The Hidden City (18 page)

He was no good to anyone.

Everyone had always told him that, and if Lefty dreamed otherwise, he always woke up. He knew it was true.

Arann was older than Lefty, and even knew his real birthday. He was smarter than Lefty, too.

But how smart could he be? Any time he'd had the chance, he'd never left Lefty behind—and no one was willing to take them both. Some offered, but Arann didn't trust them. Lefty didn't either, but that was almost beside the point. The fact that den leaders had been willing to lie meant Arann was valuable. And in the holdings? Accidents happened. All the time.

Any time Arann wanted, he could find a place, a safe place with a large den.

Instead, he found places like this one.

There were two rooms that could be lived in, sort of. The floors, though, tilted toward the door that divided them, as if they'd been built for mice, and nothing heavier. Lefty felt safe enough crossing the floor—but he worried about Arann.

Arann didn't like it when Lefty worried, and he could always tell, even when Lefty didn't speak.

Like now. Arann held out the farmer's basket, and Lefty took it. He was hungry. They both were. Aside from river water, they hadn't had food for almost two days.

“Eat,” Arann told him, watching. “But remember what happens when you eat too fast.”

Lefty nodded absently, thinking.

The rains had started to fall cold. In the Summer, it didn't matter, but Arann said that Winter this year was going to be bad. Really bad. Lefty didn't ask him how he knew—he'd probably asked someone. Maybe the farmer.

Cold could kill.

The rooms had a fire grate, but even if they'd had the money for wood to burn, Arann didn't trust it; he said it was too old, too dirty. There were gaps in the roof, and the west wall leaned out. The night they'd found the place, Arann had tried to lean against the outer wall, but it hadn't done any good. In the end, he'd given up and shrugged. It was better than nothing, now that the rains were starting.

Lefty began to empty the basket, folding the small cloth that had been laid over its contents as well as he could before he set it aside; it belonged to the farmer and it had to go back. They didn't want the farmer angry at them.

Not when he offered them things like this. Bread, old apples, some dried-out cheese. No meat, but there almost never was. “Arann?”

“Not hungry,” Arann said.

Lefty looked at the food, trying to ignore his stomach and the way his mouth had started to water. “Liar.”

Arann didn't answer. For a minute or two, it was real quiet. When he spoke, it wasn't much better. He ran his hands—whole hands, strong hands—through dirty, dark hair, and expelled all his breath.

“You're never going to get bigger if you don't eat more. You always want to be that size?”

“I ain't never going to be big,” Lefty replied. “Not like you.”

“You're at least two years younger. You're just slow to grow, is all.”

Neither of them believed it. Lefty folded arms half the size of Arann's across his chest, which was even smaller. “I won't eat if you won't.”

Arann glared. Lefty glared back.

But it didn't last long. Lefty never lied to Arann, and Arann knew when he was serious. He sat on the floor, and it made a frog's noise in protest. “What are you going to do if something happens to me, Lefty?”

Lefty handed Arann some cheese. He didn't feel like talking.

Rath didn't come home.

Jewel did, picking the one lock she'd shut behind her. Holding her breath, as the door swung open; listening for something other than the almost inaudible creak of oiled hinges. Standing, a moment too long, one foot on either side of the threshold. This was home.

And this was too good to be home for long. Jewel wasn't too old to daydream; she was just this side of too old to believe in them. She'd set the basket down in order to play with the lock, and she shoved her hair out of her eyes before picking it up again. She didn't think Rath was dead. Couldn't be certain, and
hated
that. Gift, as Rath called it, or curse, as she did, was like a damn cat—it came and went as it pleased, and she could no more order it about than she could cajole it.

She dragged the basket into the narrow hall, and then pushed the door shut. Her stool—a low-backed chair—joined her at the door as she slid the bolts home; no point in pissing Rath off without reason. She alighted and ran into the room that was in theory his private place to search for some sign that he'd been and gone—but she found nothing disturbed.

