The Hidden City Read online

  No good.

  He even dodged into Taverson’s and stayed for an hour, taking a bar stool and watching the entrance. It was late enough that men and women came and went, but none of them were his pursuer. He eventually paid for the drink he upended in a potted plant, and negotiated his way out the back; the man was there. Shadow, not light, and waiting. But he, too, kept his distance; he hadn’t come for a fight.

  In the end, Rath chose utter lack of dignity as his escape route; he waited for the familiar sounds of a magisterial patrol, pitched his voice as high as it would go, and screamed his lungs out. He had heard men scream in terror, had heard them scream in pain. He had a good memory for sound, and he used it to his advantage; he blended knowledge with experience, and then ran as if his life depended on it.

  The heavy steps of men in a sudden panic grew at his back. They grew, he thought, with a grim satisfaction, in exactly the same line that his pursuer would take. He had minutes before his pursuer would manage to hide himself from the patrol, and he made use of them.

  It was enough. But it was barely enough.

  It had been a long, long time since Rath had twitted a patrol in that fashion. He’d had the excuse of youthful exuberance, a lost bet, and rather too much alcohol behind him, but that hadn’t counted for much when the very annoyed magisterial guards had deposited him on the grand steps of his family manor.

  It had also been earlier in the evening, and if youth wasn’t an excuse, it was a guarantee of a fast recovery; he was not so young now, and the last sprint made itself felt in the building quiver of fatigued muscles. It had been a long day. Too long. It was good to be home.

  He made his way up the stairs, stopped at the door, and fished his keys out of his inner pocket. They were the only thing of worth he now carried, and he was grimly happy to be rid of the tablets; he couldn’t have escaped the guard while carrying them, and it would have pained him greatly to leave them behind.

  He was practical enough that he would have done it, however. He had proved, time and again, that he was good at leaving things behind.

  Rath made his way to the bed in the darkness, and then stopped; had he been given to dramatics, he would have slapped his forehead. He had forgotten, in the lull of relief, that his bed was occupied, and not by a person who would be happy of his company.

  He fumbled for a moment, retrieving his magelight; he palmed it carefully, folding his fingers over its heart. They glowed red in the room’s night. As his eyes adjusted, he looked down at the longed-for bed.

  Jewel lay dead center, her legs straight, her arms on the outside of the counterpane. Her hair covered her eyes and splayed in flattened curls against the mattress; he had no pillow. He listened for her breath, trying to judge by its regularity whether or not she slept.

  “You can stop pretending,” he finally said. “I’m the only person who has keys.”

  Her eyes opened. It was hot enough in the room that her forehead glistened evenly. Sweat, in the fevered, was not a bad sign.

  “Did you sleep at all?”

  She nodded.

  “I told you,” he said grimly, “that you are not to lie to me here.” He approached her slowly, and as he did, he opened his fingers one by one until the light was bright.

  “I’m not. I slept.”

  “When did you wake?”

  She was mute. After a moment, she shrugged. In a small voice, she said, “I wasn’t sure you’d come.”

  “I was followed.” He sat on the bed. She didn’t move away, although the mattress sagged with his weight. “By one competent man and one expert.”

  “Two?”

  “Two.”

  “Do you know who sent them?”

  “I know now.” He paused, and then rose and set the light in its pedestal a room away. It was a good light; it grew bright at his back. When he returned, he said, “I have a name. I have no idea if it’s a real name.

  “I’ll get you water. Wait.” He picked up the wineskin on the bed table, and gave it a squeeze. It was empty. Good girl.

  “I don’t need—”

  “Wait quietly.”

  He padded into the kitchen, removed his boots, and dropped them. He loosened his shirt as well, and briefly considered pouring some of the water over his head to cool it. But there wasn’t a lot of water, and he wasn’t of a mind to go to the nearest public well to get more; he filled the wineskin and returned.

  Jewel took it from his hands; her own were shaking. Her eyes were a little too bright, and he touched her forehead as she sat up and almost overbalanced. She was hot, but the fever was not—yet—high. He watched her drink; watched her cough and splutter.

  “Jewel,” he said speaking in as measured a tone as he could, “I am not angry. And I will not touch you.”

  She said, “I know.”

  “Then stop being nervous. I find it annoying.”

  She nodded.

  He stopped himself from rolling his eyes. “I’ve had a change of plans,” he said quietly.

  “You’re leaving tonight.” She looked at his hands, and the wineskin still fairly full of water, at the counterpane, at the spot behind his left shoulder—at anything but his face. As if, by doing these things, she could hide her expression.

  And gods, her expression; it was so muted, so subtle, and so utterly obvious, he found his voice gentling, as if it belonged to a different man. “There is no tonight left. But yes, I’m moving sooner than I had intended.”

  She pushed the counterpane off her legs and tried to slide off the bed; her thighs hit his hands, and she stopped. “I’ll go,” she whispered.

  “No,” he said, resignation stronger than surprise. “You won’t. Not yet.”

