The Hidden City (83 page)

“For her, then?”

“Yes. And no, Andrei. Nothing is ever that simple. For her, I would wield sword and kill if the act were required—but it would be a blind act, an instinctive act. It would require no planning. She is special. She is aware of the ways in which she is special—but she is also unaware of the ways in which she might be more.”

“And you are not.”

“No, to my regret, I am not. I see much in her, and perhaps I, too, am old—addled by the past that has always decided my future. Her future is tied into these demons, as the Magi called them.” He watched his godfather's servant for any flicker of surprise the word “demon” might cause; there was none.

Andrei said, “And you know this—how?”

“I have answered the one question you asked,” he replied, thinking of the statue that had flared to life in the undercity, and thinking as well of Amarais, the sister who had deserted him for reasons he had not—then—been willing to understand. “Trust that I know it. She is part of this, and if she is to survive, I must know more than I now know.”

“My information—”

“Not even the Astari have the information that I believe I will be able to obtain.” The silence that the single word caused was textured and heavy. Ararath, like Andrei, knew when to keep his peace; it was in the abandonment that all risks were taken, and some less wise than others.

“I see,” Andrei replied. “I will aid you as I can.”

“I know. And I know to ask is to burden you. But I can achieve two goals in our meeting with Patris Waverly.”

“His death?”

“That, yes, but it is
not
his death that is of interest to me now; it is the manner of his death, and only that. A test,” he added quietly. “What I do from that point on will be determined by whether or not the test is passed or failed.”

“Assume that it is passed.”

“I will join the AMatie circle. Jewel's presence, as a gift to Patris Waverly, will be a sign of my intentions.”

“His death will surely cause some difficulty when they question your sincerity.”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not. I chose Waverly for a reason,” he added.

“And if the test is failed?”

“I will live as I have lived,” Rath replied. “It will be a welcome—and peaceful—change.”

But Andrei knew which of the two outcomes Rath now desired. He lifted the stone, palming it. His hand seemed to tremble, as if the act were final. “You should have stayed with Handernesse,” he said quietly. “You doubted yourself much in your youth, but I see in you now a Patris that might have lead the House to glory.”

“Had I, I would never have met the girl,” Rath replied, and he said it without rancor. “She shows me much that I refused to understand in my youth; had I stayed, I would have been a bitter—and weaker—man. I will never return to Handernesse; it is no longer my home. But I regret its passing now, in a way that I did not; all thought, then, was for what I had lost.”

“Many a man would have thought, instead, of all that he had gained, for your sister would have inherited the title and the responsibility had she not left.”

Rath nodded. “I understand her better now than I could then, and in a fashion, this is all the apology I will ever be capable of making.”

“And she will never know of it.”

“No,” he said quietly. “If pride is a sin, I am still a creature of sin.” He, too, rose. “It will be difficult to arrange a meeting with Patris AMatie, and in truth, it concerns me; I am not entirely certain I will pass unrecognized, for all my skill.”

“That is your only concern?”

He nodded. “I will linger in the outer circle if possible. Thanks to his generosity in the purchase of a few broken pieces of stone, I have funds with which to entertain the men I despise. They will last some time.”

“Then I will find the information you requested.”

Rath had never doubted it.

Chapter Twenty-four

IF DUSTER HAD ever considered herself an accomplished liar, Haval's lessons wore away her sense of confidence. Jewel could see it clearly in their long, slow walks through the Winter streets. Even Duster's anger, ever ready, had dimmed beneath the weight of her weariness. She was like and unlike Jewel; Jewel wondered, as they walked in silence toward home, what Duster would have been like had she had an Oma, and a home, where warmth was not simply a matter of wood and the clothing one could steal.

Or an uncle she had been forced to kill.

She was even too tired to continue her constant sniping at Lefty, and a strange peace descended upon the crowded rooms in which the den huddled. Jewel wished she could be home more often to see it or enjoy it.

But when she was home—as she was now—she was absorbed with the duties she had undertaken: she taught them how to read. The writing was hard. From Lefty, she expected no less, and was surprised at how he struggled to master what should have come easily to anyone else; of her students, only Finch and Teller worked as hard.

No, if temper frayed in the den, it was Jewel's. She snapped at Carver and Jester when their attention wandered. She cursed liberally at the absence of anything she wanted—water, wood, even the food that was her responsibility.

And in the end, on the way to Haval's house, it was Duster who dared to bring it up. She said, “You've been a real bitch the last couple of days, you know that?”

Jewel stopped in the street and stared at Duster as if she'd lost her mind. “
I've
been a real bitch?”

“That's what I said.”

“You've been sulking in the corner and doing almost
nothing,
and I've been a bitch?”

“Pretty much. If you slap me again, I'll break your arm.”

But Jewel hadn't even begun to raise her hand. She glared at Duster, and Duster shrugged. “No one else will say it,” she told Jewel. “But it needs saying. Everyone else is worried about you,” she added. “Me, I just wonder what in the Hells your problem is.”

They had stopped walking, and Jewel, realizing how highly Haval prized his punctuality, began to stride down the streets, leaving heavy prints in snow that only barely paused its fall.

But Duster hadn't finished. “You've got everything,” she said coldly. “Rath adores you, even if you're too dense to take advantage of it. The others do anything—or would do anything—you asked them. You've got a place, you've got food, you can afford to buy clothing that fits all of us. You've never had to do anything you hated in your life, just to get by. You've got anything any of us could ever want. So what is your problem?”

