The Hidden City (46 page)

It was time to talk to Finch.

 

Rath fit in the room.

Jewel reminded herself of this fact a dozen nervous times. She'd been in more crowded rooms. Her father's friends had sometimes come home with him from the docks and the shipping yards, pulling up the crates and boxes that served as chairs when company was present, and jamming themselves around the table, as much as they could.

But Rath was different. He took up more space than any four of those men, just by standing in the doorframe.

“Jay,” he said, although he used the tone of voice reserved for the more formal—and therefore more despised—Jewel. “This is Finch?” His gaze traveled in a small arc, and landed more or less on the right person.

It was a
polite
question, since he damn well knew the answer. And polite, from Rath, meant something. Not usually something good.

Finch nodded.

“Jay tells me that you managed to escape from . . . someplace.”

Her second nod was a good deal more hesitant than the first.

“Do you know which holding it was in?”

She frowned. Which Jewel took as a no. Rath, no idiot, interpreted it correctly as well.

“Where were you living, before you ended up there?”

“Twenty-eighth,” she said promptly.

“With your family?”

The silence that followed the question was terrible.

Rath lifted a hand. “Finch,” he asked softly, “how did you get to where you were . . . held?”

“Walked.” To Jewel, and in Torra, she added, “Make him stop.”

“He understands Torra,” Jewel replied quietly. She hesitated. Carver had stiffened unexpectedly, and this probably meant he understood it as well. First time he'd given a sign. “Finch—you left someone behind. There's a chance we can help them.”

The younger girl's shoulders had folded in on themselves, the new weight of clothing suddenly far too large for her frame; it was as if the heavy cloth was swallowing her without a fight. “I didn't know her before I—before that place,” she said softly. “I still don't know her name. She was—I think she was your age. Maybe older. Dark-haired. She had a scar—” she stopped for a moment, lifting a hand to her mouth. Jewel hoped dinner wasn't about to be wasted.

“She told me—the boys and the girls—some of them are just disappearing. I'd only been there two days—I—”

Jewel slid an arm around her shoulder, standing now between the girl and Rath. “She helped you.” No question there.

“Yes. I don't know why,” she added. “She told me when to run. I think—I think she knew the man. Or recognized him.” She paused. “There's always a guard. Sometimes two. It depends on who . . . “ She looked up, her face so pale Jewel thought she might faint. But she didn't. “On who's visiting.”

“How did you get past the guards?” Rath asked, his voice softening.

“Her.”

“You don't think she's still alive.”

Finch, again, offered silence.

“Rath—”

“I need to know where,” he said grimly.

“Is it a—”

“Yes. Sometimes they're called brothels. They're highly, highly illegal.”

As if that mattered, here. No, Jewel thought,
here
, in this room, it
did
matter.

“It's new?” he asked Finch, bending his knees and reducing his height, as if by changing his posture he could diminish the threat.

“I don't know.”

“In a house?”

“A big house.”

What big meant to Finch was not clear. It meant something to Rath, and Jewel hoped it meant the same thing. Language was tricky, that way.

“Not one of the tenements? Or the courtyard buildings?”

She shook her head. “A house.”

“It has to be new,” he said to himself, rising. “Finch, I'm sorry—but I need you to help me now.”

“I'll go,” Jewel added.

Carver said, “We can all go.” He failed to notice Lefty. But Lefty failed to say a word.

“Out of the question,” Rath told them firmly. “One of you, maybe. Arann. Jewel. But not all of you. You'll be noticed by anyone with an eye, never mind two. And at the moment, we're
not
going anywhere.

“I need to know as much as possible about the lay of the land.”

They all stared at him, except for Jewel.

He smiled a tight, frustrated smile. “I need to know what things look like,” he said, speaking slowly, as if to children or idiots. “I understand that it's difficult to speak about,” he added, “but this girl probably saved your life. Do her the kindness of attempting to return the favor.”

And Finch straightened her shoulders, took a deep breath, held it for a moment, and then began to speak.

It came as a shock to Jewel to hear the growing strength of the younger girl's voice.

The Den was busy. Late afternoon would shade into evening, and then it would be
really
busy. Rath was indifferent to either state. He waited at a table by the back; the corner he preferred was already occupied, and as he didn't wish attention, he left it that way.

The strangers that he had noticed a few days past were not present; if they were lucky, they had work. If they were unlucky, it was the wrong work, and if Rath was unlucky, it was both wrong and in his way. It wouldn't be the first time.

Still, he waited. He had paid Harald, and if the pay was not precisely a patrician sum, it was good enough to guarantee that Harald paid attention. As much as Harald ever did.

Half an hour passed. The sky was no longer clear, but the clouds were thin and promised drizzle, not rain. Rath had forgone the oiled overcoat that made all men look like canvas sacks with legs; in this, his vanity was allowed some rein.

Harald, however, had no such vanity to be pricked, and Rath recognized him by movement, more than sight; he had a particular way of walking into a room as if he owned it. And because he almost did, other men had a way of making room to let him pass unhampered. Then again, Harald was known here; getting in his way on the wrong day was like offering a gift to the gods of bad temper, such as they were. In this case, they were probably named Harald or Haraldess.

He pulled the hood off his face as he approached Rath. “You drinking?” he said heavily, and pulled a chair round, shoving its back against the rounded lip of the table.

“Demonstrably,” Rath replied, lifting a mug.

“It's not empty,” Harald said, with a shrug.

“I've only been here—”

“Stow it.”

Rath inclined his head. “What do you have for me?”

Harald raised a fist.