  “I’m sorry—I—”

  “You repaid the debt—any debt—that you might have incurred; if your Oma’s advice troubles you, remember that. You owe me nothing as of tonight. I doubt very much that I would be moving at all had I been followed here. Or, rather, I doubt that I would be moving to a destination of my own choosing.”

  Her hands were shaking. He reached out and caught them in his own, noticing, as if for the first time, how small they were. He had asked her if she was strong, and he knew that she was; her strength was not defined by something as simple as muscle.

  “I lied,” he told her quietly.

  She said nothing, but her eyes—they must be close to tearing. She didn’t blink.

  “I’ll be packing.” He rose, and as he did, he bent to pick up a cloak that lay half under the bed. It was speckled with bread crumbs, and he shook it absently, folding it with care.

  “Rath?”

  “What?”

  “What lie?”

  “I don’t like children much,” he replied. Which would only confuse her. Then again, he could probably say anything at this point, and it would only confuse her. How have you survived this long? But he wasn’t certain if he meant the question for Jewel or himself, so he didn’t ask it aloud.

  Instead, continuing the rhythm of retrieving and folding his various pieces of clothing, he said, “I’ve never liked children much. They talk. They blubber. They get in the way.”

  She did none of those things. She waited.

  “And they ask too many questions.”

  He heard the rustle of cloth. Turned to see that she’d pulled the counterpane up, until it rested in folds beneath her sharp chin.

  “I won’t leave you here.”

  “I can’t stay, if you’re gone.” She was shivering now. Chills, he thought. The fever was climbing. It would help if she coughed, if she said her ears hurt, if she broke out in boils or a rash. These, he was familiar with.

  She couldn’t see his grim smile. “You probably won’t survive. You’re ill. That’s another thing I hate about children; they get sick too much.”

  He discarded something. There was always too much to take with him, and anything that he couldn’t carry didn’t concern him.

  “Now go to sleep.”

  “But I—”


  “I can’t carry you,” he continued, ignoring her attempt at words. “And you need your strength; you’ll have to walk.”

  Her brows rose, or what he could see of them did; she didn’t even push her hair out of her eyes. No defiance left in her. He missed it, a little. Gods, he was a fool. He folded more clothing, piled it beside the magelight. Turned his back on her, as he would often do, because it was easier to talk that way.

  “I consider my life to be worth vastly more than a meager handful of copper coins.”

  “They were silver,” she told him.

  “Are you ever dishonest?”

  “I stole them.”

  “Good point. Now shut up. Sleep.”

  “I can’t. You’re talking to me.”

  “Most people find that my ‘talking to them,’ as you so quaintly put it, is an aid to sleep, not a hindrance.”

  She snorted. Weakly.

  “Very well. I consider my life to be worth more than a handful of silver coins. Or gold coins, if it comes to that. In fact, it may come as a surprise to you, but I consider my life to be of more value than pretty much anything under the sun.”

  “My Oma used to say that. Not about her life, but the bit about under the sun. I think it’s Southern.”

  “Thank you for the lesson,” he said dryly. “Now pay attention, because I also consider my lessons to be of vastly more import than yours.” But he said it gently, and he cursed quietly when he realized that he had turned to look at her, his hands falling still.

  “I am therefore in your debt. And, mindful of the words of your Oma, I am not happy to be in your debt.”

  He knew what she would say next, and unfortunately, she didn’t surprise him. “I didn’t save your life. He didn’t tell them to kill you; he only told them to follow you.”

  “In my profession, Jewel, they are often the same thing.”

  “But you can’t be sure.”

  “You haggle like a merchant—a merchant intent on giving away everything of value, rather than selling it to make a living. Now shut up.”

  She laughed. Wrapped the blanket more tightly around her. He grimaced, picked up the cloak he had folded so carefully, and threw it on top of the counterpane. She felt cold enough now that she didn’t protest. He touched her forehead; the cold was very, very hot.

  “I now owe you my life. Nursing you back to what passes for health on the streets is not going to unburden me—but it will have to do. When I leave, you will come with me.”

  She started to speak, and he glared.

  “If you thank me, I’ll hit you. I am not saying that you can live with me. I’m saying that I’ll keep you until you can at least walk out the door without collapsing.” There were so many questions that had to be asked. He wanted to ask them now.

  But he thought he knew some of the answers he would get, and he was dead tired; he didn’t want the bother of dealing with them.

  Her wide eyes still followed his every movement. And he found that he couldn’t work while they did; he felt haunted. So he sat on the bed again, caught one of her hands in his, picked up the wineskin in the other. Cursed her genially in three different languages. The tone of voice obviously mattered more than the content, because she smiled vacantly, and her eyes began to film.

  Gods save him from tears.

  He had nursed wounded men before. He had sat by their sides while they died. It was both easier and harder than this.

  Chapter Three

  WHEN RATH LEFT in the morning—after what felt like an hour’s rest—Jewel was sleeping. She had turned away from him, and her back was exposed; her arms crossed her chest, her hands covered her shoulders, and her knees were tucked beneath her chin. She covered such a small area of the bed, it seemed a pity to waste the space.

  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 money—timely money—than 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 alley—an 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.