The Hidden City (86 page)

Her father's gift, no doubt; Rath did not know what part his own teaching played in Jewel's. His role, when he had the time for it, was to teach the rougher things, and he had already begun—to Jewel's mute amazement and concern—to teach Duster and Carver the rudiments of what might best be described as illegal entry.

Jewel was trying to prepare them for a different life. Rath, in his practical way, was trying to prepare them for the life they might have to lead instead; he was old enough to have witnessed failure, endured it, and survived. Noble cause did not, in the end, guarantee success.

Determination often did. He marveled at Jewel's. It did not stem from ignorance or naivete, although she
was
undeniably naive. She wanted more for these orphans than the streets were prepared to grant them, and she was willing to wrest it from the streets, through dint of will and struggle if need be. He did not desire to take that from her. Hope had its place.

And it was a better place, he thought wearily, than these reports occupied. He read them carefully, and with growing contempt and weariness. The Magi had not been called; they were not even mentioned. And the fire itself was indeed, as Harald had indicated, blamed on the kitchen which had probably been among the last of the places to burn; it was tiled there, and wood was scarce.

He took note of the names of the two investigators—for only two had signed this report. One was a man of little rank, and probably scant years; the other was a Primus of the magisterial guards. The second name, Evanton Billings, was therefore of more interest.

Money could buy men. It always had.

But seldom among the magisterians, who answered to the judgment-born. It was not merely their jobs that were at risk.

The second report, scant, was more annoying. It was not a missing person report, as Harald had suggested—for Jim was undeniably missing; it was instead a domestic complaint. From the report, Jim had taken what money he and his wife had, and had left the city. His wife was described as hysterical, and angry, but no credence was given to the idea that he was “missing.”

The other report was similar. It detailed the description of a young girl who had run away from home. It gave her name, the names of her parents, her address.

These, Rath filed away; he thought he might pay a visit at some point. And soon. He wondered if that girl had been in the mansion at some point, before the mansion had simply ceased to exist in gouts of magical flame.

And he wondered, not for the first time, what would have become of Finch had it not been for the interference of Jewel and—yes—Duster.

He set the reports to one side and returned to the letter he had seen through so many drafts. Duster. If he had been stupid enough to walk blindly into Jewel's life—and he could almost acknowledge that he had, and in that direction—he could understand it.

But Duster?

Jay,
he thought.
Jewel.
And then, of course, his sister's name. All of them. Terafin. Handernesse. Amarais.

Had he always known that their lives were, in the end, too large for his? Or were they both simply too arrogant or ignorant—or both—to acknowledge the burden of the responsibilities they accepted, and even fought to bear? Had he, he thought, pen hovering over paper again, while he stared dully at magelight, failed his sister? Had it gone in that direction, rather than in the one that he had built an angry life upon?

He could ask the question now. It was more painful, and less painful, than the questions he had asked for all of his adult life. And as in so many questions, he did not have an answer ready; no one, after all, was waiting upon it but he himself.

But he thought, as he penned this letter, that he knew what the answer was, because he felt a grim determination. What use mistakes if not to learn from them? What use learning if, in the end, one clung to the old? If he had indeed failed the sister he had once adored, he could not now fail the child he had grown to care for.

Because her life would be larger than his.

But only, in the end, with his help, and only in the end if she survived.

Chapter Twenty-five

JEWEL WAS NOT a patient teacher. Her Oma had not been patient. Her father and mother had, but Jewel had often been left in her Oma's care, and it was her Oma's blood that ran true—or so the old woman had taken some pride in saying.

But Duster's words still stung her, and she bit back her anger and her frustration, channeling it into words that were less harsh and less quick. It was harder work than running the maze had been, the night she had gone to save Rath. Harder than finding Finch. Because there was no end in sight to the need for it; it was a constant worry, and a constant burden.

For the first time since she had invited Lefty and Arann into her home and life, she wanted privacy, the space in which to scream and swear and punch the wall in fury. She wanted to let her hair down—where had that phrase come from, anyway?—and just be herself. But herself in this case wasn't what was needed.

Hard, to change it.

But necessary. Tiring, vexing, and necessary.

She did the work. Because she could see, from the moment she started, that Duster—damn her—was
right
. It was Jewel's moods that set the tone for her den; it was her anger—or her lack of anger—that either destroyed peace or let it settle. What she wanted for her den-kin wasn't simple, and when they didn't obviously want it for themselves, she wanted to slap them. Her Oma would have.

But she couldn't be her Oma here. No one could. She had to be, not better, but different. Her father, or her mother. Or maybe Finch, although that was beyond her reach. She was learning while she was teaching, and if the others had trouble with their lessons, it was fair; Jewel was struggling with hers.

Duster, to her credit, didn't fight Jewel. She bit back her sullen words, her angry threats, her declarations of independence. She stopped herself from chewing on Lefty when she was bitter and resentful, and it was at least as much work for her as Jewel's hold on her temper was for Jewel.

They were
all
trying. She wanted to be proud of them. Was, in fact, proud.