One of the sailors—the youngest, although with the three it was hard to tell—made his way through the crowd with a tray. He dropped the whole thing, three mugs, in front of Harald. Either Harald had been here more frequently than Rath, or the sailors preferred him to be more mellow than he clearly was.

Harald paid. And counted the change. His heart, however, was not in it, and he counted poorly. Rath, from his vantage, could see this clearly, and chose not to comment on it. He noted that the sailor, a few coins richer, didn't either.

“Yes,” Harald said, after he'd drained half a mug. “I have what I think you want.”

“Names?”

Harald shook his head. “But there are a few startups. Last three months. Maybe six.”

“That would be during the shipping season.”

“Yeah. When the rest of us were out.”

Rath was silent for a moment. “The magisterians?”

“I've got a friend of a friend,” Harald replied, leaning slightly over the table. He was careful not to upend any of the ale he'd paid for.

Friend of a friend. Rath almost shook his head. “Magisterian?”

Harald nodded. “He was transferred out of the thirty-fifth about four months ago.”

“Better job?”

“The same job.”

“Then why?”

“That's the funny thing. No reason given. Just—out.”

“Anything unusual going on in the thirty-fifth?”

“Funny you should ask.”

This was Harald; Rath waited. He even feigned patience. Which, for Harald, would simply mean he didn't try to hit him or draw weapon on him.

“There was some kind of shake-up. Not in the Court or the Magisterium, but down near the ground. Shifts were changed or rescheduled. Timing was marked.”

“The patrols are supposed to be random.”

Harald shrugged. “Funny coincidence.”

“Frequency?”

“That seems to have gone down as well. Apparently, some of the merchants—”

“In the thirty-fifith?”

Harald coughed ale. “That's what I said.”

Rath shook his head. A child could do better, if a lie had to be fabricated; these weren't the rich holdings. “Merchants, then. Go on.”

“Some of the merchants—who pay the taxes—weren't happy with the quality of patrols they were seeing. So patrols have been diverted.”

“Someone's being bribed. Did you find out who?”

Harald shook his head. “Thought I'd leave that to your fancy connections. But it's the thirty-fifth,” he added. “I'm not sure any of that money is going into a
bank
.”

“Tell me about the rest.”

Harald hesitated. He emptied the first mug and almost tossed it aside. But he wasn't in the mood to deal with the person it would have hit, and he forced himself to drop it on the table instead; Rath caught it before it rolled off and hit floor.

“There are rumors,” he said carefully. “Just rumors.”

“I'm a gossip. What are they?”

“No one's got anything. No proof. No street address.”

Rath nodded again.

“But some of the uptowners have been making their way into the thirty-fifth.” He paused. “And possibly the thirty-second as well.”

Rath's face was carefully neutral, which looked very much like boredom to those who didn't know him. Harald knew him well enough.

“What are the uptowners buying?”

“Time,” Harald replied. “Someone went through the thirty-first and the thirty-second, talking to some of the street families, some of the poorer ones. And after that? Some of the kids went missing.”

Finch.

To his great surprise, Rath was angry. He was also cautious enough to contain it, for now.

“You haven't lived here long enough,” Harald said, lifting the second mug. It was so easy to forget that cunning and intelligence were cousins. But he was sober, and his eyes were a shade too dark. “You've got work for me?”

“Not yet.”

“Too bad.” His fingers were white. Rath almost laughed, but it would have been the wrong laugh for this crowd.

“You look like you're about ready for a fight.”

Harald nodded.

“Where?”

And shrugged, a bear's shrug, the stiff oilskin creasing as it followed the motion. “I'm not sure I'm considered reliable enough,” he said at last. “And I wasn't exactly gentle when I was getting the damn information.”

“Be careful. How many?”

The question caused the mug to stop halfway to Harald's mouth. It came back, table-side, and rested there. “You know I hate kids, right?”

Rath nodded.

“They're whiny. Stupid. Weak.”

And nodded again.

“I don't want a handful of screaming kids following me around.”

“Trust me, they won't be following you.”

“How much money are you offering?”

“Standard rates.”

“Standard for what?”

“Small job. High risk.”

“Well, The White Whore won't miss us. Much. Maybe six. Eight. Depends.”

“On what?”

“You're not the only man hiring.”

The second half of the information. “Who is?”

“You'll see him, if you stick around.”

“Name?”

“No name. At least none I've heard.”

“You don't like the look of him.”

“Not much. But I've been around. I hate being dockside. I hate the ground; it doesn't move. And the hires? They're never going to see shipside again.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Hunch.”

Good enough. “If you can get me eight, get me eight.”

“Up-front money?”

Rath frowned. But it wasn't a deep frown. He pulled a small purse from the inside of his jacket and tossed it at Harald. Harald didn't bother to count what was in it. Then again, watching Harald count was its own special hell; Rath was grateful.

“Where?”

“I'm not exactly certain.”

“You've got an idea.”

Rath nodded. “Meet me tomorrow; we'll go before the Common opens.”

“Where?”

“Looseboard and Trail.”

Harald laughed. “The thirty-fifth.”

“It's not like you'll have to worry about magisterial guards.”

When Rath returned, he was in a mood that would have been foul had he spoken a single word. He saw Jewel and Finch in the kitchen; saw Lefty hovering in the corner. He didn't even look at them. Instead, he passed them by, his eyes narrow, his lips thinned.

“Jay?” Finch whispered, when his door slammed shut.

Jewel's knife was in the middle of a large carrot; it had stopped there. “He's not happy,” she said quietly.

Lefty snorted. Jay was beginning to think that the quiet boy who wouldn't meet her eyes was preferable to this one.