The Hidden City (30 page)

The map was flat.

She looked at it, and after a moment, she pushed her chair back, reached for the widest of the drawers in Rath's desk, and opened it. Inside, there were two slates; they were heavy and large, and Rath had threatened her with several kinds of death if she dropped them. This made her as careful as she ever was.

She picked up pieces of chalk, their odd shapes leaving marks on her hands, and she trudged toward the open door, sparing only one glance for the map in the making, the strange girl some part of its network of ragged lines and poorly written names.

She had done what she could. For today, she had finished. Hating it, fearing it, she did what she had been taught to do by her Oma: she found the other work that needed doing, and she minded it ferociously.

“Lefty,” she said, as she walked down the hall toward her room, its door also ajar. “Arann.” She entered, holding the slates—the one Rath used, the one he had bought for her—and sat, trying to look Rath-like.

Lefty, seated by Arann, looked up.

Arann looked at her as well. “Jay?”

“I was thinking that while you're lying here doing nothing, you could be useful,” she replied. It was what her Oma might have said, and she said it while looking at Arann. “Lefty, take the slate.
Don't
drop it. Today we're going to learn letters.”

Chapter Nine

AT RATH'S AGE, the past was a bitter terrain, and the elements that loomed large cast sharp shadows along the thin edge between history and story. He could not be certain which of the two drove him; the facts—for he prided himself on rationality—or the emotions those facts evoked; the certain sense that he had made his choice, and must abide by it, or make a lie of the whole of his adult life, or the gnawing uncertainty that the choice itself was suspect, that pride, with its bright and bitter edge, held him now, cutting him and strengthening him, always with cost.

On bitter days, the struggle was so clear it could paralyze.

Danger often dispersed paralysis. It was why he sought it so frequently. But in choosing this particular danger, he was walking the line, rather than escaping it.

He resented Jewel Markess more than he could find words to express. He resented her quiet determination, her stupidity, her naïveté; he resented her willingness to literally follow a dream that would devour her. He resented her presence in his life, her attempts to be helpful, and the quiet way in which she had insinuated two strangers, two boys, into his home.

But more, he resented what she represented. The streets had not yet had time to tarnish her; they had time to frighten her; they had time to scar her—but the scars that she had taken had somehow perversely opened her up to a compassion that Rath himself had turned away from in his early years.

She was a living accusation. And, of course, she was ignorant of this fact, as she was ignorant of so much. He had thought—he admitted it now, as he walked across the holdings to another meeting—to remake her. To teach her what he himself had had to learn in order to survive, even thrive, in the subtle open market of the poorer holdings. Had started to do just that.

And she? She had begun to learn. To pick his locks. To read his books. To write. To add, subtract, handle numbers at some base level. She had learned when to sit in silence, when to wait for his word, when to speak first; she had learned when it was safe to interrupt him, and when it was
not
. She'd even learned to accept the threat of his absence, the possibility that he might not return.

He had thought only of that.

But, of course, he was foolish. Should have known it before he started. No lesson ever went one way; lessons were not like rivers, flowing toward the ocean. They were, like his sword, a thing of two edges. He was learning, once again, to live in the world.

To live, to his surprise and growing anger, in hers.

And in Jewel's world, in a world that bordered on starvation and isolation, a stranger named Finch had incalculable value. A boy named Lefty who would not meet Rath's gaze, no matter what Rath said or did, no matter how Rath chose to approach him, and a boy named Arann, who was their conduit to Lefty. She had rescued them not once, but twice, although she knew it would anger Rath.

She had nothing of her own; everything was Rath's. Had he seen to that? Had he done that on purpose?

Or had he simply hoped?

And what, he thought, kicking a jutting piece of road from its wet moorings, had he hoped
for
? He almost turned back.

But she had the simple power that he had, unknowing, granted her: the pain of her disappointment. He was not certain, if he sent Lefty and Arann on their way, that she would not feel compelled to join them. That would be best. He would be free.

As free as he had been the day his sister had announced that she was leaving Handernesse. The words of the statue in the maze returned to him, unbidden. He kept walking.

 

The rain fell.

Arann and Lefty spent the day learning—or trying to learn—the Weston alphabet. Jewel's hand was not Rath's; her letters were not as clear, as bold, or as consistent. Her temper was not Rath's; it wasn't quiet. When she was frustrated, it showed; she pulled her hair out of her eyes, she cursed the slate, she dropped the chalk on Arann's outstretched legs.

But she persevered. They did as well. It was awkward, this half-blind leading the blind. She forgot things, and had to backtrack, which added confusion. But it was clear that she had no intention of giving up, and Arann's quiet nod to Lefty made it clear that neither would they. It was a start.

Arann couldn't physically lift his arm to write, but that was fine. Lefty couldn't either, and that was less fine. In the end, she settled for memorization, which made her letters look
even worse
.

She broke for lunch, and made it, standing in the kitchen. Lefty snuck in and stood beside her for a long time, watching her, listening to the sharp thunk of knife against board as she cut apples and hard cheese.

“Can I help?” he finally asked.

She started to say no, because his right hand was in his armpit, and his left hand was not, in fact, the hand that he had favored. But the no caught between her teeth, and she found something for him to do. Because he had to, and she saw that clearly.

