The Hidden City (43 page)

“Well met, Ararath,” the man said softly.

Rath nodded grimly. “Stay back,” he told Jewel.

Nodding, she retreated as far as Carver, and stopped. Carver, whose dagger was out, and who stood sentinel above the old chute, watching and waiting as if he had no other purpose.

I told you to stay down,
she thought. The words wouldn't come. Instead, she said, “Where's Finch?”

“She's down below. It didn't sound safe.”

“It's not.” But she could
breathe
now. She could shake.

“He another friend you don't know?”

She shook her head. “He's Rath,” she told him. “I've known him for weeks now.”

Carver snorted. “You're crazy, right?”

“Probably.”

She watched Rath's friend—old friend, by the use of the name—walk toward the men in the alley. She watched Rath do the same. “Come on,” she told Carver, pointing at the chute. “Let's go down.”

“Why?”

“It's safer.”

He started to argue, but someone screamed, and screaming usually had one of two effects on homeless children. This time, he retreated.

Finch was waiting for them, her hands over her ears. When she saw them both, she relaxed, but only slightly; the night air carried the sounds of real fighting, real pain.
There would be death,
Jewel thought.

“Should we go somewhere else?” Carver asked her, nodding toward the tunnels.

She shook her head. “I'd just get lost,” she told him ruefully. “I don't know how to get back.”

It was a short fight.

Andrei's presence was not the mixed blessing it so often was, and nothing he did this eve would tarnish his reputation, should Rath be foolish enough to actually speak of it to another living man. The daggers Hectore's most famous servant carried, oddly ornamented even in the dim light, were more deadly than any that Rath had wielded; they drew blood.

And fire.

The fire was disturbing; a brief flare of orange light that flickered with blue heart, the shape and size of a man. Twice. The screams were loud, but they lingered only in memory; ash had no throat, no lip, no way to utter cries.

Rath watched as they died, these men who had been sent to take him. He sheathed his daggers slowly, his face utterly impassive, his expression calm.

“You were lucky,” Andrei said, sheathing his own blades without comment.

“You were late,” Rath replied.

Andrei nodded quietly. “Forgive me,” he said, kneeling in the alley as if in penitence. What he was actually doing, however, was disturbing a fine sheen of ash with his knees, his gloved hands. “This is not the best news,” he said at last, looking up at Rath's face.

“They weren't mage-born.”

“No.”

“And those—”

“These?” Andrei said, touching the dagger hilts. “They were a gift.”

“From?”

Andrei shook his head. “Poorly done, Ararath.”

“My apologies, Andrei. I am . . . not at my best, as you find me.”

“Indeed.” The man rose. “It was not clear to me that these men were here at all. Had they not run across the boy—”

“Boy?” Ah. The single scream.

“He is dead,” Andrei added quietly. “But his death was enough. I was prepared for some difficulty, but not of this particular nature. I was forced to retreat for a moment. I did not think they wanted you dead,” he added.

Rath, looking down at a jacket that could not be repaired, shrugged.

“But a question, Ararath.”

“Yes?”

“The girl.”

Rath turned to look back at the empty stretch of alley. “Girl?”

Andrei's smile was tight. “As it pleases you. But Ararath, be cautious. These . . . men . . . are not the men you have played your dangerous games with in times past.”

“Who were they?”

“I am not entirely certain myself. I have some contact with the Order of Knowledge, but it is a fractious order, and the contacts that I do have are reticent.”

“Your daggers?”

Andrei nodded. “They were delivered to my hand when I made inquiries about the death of Member Haberas. I will have to return them,” he added, without regret. “And in return for their use, I will be compelled, by rules of hospitality, to surrender what information I've gained.

“Rath, if that's what you prefer to be called, quit this game. It is beyond you. Do you understand? It is beyond
me
.” He ran a hand through his hair; it was an uncharacteristic gesture. It almost made him seem human.

