The Hidden City (58 page)

Chapter Seventeen

THE INN WAS LIKE, and unlike, the Peacock. Proud Peacock, Rath reminded himself, as he entered through doors that were held by attendants attired in what was almost—but not quite—livery. They wore a uniform that was a deep, even blue, with hints of gold at the double-stitched seams; the jackets were perfectly fitted to the men beneath them, although they were of different sizes and ages.

The smiles they offered were both perfunctory and genuine, and the sympathies they offered, as they gazed out at an almost perpetual gray, were the same; they were men who were comfortable in the job they had chosen, or perhaps the job they had had chosen for them.

No owner came to greet Rath and Andrei, although at this time of day, it was likely that said owner was on the premises. No one paused to note Rath's lack of fine clothing; Andrei admittedly had the bearing and carriage of a man accustomed to power, and if his version of accustomed implied service, it implied such only to men who knew him.

Clearly, these two did not—but they expected that any man who crossed the threshold was a man capable of affording anything offered within, and it was not their job to keep the poor and less scrupulous on the other side of the door. Rich men—and women—could be notably odd in their habits; the accumulation of wealth might lead a man to a certain type of grandstanding or even obsequiousness, but the long custom of
having
it could lead them in any direction they chose. And one did not question the direction if one had breeding.

Thus it was in the Placid Sea, where men had occasionally been known to venture in without shoes, and been made to feel welcome. Rath was more at home here than long years of absence would have led him to expect; he did not blink when his coat was taken and handled with the same expert care that a more appropriate coat in the rainy season would receive. He felt some tension leave him as the coat did; his tunic was dry, and the warmth of the building warmed hands that had bunched into fists.

Andrei's coat was likewise taken, and Andrei offered the doorman a very civil nod in response; he also offered a coin, which the man accepted without comment or even, apparently, notice. Rath had no like coin to offer, and by the lack, made himself known as either guest or client.

They were led, after some small conversation, to chairs by one of the establishment's many fireplaces; they were offered cushions and towels, as well as a drink, and the fire was well tended; it crackled in silence as Rath observed it.

“You were always fascinated by fire,” Andrei said quietly.

“Aren't all children?”

“Not in the same way, no.”

Rath could have pointed out that Andrei's life lacked anything remotely resembling children, but it wouldn't have been precisely true; he had none of his own, of course, but he was almost a fixture for his godfather's numerous clan. Children, grandchildren, godchildren—all of these had passed before Andrei's steady eyes, and had often been passed into his patient care. In the great manor House Araven owned—upon the Isle—there was always noise, always light, always warmth; if there were questions, there was also an affability and a tolerance that were often absent in less well-established Houses.

“If this is a metaphor, Andrei, I'm well past the age where it might be of use.”

“It is not, sadly, metaphor. And you were never of an age where my guidance might have been of use to you.”

Rath shrugged; it was true. They sat in a companionable silence, but it was heavy with things unsaid. To Rath's great surprise, some of those did not remain that way. “My sister,” he said quietly.

The word hung in the air between them; it appeared that not only had Rath surprised himself, but also Andrei. It was almost worth it.

The servant raised a brow, and then slowly bent his elbows above the armrests, shadowing them as he steepled his fingers beneath his chin. “She is well,” he said at last. “The House Terafin is, for the moment, at peace.” He paused and fastidiously brushed wood ash from his pant leg. “She has, of course, asked after you.”

“You've seen her?”

“Patris Hectore has been favored with an invitation to the House,” he replied, as if this were commonplace.

“And you attended him.”

“That is my privilege,” Andrei answered quietly.

“Has she made many friends?”

“In House Terafin?”

Rath nodded.

“As many as one would expect of a woman of power and position.”

“Which would be none.”

“Ararath, that is beneath you.”

“You might have noticed, Andrei, that very little is beneath me in my current life.”

“But not nothing,” was the grave reply.

Rath was silent. “I didn't think,” he said at last, “that she would survive.”

Andrei raised a brow. “You judge your sister harshly,” he said at last, “And without your usual perception.” He looked at his hands as he spoke, and in this, he was a consummate servant; he knew where to look, and when. “But as this is unusual, and you are in an unexpected mood, I will be more forthcoming than would ideally suit my position. She almost died in the struggle to take the House and make it her own; were it not for the intervention of a healer—from the House of Healing upon the Isle—she would have perished.”

The words filled Rath with emptiness, or the appearance of it; something was opening beneath his feet, which, given they rested upon a cushioned stool in the heart of the Placid Sea, said much. “Healers seldom intervene,” he said, groping for words and finding them somehow.

“Indeed. Almost never.” He paused, and then added, “You might know the man; I believe you met him on one occasion.”

“Alowan.”

“Alowan Rowanson, yes. He is not young now. But I believe—”

“I know him,” Rath continued. “He is old, even by my standards. He came when she called.” Flat words, no surprise in them.

“He is resident within the Terafin House upon the Isle.”

At that, Rath did sit up in surprise.

“He has not, however, seen fit to accept the offer of the Terafin name; he is still Rowanson, as he was born, and I do not believe that will change in the foreseeable future.

“The Chosen serve her,” Andrei continued. “And she has built, within the House Council, an uneasy alliance of mutual interest. They look outward, now, rather than in, among themselves; if they sharpen their blades, they are now aimed at external enemies.” He paused again. “The man who almost succeeded the man previously known as The Terafin—”

“Was called the Butcher, if gossip is to be believed.”

“He was not called the Butcher in common parlance among his peers,” Andrei said, with a hint of disapproval. But it was a hint that held no substance, no weight. “There is none, now, who will challenge her rule; it has been this way for many years, and I do not believe it will change while she lives.”

