The Hidden City (8 page)

Or tried.

Rath shrugged, uneasy. This would not be the first time that he had been followed—not the first time that the men who followed were trained professionals. But it was the first time that he spent a useless hour in an attempt to lose a pursuer.

Whoever he was, he might have been one of the almost legendary scent hounds of the Western Kingdoms.

Two hours later, and he was still being followed. His fingers brushed dagger hilt as he considered—and discarded—that option. Something about the grace of the man, moving almost unseen between buildings, beneath lights, spoke of competence—and no one that competent would be an easy kill. No one that competent could fail to note, at this stage, that he had been sighted.

It became a game, but Rath had never been fond of cat and mouse; he hadn't the temperament to be a cat, and being a mouse had less than no appeal. Rath varied his pace, running in quick bursts and stopping just as quickly; turning into alleys that led nowhere, and leaping tall board fences that led into scant yards and more alley.

No good.

He even dodged into Taverson's and stayed for an hour, taking a bar stool and watching the entrance. It was late enough that men and women came and went, but none of them were his pursuer. He eventually paid for the drink he upended in a potted plant, and negotiated his way out the back; the man was there. Shadow, not light, and waiting. But he, too, kept his distance; he hadn't come for a fight.

In the end, Rath chose utter lack of dignity as his escape route; he waited for the familiar sounds of a magisterial patrol, pitched his voice as high as it would go, and screamed his lungs out. He had heard men scream in terror, had heard them scream in pain. He had a good memory for sound, and he used it to his advantage; he blended knowledge with experience, and then ran as if his life depended on it.

The heavy steps of men in a sudden panic grew at his back. They grew, he thought, with a grim satisfaction, in exactly the same line that his pursuer would take. He had minutes before his pursuer would manage to hide himself from the patrol, and he made use of them.

It was enough. But it was barely enough.

It had been a long, long time since Rath had twitted a patrol in that fashion. He'd had the excuse of youthful exuberance, a lost bet, and rather too much alcohol behind him, but that hadn't counted for much when the very annoyed magisterial guards had deposited him on the grand steps of his family manor.

It had also been earlier in the evening, and if youth wasn't an excuse, it was a guarantee of a fast recovery; he was not so young now, and the last sprint made itself felt in the building quiver of fatigued muscles. It had been a
long
day. Too long. It was good to be home.

He made his way up the stairs, stopped at the door, and fished his keys out of his inner pocket. They were the only thing of worth he now carried, and he was grimly happy to be rid of the tablets; he couldn't have escaped the guard while carrying them, and it would have pained him greatly to leave them behind.

He was practical enough that he would have done it, however. He had proved, time and again, that he was good at leaving things behind.

 

Rath made his way to the bed in the darkness, and then stopped; had he been given to dramatics, he would have slapped his forehead. He had forgotten, in the lull of relief, that his bed was occupied, and not by a person who would be happy of his company.

He fumbled for a moment, retrieving his magelight; he palmed it carefully, folding his fingers over its heart. They glowed red in the room's night. As his eyes adjusted, he looked down at the longed-for bed.

Jewel lay dead center, her legs straight, her arms on the outside of the counterpane. Her hair covered her eyes and splayed in flattened curls against the mattress; he had no pillow. He listened for her breath, trying to judge by its regularity whether or not she slept.

“You can stop pretending,” he finally said. “I'm the only person who has keys.”

Her eyes opened. It was hot enough in the room that her forehead glistened evenly. Sweat, in the fevered, was not a bad sign.

“Did you sleep at all?”

She nodded.

“I told you,” he said grimly, “that you are not to lie to me here.” He approached her slowly, and as he did, he opened his fingers one by one until the light was bright.

“I'm not. I slept.”

“When did you wake?”

She was mute. After a moment, she shrugged. In a small voice, she said, “I wasn't sure you'd come.”

“I was followed.” He sat on the bed. She didn't move away, although the mattress sagged with his weight. “By one competent man and one expert.”

“Two.”

“Do you know who sent them?”

“I know now.” He paused, and then rose and set the light in its pedestal a room away. It was a good light; it grew bright at his back. When he returned, he said, “I have a name. I have no idea if it's a real name.

“I'll get you water. Wait.” He picked up the wineskin on the bed table, and gave it a squeeze. It was empty. Good girl.

“I don't need—”

“Wait
quietly
.”

He padded into the kitchen, removed his boots, and dropped them. He loosened his shirt as well, and briefly considered pouring some of the water over his head to cool it. But there wasn't a lot of water, and he wasn't of a mind to go to the nearest public well to get more; he filled the wineskin and returned.

Jewel took it from his hands; her own were shaking. Her eyes were a little too bright, and he touched her forehead as she sat up and almost overbalanced. She was hot, but the fever was not—yet—high. He watched her drink; watched her cough and splutter.

“Jewel,” he said speaking in as measured a tone as he could, “I am not angry. And I will not touch you.”

She said, “I know.”

“Then stop being nervous. I find it annoying.”

She nodded.

He stopped himself from rolling his eyes. “I've had a change of plans,” he said quietly.

“You're leaving tonight.” She looked at his hands, and the wineskin still fairly full of water, at the counterpane, at the spot behind his left shoulder—at anything but his face. As if, by doing these things, she could hide her expression.

