The Hidden City (39 page)

If one could stand and fight against something that couldn't be seen.

Still, hearing surrendered what sight had only barely hinted at, in the windows of merchants and light: there were two. Jewel had spoken of three, and this meant that—if all supposition, all guesswork, all folly were accurate, she faced only one.

“They're gone.”

Not the words she expected to hear, surrounded by walls in a narrow passage between two buildings. But the voice was also not the voice she expected—and as she allowed the words to actually make sense, she also realized that the person who uttered them was young.

Maybe her age, maybe a bit older or a bit younger; it was hard to tell. He was thin, bone-thin, but taller than Jewel, and half his face was obscured by hair. Then again, half of hers usually was as well, the difference being that when hers was in her eyes, she shoved it out of the way.

In the shadows of the alley, it was hard to see his expression, given that a third of his face was hidden.

“You should do something about your hair,” she said, risking first words without exactly choosing them.

He shrugged, almost bored, as if he'd heard it all before and didn't care. But he hadn't been crouching, and she hadn't even heard him enter the alley. Wondered which way he'd come.

He was wearing clothing that didn't fit him, but unlike Arann's, his was on the large side. It was heavy, and the color was hard to determine; something dark. Either he was part of a den, had a family, or was a much better thief than she had ever tried to be.

His knife hand didn't shake.

“You know them?” he asked, still holding that dagger, and still staring down at her.

She shook her head. “And I didn't want to,” she added, slightly defensively.

“No,” he said softly, “you don't.”

As she had assessed him, he now assessed her. Low whistle, but still a boy's whistle. “What are you doing out here?”

“Hiding.”

“Ha ha.” The dagger came closer, but it had to; the boy did. His pants, she thought, were also on the large size. They were rolled up over bare feet, exposing large ankles. Which answered one question: He was a better thief. “What are you doing out here at night? Running away from home?”

She shook her head.

“Not a smart thing to do,” he added, and for a moment, there was an edge of anger and bitterness in the words. She thought he might threaten her. He looked as if he were deciding.

Rath had taught her how to fight, sort of. Most of the lessons simply centered around how to cause enough pain that she could then run away. She unbent slowly, her palms out, watching the boy's face. Faces gave the most away, when there was anything to give away.

His was shuttered like a window against the Winter rains.

“I'm trying,” she said, making a bitter decision of her own, “to save someone's life.”

She saw a brow rise into the length of hair across forehead. Just one, though. “By hiding in an alley?”

“I'm not going to save anyone if I need saving myself,” she snapped back. Then, “My name's Jay.”

“Like the bird?”

“Like the letter.”

“Letter? Oh, you're educated.” The dagger shifted. “Well-off girl. This is not your part of town.”

“I live in the thirty-fifth.”

“You work there?” The word work had unmistakable meaning. At one time, she would have hated it. A year ago. Maybe less. Now?

“No.” No pride in the word at all, just fact. Fact and moonlight, the knowledge that it was moving. “Look,” she said, “you're hungry, right?”

“Do I look hungry?”

“Aren't we all?”

That stopped him for a minute. “Who are you trying to save?” he asked at last. “You have family here?”

She shook her head. “Dead. My father was last to go. In the shipyard.”

“You belong with a den?”

She almost snorted. “How? What would I have to offer?”

It was the right answer, sort of. “Then who are you trying to save?”

“Some girl,” she said at last. “Named Finch.”

“Finch?”

“Like the bird.”

“Friend of yours?”

“Hope so.”

His single visible eye narrowed, as if he thought she was making fun of him. But because she was a lousy liar, and because everything—as Rath constantly pointed out—showed on her face, the narrowing didn't turn into a glare. “You're trying to save someone you don't know?”

“Something like that.”

“So you're stupid.”

“That, too.” Not that she didn't want to slap him for saying so, but the moon—the damn moon—wasn't staying still. “Look,” she added, balling her hands into fists and lowering them to her sides, “if you're going to try something, can you do it now? Because I don't have a lot of time.”

He stared at her. “Maybe you're crazy,” he said at last. “My name's Carver.” To make his point, he twisted his knife in the air. She wondered when he acquired it, but only briefly. “You said something about food?”

“Food? Oh. Right. I'm going to Taverson's. You know it?”

He shrugged, which could have meant anything.

“But I have to get there soon.”

“Meeting someone there?”

“Hope so.” She paused, glanced out into the street. “Can you use that thing?”

He shrugged again.

“Well, don't use it on me. If you want, you can follow. I can feed you there; I have to eat something anyway.” And two people were safer than one. Not that, at this age, two people amounted to much. “Where do you live, anyway?”

“Somewhere around here.”

Which was fair enough. She had no intention of telling him where she lived. But she winced when she saw his feet.

“The old ones fell apart,” he told her. “It ain't cold yet. I'll find better.”

She was just hoping that they let him in.

Rath retraced his wide steps as the city streets darkened. The sound at his back made it clear that his pursuers were never far enough behind that he could take advantage of the terrain and his superior knowledge of the holding. If, indeed, it was superior.

The reflective surface of glass, blended with light, had given him his only glimpse of the men that followed him, and if he strayed farther from the circular road, he would lose that. The holdings were not known for the quality of their windows; not the ones he knew well. And the ones that he'd have to cross featured gates and fences as the roadside attraction. He couldn't climb them quickly enough to make use of them either.

All this, on the run. To stop was death.

Living was incentive.

Taverson's was crowded. That much, they could hear from three buildings away. It made Jewel stop dead in her tracks, but Carver was careful enough that he didn't collide with her back. Instead, he waited. She took a deep breath, and the wind brought the scent of smoke and sweat to where she waited. Apparently, the crowd at night was either larger or a whole lot louder.

