The Hidden City (78 page)

“Does it matter?”

“No. As long as I get what I want, I don't give a shit.”

“My Oma used to say—”

“Spare me.”

Jewel shrugged. Started to walk. It was Duster, this time, who caught up to her. “I said it because I didn't want him to think that Rath was like—like the others. The ones who kept me chained in that damn room.”

“Why do you care?”

Duster shrugged. “Damned if I know,” she said at last. And it was true. She didn't.

“Rath can take care of himself.”

“And you.”

“And me.” Jewel shrugged. Felt something like happiness, but thinner, and more fragile, as she met Duster's dark eyes. In Torra, she said, “The hardest thing to figure out is what will make you happy.”

“Your Oma said that?”

“All the time.”

“Why?”

“I don't know. It was just something she said. You would have liked her.”

“I doubt it.”

“She would have liked you.”

“I
really
doubt that.”

Jewel exhaled, her breath a mist wall between them. “I do,” she said quietly.

“Because I saved Finch.”

She nodded.

“You like Finch.”

“Yes. She's important to me.”

“Why?”

“Because she's Finch. She's not very harsh, and she's not—she's not like me. Or you. Sometimes we need people who aren't. My mother was never hard enough, according to my Oma, and she's some part of me. But Duster, Finch didn't save herself. If you hadn't decided to help her somehow, she would have died.”

Duster said nothing.

“If I hadn't decided to help her, she would have died.” She paused, searching for the right words when so many wrong ones waited like traps. “She didn't need you to kill for her. She didn't need me to do that either. But she needed
both
of us.”

“And we were there.” The words were bitter. “What about what I need?”

“I don't know what you need,” Jewel replied. “Sometimes I don't know what
I
need.”

“Your Oma again?”

“No, that's just me. I'm making it up as I go. We only have now,” she added, “and yes, that part's my Oma.”

“I'm not afraid of dying,” Duster said, as they walked. “I'm not really afraid of pain either.”

Jewel nodded. “I'm afraid of both.”

“But you came to the mansion.”

She nodded. “There are things that I'm more afraid of.”

“Like what?”

Jewel shrugged. An invitation to expose herself to Duster wasn't going to happen every day. Thank the gods. But she felt that she owed Duster the truth. Or as much of it as she could actually see. “I'm afraid of failing,” she said quietly. “I'm afraid that I've made promises I can't keep. I'm afraid,” she added, stopping again and turning to face Duster, “of losing any of you.”

Duster's laugh was harsh and grating. Jewel accepted it, let it pass her by. Duster didn't have any other way of laughing. Maybe she never would.

“Finch doesn't need what you need. I don't think any of the others do. Except Lander,” she added softly, her vision suddenly sharpening as she spoke. “I think Lander needs what you need.”

“Lander doesn't even talk.”

“No. And I don't think he will until we—” She stopped. Wherever this was going, she didn't like it. But she was Jewel, her Oma's little fire. “Until we kill Patris Waverly.” Her eyes widened a little. “You said that, then. I didn't—I wasn't—” She shook her head.

“I want them all dead,” Duster told her, not even noticing.

“I know. But we start where we start.” She closed her eyes. Opened them. “Thank you.”

“For what?” Duster seemed genuinely surprised.

“For trying to spare Rath. Even if you know he can take care of himself.”

Duster shrugged, retreating from the moment. Or so it appeared. But when she spoke, she said, “I've never had much I was afraid to lose. I wonder what it's like.” The bitterness and envy that inflected the words weren't all they contained; it surprised Jewel.

But today, so had Duster, if only a little.

“It's like any other fear,” Jewel replied. “But some weaknesses are good and some are bad. I think this is a good one.”

“I don't want it.”

Jewel said, quietly, “I know. But you saved Finch. That counts for something. It has to.”

Duster didn't laugh. She said, “I'm trying. Not to be whatever it was they thought I'd become. But you keep harping on Finch. You want to know
why
I saved her?” She spoke the words with enough force, they were like a blow.

And behind that, Jewel
knew
she was afraid, for just a minute, of what effect those words would have. Was fighting fear the only way she knew how: By ignoring it. Worse.

“Doesn't matter.”

“It should. I saved her because they needed her dead.”

Jewel frowned. “They
needed
her dead?”

“They needed her dead. That's what they said. They wanted her 'cause she wasn't all damaged and dark, like me.” Bitter, bitter words. “I
wanted
her to die. She's never had a hard life—” So unlike the words she'd spoken to Haval, and yet, they were
also
just as true; Jewel could hear it. Duster was never going to be simple. “But I wanted them to suffer more. That's it. That's the only reason.”

Before she could think, Jewel said, “That's not the only reason.”

Duster flinched. Started to speak. Stopped. In the cold, breath like a whirling cloud all around them, she stared at Jewel Markess. Jewel stared back.

“It's the only reason,” she said again. But the words were thinner. “It's—the only reason that matters.”

“What's the other one?”

Whispered words. But Duster surprised Jewel. She answered. “She was the only
good
thing I did there. The only thing I—the only
right
thing. They never guessed I could do it. They never guessed someone as fallen as me could do anything good. But—if I only ever do one good thing—she's alive. She's not me. She can do the rest. And she can do whatever good—” she said the word without her usual sneer, “
only
because of me.”

Jewel understood, then. Why Duster had looked so angry when she had laid eyes on Finch.

“That has to count for something, right? In Mandaros' Halls, that has to count for something.”

“It counts,” Jewel said softly. “And with more than just Mandaros. He won't care until you're dead.”

She fell silent, and the mists parted slowly around their faces.

Duster said, “I killed my uncle.”

And Jewel, to her own surprise, said, “He probably deserved it.” And meant it.

