The Hidden City (7 page)

A beard brushed the other side of the glass, and a familiar glower could be seen just below Rath's eye level before the lock was turned and the door swung open.

“You're late,” the man hissed. “Two days late.”

Rath nodded. “My apologies,” he said. “I was detained.”

“I don't want to hear about it.”

He never did. Which was why Rath liked Radell. Radell, who now went by the name Avram, was about ten years Rath's junior; he had grown a beard because he could dye it, and it added—or so he thought—years to his face. His face, wide and flecked by early exposure to sun, was pinched and pale.

“Is this a bad time?”

“Yes,” Radell hissed. He looked back, into the shop. Rath couldn't easily discern what he was looking at; the contents of the store got in the way. Shelves stretched from the front of the store into shadow, each as tall as the ceiling. They housed antiquities—most fake—and books; they also kept dust, spiders, and silverfish in great abundance. Radell lived with those. He had paid the mage-born to make certain that the larger insects that came with the warm ocean clime never crossed his threshold, but he was at heart a cheap bastard. Besides which, he thought the cobwebs made the store look more distinguished. Which was true, if by distinguished one meant that it looked as if almost everything sat there, untouched, unmoved, and definitively unsold, year after year.

“I'll go,” Rath said, backing away from the door.

But Radell's shoulders had already done their forward slump, and in Radell, that was a sign of graceless resignation.

“Avram?” A deep voice drifted out of the store's back room. As back rooms went, they were easily the most modern and cheery part of the establishment; they were certainly the cleanest. They were also only opened to persons of import. Rath, on occasion, managed to gain entry by dint of his ability to find “unusual” items.

Such as the ones that now weighed him down.

Rath's smile tightened. He now bore an expression similar to Radell's, but for distinctly different reasons. He knew at once that this customer was of import; that he was a
private
patron, which usually meant monied; that he was either extremely rich or frequent. He also knew that Radell lived in dread of the day that Rath cut out middlemen. Thus, Radell's reluctance.

Rath's was different. He valued middlemen because he valued privacy; he valued Radell because Radell could lie like the proverbial rug—and it was Radell who was required to come up with the ludicrous back story of ancient wonder which was the foundation upon which Rath's items would then be placed on display. Rath, more prosaic, disdained the cheap jaunts into imaginary tales that wouldn't have impressed a smart child. He also valued the privacy that came with being anonymous.

Ah, well. He had already decided that it was time to move.

“Avram, is there some difficulty?”

Radell's face did the jump from resignation to obsequiousness. It was, in all, a brilliant display—something that even Rath had to marvel at. “No, Patris AMatie, no difficulty at all. Please allow me to introduce one of my associates.” He bowed, his beard clearing dust from the floorboards. With that much middle, Rath wondered how he could maintain the bow without overbalancing. But Radell had stores of athleticism reserved for just such occasions.

The Patris—if indeed he
was
a Patris, and Rath privately doubted it—came at last into view.

He was a good six inches taller than Rath, and his round dome of a head gleamed in the light of the lamp he had carried from the back room. His clothing, austere, was perfectly cut, and fell from broad shoulders to floor in an almost august drape of black. He wore a beard, but it was cropped close to his face, and veered down his chin in a sharp point—as unlike Radell's facial mess as a beard could be. He radiated both confidence and power.

Perhaps, Rath thought, he did Radell a disservice; if this man was not a Patris, if he was not one of the patriciate that ruled the Isle—at least in monetary affairs, for he was clearly not one of The Ten—Radell could be forgiven for making the assumption.

“Patris,” Radell continued, when the man had taken as close a look at Rath as Rath was comfortable with, “this is Wade.”

“Wade? I see.” The man extended a hand.

Rath, carrying the pack in his hands, made an exaggerated display of its weight, excusing himself from the social nicety of actually taking the offered hand. Rath was a good actor; there was no awkwardness in the refusal.

But . . . the man noted it.

“Wade does odd jobs for me,” Radell continued, stepping in front of Rath, and bowing again. The bow lent dignity to the word “scraping.” “And if he is not always timely, he is
very
reliable.”

“He is the man upon whom we have been waiting, then.”

Radell colored slightly. “Yes, Patris. My apologies. There was some difficulty—”

“Yes, yes,” the Patris said, lifting a large hand. “If you will proceed,” he added, looking at Rath. “My time grows short. I am a busy man.”

Radell ushered them into the back room. Light, magelight, adorned the walls in four places, and the furniture gleamed with new oil; the chairs, curved arms beneath velvet pads, had been placed around a flat, wide table. The table was almost made gaudy by the intricate carvings that circled its perimeter; the legs curved and ended in wooden paws, in mimicry of some great Southern beast. The wood was dense, ironwood or perhaps cherry; it was stained so dark it was almost black, although paler streaks of grain could be seen in the light.

Nothing in this room was sparse or subtle.

Rath, silent, placed the pack upon the table. He failed to take a chair, but the Patris did not. Seated, the man was more impressive. He could almost meet Radell's eyes on a level, and Radell was standing and unconsciously—or self-consciously—wringing his hands; he, too, remained standing, as if at attention.

“Patris,” he said, “wine?”

The man shook his head. “Not tonight, Avram, but I thank you for your offer of hospitality. I am eager to see what your associate bears with him.”

Rath wanted to be gone, and quickly. But he was meticulous and careful as he removed each of the stone pieces from his backpack, orienting their carved runic surfaces toward Avram's distinguished customer as if he did nothing else with his life but serve.

He watched the man's face.

The man watched him. It was . . . unnerving. Very little in Rath's life was unnerving in this particular fashion.

“These?” the Patris said at last. He spoke to Rath. The single word carried enough authority that Radell did not seek to answer; he waited nervously, his silence loud.