And gods, her expression; it was so muted, so subtle, and so utterly obvious, he found his voice gentling, as if it belonged to a different man. “There is no tonight left. But yes, I'm moving sooner than I had intended.”

She pushed the counterpane off her legs and tried to slide off the bed; her thighs hit his hands, and she stopped. “I'll go,” she whispered.

“No,” he said, resignation stronger than surprise. “You won't. Not yet.”

“I'm sorry—I—”

“You repaid the debt—any debt—that you might have incurred; if your Oma's advice troubles you, remember that. You owe me nothing as of tonight. I doubt very much that I would be moving at all had I been followed here. Or, rather, I doubt that I would be moving to a destination of my own choosing.”

Her hands were shaking. He reached out and caught them in his own, noticing, as if for the first time, how small they were. He had asked her if she was strong, and he knew that she was; her strength was not defined by something as simple as muscle.

“I lied,” he told her quietly.

She said nothing, but her eyes—they must be close to tearing. She didn't blink.

“I'll be packing.” He rose, and as he did, he bent to pick up a cloak that lay half under the bed. It was speckled with bread crumbs, and he shook it absently, folding it with care.

“Rath?”

“What?”

“What lie?”

“I don't like children much,” he replied. Which would only confuse her. Then again, he could probably say anything at this point, and it would only confuse her.
How have you survived this long?
But he wasn't certain if he meant the question for Jewel or himself, so he didn't ask it aloud.

Instead, continuing the rhythm of retrieving and folding his various pieces of clothing, he said, “I've never liked children much. They talk. They blubber. They get in the way.”

She did none of those things. She waited.

“And they ask too many questions.”

He heard the rustle of cloth. Turned to see that she'd pulled the counterpane up, until it rested in folds beneath her sharp chin.

“I won't leave you here.”

“I can't stay, if you're gone.” She was shivering now. Chills, he thought. The fever was climbing. It would help if she coughed, if she said her ears hurt, if she broke out in boils or a rash. These, he was familiar with.

She couldn't see his grim smile. “You probably won't survive. You're ill. That's another thing I hate about children; they get sick too much.”

He discarded something. There was always too much to take with him, and anything that he couldn't carry didn't concern him.

“Now
go to sleep
.”

“But I—”

“I can't carry you,” he continued, ignoring her attempt at words. “And you need your strength; you'll have to walk.”

Her brows rose, or what he could see of them did; she didn't even push her hair out of her eyes. No defiance left in her. He missed it, a little. Gods, he was a fool. He folded more clothing, piled it beside the magelight. Turned his back on her, as he would often do, because it was easier to talk that way.

“I consider my life to be worth vastly more than a meager handful of copper coins.”

“They were silver,” she told him.

“Are you ever dishonest?”

“I stole them.”

“Good point. Now shut up. Sleep.”

“I can't. You're talking to me.”

“Most people find that my ‘talking to them,' as you so quaintly put it, is an aid to sleep, not a hindrance.”

She snorted. Weakly.

“Very well. I consider my life to be worth more than a handful of silver coins. Or gold coins, if it comes to that. In fact, it may come as a surprise to you, but I consider my life to be of more value than pretty much anything under the sun.”

“My Oma used to say that. Not about her life, but the bit about under the sun. I think it's Southern.”

“Thank you for the lesson,” he said dryly. “Now pay attention, because I also consider
my
lessons to be of vastly more import than yours.” But he said it gently, and he cursed quietly when he realized that he had turned to look at her, his hands falling still.

“I am therefore in your debt. And, mindful of the words of your Oma, I am not happy to
be
in your debt.”

He knew what she would say next, and unfortunately, she didn't surprise him. “I didn't save your life. He didn't tell them to kill you; he only told them to follow you.”

“In my profession, Jewel, they are often the same thing.”

“But you can't be sure.”

“You haggle like a merchant—a merchant intent on giving away everything of value, rather than selling it to make a living. Now
shut up
.”

She laughed. Wrapped the blanket more tightly around her. He grimaced, picked up the cloak he had folded so carefully, and threw it on top of the counterpane. She felt cold enough now that she didn't protest. He touched her forehead; the cold was very, very hot.

“I now owe you my life. Nursing you back to what passes for health on the streets is not going to unburden me—but it will have to do. When I leave, you will come with me.”

She started to speak, and he glared.

“If you thank me, I'll hit you. I am
not
saying that you can live with me. I'm saying that I'll keep you until you can at least walk out the door without collapsing.” There were so many questions that had to be asked. He wanted to ask them now.

But he thought he knew some of the answers he would get, and he was dead tired; he didn't want the bother of dealing with them.

Her wide eyes still followed his every movement. And he found that he couldn't work while they did; he felt haunted. So he sat on the bed again, caught one of her hands in his, picked up the wineskin in the other. Cursed her genially in three different languages. The tone of voice obviously mattered more than the content, because she smiled vacantly, and her eyes began to film.

Gods save him from tears.

He had nursed wounded men before. He had sat by their sides while they died. It was both easier and harder than this.

Chapter Three

WHEN RATH LEFT in the morning—after what felt like an hour's rest—Jewel was sleeping. She had turned away from him, and her back was exposed; her arms crossed her chest, her hands covered her shoulders, and her knees were tucked beneath her chin. She covered such a small area of the bed, it seemed a pity to waste the space.