The Hidden City (81 page)

“He knows, then, that we hunt Waverly?”

“He knows that you are interested in the men that AMatie has gathered about him, and he is also less than impressed by the quality of those men.” It was a neutral answer, a careful one. “Ararath—”

“Rath.”

“Rath. Old Rath. Seek a different route.”

“If it were available, old friend, I would. I hope that it will end here, with Waverly, but I cannot leave it until I see it to its end.”

“Ah. And the end?”

“I cannot say.”

“Or will not.”

“No, Andrei, although you might choose to believe otherwise. I do not know what the outcome will be. I only know that a certain invitation must reach Waverly, and it must
not
reach AMatie.”

“That may be difficult.”

Rath tensed, although he had expected as much. “AMatie keeps watch?”

“It is subtle, Ararath, and were it not for the connections I maintain with the Order of Knowledge, I would myself be unaware of just how intent his scrutiny is. But, yes, he does watch those that he has gathered. And it is not a surprise to me that, of the three names you requested information about, all belong to his circle.”

“I wish only to separate the one for now.”

“And the others?”

Rath said nothing for a long moment. “Mandaros will judge,” he said, when he at last spoke. “In his own time, he will judge. Of you, of my godfather, I will ask no more than Waverly.”

“Very well. Among Waverly's acquaintances and servants, there are those who might be of use to you. They are in his pay, but they are—as is so often the case with men of his particular character—beneath his notice.”

“To whom do they report?”

“That is beneath you, Ararath.”

Rath shrugged. “It is an old habit, Andrei, and I meant no harm or insult by it.”

“Then I will endeavor to take none.”

Rath nodded.

“Do you expect a similar difficulty to the one you encountered in the Common?”

“I am not yet certain. I hope not.”

Andrei nodded. Wine was brought to the table, and Andrei sniffed it with barely concealed disdain; the goblet did not touch his lips.

“If you wish word to be sent, if you wish an offer of a particular type of . . . service to be made, it must be done with care, and it will take time.”

Rath nodded. “Have you begun?”

“Not yet, Rath; I hoped that you would think better of your decision.”

“It is not entirely my decision,” was Rath's measured response, “but for my part, I am committed.”

“Then I will do as you ask. Waverly himself will not be without suspicion, but he has his weaknesses. I will make certain that there is no trail for the magisterial guards to follow, should they seek one; he will no doubt be making inquiries of his own, and it would be prudent if they, also, lead nowhere.”

“If things go as planned, that would be not only wise, but utterly necessary.”

Andrei nodded. “I will take my leave of you,” he said, “but I will meet with you again in three days.”

“At the same time?”

“And in,” Andrei said, with obvious distaste, “the same establishment.”

Duster was in a foul mood. The cold contained most of it, leaching heat from her mouth in dense, almost rumbling clouds. She didn't like the pompous old man, who did he think he was anyway, what the hell did he think he knew about anything, living it up like that, the litany went on for blocks.

Jewel, having grown up under the eye of her watchful Oma, had truly believed that a person existed who could see everything she was thinking, had thought, or worse—had done—and found the man oddly comforting. Her Oma had never stooped, as she called it, to lying. Lying was a Weston word, as far as she was concerned, and it belonged with the pale Northerners in their hearts of ice.

When pressed to speak about something she felt honor bound not to talk about, her Oma went as silent and cold as stone, folding her arms—after she'd lit her pipe—and sitting in her chair with a glare that could have frightened a dragon, if it had managed to peer in the window.
Lying's just another way of hiding, girl. Best not to do things you want to hide, unless the lives of your kin depend on it. That's the worst thing you'll ever have to
face—the
choice of
upholding only one of two vows. That can break strong men
, she added. But her grim silence implied that this should
only
happen to men.

Jewel's mother was softer spoken and far less harsh, and she loved her husband dearly, so it was clear that not all men were beneath notice.

It hit her as she walked beside Duster: She missed her Oma. Her mother. Her father. She had to swallow, to stop, to force herself to breathe.

And to her surprise, the sounds that were mostly verbal grunts paused, and Duster was by her side with something that might have passed for concern on her dark features. She didn't like to acknowledge weakness, especially not her own; it was natural that she assume that everyone felt the same way. So she was awkward in her concern, almost tongue-tied.

Jewel shook her head. “He reminds me of my Oma,” she said quietly. “I think she would have liked him. She wouldn't have trusted him, but she never trusted anyone who wasn't kin. I miss her,” she added, her voice dropping. “I don't know what she'd say, if she saw me like this.”

“Do you care?”

“Sometimes. When I was little, I thought she knew everything. Sometimes I still do.”

“I never knew mine,” Duster told her. Jewel had already guessed this much. “I liked my grandfather, but he died early. And I don't like the old man.”

“I know. He doesn't dislike you,” Jewel added. “But he wants you to see things as clearly as he does.”

“As he thinks he does.”

Jewel shrugged. Stopped walking. “You wanted this. You still do. We don't have what we need to do this on our own.”

“We could get it.”

“We couldn't, Duster. I mean to survive this. I know you don't care if you do—but I do. I care if
you
do.”

“Why?”

Jewel shrugged. “Why do you always ask that?”

“Because I want to know. You're the one who speaks well for her station in life,” she added, in bitter mimicry of Haval. “You find the words.”

But Jewel didn't have them. Not then. All the words she had were mourning words, lost words, and she could not bring herself to expose them to someone who had never felt the same way.

Nor, in the end, did she expose them to Teller. He came to sit by her side when she retreated into the relative privacy of the kitchen. He didn't speak, and he didn't touch her; he just took a seat beside her, and ran his fingers across the wood grain. He was only Finch's size, smaller even than Jewel, and his arms were as fine as bird legs, although they were pale and smooth. His eyes were pale brown in the odd kitchen light, and his face was drawn, the circles under his eyes pronounced.