She ate alone. The light grew and shrank, and with it the shadows from the window wells. She offered Kalliaris a prayer, asked her to smile, and then played at dagger work for a stretch of time. Rath was still conspicuous by his absence, and the whole of the apartment was silent. Jewel hated the silence.

Silence was the thing that made clear that no one was home. And in her life, that meant that there was no home. She made noise. Spoke to herself. Tried to sing. Found no comfort in any of these activities.

Night came, and with it, more silence; the streets emptied, and in the thirty-fifth holding, the sound of foot patrols was sporadic and undependable. She ate again, sparingly. Thought about Farmer Hanson, his sons, his daughter, the wagon in the Common. Thought about her Oma, her father, the shadows their absence also cast.

Thought about the friends she didn't have, and what that would mean to her if Rath
never came back
.

When sleep came, it came by surprise.

The rains fell cold.

The night passed, the quiet broken by the sound of water against the crumbling roof. There was no thunder, no bright flash of crackling light; it wasn't that kind of rain. Not a storm, just an endless, insistent drumming. Lefty was asleep before it started, and awake before it ended, if it ever would. Some rain was like that.

The floor by the wall was wet, and damp everywhere else. They couldn't stay here much longer. Even the mice were huddled in distant corners, like balls of standing fur.

Arann was snoring. Lefty didn't kick him—not yet. The sky was still dark, and if they didn't see the sun rise, it would come anyway.

The streets—smaller stones giving way to slabs as the Common grew closer—would be wet, weeds slippery and heavy to ground. There were no real windows to look out of; Lefty lifted a board. Got his head wet when he stuck it outside for just a minute. He didn't much mind; it would get a lot wetter on the way to the Common, and the rain didn't show any sign of letting up.

“Arann?” he said, nudging the older boy gingerly with his toe. Had he much else to throw, he might have chosen to wake him by standing against the farthest wall and tossing whatever he could find—but Lefty's aim was damn poor with his left hand, and he didn't much like to use the right one. Besides which, Arann didn't
always
wake badly.

Lefty never tried to wake him from nightmare, though. He knew enough to know how very unsafe that was.

Arann was not a heavy sleeper. He rolled away from Lefty's toe, and was half on his feet before his eyes were open. His hands were fists. But this wasn't a bad sign; Lefty just stood very, very still until those fists began to unbunch, and Arann's expression went from glassy to
here
.

Sometimes it took minutes; today, it took seconds. Lefty was lucky. “I left you some bread,” he said. “It's a bit hard.”

Arann shrugged. “That's what teeth are for. While we have 'em.” He looked at Lefty's wet hair, and grimaced. “Raining?”

Lefty nodded.

“We're not late?” The last said with as much anxiety as Arann ever showed.

“Not yet.”

“You should have let me sleep, then. I was having a good dream.”

“Good dream, bad dream—they're all just dreams.”

Arann started to eat, and then stopped. “You didn't eat anything.” It was as much of an accusation as Arann ever made.

Lefty shrugged, uneasy. “You're doing the heavy lifting, not me.”

“What did I tell you?”

“I forget.”

Arann snorted. But after a moment, he ate. Because it was true: This morning he would do the heavy work, and that always made him hungry. Without the work, there would be no food. For either of them.

The rain kept falling, and Arann's chewing was the only other sound in the sodden, abandoned building. It lasted minutes—which was as long as the food lasted—before Arann rose. “We'd better get going.” He paused, and brushed off bread crumbs; by the time they got home, the mice would have the floor cleaned.

Lefty nodded, pulling his clothing tight. It wasn't that hard; in spite of everything either of them said, he
had
grown some, and the clothing was old. Not so old that it was threadbare like Arann's, but old enough.

They slid out past the loose boards, and stood up as the rain fell, faces turned a moment toward the thin, gray cloud that was all of the sky.

 

Nothing closed the Common.

