The Hidden City (11 page)

The kitchen—if it could be graced with such an elevated description—did have a vent to the outside; it was covered with new netting, and it was narrow enough that not even Jewel could fit an arm down the pipe. He didn't like it, but he didn't much like the idea of Winter without a woodstove. He busied himself, but did not cook anything; he mashed fruit, doused bread in milk, brought out soft cheese.

He carried these back to Jewel's room—and stopped himself from thinking of it
as
Jewel's room.

She was lying on the floor; she levered herself up on her elbows as he entered, and made to rise. He frowned, and she subsided; his frown was ferocious. Lack of sleep, and the uncommon occurrence of a gnawing worry, had conspired to rob him of any ability to project charm or friendliness.

“I feel funny,” she told him, as he knelt by her side.

“You're weak,” he replied.

“I know. But I—”

“I mean, you're weak from the fever. You haven't eaten much. You've barely been drinking water.”

“Rath, I can't—”

“Do
not
start that again.” He put the basket on her stomach, and helped her to sit. “Can you eat?”

She nodded. Her eyes were wide, seen as they were through unruly fringes of hair. Humidity hadn't done much to straighten the curls.

“Then eat.”

“What about you?”

“I'll eat when you're finished.”

She stared at him for a long time. “Can I at least say thank you?”

“No.”

“Oh.”

“Look, if your Oma is watching from Mandaros' Halls, she can damn well wait with the lectures.”

Dark brows rose.

“I'm tired,” he added. “And I'm not about to apologize for that in my own home.”

“Have you left at all?”

“None of your business.”

She ate a bit of the fruit, and her eyes widened again. He said nothing, watching her. Something too close to relief threatened to overwhelm him. Losing battle.

She ate for a while in silence, as if eating was new and fascinating. But silence, with children, rarely lasted. “What do you do?” she asked.

“You don't have any more questions.”

Because she was ten, she nodded.

“But I happen to have a lot of them, and I want you to be healthy enough to answer.”

Healthy enough was another two days in coming. Rath went out to market at the end of the second day; it was a longer walk, and he had to admit that the squalor of the thirty-fifth was worse than he'd remembered. Then again, he'd never actually lived in the thirty-fifth holding before; he wondered how long he would stay, now that he was there.

He stopped at Radell's shop.

Radell was alone; in the middle of the day, he often was. It was hard to imagine that he had enough custom to keep the storefront going, but the two pieces that Rath had brought would keep the shop open for some time.

Radell brightened when Rath walked through the door, and then sagged when he realized that Rath wasn't carrying anything of interest. “I suppose you're here for the money?” He managed to make the question sound vaguely accusatory.

Rath nodded.

“You'll be back with something soon?”

“Not for another week or so. I'm following a lead,” Rath added.

“Good, good. No,” Radell told him, as he ducked beneath the desk and fished a key out of a strongbox that wasn't actually locked, “I don't want to know anything about it.”

“Has the Patris returned?”

Radell shook his head, almost mournfully. “He's a peculiar man,” he said, because there was no one to hear him, “and a bit particular about things. But as you can see, his money's good.”

“Impressively good.”

Radell's eyes narrowed. “You think it's too good?”

“Everything is,” Rath replied, with a bored shrug. “When did he start visiting your establishment?”

“He's been a customer for about three years. Maybe longer, but he didn't buy much until three years ago. He's particularly interested in Old Weston artifacts and books.”

“And he knows enough not to be tempted by most of your antiques.” The emphasis on the word was not lost on Radell, but the younger man took no insult.

“Do you know where he lives?”

That, on the other hand, was coming close to a danger zone. “Why?”

“I'm curious. I have no desire to deal with him directly,” Rath added. “As you should well know, by now.”

“You deal with the Order of Knowledge.”

“From time to time, yes. When I think that what I've found won't be of interest to your regular clientele.”

“You should let me be the judge of that.”

Given his taste in signage, beard, and clothing, Rath had formed distinct opinions about Radell's judgment. He was politic as ever, and kept these to himself. He considered telling Radell about the fact that the Patris had had him followed; the idea that Radell had arranged it never crossed Rath's mind.

Because Radell truly did not want to know anything about Rath's business. It was better for all concerned that way; if an item went missing, and the magisterial guards chose to pay a visit—as they often could—Radell wanted to be able to truthfully trumpet his ignorance.

It was sound practice.

The magisterial guards were part of the Magisterium, and they served the Kings. If the situation warranted it—if the man or woman who had lost a treasured heirloom had enough political pull—the guards might show up with one of the judgment-born. Or one of the bard-born.

The judgment-born, golden-eyed all, were sons of their father, Mandaros, the god of judgment; they could not be lied to, and they could discern, if they were trained, elements of criminal activity. They could be trusted, however, to be exactly what they appeared to be; they could not be bribed to lie, one way or the other.

He numbered none of them among his friends, but he did not disdain or despise them; they did what they were born to do, no more and certainly no less.

The bard-born—any of the talent-born—were different. They could not be detected by the simple expedient of looking at and noting the color of their irises, and they owed their power to an accident of birth, rather than a remote deity. They therefore felt free to make those alliances that seemed to suit them, and they did so without the natural compulsion of an immortal parent's blood to guide or bind them.

The bard-born were, however, almost always associated with one of the bardic colleges. In Averalaan, Senniel was that college, although many Morniel bards also ventured to the capital, to sing in its many courts, and tread in the shadow of lives of privilege.