She wasn't certain which she wanted, but she approached the swinging door, trying to straighten up. She needed to look taller.

Carver actually snickered.

With a pointed glare at his bare feet, she shoved the door open and stepped in. The light was bright enough that she had to blink, and if it hadn't been, the smoke was thick enough to cause the same reaction. The noise was almost overwhelming; so much for her plan to sit still and listen hard. Not that it was the plan, but she'd had hopes.

She looked for the familiar barmaid, and saw no one. Given her height, it wasn't much of a surprise. But there was a clear path—of a sort—from the door to the back where most of the tables were, and she began to make her way toward them, looking at people's feet.

“Hey, you!” She jumped. The voice was familiar. It was, in fact, Taverson's voice. But louder and a lot less friendly. Not that it was friendly to start with.

“No, not you,” he added, and she realized that shouting was his only available method of being heard. “The one behind you. You!”

Carver. She turned; he was standing there, chin tilted up in awkward defiance. She reached out and grabbed his shirtfront, her fingers closing around cold buttons and a handful of heavy cotton. He was surprised enough to lose the growing expression, and off-balance enough that he stumbled. “Put the damn knife away,” she shouted in his ear.

He looked at it in surprise, and then flushed. Made him seem younger, which made her more comfortable.

“He's with me,” she said, in the same shout, as she turned to face the tavern's owner, keeping Carver behind her back by the simple expedient of the shirt leash. From where Taverson stood, he probably couldn't see Carver's feet. She hoped.

This good news did not diminish the tavernkeeper's annoyance. “With you? Rath know about this?”

She nodded vigorously, hoping that the smoke was as thick as it looked.

He snorted, and she could swear there were eddies in the air that followed the sound, traveling through the room.

“Take a seat at the back,” he shouted. “Both of you. Stay out of trouble. You!” He shouted, at Carver again. “I see anything shiny that isn't round and copper, you're picking up your own teeth before I throw you out. Got it?”

She tugged on the shirt, hard.

“Yes.”

“What?”

“Yes, sir!”

“Good. Now scram.”

Jewel dragged Carver toward a table that looked sort of empty; it was crammed up against a wilting, yellow potted plant. She was surprised it wasn't dead because, if she'd had to live here, she would be. Only one man attempted to get in their way, more out of amused malice than any real threat, and Marla, swinging her way out of the back kitchen, kicked his knee. “This isn't the right time of day, Jay,” she said, in a loud, loud voice that didn't quite sound like shouting.

“I'm sorry.”

“Can't hear you, love. But don't worry. We'll take care of you.” She waded past, and people got out of her way.

“What do you want to eat?” Jewel shouted, in Carver's ear.

“What?”

And gave up. She couldn't see the street from here; she couldn't see the moon. She'd expected the door to be open, and it wasn't. The streets might as well have been in a different holding. And the moon in a different sky.

Getting home wasn't going to be the problem she'd been terrified about. It was getting to Finch in time, and that one was infinitely worse.

She turned to look at the stranger she'd dragged into the tavern, trying to think of some excuse for leaving him here. Trying to think at all.

 

Carver's feet hurt. It was warmer in the tavern than he'd been in two days. Smokier, but he'd trade smoke for rain, about now. Or heat. He would have massaged his toes, but he didn't want to look weak or pathetic. That had costs.

Jay? Jay. Was staring at him. He tried to meet that odd look with a glare, with what might pass for a glare, if she could see both his eyes. She kept pushing her hair off her face, and it kept springing back; he wondered what it must be like to have hair that stupid. Might have asked, but truth was, he was starving, and he wanted food. Whatever food she'd buy. He could save the rest of the words for later.

His stomach had stopped aching sometime yesterday. He'd had water—water was easy—but although he'd come up with an unexpected bonus in the form of an unconscious drunk man, food was just damn scarce. It was the feet, really. By the time he'd managed to roll the man over and unbutton his tunic, strip off his pants, he was already beginning to groan—and the shoes, way too big, couldn't be had in safety. He cursed himself as he ran; he should have started with the damn shoes first.

Bare feet could be seen by the market guards a mile off. They weren't harsh, but they didn't budge; he was entirely unwanted in the Common. Fair enough, because he had no coin to spend but charm and sleight of hand; it was a game that they both understood, and even if it ended in death, it had its rules.

Finding this weird girl had been an accident.

He couldn't decide if it was Kalliaris smiling or frowning. Gods were perverse, and what they gave with one hand, they could take with another, and backhand you in the process. Carver didn't trust the gods.

Carver didn't trust anyone.

But was he going to feel threatened by a girl? She was, what, nine? Ten? Hard to tell, and hard to ask. She had a dagger; he'd seen that right away. Wasn't completely certain if she knew how to use it, but was completely certain he knew how to use his better. Things would have been different, had his brother survived the den fight.

Bitter memory. Hungry memory. All the “what ifs” in the world. Jay was frightened. He knew she was scared when he saw her crouching in the alley, but that made sense; he wasn't hiding in it himself for no reason. Not that the Harricks were hunting him, at least not tonight, but they took what they could when they had the chance.

There, surrounded by old brick and warped stairs, fear was normal. He wondered if it was normal in a tavern, because he hadn't really spent much time inside one. Hunger didn't deprive him of senses: What he smelled, what he could see—the dying plant, the wide, tall men, the golden glasses and dull tin mugs—and what he could touch, he would remember. Beneath his hand, he could feel runnels in the flat, hard surface of the table. Someone had started to carve something here.

Someone had had something to carve. A dagger would have done the job—but Carver had nothing he wanted to leave behind in something as dead as wood. It didn't bleed, and it didn't scream.