The Hidden City (2 page)

He marshaled that precious energy, choosing clothing with care. Or with as much care as he usually did, in seclusion; he swept through the piles that were more or less orderly, if wrinkled and somewhat less than perfectly clean, and then deposited a handful of cloth across his bed.

His door came with three locks; his windows were barred. He could afford both, and they were usually the first alteration he made in any place he called home now. All of the things that could be locked, were.

He chose, of all things, worn velvet; he chose a leather satchel that hung across his shoulder, an open display of wealth in the poorer holdings in which he chose to live much of the time, and he chose an obvious long knife. It wasn't a sword; that was hidden in the bowels of his collection of paraphernalia. But inasmuch as his presence could evoke threat, this would have to do. He also whitened the lines of his scars with an appropriate mixture of grease and powder, and darkened the circles under his eyes. His hair, he plaited. It wasn't long, but long enough to suggest a warrior gone soft.

After another few minutes, in which he glanced through his forged credentials, he shrugged and set them all aside. Here, charm—or what passed for charm with Radell, would have to do.

After he had finished, he glanced at the silvered mirror—it was a vanity he could afford, and in fact, one of the few he could not afford to be without—and then he made his way to the door, unlocking each bolt carefully and precisely. He made sure he had keys; he could pick the locks with relative ease, but it was a chore, and likely to be noticed by his inquisitive neighbors. The neighbors were getting to be a bit of a bother; it was almost time to move again.

Exiting, he closed the door, made sure it was solidly locked, and drew breath. Smoke lingered in the air, seeping from beneath the large cracks of poorly-fitted doors. Some of it was cooking; most of it was pipe. None of it was his.

He made his way along the narrow hall, and down steps that made the hall feel wide; navigated yet another long hall and a set of open doors and found himself, at last, upon the streets.

At this time of day, they were crowded. The thirty-second holding was one of the poorest of the hundred, and magisterial guards were encountered seldom; because they were absent, assorted would-be thugs lurked near the buildings or the alleys that occurred between them.

But they seldom preyed on children, and children gathered in the streets, avoiding wagon wheels by a miracle of dexterity and attention that never failed to amaze. They had sticks, hoops, leather balls, and a great deal of noisy energy.

Rath smiled, fake indulgence in the expression, as he met the eyes of some of those urchins, in their poor-fitting, overly worn clothing. They were wary of him almost instantly—friendliness from a stranger often had that effect. But they made way for him, which had been his intent, and he passed them by without another thought.

No, his thoughts were on Radell, on the next possible mission, and the next bag of coins that would make a move smoother.

Perhaps because he was so preoccupied, he didn't notice that this was the day in which his self-imposed exile would come to an end.

He didn't notice that one of the older children had broken away from a group by the far building; she skirted the alleys, giving them wide berth, and made her way toward the Common, her hands in her pockets.

But when she passed by him, he did notice the dull glint of an equally dull knife. His was out of his sheath before he spoke or moved; she was on his right, and the knife, in his left hand. He had always used either hand with equal grace.

Had he been in the Common proper, he might not have spared her another glance; children of her kind were numerous there. But in the streets of the thirty-second? Rare enough. The consequences were higher, here.

She went, with clumsy and obvious movements, for the straps of the satchel that hung by his side. He brought his knife in, to cut the top side of her hand—a warning, and one that didn't require long explanations.

But she brought her dull knife up at the last moment, and his blade skittered off its negligible edge; she kicked him, hard, in the knee, and yanked the satchel off his shoulder as he doubled over.

This was an inconvenience; it was not yet a crisis.

But it became one—a subtle one—when he met her eyes. Brown eyes, dark skin, unruly hair—things that he expected to see on these streets. But her expression was one of shame, of regret, of things that hinted at conscience, even though it was absolutely clear from the prominence of her cheekbones and her pointed jaw that she needed the money to eat.

The expression slowed him, somewhat. Age, perhaps, slowed him more. But neither of these slowed him enough to aid the young thief.

