The Hidden City (38 page)

The shrug was theatrical. “As Ancient Weston, yes.” A pause, a deepening of the glitter of black eyes—eyes that should never have been able to reflect light in quite that fashion. “No one else has seen these?”

“No one else,” Rath replied smoothly, “is willing to better the price you paid for the last pieces I delivered.”

At this, the Patris did smile. Rath preferred the mask; there was something in the smile that was almost feral. It was also brief.

The Patris rose. “I will leave these in your care,” he said, looking at Radell for the first time since Rath had entered the room. “And I will send the agreed-upon sum on the morrow.”

Rath began to wrap them up again; it was habit. Radell was almost insensate with that peculiar joy that comes from vast sums of money, and he didn't trust the little merchant not to damage the ancient bowls.

“You are an interesting man,” Patris AMatie said to Rath, as he walked toward the door, blocking the only exit. He stood there, the frame inches above his head.

Rath tilted his head slightly in acknowledgment. “And you, Patris, are a wealthy one. I admire your ability to collect these items, but I confess that I see little of value in them beyond your interest.”

“That is all that is required.”

“As you say. I hope to do business with you again.”

Patris AMatie smiled. “As do I.” His words were a whisper, something soft and dark.

What Radell heard in them, Rath couldn't say—but it was clearly not what Rath heard. The little merchant gathered the bowls in his shaking hands and headed toward the door. AMatie stood for a moment, his hand upon the frame—and Rath thought they would collide, Radell was now so oblivious.

But at the last minute, the Patris moved, allowing Radell to leave. Rath, no fool, trailed after him, keeping as little distance as possible between them. It would have been unseemly in other circumstances, but Rath had no desire to remain in a room with the Patris.

And he suspected that the Patris knew it.

 

Radell went to his desk. Rath stood in front of the mess for a few minutes, and then said, “I'll be back in a few days.” Radell barely looked up, but did manage to nod, and Rath knew that he could have said eight thousand crowns instead, and it would have made more sense to the merchant. He would try to dislike it more later. The Patris was also in the back of the store, and he lingered like shadow cast by unwanted light.

It was difficult to ignore him; Rath had already chosen his mode of behavior, or he might have switched into the fawning and obsequious, to better gauge the man's reaction. He suspected, on the other hand, that it wouldn't have much effect.

“I do hope to meet with you soon,” the Patris said quietly. He spoke to Rath, and Rath nodded briskly.

“As do I,” he said, “when I have something of interest to offer.”

In the silence, the words “of interest” twisted. Rath bowed formally, as the difference in their obvious ranks demanded, and rose. He turned and walked out of the shop, his gaze toward the door and its gaudy window, the magelight still bright on the other side. He saw, as he reached for the door's tarnished brass, the unmoving reflection of Patris AMatie; the man's eyes were clear and unblinking.

Rath wondered, for just a moment, if Radell would survive. He was fond of the merchant for a number of reasons, not the least of which was his money. But he was not so fond that he was willing to die with him, and in Patris AMatie, at that moment, Rath saw and felt only death, and the stillness of the assassin before the blade falls.

He pulled the door in, took a breath, and stepped into the bracing wind of clear night, bright moon, and the whisper of the hunt.

Wondering, as he did, what Jewel might tell him now, if he had been willing to risk her.

 

Jewel cursed Arann and Lefty in both of the languages she knew. Cursing in Torra had been an early delight—when her Oma wasn't present—and cursing in Weston had come later, in an excited, bartering exchange of foul words with a young boy she'd met in the line to the well near her old home. His pale hair and startle of blue eyes marked him as Northern, at least by birth, as did his reddened skin. The Northerners, it was said, lived in a land of near-perpetual Winter, and no one burned in the Winter sun. Jewel, dark-haired and ruddy, had looked as much his opposite as a bored child of the city streets could. She'd said something in Torra, and when he asked what she'd said, told him what it meant; he brightened visibly and told her what the Weston word would be.

It had been one of the more useful things she'd gotten from a stranger. She thanked him for it again, although she'd never asked his name. Nameless boy, she thought, and one of many.

But mostly she thought about strangling Arann and Lefty. Had they just shut up and left her alone, she could have taken the tunnels, and been in Taverson's by now. She could mark the moon's height, although she hadn't thought to do it until Rath had asked where, and above which building, she had seen it in her brief glimpse of Taverson's. Nightmare vision was clear and strong. She could answer.

And because she could, she could pay attention. While cursing in Torra and Weston. She cursed under her breath—when she bothered with breathing. The thirty-fifth holding at night was no place she wanted to be—and she was not only in it, but walking its streets. Its empty streets, so like a different country she almost failed to recognize the buildings in front of which small children played during sunup.

Why can't I just come up through the storerooms?

It will be busy enough; they'll be in use. They see you as harmless, Rath added, unaware of how the word had stung, but if they find you there, they'll see you as a thief, and you'll be out on your backside long before it's time. Take the maze to the thirty-second, Jay. Be as careful as I've taught you to be, and enter as obviously as possible through the front doors.

You'll need to leave by the other doors, and that will be the only time you'll use them.

She had to reach the tavern.

And because it was important, she tried to remember every damn word Rath had ever said about walking without being seen. It didn't help much, though; the echo of her own steps dogged her, making her spin on a heel every time she was near an alley.

In the end, more for comfort than utility, she drew one of the two daggers Rath had given her. He had taught her how to hold it so she didn't slice her own fingers off, and had taught her where, so that sweat didn't make the hilt slippery enough that it ceased to be hers at all. She pointed out that she'd carried a knife the day they'd first met, and his snort of derision made clear what he thought of that knife.

He had also refused to be distracted by an argument about where that knife had gone.