“You aren't sleeping well,” she said, to fill the silence, but not to obliterate it; she spoke quietly.

He said, “Neither are you.”

She shrugged. “I never sleep well. I dream too much.”

Teller nodded. After a brief hesitation, he added, “Lefty told me. Arann tried to stop him, if that helps.”

Jewel almost laughed. “Lefty didn't speak to me for days,” she told him, “but he spoke to you and Finch after a few hours. Am I so scary?”

Teller shrugged. “Yes,” he said, “and no. You're sort of fierce, but you're not terrifying.”

“Then why do you think they're more comfortable around you?”

“Because they don't really care what I think about them; they care what I think about you.”

She looked up and met his gaze. “I was thinking about my family today,” she told him quietly. “About my Oma. I miss her.”

“My mother used to say that if you remember someone, they're not really gone.”

“Feels gone to me.”

“Me, too. I figure I'll understand it better later.” Silence again. She took his hand in hers, and was surprised at the feel of it; it was cold to the touch. He did not withdraw it.

“Carver's worried about you,” Teller said at last.

“He said that?”

“No.”

“But you know it.”

Teller nodded. “Arann and Lefty aren't so worried, and Lander's in his own world. Finch worries about everything, but only a little, and Jester worries about gloom. Everyone worries about Duster,” he added, with just the hint of a smile. “But not the same way.”

“No. They're afraid of her, not for her.”

He nodded.

“And you?”

“You want her here.”

Jewel nodded as well. “But it's hard. Don't ask me,” she added. “Don't ask me to explain. I'll explain after. If ever.”

“I think Rath is worried as well.”

The boy almost reminded her of Haval. “Probably.”

“I didn't ask what happened to Duster,” Teller told her. “I didn't have to. What is she going to do?”

“Kill a man,” Jewel replied. There wasn't much point in not saying it; he already knew.

“And you're going to help her.”

“I'm—yes. I'm going to help her.” And the words, when they left her lips, left like weights.

“Rath would kill him for you,” Teller said quietly.

Jewel was surprised. “He won't.”

“He won't because you don't want it and wouldn't accept it—but if you would, he'd do it tomorrow. Tonight.”

“I can't ask that of him.”

“But you're asking it of yourself.”

“Myself is different. I'm me. I can decide what I do. And live with it.”

“Rath has killed men before.”

She nodded absently. “Probably a lot of them. But I'm pretty sure they were trying to kill him first. He's not—he's not a bad man.” Lame, lame words. Duster would have sneered. Teller didn't waver.

“I want to help.”

“You are. By being here. By talking to Lefty and Lander. By helping Finch.” She met his gaze and held it, her own unguarded. “Don't be anything else. Not right now.”

He nodded again. “Finch left dinner for the two of you,” he said, and rose. “I'll get it.”

“I'm not hungry.”

“Doesn't matter.”

“Teller—”

He shook his head. “Finch is worried. We all are. Just eat.”

And because he was right, she ate, and if the food tasted like sand in her mouth, it was good sand in its way. It reminded her of all of her promises.

Haval was waiting for them when they arrived, but although he was perched on his stool behind the vast, chaotic stretch of colorful counter, he rose. He wore a coat, a waistcoat, and carried both hat and cane. The hat was almost comical, its brim was so wide, and the cane looked thicker than his arm.

“I've decided,” he told them, as they huddled in the room for warmth, “that some fresh air would do us all a world of good.”

Jewel stepped on Duster's foot before Duster could describe “fresh air” in more colloquial terms. “Ararath,” he added, speaking to their silent shadow, “if you wish to accompany us, you may; if you have business elsewhere, I suggest that this would be a reasonable time to conduct it.”

Duster, frowning, attempted to pick meaning from his complicated words, and Jewel whispered, “He's telling Rath to get lost.”

“All that means get lost?”

“Pretty much. It's politer.”

Duster said something about manners under her breath, and Haval wisely chose not to hear it. He made his way to the door, and lifting their snow-fringed skirts, they sighed and followed him, drawing their sweaters tightly around their arms and chests.

As he left his store, he straightened slowly, gaining inches in height. He did not seem nearly so old in the streets as he had in the magelit quarters behind which he ruled his small world; nor did he seem frail. The cold seemed to bolster him, to remind him that there was an outside world of which he was still part. Or, more likely in Jewel's opinion, he didn't want to look harmless out here.

“I do not know how much Rath has discussed with you,” he told them genially as he walked, pausing to look at the sparrows that were feather puffs in the snow, picking at invisible grains. “He has discussed nothing with me, but I am not a man to rely on words, as you will both no doubt have observed.”

Duster gave up and nodded.

Jewel, however, listened carefully.

“Duster, please, lift your shoulders and your chin; you are not heading toward a fight.”

This produced almost the opposite effect, but Haval must have expected no less. He frowned a moment, and air left his mouth in a cloud, like a bubble of silent conversation cut free in the winter air.

“Patris Waverly is not widely known for some of his less respectable inclinations; were he, he would be ostracized. He is feared, with cause, and he is not loved by many. It is rumored that even the Astari—” He shook his head. “Too complicated. The Kings would not weep to attend his funeral.”

Jewel nodded, aware that Haval was observing them both, although his gaze seemed to be caught by everything that Winter ice had transformed.

“It is seldom that he has the opportunity to indulge himself, but not, unfortunately, never.” His gaze did not pause or linger on Duster, but it didn't have to. “He is cautious, but between caution and desire there are always many slips and many errors in judgment made.