She ran, and he had already covered half her shadow when she suddenly banked right. As if, he thought, she knew exactly what he would do next, and hoped to evade him.

He could outrun her; her legs were short, and she was spindly, exhausted. But he kept pace with her, to see where she would go. The curiosity was out of place, and he hadn't time for it—but he surprised himself. He made the time.

She didn't—quite—surprise him. She didn't head for a building; she didn't head into the holdings. No home, then.

Instead, she turned on her heel and spinning, she ran toward the busiest street in the thirty-second—the one he himself had intended to take.

This,
he thought,
is interesting.
And he followed. It was one of his skills. Hunting.

 

He picked up his empty satchel about fifty yards away from where he'd lost it. He didn't bother to open it and check its contents; he could tell by its weight and silence that whatever it had contained—and it hadn't been much—was gone. The girl was gone with it; the few coins were probably clutched in her hands, and if she weren't careful, she'd lose them to thieves just like her.

Which would serve her right. But wouldn't, in fact, do him any good at all. He stopped for a moment under the paltry shade of the ancient trees that girded the Common, smiled at a market guard, tipped his hat just a touch, and then thought.

With a distinct rolling of eyes, he made his way to the poorest section of the Common: the farmers' market. It was late enough in the day that the food there would be thoroughly picked over; what was left could be had for a fraction of its original asking price, if the child was both hungry and smart.

Having seen her, he didn't doubt the hungry.

And having lost her, his pride wouldn't let him doubt the smart. He made his way through the crowd in silence, regretting the obvious emphasis he'd placed on the scars that adorned his face. It did mean people made room for him—but that room was a hint and a warning if the girl was being at all cautious.

He prowled through the vendors that remained, and they watched him carefully. Some tried to garner his attention by shouting out praises of what was obviously not deserving of praise; the others let him be. They'd seen him, in one guise or another, and perhaps they even recognized this particular choice. It didn't matter; he wasn't thinking about them.

He was thinking, instead, about the girl.

She was nine, he thought. Ten. No older. He wondered if she had a family. Many of the street thieves did—if you considered a prostitute and an absent father family. But most of those children would have made their way home with their earnings; this one hadn't.

Ah.

He could see her back. Could see her talking with a farmer. To his great surprise, the farmer seemed friendly. Not cloying, and not argumentative, the way farmers in the Common market usually were—but genuinely happy to see her. He held carrots in one hand, and something that had probably seen better days—two of them, if Rath was any judge—in the other, but it was the carrots he was offering.

So. She had friends, of a sort, in the Common.

He hesitated, and then stepped back. There were no real shadows here, no convenient way of disappearing. But anonymity had its advantage, and there were enough people in the Common that anonymity was all but guaranteed. He watched the girl pay for the food, and then she surprised him again; she offered the farmer more of the precious coin that she held.

He couldn't see her face; he could see the farmer's. The large man's brows rose slightly in surprise, and then lowered in mimicry of annoyance. It was poor mimicry; it might convince a child of ten, but it would fall flat with any other audience.

Rath waited until the farmer refused whatever she had offered for a third time; waited a little bit longer, to see the girl slowly make her way from the wagon stall, her head bent, her arms cradling the bundle she carried as if it were life itself, which, given her weight and the obvious shape of her bones, was fair enough. She dwindled, dwarfed easily by the adults that were still set on conducting business, until she was out of sight.

Only then did he approach the farmer, and raise his hat.

The farmer's face stiffened in instant suspicion.

“That girl,” Rath said quietly. He was a good judge of character, and had intended to open up discussion with some sort of friendly, idle chatter—but the farmer's face made it clear how effective that would be, and Rath hated to waste time.

“What girl?”

“The one you just sold the carrots.”

“I've sold a lot of carrots today,” the farmer answered. “And I'm about done.” He started to close the wagon's back flap.

Rath caught the man's wrist so quickly the man didn't have time to draw back. “Don't,” he said softly, “play games with me. The child that just left.”

“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.