Rath nodded bitterly. “And so she is now the most powerful woman upon the Isle, save for the god-born and the Twin Kings.”

“And no one calls her the Butcher,” Andrei replied calmly. “Nor will they. She is not the child she was. Nor are you.”

Rath nodded. Thinking now, for one dangerous moment, about a statue with eyes of sapphire and a voice that contained the echoes of the voices of gods. Thinking of the darkness and the emptiness in which that statue had remained for centuries, waiting for Jewel's touch to invoke it.

And yet when it had spoken, its words had not been for Jewel, who lay insensate, but for Rath. He almost spoke of it, but Andrei's position shifted. It was subtle, but Rath understood instantly that their moment of isolation was about to be broken, and he almost welcomed the interruption.

Andrei stood as two men joined them. Rath lifted a brow, and Andrei ignored it. Luck, it seemed, was with them. But there was enough of the streets in Rath to make him wonder which face Kalliaris now showed him: the frown or the smile. Perhaps both; she was a cagey god at best, and if she was the one whose name was most frequently spoken in the holdings, it was spoken with dread and hope in equal measure.

Andrei took the smooth carved stone from his pocket, but before he could place it upon the fireside table, one of the two men lifted a pale hand. He wore the robes of the Order of Knowledge beneath an oiled cloak that he had somehow managed to walk past the doormen.

Andrei nodded and pocketed the stone, and chairs were drawn closer to the fireside.

“Andrei,” the man who had motioned said. His voice was smooth and colorless, the single word uninflected.

Andrei nodded again, but this time with more purpose, and Rath rose in greeting. “May I introduce you to Ararath Handernesse?”

The man lifted both of his hands and drew the hood of the cloak from the frame of his face; it was a slender face, and seemed at once aged and ageless. His hair, bound back in a braid that fell well beyond the hood itself, was all of white.

“Member APhaniel,” Andrei said. “You honor us with your presence.”

The words failed to register; the man turned steel-gray eyes upon Rath, and held him in a fixed stare for a moment. A long moment. “Handernesse?” he asked at last. “Are you, then—”

“I am a friend of Andrei's,” Ararath replied. If words could be either window or gate, his were the latter, and at that the type of gate which stands beneath curtain walls, manned.

“As you will,” the mage replied, withdrawing his attention, or at least the appearance of such. It was not, in Rath's opinion, a good start. The man turned to Andrei. “Understand,” he said quietly, “that the nature of your inquiries is frowned upon within the Order of Knowledge.”

Andrei inclined his head. His fingers still formed a perfect steeple; if he was uncomfortable in the presence of a man who wielded power as if it were thought, he gave no sign. “Surely,” he said quietly, “the Order of Knowledge does not turn away from knowledge itself.”

“No, indeed,” the man replied, seating himself. His companion sat beside him, hood still high. “Although there is good reason that it is not named the Order of Wisdom.

“Recall if you will the old adage, ‘knowledge is power.' Pretend, for a moment, that you believe it. There are some powers denied, by law and the Kings, to any who would otherwise make claim to
be
a power. What they gainsay, we, of course, do not seek.”

Andrei once again inclined his head.

“But,” the second mage said, speaking for the first time, “the fact that you make these inquiries is of interest to those who dwell within the Order.” To Rath's surprise, the speaker was a woman. Although talent did not reside solely in one gender or another, it was seldom that Rath had cause to speak with members of the Order, and he could count the number of times one of those members had been female on exactly none of his fingers. As if she could hear his thought, she turned to look at him, and as she did, she lifted her hood.

She was old, to Rath's eye, and bent with age; how much of this was fact, and how much act, he did not venture to guess. It was, among other things, impolite—and in the Placid Sea, he was reminded of the manners of youth. And also of the necessity for such manners.

Her smile, however, was benign.

“May I present my colleague, Sigurne Mellifas.”

As names went, it sounded vaguely familiar to Rath. Clearly, however, it was more than vague to Andrei, whose eyes visibly rounded. And narrowed, just as quickly.

“Yes,” the first mage said quietly. “The nature of your inquiries requires a caution that I am unwilling to vouchsafe on my own behalf. My colleague has some interest in the antiquities, and no sense, whatever, that knowledge has more value than life.”

Andrei's nod was slight. “My apologies, Member APhaniel. I did not intend to cause difficulty when I first requested your presence.” He added, before Rath could speak, “And I believe that House Araven has paid in full for your time?”

“In advance, yes.”

“Good. But we have not undertaken the hire of Member Mellifas; nor was I aware that her time
could
be bought.”

“You are not in our debt,” the first mage said coldly. “But if the time is granted freely, it is not less valuable. Do not waste it.”

“As you say.” Andrei removed the satchel that was tucked to one side. “This, I believe, is yours.”

“You believe incorrectly; it is not property of the Order of Knowledge. It was, however, bartered for with some difficulty.” He held out his hand.

Andrei set the bag on his palm.

To Rath's surprise, Member APhaniel chose to open the satchel. He did not take the knives out; instead, he gave them a single cursory glance. He showed no surprise at what he saw. Instead, he passed the satchel to his companion, and waited in silence.

She did not so much as look at them; she took the satchel and said, in a voice several degrees cooler, “When were these used?”

“This morning,” Andrei replied.

She turned to her companion. “Four,” she said.

He nodded. “Four, and in so short a time. Andrei. Your explanation.”

“I have little to offer; the four knives were used, in pairs, on two occasions.”

“This morning?”

“This morning would be the second. Activities in the lower holdings have become somewhat suspect, and in the course of investigations, the use of the blades became necessary.”

“Necessary?”

“No other weapons had any effect.”

Member APhaniel nodded. “Magic?”

“If you mean, was magic used by the men whom these blades killed, the answer is yes.”