“That's it?”

“What's it?”

“That's all you're going to say?”

“I know that the Patris deserves death,” Jewel replied quietly. “All of them. I don't see why your uncle was different; if you killed him, you had your reasons.”

Duster just stared at her, hand on her dagger, her eyes wide, dark eyes. Animal eyes.

“We have to get back.”

“I don't know if I can stay. With you. With them.”

“You can. But not if you don't want to.”

They started to walk again, two girls in dresses that were too fine, in a Winter world where anything was possible, and ice of all kinds was both deadly and thin.

 

Teller made a place for himself in the kitchen, at Finch's side. Jewel should have been surprised, but she wasn't; he had probably done the same thing at home, and finding something familiar in the midst of all that was strange just made sense. Lefty was with them, both hands by his sides; he spoke with his hands and with his voice, alternating between them, depending on whether or not they were looking. Jewel stood in the hall that was only inches away from the kitchen's frame, looking in at their world.

It was a warm one, with fire in the woodstove and bodies radiating heat. Duster, to no one's surprise, avoided kitchen duties with a sullen passion. Carver avoided them adroitly, and Arann did the heavy lifting—the wood, for instance. But Finch directed when Jewel wasn't there, and Jewel was content to let her be.

When Jewel's family had been alive, the kitchen had been their gathering room, the place at which all discussions of import were held. Her Oma would sit in the corner, smoking, which irritated her mother; her mother would cook and clean while her Oma would hold forth with gossip—she called it information—and the stories that Jewel so loved. Her father would help here and there, but he said two women in one kitchen was one woman too many, and his mother had affectionately called him a coward.

Jewel shared some of that cowardice, and some of that affection, watching her den-kin work. And they were her den; she accepted that now. They didn't have to steal—not yet—to live and eat. Later would be later; for now there were pockets of safety, of things that were familiar.

When Finch looked up from her work, she paused, glancing at what they were wearing. But she didn't ask where they'd gone; she said only that they must be hungry. The last was a question. Jewel's stomach answered. Like a little mother, her Finch. Like her own mother might have been when she had been ten.

“Where are the boys?”

“Carver and Arann are trying to beat the crap out of each other,” Lefty said cheerfully. “They call it
training
.” The cheer wavered when Duster stepped into the kitchen, and the hand that had been flying in mute conversation now returned to his armpit; his spine bowed and his head sank inward, as if he expected to be hit.

With Lefty, words and blows were kindred spirits.

It was this meekness, this obvious fear, that so goaded Duster. Jewel knew it, and knew also that Lefty was incapable of being anything else.

Duster did sneer. That, too, was a part of Duster, and it wouldn't change any time soon. But she curbed her tongue and said instead, “Sounds like fun. Maybe I'll join them.” She paused. “Can I lay bets?”

“You've got money to bet with?”

Duster shrugged. “Some.”

“No.”

She laughed, then, and it was almost genuine. Surprising in its burst of warmth. Jewel felt fear, not of the laughter, but of losing it; she wanted to hold it, cling to it, nail it down. But she let it go, because if Duster was to be here, to be
hers,
she would have to accept Duster.

Duster walked down the hall, and Lefty slowly unfolded. “She's in a good mood,” he said hesitantly. Even hopefully. It hurt Jewel, to hear the fear and the uncertainty. But she nodded.

Only Teller was silent, his face drawn. “I'm not a good cook,” he began.

Finch hit his arm with her little fist. “He's not a bad one.”

“The rest of us suck,” Jewel told him cheerfully. “Not good is better than very bad.”

“Mostly, we don't,” Lefty added. “Cook, I mean.”

Teller nodded. “Wood is expensive.” They all looked toward the stove.

“Rath can afford it, for now.”

“And now is all we have,” Finch said, in mimicry of Jewel's voice.

“You've been spending too much time with Jester,” Jewel told her, laughing.

“He's silly,” Finch replied, her expression grave. “And I don't know how he
can
be after—” She shook her head. “But I like him.”

“Good. We're all going to be living together for a long time; we might as well like each other if we can manage it.”

Finch nodded. “We'll eat in the room?” she asked, looking dubiously at the kitchen table. They could crowd around it in theory, but not unless they were sitting in each other's laps.

“Sounds good. I'll go and get what's left of Carver and Arann.”

“Rath said they should practice,” Finch told her.

“Sounds like Rath. We should eat. We have lessons in the afternoon.”

Teller perked up a bit. “Lessons?”

“Reading, sort of. It's mostly just learning the letters,” she added. “But I bought another slate or two; we can share for now.”

“Torra?”

She shook her head. That was the language of the street, for too many people. “Weston.”

He nodded again. His eyes were bright, too bright, and she
knew
he was thinking of his mother. Would think of her often, in this place. But so did Jewel. Nothing wrong with that.

 

“Carver's good,” Duster said, when they had finished eating. She spoke quietly, and only to Jewel, although everyone in the room could hear what she said. People tip-toed around Duster. Wasn't the smartest thing to do, but it would change. She hoped.

“Good how?”

“He knows how to handle himself. I'd have trouble taking him down.”

“And Arann?”

“He's big and he's slow,” Duster replied. “And he's afraid of hurting anyone.” She said it dismissively.

“He'll defend what he feels needs defending,” Jewel told her.

“He'll do that, yes. But only that.”

“Not asking him for more.”

“No. You wouldn't.” The words were sharp. They were meant as a criticism. But they had enough truth in them that they couldn't sting. “Not much of a den,” Duster added. “You've got two of us, two and a half if you really count Arann. I think Fisher's got the right build to fight, but he just sits back and watches. Jester couldn't fight a mouse. Lefty—” she bit back the words, although the contempt in the name was damning anyway.