He rose and changed while she slept, taking the time to drag his lank hair into plaits; he took nothing out of the boxes that he did not need. He also chose to forgo his hat; a hat was almost its own character, and he needed as little character as possible. He took his satchel, made sure it was heavier than usual, and then paused to look at Jewel.
She hadn't moved. When he touched her forehead, she stirred, but not enough to waken; she was becoming accustomed to his intrusions, slight as they were. She was not burning, but often fever was at its ebb in the hours of dawn. It hadn't broken; it hovered, like a cloud in the sky of her body.
He told himself he should take her and dump her on the steps of the Mother's closest temple. Told himself forcefully, decorating the declarative sentences with as much foul language as he knew. And then, having failed to convince himself, he made his way to the door, unbolted it, and let himself out. He was very careful to bolt it at his back, and he stood outside in the hall for long enough that other movement in neighboring apartments could be heard. He realized he was afraid to leave her.
This annoyed him enough that he did.
The farmers were making their way through the streets from the East gate. The Common itself was only slowly coming to life, and the streets were as barren as they would be while the sunlight lasted. During the stormy months, the market day was of necessity shorter; Rath was glad that this particular move had not been undertaken during the Winter.
But he watched the flags rise in the Common, and then turned away from them, heading deeper into the hundred holdings. Rath knew how to get around the old city. The streets were of passing convenience, but they were not his only form of egress; they were just the safest, and as he did not wish to draw attention to himself, he followed their course, whistling tunelessly as he walked.
He needed a neighborhood that was harder to traverse without some knowledge of the holdings; he also needed a place in which the landlord was more eager for moneyâtimely moneyâthan answers. Although it was commonly thought that all forms of debauchery took place in the oldest and poorest of the hundred holdings, Rath had found that common wisdom was generally not wise; there were monstrous men everywhere, from the highest of walks to the lowest, and if one knew the city well enough, any holding was safe.
Or that had been his early experience.
In the last couple of years, the whispers had grown steadily, and the fear that spread with them had grown as well. It was not his fear, but he felt it. Wondered how much he would be aware of it had he not promised to nurse one sick child back to health.
And to what end? She would be healthy, yes, but the streets would be her home; she had some skill at reading and writing, but no way to offer those skills to an employer who would find them useful. The absurd desire to aid her was exactly that: absurd, a fool's hope. She would go to the streets, they would devour her, and if he chanced upon her again, years from now, she would be a hollow shell of the girl who had offered a farmer money for food he had thought to give her in charity.
And that, he told himself angrily, was
not
his problem. He owed her; he would pay that debt and be quit of it.
But she had given him a warning that had quite probably saved his life. He hadn't asked her enough yet. Not enough to be certain. If he could be certain . . . he shook his head. If he could be, what then? He was in no position to exploit anyone. The girl herself clearly didn't understand the value of the warning she had offered; she had offered it with so much hesitation, he guessed that she was accustomed to a much colder response. He wondered if she would have spoken at all, had it not been for the forceful warning of a dead, old woman, and the girl's natural fear of obligation.
At best, he might introduce her to someone who would prize that gift, and force the child to use it.
And that left an unfortunate taste in his mouth.
The thirty-second holding melted into the thirty-third; guards were seldom seen, but when he heard them, he avoided them on general principle.
He visited several tenements, made mental lists of them all, and found them wanting. This was a part of the process of finding the right place for any given stage of his life, and normally, he didn't resent it.
But time was of the essence, as the saying went, and he found his mood souring with each dead end. By the time the sun was at its peak, he was in the thirty-fifth holding, and he had just walked into the seventh building, holding a dialogue with his stomach that would have embarrassed a man with more impeccable manners. Once, that might have been Rath.
The reminder did nothing to shore up his mood, and the smile he gave the landlord was forced enough that the landlord hesitated. Rath, knowing that he was better than this, forced that smile into something that resembled a natural grin, and the landlord shook his head, muttering something under his breath that Rath didn't care to hear.
This time, instead of taking stairs up, he was led down a hall to a set of stairs that descended. Sunlight vanished slowly until they reached the end of that narrow flight, which opened into a single hall, if hall was a word that could accurately be used. Rath didn't have to duck; neither did the landlord. Someone of Patris AMatie's stature would have had to, and this was oddly comforting.
There were window wells at the height of the hall; they let in a brief glimpse of both street and the back alleyâan alley that had once, by the look of it, been a garden. The building itself was not as tall as many that Rath had lived in; it was, however, a good deal broader. There were decayed fringes of stonework at the foundation, and along the outer walls; someone with money had once lived here. He was either long dead, or long gone, his life relocated to the more fashionable districts within the holdings. The home that remained was skeletal, and instead of housing a single family with a retinue of servants, now housed several.
The architect had never intended that, but architects were responsible for something done in a moment of time; what became of their work was a matter of economics and the ebb and flow of history.
“This is the only set of rooms I have available,” the wiry man said over his shoulder. He carried a lamp, rather than a magelight, and the flicker of fire contained in glass made all shadows dance and quiver. Even Rath's.
“These halls,” Rath said quietly, “are they wood?”
“They are now.”
“And before?”
“Dirt. Stone. I don't know. I bought the building from someone who had a few gambling debts he couldn't pay down fast enough.”
Rath didn't ask. The man offered no more about the former owner, but he did continue to speak in his grating rasp of a voice. “There are only these rooms, in the basement. There are windows,” the man added, as he stopped in front of a solid door and pulled out an ostentatious ring of keys. “But they're not good for much. I've had them barred,” he added.