Rath merely bowed. “I am in your debt. I am, again, in the debt of Hectore.”

“Your godfather counts you as blood-kin; he requires no such accounting.”

“Of course not. But that changes nothing. The Patris AMatie?”

“Do not play games with him. What dealings you have had, Ararath, must come to a close here. He will know, of course, if he does not already know.” Andrei offered Rath a brief bow. “I must return to Hectore, and you to your home. If I have information for you,” he added, “I will find you.”

No other man could say that with such confidence, and Rath had no doubt that it was well-placed. He turned, then, as Andrei did.

“If the girl is mage-born,” Andrei's voice drifted back, “have her tested. She is young, to come into her power—and there is a risk.”

“She is not mage-born.”

“Good.”

“How so?”

“If she were, and she were already evincing some power, it could destroy her if it were not discovered and trained; I have heard it is not a pleasant death, and in all likelihood, she deserves more. In my opinion, she saved your life.”

 

Rath slid down the chute, and almost collided with Jewel. Not a good start. He righted himself, and Jewel managed—barely—to get out of his way. So that he could clearly see not one but two children, standing just above the tunnels that he so prized.

He looked a mess, even to Jewel, but he didn't appear to notice, and if he didn't, she couldn't. That was one of the unspoken rules that governed their life together.

“This is Rath,” she said quickly. “Rath, this is Finch. And this is Carver.”

“Carver?”

She shrugged. “I didn't name him.”

“You brought him.”

“I'll explain it later.”

“Good. I look forward to it. How did you
get
here, Jewel?”

“Jewel?” Carver repeated. She hit his shoulder.

Rath ignored him.

“I followed the maze,” she told him. “I—”

“Later, then. Do you know how to get back?”

She shook her head.

“Let me lead, then. I think we'll stay clear of the streets for the moment.” He paused. “Don't use this tunnel during the day.”

“I don't think I could find it again,” she offered, as he drew a magestone out of his pocket.

“Good.”

She was going to be in
so much
trouble.

They made their way home, sticking to the tunnels. Rath was not in a mood to offer wonder. He was not in a mood to share words either. He led, and Jewel took the rear, bracketing the two orphans with light. If it was dim, the darkness of the undercity was so complete it didn't matter.

They crossed the crevice with ease; there was less urgency, and Rath was easily heavy enough to bear their weight. He asked Jewel how she'd crossed it the first time, and she pointed to the pack that hung awkwardly, across Carver's shoulders. But it seemed that in this, at least, she'd done well; he nodded grimly and said nothing more.

Only when he led them, at last, to the apartments he called home did he pause. He leaned against the storeroom wall, and looked at the door; it was locked, but it was a lock that he could open in his sleep.

He didn't. “Two more,” he said, voice heavy with something that was suspiciously devoid of anger.

“I didn't mean—”

“You never do. The boy?”

“I met him in an alley.”

“And you trusted him enough to expose us all?”

“Yes.” And then, stronger,
“Yes.”

Rath nodded curtly, as if he had expected no less. “Carver,” he said quietly.

The boy nodded. He was wary of this adult in a way that he had not been wary of either Jewel or Finch. Which made street sense; Jewel and Finch couldn't hurt him, even armed. Rath could.

“And Finch.”

The younger girl nodded as well, wrapping arms around herself, as if against cold. Or inspection.

Rath turned and opened the door. He made a show of retrieving his keys in the scant magelight, but no one was fooled. He didn't need them.

“Jewel will show you to the room she occupies. There are two other children here, and they—as you—are her responsibility.” He opened the door and held it, waiting. They had to almost scrape past him to reach the hall. Jewel went with them to the room; Arann and Lefty were in it, waiting in a tense silence that dissolved slowly when they saw who stood in the door.

Arann rose slowly. And towered. “Jay?”

She nodded. “This is Finch,” she told him, although she looked at Lefty as well as she spoke. “And this is Carver.”

