The Hidden City (25 page)

“I'm not big,” she told him softly. “And I'm not as smart as Rath. Maybe I never will be. But I don't believe that big is everything. I think—I think that you can be stronger. Just different strong, is all.”

His toes were wet. “What if I don't?”

“Believe it, or want to be?”

“Either.”

She shrugged. “Doesn't matter what we want, does it?” This time, there was a familiar bitterness in the words. “Only matters what we
do
.”

They walked. Jay was quiet for a long time. Lefty noticed the buildings on either side; noticed faces in the open windows, where shutters had been pushed back for air. There weren't many.

The trees that ringed the Common were dark, the leaves hanging like wet cloth. Some of them. The rest? They covered the ground, making the dirt less muddy. When had they dropped? Why did he notice?

“We're going to meet Helen,” she told him. “That's her name. I know you don't like to talk to strangers. She doesn't either. But she talks to them. She's a bit harsh, and she can't hear all that well, but don't tell her that; it makes her grouchy.”

“Who's Helen?”

“Seamstress. Or something. She makes clothes.”

“Jay?”

She nodded.

“Why are you doing this?”

“It's going to get cold, and you need new clothing. Not as bad as Arann does, but he can't walk, and you can.”

“I mean why are you helping us?”

“Do I need a reason? Why did Rath help me?”

Lefty frowned. “Because you can see things.”

“See?” Her voice was soft, still visible. “You
are
smart.” Sad.

Lefty didn't want to upset her. Wasn't certain why, although he should have been. She was going to feed him. And Arann. She was going to buy clothing. Upsetting her might take that all away.

“I want to help,” she told him. “And you need help. Shouldn't that be enough?”

He shook his head.

In the streets, there were no gifts. There was what you could steal, if you were clever or fast enough. There was what you couldn't. There was barter, and some things—some things you had to pay for in ways you couldn't imagine, if you were lucky.

Lefty had never been lucky.

But he
wanted
to trust her. It frightened him, the wanting. He needed Arann. He needed to ask Arann why.

And he couldn't. Silent and obedient, he followed Jay like a shadow.

Helen was smoking a pipe.

Jewel almost closed her eyes as the scent drifted in the still air, wreathing her face. Lefty coughed. The cough caught the old woman's attention. Her eyes narrowed in her perpetual squint. “That you?” she asked Jewel.

“It's Jay,” Jewel replied.

“You said you'd be bringing a large boy.”

Lefty lost a few inches.

“I will. But he had an accident, and he can't walk much right now. Or the doctor will kill the rest of us.”

“Doctor, eh? Rath called a doctor?”

Jewel nodded.

“I guess I was wrong. He
is
good for something. You, boy, come here.”

Lefty, having no one else to look to, looked to Jewel.

Jewel nodded.

“He's not simple, is he?” Helen snapped.

“He's really, really shy,” Jewel managed to reply. Some hint of anger colored the words anyway, and Helen straightened slightly, unfolding. She wasn't actually that small a woman, but years spent hunched over needlework made her seem smaller and older than she was.

She waited, imperious, while Lefty approached; at the last minute, he caught Jewel's sleeve in his left hand, and dragged her with him into the stall. Out of the rain. There wasn't a lot of room, and Helen's son frowned at them both—but as his mother was smoking, and as her lips were pursed in that “don't argue with me or else” frown, he said nothing. Loudly.

“Shy,” the seamstress said. She reached under her chair, and brought up an old wooden box with a cracked leather strap as its only lock. She undid the knot that held it—and the faded lid—in place, and opened the box. Needles shone in the sparse light, stuck to the sides of spools and spools of colored thread. These weren't what she wanted, and her hands were callused enough that the pricking of careless fingers didn't even register.

Instead, she pulled out a long, flat piece of cloth. Or leather; it was thin and supple, worn along the edges; it was obviously meant for something other than making tunics or shifts.