Rath doubted that the bars would be any good. He'd have to examine them from the outside. “No neighbors?”
“The ones above you.”
Better. “How much do you want for the place?”
“I get paid by the week,” the man said. “Five silver crowns.”
“Four.”
The man shrugged. “Four and a half.”
Rath said nothing; the door slid open. It didn't creak; it was in good enough repair. “These roomsâthey don't have an exit of their own?”
“They do. We don't use it much,” the man added, his eyes shifting to the side. “The frame's warped, and the door needs to be leveled. It takes an ox to pull it open. Or two.”
Rath nodded. He walked through the open door and into a small hall. The hallâin repair that was only slightly better than the one that led from the stairsâcontained four doors, two to the left, one to the right, and one at the end. “Four rooms?”
The man shrugged. “The fourth's not much. It's storage.”
“You use it?”
Again the man's eyes shifted sideways. “No.”
Rath liked men whose expressions gave almost everything away; it made them easy to read, and easy to predict.
The air in this place was cool. And Summer was hot enough that this appealed to Rath. “What's in the storage room now?”
“Old furniture,” the man said, just a shade too quickly. His voice had gone slick and oily in the scant syllables. “Look, use the three rooms, and I'll give them to you for four crowns. The storage room's unfinished.”
“You could haveâ”
“There are floors there, flooring, but it's old and rotted. My nephew broke his leg falling through them. I wouldn't suggest you try.”
“What's beneath the floor?”
“Dirt.” Again, the man spoke too quickly.
Rath kept his smile to himself. He tried to make a mental map of the building, tried to gauge the depth of the basement. “Four crowns,” he said quietly. “When do the rooms become available?”
“They're available now.”
“Good.” He pulled his satchel off his shoulder and made a show of fumbling with its buckle. The man drew closer, the ring of keys rippling in the lamplight. He seemed eager, which was generally a bad sign.
“Two weeks up front,” Rath said.
“Fair enough.”
“Do you have a curfew?”
“What, do I look like your mother? Don't make a lot of noise, don't bring your business here, and don't cause problems with the magisterians. That's all I ask.”
Rath put eight coins in the man's key hand. “Don't bother,” he said, as the man looked for some place to set the lamp down. “Leave the door unlocked; I'll want to change the locks myself.”
“You leave me copies of the keys.”
Rath stared the landlord down. “I'll pay a month up front,” he countered. “And I'll pay per month ahead of time.”
All men were merchants if you dug deep enough; some required only the barest of surface scratching. The landlord bickered and whined, but his heart wasn't in it; he went through the motions because to do otherwise was to imply that the rooms were empty for a reason.
Which, clearly, they were. Rath didn't ask, largely because he didn't expect an answer that would be either truthful or useful.
When the landlord collected his money, he gave Rath what would pass for a friendly nod in a bar brawl, and retreated. “Don't change the lock to the building's front door,” he said, “or I'll call the magisterians.”
Rath nodded absently; he doubted that the locks of the front door were even in passable working condition.
He'd left Jewel alone for most of the day; had to. He stopped at the Common farmers' market, and then forced himself to go to the well and wait in line, avoiding bored boys with buckets. He filled two waterskins, spoke pleasant, empty words to one of the two grandmothers who minded children far younger than Jewel, and then departed.
Jewel was waiting for him when he opened the door.
Her eyes were sleep-crusted and heavy; she rubbed them as he slid bolts back into place and looked at the neat and empty rooms. “I've called for a carriage,” he told her quietly.
“You called a carriage
here?
”
It was a reasonable question. He approached and touched her forehead; she grimaced. It was not a wince; it was a child's complaint. “You're still running a fever.”
“Why do they say that?”
“What?”
“Running. A fever.”
He shrugged. “I don't know. Possibly because people get hotter when they run for too long. You're still hot. Is that better? Here.” He handed her a waterskin. “I've brought food as well, and I expect you to eat it. I'll be moving things into the carriage while you eat.”
“No one calls a carriage to the thirty-second holding,” she mumbled.
It was true.
“Is it because of me?”
She would always surprise him. This was the first time he realized it, or perhaps accepted it. But because she wouldn't believe him if he lied, and because the only reason
to
lie was to put her at ease, he nodded.
She looked pained. Was, he realized, in pain. Fever pain; her skin was probably prickling at every touch, every contact. Her stare was slightly glassy. Rath looked out at the sun, and down at the shadows it cast. Evening was coming. He'd waited too long.
“Forget the food,” he told her roughly. “But drink the water. Drink both of these,” he added, handing her the second skin. “Now.”
She lifted her arms; they were shaking. He could not bear to watch her fumble with the stopper, and opened the skin himself. Water dribbled down the corners of her mouth, and from there, down the front of her rumpled shirt. He almost shouted at her, then. To be careful. To drink carefully.
But the cloth of her shirt darkened, and he saw the way it clung to her ribs. He hated poverty.
“Jewel,” he said, his jaw stiff, “I won't be in your debt.”
“What?”
“You'd better survive this.”
She said, “If I don't, do you think my father will be waiting for me?”
“He's dead.”
“I
know
that. I mean, in Mandaros' Hall. In the long hall.” Her dark eyes were a little too wide.
“I don't know, never having been dead,” he said curtly. He did not speak of gods, and of his general contempt for people who relied on them; if she took comfort in their undeniable existence, he was unwilling to part her from it. “And I don't intend for you to find out. You can die on someone else.” He started to say something, thought better of it, and lifted the heaviest of his chests. This one was the oldest, and it was also the finest, although the humidity of the years had caused it to bow slightly with age. Grunting, he made his way to the door.