The Hidden City Read online

  “What of her?”

  “You know her.”

  The farmer shrugged. “I see her from time to time.”

  “How often?”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  He almost told the farmer the truth. Almost. Couldn’t be certain later why he hadn’t. “I was a friend of her mother’s,” he said at last. It seemed safe.

  But it produced another frown. “Her family won’t be happy if you don’t leave her alone.”

  “Judging from the state of her clothing,” Rath replied, choosing his words with care, “I’d guess her family won’t care one way or the other.”

  The farmer hesitated again, and started to raise his free hand.

  “Don’t,” Rath told the man, lowering his voice. “Don’t even think it. I’ve no interest in the girl in that particular fashion. But I’m curious. She seems . . . different.”

  “Different how?”

  “She hasn’t been on the streets for long enough.”

  At that, the farmer seemed to deflate. “Aye,” he said, half-bitter. “Not for long enough. She won’t go to the Mother’s temple—any of ’em. She’s still got some pride in her, and she’s honest.”

  As she’d just stolen his satchel, or at least its contents, Rath was justifiably dubious. He kept this to himself.

  “Where does she live?”

  The farmer shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said. “She says she’s living with a friend of her father’s.”

  “And?”

  He shrugged. “I told you, she’s still got some fierce pride. If I had to guess, I’d say she’s living under a bridge across the river.”

  “Why?”

  “She’s not dirty enough,” the farmer said with a shrug. “Look, it’s none of my business. But she’s alone here, and she looks like one of my daughters. She’s polite enough, and she never takes more than she needs. Doesn’t take enough,” he added, “even when I offer.” He shook his head. “She tried to pay me for the last time. When I gave her more than she’d paid for; she didn’t check until after I’d gone.”

  “Thank you.” Rath paused, and then added, “Do you know her name?”

  “Name’s Jay, as far as I know. Jay Markess.”

  Markess was not a common name. The fact that she had a family name at all was unusual. Radell forgotten, Rath stood in the open sun of the Common, thinking.

  Lies are a tricky thing.

  And when you tell them to yourself? You can almost believe them. Rath didn’t pride himself on honesty. Honesty was for the rich or the lucky. He therefore had no difficulty telling himself that he was now crawling along the banks of the river that wound its way through the hundred holdings beneath rickety bridges and old stone causeways that had been built in better days and still bore the weight of wagons with dignity, in a simple search for the money she’d stolen.

  There were men and women on the banks, some cleaning clothing, some cleaning themselves, the latter with vastly less success. There were children here as well, many of them in the water. They made a lot of noise, half of it glee and joy, the other half recrimination and tears. None of these children were the one he sought, although he paused to gaze at them all before he continued on his way.

  The sun rose, and he considered the water with a little more envy until it started to sink again. At this time of year, it was never cold. Even the nights were humid, and the salt of the sea, miles off, could be tasted on lip and tongue.

  But his curiosity had always been his downfall; he was curious now, and he didn’t intend to stop searching until he found the girl.

  When the sky was crimson, he did.

  She was half clothed, and, judging from the way she clung to the shadows of the bridge, not comfortable being so. But she was trying to wash her face, her arms, her hands; she scrubbed at them, dousing them in the running current of the summer river; it was at its lowest. Spring would bring the rains that would cause it to swell, making the lowest of the bridges nigh impassable.

  He waited for her to finish, as the minutes passed and the darkness gathered. Color, sunlight dying, could be seen between buildings; the sky above was already revealing the brightest of stars as faint light. The moon was at half, he thought, but there were no clouds. The magelights that kept the streets lit well beyond sundown were high enough above ground that they had yet to be dislodged by thieves.

  Then again, the magelights were tended, and often by mages, so they were seldom an object considered worthy of theft; too risky.

  When she had clothed herself again—in a dry shirt, to his surprise—he made his way down the banks and folded his arms across his chest, waiting to be noticed.

  She didn’t even look up.

  “I’m sorry,” she mumbled, her back turned toward him, her shoulders hunched. Her legs were straight and still; she had no intention of running again.

  It wasn’t quite what he had expected to hear, although he’d heard the whining and sniveling of more thieves in his life than he cared to remember. There was a quality to the girl’s apology that those pleadings lacked.

  “For what?” He approached her with care, his dagger sheathed.

  “For stealing your money,” she replied. She turned to face him. “I didn’t spend it all.”

  “You couldn’t.”

  Her curls half covered her eyes, and she lifted a palm to shove them to one side. Because they were still wet, they went. He could see her eyes so clearly, it might have been full daylight.

  “You’re Jay,” he told her quietly, as if she were a wild animal. “Jay Markess.”

  She nodded. She didn’t seem surprised that he knew her name.

  “And I’m—I’m called Old Rath in these parts.”

  “Rath. Like in anger.”

  “No. It’s a diminutive. My sister used to use it, when we lived together.” Without thought, he added, “My name is actually Ararath, but I’d prefer to be called Rath.”

  “Mine’s Jewel,” she said, scrunching the lines of her face in disdain. “But everyone calls me Jay.”

  “This is where you live.”