“What in the name of the Mother are you wearing, boy?”

Lefty pulled Jewel's shirt. Jewel answered. “The only clothes he has. They're a bit small,” she added. She wasn't at all surprised when Helen snorted; pipe smoke streamed from her nostrils, as if she were a dragon gutted of flame.

“Aye, they're small,” Helen said at last. “And cheap.” She snorted again. Lefty did not, clearly, find this comforting. But he didn't find it so threatening that he fled, and Jewel considered this a good sign.

“We can't afford expensive.”

“Aye, you can't. But you can afford better than temple castoffs. Unless Rath's been gambling again.”

“Rath doesn't gamble.”

A gray brow rose. “I suppose he doesn't drink either?”

Jewel shrugged. She couldn't remember Rath drinking much of anything but water, and even that, he seemed to prefer to do without.

“Does he still smoke?”

Jewel nodded.

“Good.” She lifted the thin strip, and motioned to Jewel, who stepped forward, dragging Lefty along. She wondered if he was ever going to let go.

“He's a small one.”

“Name's Lefty.”

“Is it, now?”

Jewel nodded. “That's what he calls himself, at any rate.”

“Lefty, come here.”

Lefty dragged himself forward. He stepped on Jewel's foot as he passed her, and Jewel's arm went with him.

“This,” the woman said, “is a measure. It was given me by my uncle. I'm going to slide it round your chest, and along the back of your shoulders. And here, from your neck down to your butt. Oh, and your arms, too—so you're going to have to let go of Jay sometime.”

He looked at Jewel, and Jewel nodded, encouraging. When he didn't budge, she added, “It's going to get cold.”

“You're sure?”

“I'm sure.”

“But Arann—”

“When he can come, we'll bring him, too. His clothing is worse than yours, but he's still too small for Rath's.”

Helen was businesslike and curt, but not so curt as she was with Rath. Her voice was almost gentle as she turned Lefty round; she moved quickly, but all of the movements themselves were deliberate and obvious.

“You have to stand straight,” Jewel whispered.

And watched as he tried.

Helen wrote things down on the slate she also pulled up from under the chair. The chair was her cave. And her throne. Jewel had only really seen her stand up once or twice, to measure Rath.

She finished quickly, and when she was done, Lefty pressed himself into Jewel's back, waiting.

“I can do it for four silver pieces,” Helen said. She lifted a hand and glared at her son. “Rath's business is good, and we charge him a lot more. We can do this for his friend.”

The son's lips disappeared in a thin line. He muttered something about joining the beggars, and his mother muttered something about cutting his leg off so he'd look right at home.

“How long will it take?”

“Three days, unless it's urgent. You said these were the only clothes he had?” When Jewel nodded, the woman sighed. “Two days, then. I can't do better. And I can't promise you a decent color; I'll use the ends for things, so it's going to look a bit of patchwork.”

“If it's warmer than this, and it fits, who cares?”

Helen laughed. “You'd be surprised,” she told Jay. She emptied the bowl of her pipe and looked at it, eyes still narrowed. Not looking away from its fine wood grain, she added, “You're not like Rath, girl.

“But you'll be good for him, in the end. He shouldn't be alone.”

“He likes it that way.”

“What we like and what we need aren't always the same. Like the clothing,” she added softly. “Go on, now. Basket's empty, and Farmer Hanson will be waiting.”

Jewel nodded and reached into the satchel she carried on the inside of her tunic, just above her belt. Then she paused. “You know Farmer Hanson?”

“Aye, it happens I do. I make clothing for his useless sons.” She chuckled. “And his daughter, if it comes to that. You want to bargain with those sons, if you're short money, though. Daughter's a dragon.”

“How did you know I—”

She waved a curled hand, brushing the words away.

“Pay me when I'm done. You're good for it. And if you're not,” she added, with a grim smile, “Rath is, and I'll charge him more.”

