed. But his voice, even and calm to the ear, gave none of that anger away. She suspected it was why Lefty was still seated.

“I don't know,” she snapped back. Shoving wet hair out of her eyes, she knelt by the chair; it was uncomfortable in the cramped space. “Lefty,” she said, not touching him, not trying to catch his eye, “where is Arann?”

“Jewel, who
is
this boy?”

“I met him at the market,” she replied, wishing Rath was someplace else. Preferably someplace far away.

“And you told him where we live?”

“I brought him home.”

Rath rose, shoving the chair back. “And the other boy you mentioned?”

“Same.”

He started to head out of the kitchen, and Jewel turned suddenly and caught the leg of his pants. She would have caught his arm instead, but she didn't want to rise too quickly; she didn't want to panic Lefty. “Don't leave,” she whispered. “Not yet.”

“Jay,” Rath replied, relenting, some of the unnatural stiffness leaving both voice and face, “how often have I told you not to get involved with strangers?”

“I haven't kept count,” she replied, “And I'm bad at numbers anyway.”

“Not,” he said severely, “
that
bad.” He shook his leg free and found his place in the frame of the kitchen door, bracing himself against it. Waiting, as she had asked.

“Lefty,” Jewel said quietly. “We don't have much time.” And as she said it, she
knew
it was true. “Where is Arann?”

Lefty shook his head. “We were home,” he told her, although he would not look at her face. “We were just home. It was night. It was raining. The mice ran away.”

Rath was utterly still. Frustrated, but watchful.

Jewel was almost dancing in agitation, which was impressive, given the crouch. She took a guess.

“Whose den?” she asked. “And which holding?”

“It's the thirty-second,” he answered. The words came out quickly, the syllables running together in too little breath. He suddenly pitched himself forward, feet hitting ground, chest hitting table edge.

“Whose den?” she asked again.

“Cliff's.”

The name, of course, meant nothing to Jewel. She looked at Rath quickly, almost afraid to take her eyes off Lefty, although if Lefty bolted, he'd have to get through Rath. Rath nodded slowly.

“Where?”

“They tore the boards down,” Lefty said, to no one. “They came in.”

“How
many
, Lefty?”

Lefty held up his hand. Left hand. Five fingers. Jewel would have to teach him to count. Different day, she thought. On a different day. “What did they want?”

“Money. Arann.”

“You don't
have
any money.”

“Food.”

“You ran?”

“Arann threw me out. I scraped my arm on the board. I—” His eyes widened, and Jewel could see the water that filmed them, the reddened whites around a pale brown. “I ran.” He looked at her then, for the first time. “He
told
me to run.”

“And you came here.”

From his expression, it was clear that he would never be able to tell her why. And it didn't matter.

 

Rath stared at Jewel. Watched her face pale, her eyes widen, watched her expression slide into the peculiar absence that sometimes took it for seconds at a time. Often when it did, she didn't choose to speak, and he didn't choose to interrupt her. He had come, in such a short passage of time, to
trust
the girl.

And she had dragged two strangers into the hidden heart of his life. He should have been furious. And on some level, he was.

Cliff. Cliff's den. Cliff's gang. He knew the name, and knew the boy, although to Jewel, Cliff would not be a “boy.” Rath thought him eighteen, possibly nineteen. He had seen Cliff's group in action twice, and had observed them with disgust but little concern; they would be magisterial prison fodder within the six-month, if that long.

Child gangs were often tolerated if they did little damage. In the holdings, death was not uncommon, and children were allowed some leeway in their awkward attempts to survive their orphan years.

But unhindered, those children grew into something less tolerable, and less tolerated. Cliff was long past heading that way; he had almost arrived. Had there been a decent war, in either the North or the South, he would have been pressed into service—if he could be found. As it was, he was slowly creating his own war.

Rath said, “Jewel, watch the boy.” He left the kitchen. Heard her low, familiar tone, and the boy's less familiar silence. This, he thought bitterly, was Amarais. Amarais all over again. His sister.

The one Rath had once admired.

The bitterness was hard. The anger was worse.

Rath knew what he should do. Knew it, as he approached the closed door that led to his personal room. Recited it, in growing fury, as he entered, kicking aside the clothing that allowed him to play at belonging to any walk of life his work demanded.

He didn't change, but he didn't need to; he had expected to work uninterrupted for most of the three days that research required. He should have left the girl by the river. Or in the emptiness of his former apartment, a squatter who could be easily and quickly removed by whoever rented the rooms after he no longer required their use.

He made his way to the bed, which was new, and then found the ground with his knees, the flat of his palms pressed against newly sanded boards. They still creaked with his weight.

He found his sword. The sword that had been his grandfather's gift when he had reached the milestone age of fourteen. It was a reminder of everything he had chosen not to be—and had he been a more sentimental man, he would have rejected the sword along with the rest of his life.

But it
was
a damn fine sword; it had cost a small fortune when the commission for its creation had been passed to the Guild of Makers. It kept its edge almost indefinitely, it was lighter—by far—than any sword its length and width had any right to be, and it was long, immune to damage caused by water. Or blood.

He grabbed its scabbard from its unceremonious resting place beneath the bed, and drew it out.

The best advice he had yet given Jewel Markess:
Don't get involved
. But that was the nature of advice; given, but not always followed.

He looped the belt around his hips, adjusted the fall of the sword, and retreated from the room, closing the door firmly—and a little too loudly—as he did. Then he walked back to the kitchen, and stopped just shy of the doorframe, listening.

He thought the boy might be crying; it was hard to tell. Rath had seen many damaged children in his chosen life—they became damaged adults, and often dead ones, and in truth, he had seldom mourned their passage.

But this boy—Lefty, as Jewel had called him—was different. He had developed no scar tissue behind which to hide; he was an open walking wound, shying away from all contact. It really was a miracle that he had come here at all, given that he wouldn't even look at Jewel.

And Jewel was too young, too new, too unscarred, to free herself from that obvious pathos.

“Jay,” Rath said, stepping into view. “Bring the boy. Watch him carefully. Here,” he added, and tossed her a dagger. She caught it, her hand moving almost without thought, her eyes widening slightly at the unexpected weight of the sheath in her palm. “You remember what I told you about how to use it?”

She nodded.

“Good. Forget it all. Do not draw it unless you lose sight of me, or I fall.
If
I fall, run first.”

She said nothing.

“If you do not give me your word that you will obey me in this, I will not leave this apartment. Neither will you.”

She darkened. The red really was a lovely highlight to the faint auburn streaks Summer had added to her hair. He could see the decision play out in the tightening of her lips, the narrowing of her plain, dark eyes. She nodded.

It was enough.

“You, boy,” he said to Lefty. “I would leave you here, but I don't know where your friend
is
. I have some suspicion, but it would be best if you took us to your home first.”

Lefty said nothing at all.

But he looked at Jewel, this time.

And Jewel, damn her, said, “You can trust Rath. You have to, for Arann's sake.”

The boy was white, white, white. Only the bleeding gash on his forearm had any color at all.

“Lefty. Trust him. I do.”

To escape her words, the unwelcome weight of them, the certain truth in the speaking, Rath leaped toward the door, slamming back the bolts. His step was light and graceful as he crossed the threshold; their steps were loud and ungainly as they followed.

He turned back to Jewel, and only Jewel. “Jay.”

She nodded.

“Remember what I told you about swords?”

She nodded again, and gave him a warning glance.

He ignored it, ignored the boy. “I don't play with them. If the sword is drawn, there will be death.”