It was a truth that the City thrived on. Summer, Winter, rainy season or rare snow—the merchants and farmers who had things to sell came, their wagons laden, their tempers indicative of the seasonal inconvenience, whatever that happened to be. In the Summer it was the heat and humidity; in the rainy season, it was the cold and the damp. People were good at complaining; there was always something that they could find to complain about.

When she wasn't the source of that complaint, Jewel found it amusing. You could tell a lot about people by the complaints they made. Her Oma's complaints had always been a continuous stream of words, interrupted by pipe smoke and the occasional affectionate nod. But there was, in her sharp observation, very little malice; she complained because it was one of her few indulgences. Or so she often said; she didn't much like it when Jewel joined in. The phrase, “I'll give you something to complain about” still lingered in memory, and it made Jewel both wince and smile.

Farmer Hanson's complaints were not her Oma's, but they were kin to them; he complained about his sons, about the lugs that tried to obliquely court his working daughter, about the customers who bruised his produce, the customers who tried to pay him less than it was worth, and the customers who were stupid enough to think anyone else had better food.

He complained about his back, his arms, his shoulders; in the rainy season, some joint or other was always aching, and he mentioned his left leg frequently. Apparently, at one time or other, it had been broken. He was in fine form as Jewel approached his closed wagon; he was setting up the tarps that would cover the stall, and, of course, complaining about the speed at which his sons moved—which would, according to the good farmer, beggar them all. His sons seemed to take this in stride. They were big enough, well-fed enough, not to worry about being beggared.

Jewel had decided to observe. Rath still wasn't home, and she'd risen before dawn, waiting in the silence until she couldn't stand silence for another minute. She fled it; the Common was never silent. Rath had been teaching her about moving in the streets; with and against the flow of the crowds; about disappearing, reappearing, remaining hidden while standing in plain sight.

He, unlike the farmer, seldom complained; his face would tighten, his lips would thin, and she would feel the weight of his frustration and disappointment—in silence. She missed the words most.

Rath talked when he had something to say. And clearly, he didn't have much to say to a ten-year-old orphan.

If she hadn't learned enough to merit Rath's approval, she'd learned just enough to remain unnoticed by Farmer Hanson. She stood by the roadside to the Northeast, watching as the Common filled. Waiting for some glimpse of the two boys he had mentioned.

She didn't have long to wait. As the sky grew paler, and the rain continued to fall, she saw them break through the crowd in a bit of a rush: A tall, broad-shouldered giant whose age she couldn't guess, and a small, spindly boy who looked younger than she did. The tall boy wore clothing that probably hadn't fit him for a year—which made him look big and awkward, to Jewel. Most of it was a dark brown, but rain did that. He also carried a basket that was incongruously neat.

Jewel pulled her own vest a little closer, shoving hair out of her eyes. The only good thing that could be said for rain was this: When she pushed her unruly curls to one side, they stayed where she'd shoved them. Out of her eyes, so she could
see
.

It was hard to tell what color their hair would be when it wasn't plastered to their faces, but their faces were flushed; she was certain they'd run at least part of the way.

Their breath came out in thin clouds as they at last reached the farmer's side. The large boy handed the farmer the basket, and the farmer set it aside.

She couldn't hear what they said; she could hear the farmer shout at his sons. He had no unkind words for the boys, and this told her—more clearly than anything else—that he pitied them.

Just as he had pitied her.

Her Oma would have been furious; pity was somewhere below charity in her rank of acceptable behavior. But her Oma was dead, and Jewel didn't mind pity. Maybe, when she was old and smoked a pipe, she would.

Or maybe never. She couldn't understand what there was, in pity, that her Oma despised—her Oma had pitied many people. To Jewel, pity meant understanding.

The large boy began to help the sons erect the standing cloth canopy. He was strong; she could see that clearly because his thin shirt clung to his back, wrapped around the contours of muscles. She thought him a bit like Rath; he didn't speak much.