“Carver?”

“I, uh, met him in an alley.”

“Is everyone going to do this?” Carver asked, lounging in the frame, like a very young version of Rath. He'd drawn his dagger to make a point; Arann was a lot larger than he was, in height and in width.

Jewel smacked him hard in the chest, to make a different point. “Put it away,” she snapped.

He raised a brow, his hair flat against his forehead and a third of his face. Dark hair. Dark eyes. Prominent bones forming the jut of jaw, the height of cheek. But after a moment, he sheathed the dagger.

“I'll feed you,” she told him.

“Something that won't take the skin off the roof of my mouth this time?”

“Something like that. You don't draw that here. Unless there are intruders. You never draw it if you don't mean to use it.”

“I do,” he told her grimly, softly, “because I
don't
want to use it.”

She started to argue, but Arann lifted a hand. “He's right,” he said quietly.

“Not here, he's not. He can play games outside. This is my place.”

“Rath's place?” Lefty asked.

“Mine. This room and everyone in it.”

Carver whistled. Jewel still couldn't. And she couldn't snap her fingers either. “There's room on the floor. Not much bedding yet,” she told them both. “I—there's some for Finch, but I didn't expect to find you.”

He shrugged. “I can sleep on the floor. At least it isn't wet.”

“And it's warm,” Arann told Carver.

Jewel stared at Arann. Arann, sensing it, met her gaze and shrugged. “You brought him,” he told her, starting something that neither of them knew would continue. She felt it, though; the force of his words, the weight of his unexpected faith.

Faith was an odd word. It existed in both Weston and Torra, but it was colored differently in either language. Arann used Weston. It was the brighter coloring, the cleaner shade.

“This is your den?” Carver asked her as she turned toward the kitchen.

“No.”

“Then what is it?”

She shrugged. “Arann,” she replied, nodding to the giant. “And Lefty. He's kind of shy.”

“And me?” Carver asked, following her as she left the room, his bare feet slapping the wooden floor.

“Your feet are bleeding.”

He shrugged. “They'll stop.”

She made her way to the small kitchen in silence and began to assemble food in a basket. No sense in plates; there weren't enough of them.

“Why?” he asked quietly.

“Why what?”

“Why did you try to save someone you don't even know?”

She shrugged. “Why didn't you stay in Taverson's? Why didn't you eat?”

“Burned my mouth.”

“Why did you hit that man with the stool?”

Carver shrugged. Looked at the floor. “Stabbing him would have got me thrown out.”

She laughed. It was an unexpected rush of sound, nerves driving it. “The stool would have got you thrown out if Taverson figured out you'd done it.” She looked up, met his gaze, and held it. “You have anywhere better to go?”

“Not tonight.”

“I owe you a meal. I'll feed you.” She looked at his feet. “And I'll buy you boots, or something. Your feet—”

“The old ones fell apart. They were too big, anyway.”

“When did you lose 'em?”

“Couple of days ago. I don't know.” The gaze that had tried to hold hers became evasive.

She held up a hand. “You helped me,” she told him quietly. “I didn't ask. I couldn't. I didn't know—” She threw the words away, chose different ones. “You helped me. I owe you.”

“I'd say Finch owes me, if anyone does.”

“She didn't ask either.”

“She's smarter than she looks.” His tone took a turn for the bitter. “What's the point in asking?”

Jewel couldn't really argue with that. But she was what she was; she did. “What's the point in
not
asking? What difference does it make, one way or the other? Sometimes you get what you ask for.”

“Sometimes,” he said, stone-cold words, “you don't know what you're asking for.”

She nodded then. Thinking of Rath, thinking of all the things she hadn't asked for. Not in words. Maybe never in words. Thinking of his ruined jacket, his blood in thin welts across chest, ribs, cheek; thinking—knowing in a way that was less certain and more natural than gift—that he had almost died because he'd known that she would try to save a stranger.