The Hidden City (37 page)

“Doesn't matter what you think. Or what I think. Only what Rath thinks.” She paused, and held out a hand, palm out. “I need you both to stay here. I can't say it clearer than that. You decide.”

Lefty looked at Arann. Arann looked at Lefty. Neither spoke for a long moment, and when someone finally did, it was Lefty. “It's up to her,” he said, shrugging awkwardly. “Rath's not here either, and I'd bet he's out doing something to help Jay.”

Mostly, Jewel hated stupid people. But she realized at the moment that they had their advantages. She gazed down the hall at the storage room, and shrugged. The rope was in place. All she had to do was get to Taverson's, eat—and her stomach wasn't up to much in the way of food—and get to Finch before whoever was following her did.

And truth? She would have loved to take Arann with her. For safety, and for comfort. But his size, his strength, and his age hadn't done him much good so far. She told herself this as firmly as possible.

“Don't open the door,” she told them, as she walked toward it.

“We know.”

Chapter Eleven

THE MOON WAS NEARLY full. The skies retained the clarity of early afternoon, rare at this time of year, and the sea breeze was mild. Rath would have appreciated the evening walk at a different time. But the scenery was like so much stage dressing; he noticed it, but it did not move him. What might, he could not yet see: the men who hid in shadows, in the Common. Shadows, in any light, were always present where so many buildings were planted so tightly together. With the exception of the lands upon the Isle, this was the most expensive land in the City, and possibly the Empire. As it had been long since Rath had entertained the notion of owning much, he could admit that his knowledge might be out of date.

But he had never wandered far from Averalaan. In all her glory, in all her dinginess, she was his home. He had crossed several boundaries to be where he was, and in the crossing, had better come to understand all parts of her nature. Or all of the parts that could be understood.

The magestone that Jewel so envied was cool against his palm, its light guttered by the pocket of his jacket. Did he understand it? He could use it, certainly. He could evoke the brightest of its lights with a word, and dim that light again with a gesture. But utility and understanding were different creatures.

As a boy, he had dreamed of becoming a mage. In that previous life, all elevation, all power, seemed to be a grant of birth. But talent? It was not, like lineage, a thing which could be easily determined or quantified, and those gifted by its mysterious powers could come from any walk of life; they were special. He could not now think of the boy he had been without wincing, he still remembered him so clearly.

Rath had never shown any sign of that—or any other—talent. Neither had his sister, or his friends. And eventually, the desire to be special had gone the way of all boyhood dreams, all futile romances and unrequited desire, crossing the dangerous threshold of envy and bitter resentment, to something that, at last, resembled calm acceptance.

He wondered how the mage-born saw the world. If they looked at a piece of wood and stopped to wonder how it came to be, examining it with the same momentary curiosity with which he examined their handiwork before turning again to other things. He wondered if magic was, in any sense, truly magical to those who labored with it. Wondered what surprised them, aside from the general—or specific—stupidity of other men.

Wondered what could kill them. Member Haberas was a scholar of the Order, but he was also mage-born and trained. He spoke seldom of that training, mostly because it did not seem to interest him much. Things dead, things gone, things hinted at in brief fragments—these were where his sense of unraveling mystery lay, and in his aged, wrinkled face, with its perpetual frown, they were the only things that could wake the eye's sparkle, speaking of a boyhood that was long past. But, regardless, he lived within the confines of the Order, content—barely—to let men like Rath bring him the things which he so valued and so delighted in; he did not, and had not, sought the adventure of their discovery for his own.

The Order of Knowledge was almost a fortress, although it didn't need to look as ungainly as one. It was hard to get in without a Member by your side; it was hard to leave without the same Member, which, in the case of the absent-minded, could provide hours of amusement for the unwary. It was impossible to steal anything without magical aid, and as most of that aid lived in the building, Rath had never tried. Not, of course, that he hadn't been tempted, but even the temptation was simple curiosity rather than acquisitiveness; he wanted to see for himself what happened when he made the attempt.

So, reason followed, Member Haberas, if indeed he had been murdered, would have had to lead his murderer into his private quarters. Or another Member of the Order could have served this function. There were often bizarre rivalries between men of knowledge. Rath didn't begrudge them these tiffs, these angry postures; knowledge was, after all, their coin.

The third possibility, that someone had gained entry and exit without notice, did not bear scrutiny.

But Rath thought about it anyway, as he casually glanced at the streets. They weren't empty—they almost never were—but the people were scattered, and traveled in ones and twos. In the evening light, the colors of their clothing were muted, but they were not poor. The market guards generally cracked down on that sort of obvious trouble an hour before the stalls began to close.

But the Common wasn't walled, and if the market gates were in theory the easiest access to be had, they were not, by any means, the only one. On the other hand, Patris AMATIE came openly, and it was likely that he, at least, would arrive by those gates. What would be interesting would be the knowledge of who arrived with him, if he did not travel alone. That would have to wait.

The pack on his back felt alternately too light and too heavy as he walked. He did not look back; he listened, but no more. If he were now being followed, it was of little consequence; both he and any who followed knew where he was going.

Radell's shop had one magestone in the fake but ambient lamp that hung windowside. To either side of his pretentious establishment, similar windows were dark, curtains drawn across them from within. One, however, had a guard posted; it was a jeweler's storefront. The man looked bored; he straightened visibly as Rath passed him by, his armor clinking at the shift in posture. Rath met his gaze and nodded politely, no more.