Jewel had no answer. She was busy seething. But Duster's barbed words found their mark. And the words she offered next put Jewel off her stride enough that they were to be late to meet Haval. She said, “If it's the killing, I don't want your damn help.”

Jewel swiveled, snow dusting her feet. Her hands were bunched in fists.

“Without my help,” she said, the words almost a hiss as they escaped a clenched jaw, “there's no killing. Isn't this what you wanted?”

Duster shrugged. “Maybe,” she said at last, and looked away. “Maybe this is what I wanted. But not like this. Look, I don't think I've ever liked you; you've always been too
good
for me. But this . . .” she shrugged. It was a common gesture. “I don't like it.” She said the words as if they were strange, and given how much she disdained, this was a surprise. “The others—I thought they were weak and stupid. And some of them
are,
and I don't give a shit what you think.

“But not all of them. And they don't need you to be me.” Her laugh was bitter, but restrained. “No one needs me to be me,” she added. “Except
me
. But they all need you to be you.”

“And that's your business now?”

“You made it mine,” Duster told her. “I didn't ask for it, and I don't even want it. But no one else will tell you what you need to hear.” She laughed again, and again, the laughter was familiar in its bitterness. “You said you needed me,” she told Jewel, the words both a taunt and an accusation. “I didn't know you'd be right.”

Jewel wanted to hit her.

But the desire escaped, and the anger went with it, slowly draining into the winter streets, the cold of the air, the damnable snow of this horrible season. She tried to see herself as the others might see her, or even as Duster obviously did, and the glimpse the effort gave her was more than she wanted.

“It's not enough that I have to do this,” she said, her bitterness an echo of Duster's. “I have to be cheerful too.”

“Or not. You're not exactly cheerful, normally.” Duster shrugged. “I'm not having fun either,” she said. “This servant shit—it's hard.”

“If we don't do it—”

“I
know
. The old guy may be a smug bastard, but he's not stupid.” She hesitated, and then added, “He thinks if I screw up, you'll die. We both will.”

“You're not afraid of death,” Jewel said, trying to keep the edge from her voice. Trying to think of Duster as someone who could care enough about anyone else to say something like this.

Duster shrugged. “Not afraid,” she said, evasively. “But not exactly rushing toward it with open arms.” She paused. “He doesn't like me.”

“Haval?”

“Yeah. Haval. Rath doesn't either.”

And you care?
But the words would have been said to wound, and Jewel bit them back with effort.

“They think this is my fault.”

“It's
not
your fault.” The edge slid back in, and Jewel didn't bother to struggle with it. She caught Duster's arm. Duster stared at her hand.

“No one tells me what to do,” Jewel added, removing her hand. “Not you, not them.”

“If it weren't for me, you wouldn't even try.”

“Maybe not. Does it matter? If it weren't for you—”

“Finch would be dead. I've heard it before.”

“Still true. It's my decision.”

“And you'll live with it. Yeah, heard that too. But you—”

Jewel lifted a hand. “I'll try harder,” she said, meaning it. Angry, but meaning it. “To keep it to myself. But nothing that happened there was your fault. And nothing that happens now is your fault either.”

“Unless I screw up.”

Jewel nodded.

“And we're late.”

She cringed.

 

Haval was, indeed, annoyed when they arrived; he kept them waiting by the door for twenty minutes while he puttered about his counter, absorbed in either his work or his annoyance.

Aware that they'd earned it, Jewel was content—barely—to stand and be ignored. To breathe warmer air, in a quiet place. The fact that an angry man sat at its center wasn't much of a concern. She'd grown used to his type of anger.

Eventually, however, satisfied with their apparent compliance, Haval rose, his pale brow a gathered line across a sour face. “If you ladies are ready?”

They nodded, and Duster did not even look sullen.

“Then today we will learn about fear.”

“I think we understand fear,” Jewel told him.

“Good. I note, however, that Duster has not chosen to speak.”

And didn't.

He moved around the counter, calling his wife to take his place. She came, looking slightly harried, and also slightly disgusted; he really wasn't the neatest of craftsmen. “We will be in the back for the afternoon,” Haval told her, “if an emergency arises, you may interrupt us.”

“Fear,” he said quietly, “is something we all face. We face it in different ways. Sometimes we deny its existence. Sometimes we thrive on it. In either case, the fear itself isn't necessarily the defining factor.” He paused. “Understand that men like Waverly live on the fear of others; it keeps their own at bay. Understand as well that he is never without fear. Men with much to lose will never be without it.”

“And you?”

“Fear is a constant companion,” he replied, his expression so serene it was hard to believe the words. “Believe that no life is lived without fear. When you are too tangled up in your own, and especially when you are young—” he allowed them to express their quiet outrage at being called “young” in that particular tone that implied ignorant, “—it is easy to believe that no one who does not obviously show fear feels any.”

“And what are you afraid of?” Duster asked, and not perhaps in the servile tone of voice she had been practicing so damn hard.

“Funny you should ask that today,” Haval replied. “Today I am afraid that I will fail you both. That anything I can teach you will be superficial at best; that you will learn to behave in the appropriate ways only in my presence, and that it is my presence alone that anchors your efforts.”