A gift, a different gift, from her life: Her Oma's words. Always, her Oma. Her father and her mother had been busy enough with the work they could find, and her mother's death had come early; it was her Oma she had shadowed, her Oma who had taught her much of what she understood about life. If her father didn't agree—and he often didn't—the apartment was a lively storm of argument, pipe smoke, and sound; banging on tables, scraping of chairs against the floor, banging on walls (although that was usually the neighbors).

Her Oma often spoke Weston when she dealt with strangers; she spoke Torra at home. Jewel spoke both, and her Oma had insisted that if she was going to learn to read Weston she could damn well learn to read a real language.

She wondered if either Arann or Lefty spoke Torra; half of the people who lived in the holdings did, at one level or other. Half didn't. She didn't ask. Weston was going to be work enough, for now.

As was lunch. Lefty had been given the job of arranging food on two plates, and it looked like a mess. But it would probably look worse after it was eaten, as her Oma used to say, and Jewel nodded her approval, giving him one plate to carry.

As they left the kitchen, she felt an odd twinge, and wondered where Rath was.

Rath was at home in the smoke-wreathed den. It was called a tavern by people who only viewed it from the outside—something considered intelligent by many of those who had viewed it at least once from the inside.

It was not unlike a story or a bardic lay in feel; it was dark, and shadowed, not through any mystic atmosphere, but rather by the fact that it was half a story down, and the windows were sparse. Den was a better word for the place. In fact, it was the only name he remembered it having. The Den.

Not of thieves, sadly, although this was more accurate than he would otherwise have cared for. No; here there were mercenaries, old soldiers, and the young who had made their way back from the borders of various skirmishes to the North or South. Many of the men who would frequent The Den had once been sailors, and Rath had never cared enough to ask where they docked when they had cargo; had cared less about what that cargo was. Better not to, in this place.

It was why he felt comfortable here; not caring was perhaps the only rule by which the men—and the occasional woman—who negotiated at its ancient, warped tables played.

The scent of pipe smoke blended with the smell of ale and slightly sour wine. Fat boiled in pots in what passed for a kitchen, and that, too, was a strong odor; more pleasant than the sweat and dirt of the road, although that was severely lessened in the colder season.

The chairs were hard, and often as warped as the tables; the spindles that held the backs together were rickety as holding fences. Nothing about The Den was new or shiny; there were no peacocks here.

Nor were there men of Patris Hectore's stature, although stature here was measured in an entirely different way. Instead of rings or gold chains, one bore scars, and openly. Weapons were almost a necessity, and by presence alone, they were sheathed. A bar brawl here ended in death. Usually several, although they happened seldom.

There were no obvious bouncers; there didn't have to be. The men who jointly owned The Den were some of the old sailors—where old was a relative word—that Rath, or any of the patrons, practiced their scant diplomacy on. The owners didn't like fights. It cost money and time. Therefore, they didn't let them last long.

The Den was housed in the thirty-first holding, not far from the invisible border that rammed up against the thirty-second. Gossip—or information, as it was more politic to call it—could be had here; its worth was often determined by how much money one laid down, either at the tables, or into palms. But not always. If something big was happening, it was a whisper and an undercurrent that informed even the postures of the people who were carried by it.

It was for information that he had come, but not solely for information. He took a seat at a corner table, not because he wished privacy, although it was his usual preference, but because it was one of the few tables that were not occupied. The rains drove people indoors; that and the turn of the season. Ships moored in port for much of said season, and men who might otherwise find gainful employment were left to fend for themselves; to spend or hoard the money they had managed to make during the hotter clime.

Day or night, it made no difference.

Still, from this vantage, one could see the whole of The Den and its occupants. Some, he recognized instantly, and by the lowering of chin or the raising of mug, he was acknowledged. Others were new to him, and he spent some small time evaluating them by the clothing they wore, the posture they adopted, the scars they revealed. He found the watching of interest, as he often did; although he was never certain why he was aware of it, some people had a substance to them that was not precisely gravitas, but nevertheless went below the surface and spread there, like old tree roots. They could dress like every other man present, they could speak the same words, they could utter the same threats—but there was something akin to authority in them that others did not possess.

It was very like danger, in this place. In others, it was less obvious.

One or two of the newcomers had that substance, and he studied them more carefully. He did not speak with them; did not attempt to make contact. They would notice him or not, and over the passage of months, they would evaluate him by their own standards, becoming familiar with his presence.

A man joined him at his table, and Rath smiled. It was a genuine smile, and if there was no affection in it, there was respect—as much as anyone could expect in The Den.

“Harald,” he said.

“You're not drinking,” the tall, fair-haired man replied. He wore a leather eye patch that was not decorative; Rath knew this because he had been in the fight that had cost him the eye. Not on the wrong side, as it happened—which in this case simply meant not on the side Harald was fighting
against
.

Losing or winning counted for little. Survival counted for more.

“I'll drink when one of the sailors notices he hasn't any of my coin in his pocket,” Rath replied, with a wry smile toward the busy bar.

“Aye, it's a busy day.” Harald draped himself across the back of a chair, after first reorienting it. He sat with his back to the wall; as it was a corner table, there happened to be two walls, and Rath's back was firmly toward the other one. Old habits, but not bad ones. “Haven't seen you here in a while.”