Rath nodded. He didn't trust himself to speak, and this, too, was rare. Too much unsettling had happened in his life these past few days. It would be good to be quit of them.

The Patris picked up the larger fragment. His eyes passed once across the carved surface, and he frowned. “Where,” he asked, “did this come from?”

“I'm afraid, sir, that I can't say,” Rath replied. He kept his tone modulated, his words almost as obsequious as Radell's had been.

“Can't, or won't?”

“Can't. My job was simply to retrieve these items from another of Avram's associates. If you are interested, I can ask.”

“I am interested.” He put the piece down. Picked up the second. His gaze seemed cursory; he barely touched the stone. “They are genuine,” he told Avram. “I will take them both. I will also,” he added, before Radell could begin to speak about his favorite thing, that being money, “take any other such items as can be found.”

Radell looked suitably hesitant. It was only half act. “Patris, I have many customers, and if I—”

“The first,” the man said quietly, “is worth three thousand gold crowns to me. The second is a lesser piece; I will pay you fifteen hundred.”

Radell almost choked on his tongue. It would have been funny, in other circumstances.

But Rath found little amusement here. Patris AMatie bore no medallion; he was therefore not one of the historical scholars that were scattered like market litter throughout the Order of Knowledge. Nor was he one of their mages, or if he was, he chose to hide the fact. It made no difference; in either case, he had named a sum that was three times the best value Rath could have extracted from a member of the Order.

“I will write a bank note,” the man continued. “If you will draw up the paperwork, Avram?”

Radell was still standing there, fish-mouthed.

Rath stepped on his foot.

“Of course, you will want to hold these pieces until the funds have been transferred.”

“No, no, I wouldn't hear of it,” Radell said. He'd managed to reel his tongue in, and it was flapping as usual. His hands were a colorful accompaniment; they were waving. “You've always been the
best
of customers; I trust you
completely
.”

“But not so completely that you're willing to disclose your sources,” the man replied, with a mock smile. And it
was
a mock smile; it never touched his eyes.

Radell failed to notice. Had the failure been deliberate, it would have said something about Radell's wisdom; that it wasn't also said something about said wisdom.

Radell ushered Rath out of the room. “I'll get ink,” he told the Patris, “and my best paper.” As if he had second-best paper. Which, given it was Radell, was probably the case. When the door was behind them—but not quite closed—Radell caught Rath's sleeve. “I'll give you half,” he said. Funny, how little of the instant pandering remained.

Rath nodded.

“If it weren't for me, you wouldn't even have a customer for this stuff,” Radell continued. “And, of course, I have my establishment to think of. It's not cheap, having a real store in the Common.”

Rath nodded again.

Radell's lungs ballooned anyway. The sum of money had obviously closed down the part of his brain that controlled his mouth.

“Avram,”
Rath said coolly, “I said
yes
.”

“And I—I—you said yes. Right. Half.”

“And if you start rubbing your hands together, I'll break them.”

Radell looked hurt. But he shoved his hands into his belt loops; he knew when Rath was serious. “You don't like him?”

“I don't care one way or the other. Like the Patris, I, too, am a busy man.”

“Of course. Of course you are. Not timely, but busy.”

“Give my regards to your customer,” Rath continued, as he made his way to the door. “I'll be back sometime next week to collect my money.”

“Will you have anything else for me when you come?”

“Don't push.”

“Right. Right. Well, you know your business, and I know mine. It's good to see you,” he said, practically shoving Rath in the direction Rath was heading anyway. “Good of you to drop by. See you later.”

It took Rath six hours to get home.

Six hours, five of which were spent attempting to elude pursuit. A pursuit that he wouldn't have noticed had it not been for the words of an orphan girl with clear, dark eyes and hair that looked like an accident.

The tails were
good
. Far too good. He saw the obvious man first, although obvious was perhaps an uncharitable word. Had he not been looking for him, Rath wouldn't have seen him at all. The man was dressed as if he lived in the holdings, and teetered as if he'd been drinking in their famed taverns; he even reeked of alcohol, and at the distance that Rath kept, this said much. But his expression was a little too strained, and his gaze a tad too alert.

He lost the man quickly enough. An hour.

And when he lost him, he should have relaxed. Should have. Instinct made him far more careful than he would otherwise have been. Instinct, and fact.

Rath had arrived without notice at Radell's door. There was no way that the Patris could have known he was coming; Rath had told no one. Certainly not Radell. But on no notice—on none at all that Rath could conceive of—he had set up a tail. Had he had guards—any guards—in Radell's shop, Rath would have been less surprised; easy enough for one of the men to leave by the back door. Rath had done it himself on numerous occasions.

But there were no guards. The man who had followed him had appeared out of the proverbial nowhere. And because he had, the hour spent walking in wide and awkward circles, in a neighborhood that Rath knew better than well, didn't feel quite right. Losing the man, far from easing suspicion, honed it. He kept on walking for another half an hour; found himself by the riverbank. The bridges were still. If people were living under them, as Jewel had done, they slept, or they had no way of lighting a fire. At this time of year, it wasn't necessary.

He threw stones into the moving current, pulled his pipe from his pocket, and smoked a little, thinking. Worrying.

This was Jay's bridge. He shook his head, started to walk. The distance from riverbank to building wasn't great; the holdings here were packed with buildings, and the street was as wide as a wagon, if that. The magelights shone building-side, and the occasional person walked beneath them, favoring that light.

Rath walked toward the occupied part of the street, and then he smiled; it was a cold smile, Winter in a face. He emptied his pipe, tucked it into his satchel, and began another aimless tour of the city.

The second tail was so much part of the shadows that Rath had failed to notice him until he was in the middle of the thirtieth holding. He did not teeter, did not attempt to make himself part of the living landscape that defined the poorer holdings; he simply failed to be seen.