He'd tried to teach her how to throw—but throwing knives was difficult, and in the end, she'd managed to get up to lousy by dint of stubborn effort.

Neither of the daggers was balanced for throwing. She'd do more damage throwing a large rock, and be just as likely to hit anything that needed hitting. A stray glance at the pools of dark street that existed between the magelights didn't immediately surrender sight of such a rock.

Kalliaris,
she thought, desperate now,
smile.

And then, without thinking, added,
Smile on Rath. Smile on Finch.
It was best, with the goddess of luck, to wish luck for someone else, a superstition that Jewel usually forgot to heed.

She held the dagger close to her side as she walked; its flat brushed her thigh. The sea winds were higher than was usual at night, and she briefly wondered if they meant a storm was coming—but the night was still clear, and if there were clouds, the wind would have some trouble blowing them here in time to hide that moon.

Whenever she heard footsteps, she froze. But it was deliberate, this chosen paralysis; she found a building with an open door, and hid a moment as the steps passed by; she found an alley, and crouched on her heels as far from the street as she could, without losing sight of it. She hated walking at night, because it made her feel small and isolated—but she had to admit that night had enough shadows.

She listened for screaming. Or steps that fell quickly, rather than slowly; she listened and watched the moon and cursed, and cursed, and cursed. But even cursing, she began to edge through the streets, and the cross streets; toward the river. The river, she knew. Bridges, banks, places where garbage was momentarily strewn—she wasn't at home there, but she could be almost safe.

Almost would have to do. She'd dressed warmly, which was good. The night was cool, the breeze a bite of sensation across exposed skin. Shivering, she almost cut herself, and decided that maybe the dagger was better in its sheath.

Awkward sheath, Rath-sized, it butted against her ribs no matter how she adjusted it, reminding her of all the ways in which her life and Rath's didn't fit together. But he was out here, in the streets of the holding, and beneath the same moon.

The Patris didn't bother with an obvious tail, this time. Or if he did, obvious was too simple a word. At night, the Common was as brightly lit as most of the Isle, and although the street onto which Radell's ridiculous shop faced wasn't empty, it might as well have been. He saw a slender boy duck out of sight, and smiled; he knew the look. If that was what the Patris had hired this time—

Knew the look.

But the scream? It was high and terribly brief.

Time, Rath thought, to get moving. He didn't look back; didn't pause to see if the boy emerged running. Because he'd heard similar screams from older throats before, and he knew that whatever emerged wouldn't appreciate a witness.

One man's cowardice was another man's wisdom. The most important rule Rath had learned about fighting was that survival was the only thing that counted. He listened as he walked, his stride so wide Jewel would never have been able to follow, and in the darkness, he thought he heard footsteps.

But turning, just once, as he banked sharply around the circle that surrounded the Common in a rudimentary road, he saw nothing that might have made those steps. He saw magelights, on storefronts and above them, and he saw windows, much like Radell's, whole panes of glass unbroken by simple lead bars.

It was the windows that caught the corner of his eye, not the street itself; the street was still. But across the surface of those reflective panes of glass, a shadow moved. One, perhaps two; their forms were indistinct because they were in rapid motion. Nothing appeared to cast those shadows, and Rath felt the night grow cold indeed as he realized exactly how he had managed to miss the last man who had followed him so cunningly.

Magery. Here.

And if Andrei's stone had been expensive, whatever now hooded his followers from sight was something that Rath would have sworn could not be purchased; it was, by Imperial decree, illegal without a writ from the Magisterium. All magic beyond a certain base level was.

And whoever was following him either felt confident enough that a writ might be granted, should it be required, or they didn't intend to see him take complaint to the magisterial authorities. He was betting on the latter.

He began to run.

 

When she heard the slow steps of a larger group, Jewel once again found an alley to hide in. They were coming down the street, and they were accompanied by voices; she thought they must be either drunk or close enough as to make no difference. Loud voices, men's voices.

Unlike Rath, she had no certain sense of where the holdings changed number; had no certain way of knowing when she had left the thirty-fifth for the thirty-whatever. She knew moonlight, and the moon's position seemed to have shifted by slow degree between the buildings' heights. She also knew that she couldn't afford to be seen. In the weeks since she'd been with Rath, she'd lost the hungry look that clearly said she had nothing worth stealing.

She crouched, waiting, as the steps grew louder and closer. There was no anger in the voices; she might have thought them happy, had she heard them in the safety of her Oma's arms, in a different life. But happiness in the holdings meant many things, as she'd discovered, and she had no intention of adding to the wrong kind.

Waiting was hard, this last time. She felt a wrongness as she crouched that made her want to run, and she held on to her knees, grinding her chin into them, and trusting the shadows.

Mistake, that, to trust shadows.

Or bridges. Or rivers. Or even Kalliaris.

The steps went by; she hid her face, her hands, things that might show the wrong glimpse of color if someone was actually paying attention. She stopped breathing, as if breathing was more audible than the song they were singing. Weston song, rude words melting into syllables and laughter.

When she lifted her face again, when she pulled shaking hands from around her shins, she looked up.

Saw the glint of a dagger, when her own hand was empty.

 

This was not the plan, but so few plans survived. Rath ran, and his steps were the light steps of a fencer or a dancer, things he might once have been, had he chosen to weather life behind the walls of the manor that had once been home. He did not choose grace for show or even for comfort; he chose it because it was the most silent way of moving. What vision would not easily surrender, hearing might.

And he heard steps, now, heavy steps, scraping across the cobbled stones as if made by steel boots. Fast, he thought. He could not guess at the size of the men who made them. Had they not been so close, he might have chosen to enter the tunnels, but the tunnels were their own form of treachery to one in flight, and if he were cornered there, there was no guarantee that he could stand and fight.