The talent-born had more—and less—power than the god-born. One could not lie to the judgment-born, any more than one could live without drawing breath; one
could
lie to the bard-born, with enough training or experience. The bard-born were sensitive to a man's voice. Rath, sensitive as well, but in a different fashion.

On the other hand, Rath could not, at whim, use his voice as a tool of command; he could not use voice alone to give orders that must be obeyed. He could not sing in a way that could captivate a crowd of thousands; he could barely sing in a way that didn't instantly sour wine-mellowed men.

Radell, a nervous little weasel of a man, albeit a fairly wealthy one, hadn't the control to hide behind words. Luckily, he hadn't the ego to deny the weakness; he avoided it, instead.

“Patris AMatie is not one of the mage-born, Radell?”

Radell shrugged. It was an uneasy shuffle of motion. “How would I know? He doesn't wear the medallion,” he added.

“I noticed the lack.”

“Well, then. It's none of my business.”

“Unless he chooses to use magery to burn down your fine establishment.”

Radell looked shocked. Was, probably. He was good enough at acting that it was difficult to tell. How a man could be that good at acting, and that bad at lying, Rath was never certain.

“I think not,” Radell said at last, fidgeting with his mess of a beard. “Where else would he go to find his antiquities?”

Rath didn't answer. Mostly because Radell would have plugged his ears and shouted a lot in response. But of the talent-born men and women that Rath had met, it was the mages he distrusted instinctively.

The healer-born, he had visited once or twice. They were bound by their odd power, and they were protected by a heavy squad of guards at almost all times. Life and death was literally in their hands. But the causing of death? He had never heard of it. Although they, like the mage-born and the bard-born, were in theory free of the taint of the gods, they were bound by their talent, and their fealty to it ran deep. The healer-born often worked at the side of the Priests and Priestesses in the Mother's temple; no more needed to be known of their habits.

Radell dumped a large sack on the table; it made a delightful noise. “It's gold,” he said, almost apologetically. “I asked for smaller coin—I know you prefer it—but you know bankers.”

Rath shrugged. “Smaller coin in that amount would be more obvious than even I would like. Thank you,” he added, meaning it. “I'll be back.”

He made certain that he was not being followed. At the height of day, it was, oddly enough, far easier to do.

He even considered taking a well-earned drink at one of the more expensive taverns in the market proper, but decided against it; Jewel was still recovering, and he didn't want her to be without food or water for longer than absolutely necessary.

Burdened by both, he finally made his way home.

Thinking about the talent-born.

 

Jewel was not only not sleeping when he opened the door, she was not in her room. She was in the kitchen, tidying invisible mess. At least that's what he assumed she was doing; she had a bucket, a rag, and all of the cupboards, some of dubious quality, were open for her inspection. Her hair was tied back, pulled up and over her eyes, although much of it had worked itself free of the binding.

She looked exhausted.

“What,” he said, standing, his arms full, “do you think you're
doing?
”

She almost fell off the chair. Managed to right herself by grabbing its high back. “I'm cleaning,” she said, in as pert a voice as he'd yet heard her use.

“I can see that.”

“Then why did you ask?”

Rath considered pulling the chair out from under her. Instead, he walked over to the negligible counter space, and dumped the contents of his basket. “I'm going to guess,” he said, in a voice that was definitively unfriendly, “that that water didn't get into the bucket on its own.”

“I went to the well,” she told him. She picked up the wet rag—which was blackened with dust—and dropped it into the water.

“You . . . went to the well.”

She nodded. “It was a bit tricky to find.”

“Did I not forbid you to leave?”

She shook her head; more hair fell free. “That was at the last place,” she added, as she picked up the rag, wrung it dry—or as dry as she could with her slender hands and lack of muscle—and clambered up on the chair again.

“Get down from there this instant.”

She looked across at him; she could meet his eyes with ease, given the added height of the chair's legs beneath her. “I'm not finished yet.”

“You
are
finished.”

“The cupboards—”

“I don't
have
anything to put
in
the damn cupboards.”

“You can store some of the food there,” she told him. Her voice quavered slightly, but her chin came up. She was working hard for her defiance.

“Jewel—”

“Jay.”

“Jay, then.”

“Yes?”

“What exactly do you think you're doing?”

“I'm cleaning.”

“Yes, I can see that. Why?”

“Because it's dirty.”

The absurd desire to strangle her came and went. “Jay, you are
not
in my debt.”

The rag stilled, and she looked deflated. “I thought I could, you know, clean up a bit. Before I left.”

He gave up. “It is dirty,” he admitted. “But so are you, now.”

“I'll wash up later.”

“In the river, you mean.”

She said nothing.

“Jewel—Jay—you are barely well. You spent over five days burning with fever; you ate very little. I do not intend for you to return to your river home until you are fully recovered. This,” he added, taking the bucket from its place beneath the chair, “is
not
going to help.

“I brought food,” he added. “If you feel you
must
do something useful, do something with the food. Make dinner. And,” he added, “eat.”

“I don't want your pity.”

He looked at her, then. “I know. But sometimes, in this life, we just don't get what we want. Or, to reverse that, we get an awful lot of what we
don't
want. And we learn to live with it. So learn.”

She was bristling with resentment.

“Here.” He handed her a long, slender dagger. “I don't have another that I'm willing to let you use. You cut yourself, you can bleed.”

“Yes, Rath,” she said, sullenly.

He started to walk out of the kitchen, and paused in the door. Without looking at her, he said, “I don't pity you.”

“Then why am I here?”

“You're out of questions, remember?”