But she was frightened as well. Because Rath had grown silent and withdrawn, and she knew, she
knew
, that tonight he would lead them away from this basement apartment, this crowded home, and into the unknown. Haval had done his best to explain what they
might
face. But the waiting was killing her; her imagination was far worse than reality.

She hoped.

But she didn't know what would happen if they failed. What would happen, not to her—although she was worried about that as well—but to them: To Lefty, Arann, Carver, Finch, Teller; to Jester, Fisher, and Lander. Even to Duster, although she imagined that Duster would land on her feet and run.

So she sought Rath out on the morning of
the
night, and she inserted herself quietly between his door and its frame, waiting to catch his attention. She didn't wait long, but he was slow to turn, slow to face her. She didn't like what he was thinking, even if she didn't know for certain what it was; his face looked worn and haggard, as if sleep had eluded him for days.

“Jay,” he said, motioning toward a chair.

She took it, drawing her knees up to her chin. “I wanted to talk to you,” she told him, armored in that way, her arms wrapped round her legs.

“About what?”

“My den.”

“Ah.”

“I want to know—” She hesitated. “I still have money,” she told him. “From the other stuff. Not as much, but it's still a lot. It'll hold us through the Winter, and maybe through the next one as well, no problem.

“It's mine,” she added. “You said it was mine.”

“It is yours.”

“If we fail—no, if something goes wrong—I want you to set them up someplace. With the money. Because I won't need it then.”

“They're not my den,” he replied.

“No, they're not. They're mine. But I have to do this, and—”

“And?”

“I'm not certain, Rath. I don't have the visions. I know you'll take us somewhere tonight. I can see the rooms; I can almost see the place. But I can't see the people. I can't see where the danger is, or where it will come from. It's like I'm blind.”

He watched her, neither nodding nor shaking his head, and after a moment, she continued. “They're special.”

“Are they?”

She nodded forcefully. “You know it,” she added, half accusing.

“I know you think they are.”

“Can you do this for me? They don't have to live here,” she added awkwardly. “You don't have to keep them here. But the money—their own place—”

“Jay—”

“I need to know you'll take care of them at least that much.”

“Or you won't go?” Soft words. Almost dangerous. They were an offer, one last chance to back out. And the damnable thing was that she
wanted
to take it.

That he wanted her to take it.

He watched her carefully, neutrally, the desk at his back. This was a test, and some part of him wanted her to fail. He knew it, and was not diminished by the knowledge; he was curious instead, in a calculating way.

A minute passed; he could see the indecision across her features, and it was so clear, he could almost touch it. Could, if he wanted, tease it out and make it stronger. That tempted him.

But he waited instead, like a judge, or a teacher.

And after a moment, she said, “No, I'll go anyway. I'm not demanding it,” she said quietly. Almost desperately. “I'm—”

He lifted a hand. “I will do as you ask,” he told her. “I will make sure they have a place, and the money, and even the slates that you use. But, Jewel, they won't be what you want them to be if you're not here to lead them. You do understand that?”

“I'm just one person,” she told him flatly. Believing it. Maybe she had to. Because this was possible, he offered no argument.

“I will do as you ask,” he told her again. And then he said, “You know.”

“Tonight.”

He nodded. “I should have guessed.”

“I just can't see what's going to happen.”

“Nor can I. If you were trained somehow—” But he shook his head. “It doesn't matter. Your instincts are good;
trust
them. When you are there, when you are in the lion's den, trust what you feel or think. Don't let fear guide you, but let fear make you cautious.”

“Did you learn that from Haval?”

Rath raised a brow. He laughed, but the laugh was brief and almost bitter. “No,” he replied quietly. “I learned it from my own mistakes. I survived them,” he added, “where others did not. Mistakes are made constantly; it's what you do with them after that counts.”

“Will this help Duster?”

“That, I cannot answer; you know her better than I, and I admit that she has surprised me in the last ten days.” He paused, playing with his pen. “I think that it will either help her or free you.”

“Free me?”

“You will let her go.”

Jewel nodded. She couldn't see how, but she heard truth in the words, and it was her truth, not Rath's. Here, just Rath and she, she was comfortable in a way that she hadn't been in weeks. Since she had brought Duster home.

“You'll know,” he added, with no hesitation and no doubt. “When the moment comes, you'll know, and you'll make your decision only then.”

“Will she survive it?”

“I don't know.”

Will I?
He could see the fear in her face; she was not capable of hiding fear. Not from Rath, who understood its nuances so well. But because she knew better than to ask, he was kind; he did not answer.

“Spend the day with your den. Do what you feel necessary to prepare them—if you think it wise. But by sunset, be ready to travel.”

She rose. “I'll tell Duster.”

He nodded; he had no intention of speaking to Duster except in this fashion: through Jewel. Through the leader of this misfit den.

“She doesn't believe in you,” he said, as Jewel unfolded and rose.

“I know. But, most of the time, neither do I.” And she smiled as she said it. Some hint of the child she would not be for much longer was in that movement of lip, the crinkling of eye.

Rath could not speak a word. But he let her go.

 

That evening, they ate early, at Rath's command. It was phrased as a polite request, but he so seldom entered the rooms in which Jewel was teaching that everyone instantly deferred to him. Even Jewel. Especially Jewel.