She was humming as they retreated; humming and smiling, the pipe upside down in its bowl. Jewel smiled as well.

“Jay?”

She nodded at Lefty.

“You like her?”

“Yeah, I like her.”

“Good.”

She paused a moment, breaking stride, her feet getting a little wetter, his reminding her that she had at least one more stop before the farmer. “Why?”

“She's scary,” he whispered. “And she smokes. I don't like burning things.”

Jewel touched his shoulder, slowly and gently, as if he were an injured dog that she had almost earned trust from. She didn't speak, but she understood, then, why Arann had kept him safe all these years. Because she certainly wanted to.

Farmer Hanson was happy to see her. Happy to see Lefty. “Where's Arann?” he asked, before Jewel could interpose herself between them.

Lefty, however, looked down at his feet. No answer there.

“He's at my place,” Jewel told him.

“Yours?”

She nodded. “He had a bit of a problem with—what was his name? Cliff?” At Lefty's nod, she continued. “But we found him in time. He's seen a doctor,” she added, voice low. “A
real
doctor. From the upper holdings, even. Rath brought him.”

The farmer wasn't as impressed with this as Jewel had been. “How bad was it?” he asked, the stall momentarily forgotten. And rain, too, as he stepped out from beneath the awning.

Jewel frowned. “It was bad enough. He's in bed. He has to sleep. The doctor said he can't move for two weeks, but after that, he should be fine.”

“And you'll keep him that long?” Meaning, of course, Rath.

“I'll keep him longer,” she said, meeting Farmer Hanson's worried gaze with an intensity that was, although she did not know it, much older than her face.

He held that gaze for a moment, and then he smiled. It was a wan smile. “I was worried,” he said quietly.

“Me, too. But Lefty came to get us. And Lefty's staying with me, as well.”

“Good. You keep an eye on them. I'll have work for Arann when he's fit.”

Her smile was brief. “We're late,” she said, taking the basket from Lefty's good hand. “Is there
anything
good left?”

Which, of course, changed the expression on the farmer's face instantly. She was sorry to see it go, because she wanted the approval of this generous, avuncular man, but Lefty wasn't, and Lefty needed the comfort of the familiar far more than she did.

 

The dreams were bad.

In her own room, in isolation, they were bad enough—but in a room with two boys, one who was under strict orders
not
to move, they were worse. She woke screaming, as she often did; Rath had learned to wait when he heard those screams.

But she bit her lip, tasting blood, as she became aware that two sets of eyes were now watching her. Lefty's, in the dark, were wide and round; he was out of his bed and in the corner, his hands across his face, almost before she had stopped.

Arann was also out of his bed, or rather, out of the bedroll. He struggled toward her, turning from side to side as if seeking the threat.

“Jay—”

“Lie down,”
she whispered. Had there been an “s” in either of the words, she would have hissed.

Arann didn't immediately obey, which added guilt to the horror of nightmare. This one wouldn't leave her. It clung to waking, and she could see, imposed upon the safety of her four walls, her closed door, the open streets of the holding at night; the soft glow of magelights, the sound of running feet.

The sound of high breath, sharp breath, young voice.

Her own?

No.

“Arann,” she said, struggling now to make her voice as normal as possible, “I had a nightmare. That's all. Just a nightmare. You've
got
to lie down. Rath will kill me if he has to call the doctor again.”

Arann nodded slowly, and she realized that he wasn't—quite—awake. He was ready to fight, and in his condition that would be suicide, but he wasn't awake. Wasn't quite himself. She made a note to herself: No screaming.

Which, given the unpredictability of her nightmares, was going to be damn hard.

“Lefty—” she stopped. Lefty, cowering in the corner, was holding a dagger. He'd picked it up where she'd thrown it—near the wall. Near the corner of the room. But Lefty, unlike Arann, was awake.

This type of awake, on the other hand, had no safety in it.

“Lefty, put the knife down,” she said, her voice low and measured.