  She started to say something, and stopped herself, watching him warily. “Yeah,” she said, with a shrug. “This is where I live.” And then, in a rush, “But only until I can find work.”

  “At your age?”

  She said something rude. He almost laughed. But there was a gravity about her that defied laughter, especially ugly laughter.

  “You took something that belonged to me,” he told her quietly. “How do you intend to repay me?”

  Her shadowed eyes, her sudden, complete stillness, told him more than he wanted to know. He wondered what he was doing here, on these banks. Wondered why he had asked her name, why he had spent a long day searching for her.

  Head bowed, she approached him.

  He reached out, caught her by the chin, and dragged her face up. Beneath the dirt, it was paler than he had thought it. “Your parents—they were from the South?”

  “My Oma—my grandmother was.” She shrugged. North or South, it didn’t matter much.

  “Mine are old stock,” he replied. “From the North. They don’t much like thieves.”

  “They don’t like ’em much in the South either, according to my Oma. At least here, they don’t cut your hands off.”

  “No,” he said quietly. “They don’t.” He looked at her; she couldn’t move her face. “Jewel. Jay Markess.” He shrugged. “Keep the money. Consider it a loan.” He let her go, and her eyes widened.

  “I’ll see you around,” he added softly, retreating from the banks.

  Five days later, he found her again. He knew how much money she had taken, and knew how quickly it would dwindle. He had, in the meantime, managed to acquire more of it, but kept it better hidden.

  He had gone searching through the old tunnels in the evening as he often did, but when he returned, he chose to eschew the noisy taverns that seemed to blossom only at the fading of the light. He was restless, and not
yet ready to return to the confining space of two cramped rooms, so he continued to walk aimlessly, the whole of the night sky laid out before him. He had no particular destination in mind—and he chose to believe this until he found himself skirting the edge of the river.

  He had donned clothing that better suited the holdings, and his scars were not so unnaturally prominent. He hadn’t bothered to plait his hair; he’d drawn it back over his face, and tied it in a loose knot. He thought about having it cut every couple of weeks during any season that wasn’t Summer; in the Summer, he thought about it constantly. But it was a necessary part of his work, and he let it be.

  Jewel Markess was on the banks, just beneath the flat wooden slats of her bridge; there was no fire to light her, and only the moon to give her shadow, but he saw her instantly. He approached with care, and waited to be noticed.

  She took her time, and because she did, he knew that she’d seen him coming. But she’d clearly been waiting for him to break the silence, as if the breaking were some kind of contest. When it was clear that he wouldn’t, she turned to face him. Light on her face was scant; if it weren’t for her height, she might have been older.

  Her expression was grave. “Rath,” she said quietly. She lifted a hand in greeting. The hand shook.

  “Jay,” he replied, bowing. It was a natural bow, and as a consequence, far too formal.

  “I don’t have your money yet,” she told him. The hand fell, and she drew it across her chest, as if it were armor. “Are you—”

  “No,” he said quickly. “I was out today. I’m something of a historian, and I found a couple of stone tablets I’m hoping to sell.” He wasn’t quite sure why he’d said it; it was true, but truth was something he seldom offered anyone. Certainly not a thief in the hundred holdings.

  Her dark eyes widened, and he recognized the particular cause of that width. She was curious, but she didn’t ask, and wouldn’t.

  Before he could stop himself, before he could break the fragility of the mood, he pulled his backpack from his shoulders.

  “You’re not afraid I’ll steal them, too?” she asked bitterly. Age, in the words, in the question. Age and self-knowledge.

  “Not much,” he replied, both smiling and shrugging. “They’re heavy, and you don’t know where to sell them. Take them to the wrong place, and they’ll be thrown out in the garbage heap, and if the proprietor is annoyed enough, you’ll follow them.” He pulled the lighter of the tablet fragments from the pack and handed it to her, watching how she handled it.

  She handled it with care, as if she could tell, just by touch, how old it must be. Her fingers traced the runes that were engraved in the stone’s surface, and her eyes followed her hand’s movements, absorbed by them. “I can’t read these,” she said at last.

  His brow rose a fraction. “I should hope not.”

  “Why? I can read,” she added. Defensive, showing her true age at last.

  “If you can read these,” he told her, “you’re wasted here.”

  She ran her fingers across the stone’s surface again, as if sensation could be stored and remembered, and then she handed the piece back to him. He touched her hand, meaning the gesture to seem accidental. Her fingers were cold. Death-cold.

  The night was warm.

  “Maybe,” he said, with a shrug, repenting his earlier honesty, “it’s the light. There’s not a lot of it here.” It wasn’t the light. He knew it.

  She shrugged. “It’s night,” she told him softly. “There’s never much light at night. We could—we could go to the magelight.”

  “There’s hardly enough light to read by there.”

  “More than here.”

  He nodded. “True enough. Very well, Jay. Let’s go to the magelight.” He rose, his knees feeling the damp, and took a few steps up the incline. Then he turned to see if she was following.

  It was the wrong thing to do: he met her eyes, her round, dark eyes, and no magelight was necessary to see the hunger in them. It was a hunger he understood; it had nothing to do with food.