It began here, a few yards away from a bored man with wide shoulders and a pale scar across his forehead; it began with a knock on a door. Where it would end, Rath couldn't begin to guess—but he had hopes.

 

Radell had taken the time to dye his beard again. He had taken the time to make sure that his underpadding was properly positioned so it hung in the appropriate location over his belt; he looked almost genuinely old and sage as he swung the door wide and stepped to one side. This level of pretension, when the shop was dead quiet, would normally have been enough to elicit some sarcasm from Rath.

“Wade,” Radell said, with just the slight dip of his unruly chin, “the Patris is waiting for you.”

And probably listening, if Radell was being this formal. Rath was surprised that Radell actually remembered which of the many made-up names he'd used the last time the Patris had been present; Rath remembered it because it was distasteful. Wade, as far as Rath was concerned, was what one did in shallow water of either persuasion.

“Avram.” Rath's bow was all the sarcasm he allowed himself, and it failed to make any impression on the density that was Radell's greed. “Is he alone?” he added quietly.

Radell frowned. Clearly, if this was an act, Rath, as an actor, had severely sidestepped the lines assigned him. He failed to repeat the question, and Radell, grotesquely aping obsequiousness, led him toward the private room at the back of the still dusty store.

It was, by contrast, spotless. Everything was gleaming, and a tray of small crudités lay at the center of the ostentatious table. Patris AMatie sat in one armchair, his hands upon the rests. Seated, he was still an imposing presence—one that almost demanded silence. Or fear. He was, of course, perfectly attired, but he still chose black as his color; there was a flash of something that might have been jewel red at the base of his throat, no more.

He had no guards with him.

“Wade,” he said, lifting only his chin. His eyes were dark, and his gaze unfettered by an apparent need to blink.

Rath, however, bowed. It was not a bow of equals, but it was graceful enough; let him think on it.

“It has been some time since Radell has sent word to me, and I admit that I was beginning to feel a certain . . . disappointment. The pieces you brought the first time we met were of great interest to me, and I look forward to seeing what you will offer me this eve.”

Rising from his bow, Rath decided against the other empty chair in the room, and after a moment, Radell occupied it. His supposed girth fit it neatly, but his hands didn't press against the rests; they were troubling the edge of his beard.

All this, Rath noticed as he removed his pack and set about unbuckling it. He was deliberate in his movements, and spent neither more nor less time than necessary; nothing about his movements implied that he was in a hurry. But he wanted to be quit of this place as quickly as possible.

He unwrapped the bowls with care. This, he would have done had he been seated before a fractious Member of the Order of Knowledge, although perhaps he would have moved more slowly. He found amusing the anxiety and greed that such Members often showed, and he liked to extend it.

If the Patris was greedy in that traditional sense of the word, none of it showed on his face. In fact, nothing showed on his face at all; it was like a stone mask, dark eyes almost livid with the intensity of his stare.

He handed the Patris the first of the two bowls; the one with a cracked seam. Patris AMatie took it without comment, moving from the armrests for the first time since Rath had entered the room. Rath watched him turn the bowl over in his hands, and watched that frozen face for any sign. Of what?

His hands were dry. He was silent.

Even Radell seemed slightly cowed; he started his usual babble, but the words rarity and valuable were the only words which were notably audible. Given that Radell could outshout a poor farmer hawking his wares at the market's busiest hour, this said much.

“Where,” Patris AMatie said at length, “did you find this?” He set the bowl upon the table, leaning slightly forward.

“It's a family heirloom,” Rath replied, with the practiced ease of a habitual liar. “A man of my acquaintance has fallen on hard times, as so many of us do. He did not consider it of worth or note; the writing along the rim, in his eyes, was a pattern, no more.”

“And you failed to inform him of its value?”

“Value,” Rath replied, just as easily, “is in the eye of the beholder.”

“Do you know what it was used for?”

“This one? Nothing much. It's cracked,” he added, with a slightly apologetic smile. “The other, which is similar, was used for water, but it wasn't considered decorative enough to be used often.”

“You have another?”

Rath nodded, and went through the same process of unwrapping and revelation. He handed the second bowl to the Patris, and the Patris made some show of studying it. It was a poor show, even to Radell, who nervously cleared his throat five times.

“I assure you,” he began, but the Patris lifted a large hand, and Radell swallowed the rest of his words. Given how many of them there usually were, it was a small wonder he didn't choke on them.

“I will take them both,” the Patris told Radell, but his eyes never left Rath's face.

“The price—” Radell began.

“Three thousand crowns for the cracked bowl; five thousand for the whole.” The words were delivered without inflection; had they been spoken by any other man, Rath would have bet money that the speaker was bored. And far, far too wealthy for wisdom.

But not this one. “You are aware that the marks upon the rim are Ancient Weston words.” It wasn't a question.

Rath shrugged broadly. “They're faded in places,” he said. It had frustrated him greatly in his attempts to take good etchings. “And I confess that my understanding of Ancient Weston is poor. I made some assumptions based on these,” he added, pointing to a random set of runes. He noted the subtle shift in the Patris' expression, and wondered what he had just pointed at. He noted the section of the rim, no more. “But I have not had time to confirm those suspicions. Do you recognize the runes?”