  “I’d take you to Taverson’s,” he said quietly, “but these are not items I wish to show everyone.”

  “They have tables,” she offered.

  “Everyone in the tavern has ears like an elephant’s, and eyes only for another man’s business. I have one dagger and no guards. No, Jay, I think Taverson’s is out of the question.”

  Her shoulders listed. She looked so pale, in the early night, he thought her ghostly. And afraid. But she shrugged mutely, and started to turn, to head back down the incline, and away from him.

  He didn’t want her to leave.

  Gods, he was foolish. “Come with me,” he said, more abruptly than was wise.

  She froze, became even more pale. At another time, he would have been annoyed. But he understood that scars—real scars—were hidden, and for a reason; he felt no anger at all. He did not reach for her; did not offer her a hand.

  And because he didn’t, she approached him slowly. “Where?”

  “My home,” he told her gravely.

  She hesitated again, torn, and he held out the pack.

  She didn’t touch it; it weighed about as much as he thought she did. But she nodded.

  He led her back to his rooms, pausing between lights to see that she followed, as if she were a stray dog that had been kicked one too many times. Her hair was a mass of curls that caught and trapped the magical light from above; he could see that her cheek was bruised. Wondered, with the sudden heat of unexpected anger, if those were the only bruises she had.

  He would have said, I won’t hurt you, but those were the wrong words. He promised her nothing. She expected nothing. And nothing was safest for both of them. He was utterly silent as he unlocked his door, aware that she watched not only his actions, but his setting; the length of now dark hall, the step-curved floor of wooden slats that had seen far too much use and far too little repair, the flat and impersonal surfaces of closed doors that extended into shadow.

  He had a small magelight which he took out of his shirt’s inner pocket, more for her comfort than from any practical need; she watched this as well, assessing him.

  If she was afraid, she contained her fear. It was there; he knew the signs well enough, and although the streets had added a patina of opacity to her age, she had not been there long enough to become hardened. But he found he had no desire to inflame the fear or to use it to his advantage, and this was unusual. He had on occasion brought people to his dwelling, and each and every one was worthy of intimidation. When he was doing the intimidating.

  But as he opened the door, he almost cringed. He did not, as a rule, have guests; his rooms were therefore not entirely presentable, and the detritus of his many identities lay strewn from wall to wall. It almost made him feel self-conscious, which was both exceedingly rare and unwelcome. “Watch your step,” he told her, his voice cooler than he had intended.

  Her curt nod was instant and perfect, but then again, she couldn’t yet see into his private life. Couldn’t yet step across and over it, examining it with her wide, dark eyes. If there was a moment to turn back, this was it, and it was the only moment he would be afforded.

  A better man than Old Rath wouldn’t even have considered it; he did. She was—by presence alone—a complication, and he abhorred complications; they were always costly, and in ways that mere money did not assuage. But he entered into the room, holding the door wide, and she hesitated in its frame, for entirely different reasons. The first thing her eyes skirted was the dim shape of the obvious bed, seen through the arch that separated the two rooms that contained his life.

  He offered no safety but silence; was aware that there was no safety in silence. He let her choose, waiting, the backpack he’d slung across one shoulder dragging his arm down. He wasn’t young; it was heavy. Heavy with the intangible gravity that drew her eyes, her attention.

  It wasn’t because he pitied her that he’d invited her here.

  She entered hi
s home, unaware of the singular honor he offered, and waited while he closed the door behind her. She didn’t turn to watch him bolt the locks, but he saw her back as he did; he didn’t need to look at what he was doing, and it was less interesting, less foreign, than she herself, standing there and flinching with each quiet click.

  He opened his hand, exposing the magelight to air and darkness; the darkness made its light grow, and her eyes widened.

  “That’s expensive,” she whispered.

  “I didn’t buy it,” he replied, voice heavy with irony he thought she might miss. He walked over to the table and set it down upon the small pedestal designed for its use. Passed his hand above it twice, each time increasing its offered brilliance.

  “Are you hungry?”

  She shook her head.

  “Jewel, the first thing that I must ask of you is this: while you are in my home—and you may never be in it again—you will not lie to me. Do I make myself clear?”

  She met his gaze, held it, and surprised him. “If you already know the answer, why are you asking?”

  He laughed; it was quiet, but audible. “Point,” he said, raising a hand. “I wanted to see if you would lie.”

  “I was raised to be polite,” she replied, the inflection implying clearly that he wasn’t.

  “And where have your fine manners brought you? To a home of ill-repute.” The words trailed into silence as he studied her expression. No, he didn’t want to frighten her—but he found that he couldn’t help himself; it was interesting to watch her deal with discomfort.

  His sister would have slapped him, hard, had she been here. But had she, he wouldn’t. He placed the backpack before the magelight holder, and made his way to what passed for a kitchen. The tabletop was littered with an array of dyes, powders, unguents, and the odd piece of clothing; the counters were likewise adorned, although the shadows leached everything of color. He opened a cupboard, pulled out cured, dry beef, and with it a jug of sweet water. The bread beside these was two days old, and it would probably break an older person’s teeth. As he wasn’t sure if Jewel had all of hers—her adult teeth—he brought that as well.