City of Night

by Michelle West

  And the only people you could say that about, for sure, were dead.

  But as she followed Lander into their secret city, she wondered if that was still true. Because these people had been in her life for longer than anyone else, and they didn’t hurt her either. They pissed her off a lot, but on the right day, the weather could piss her off.

  They spent time wandering from building to building in a loose group. Carver had picked up the rope by the entrance, and they ended up having to use it a few times, which always made the going slow.

  “These are wider,” Carver said, when they’d crossed the third large gap and he was untying the knot around Lefty.

  Duster nodded. “Think there’s some kind of earthquake that’s causing them?”

  “Something that we can’t feel streetside?” He shrugged. “Maybe Jay’s worried this whole place is going to collapse.”

  Duster snorted. “If she were worried about that, she’d make us move. We’re living above the damn undercity, and if it all comes down, so do we.”

  Carver started to say something, shut his mouth, and glanced at Angel. Angel shrugged. “She’s making sense to me.” He nodded toward Lander’s back, because Lander had already started to move. “I think we should head right a bit—this is all familiar.”

  Carver glanced at Duster, who nodded. Familiar meant it had probably been gone over at least a few times.

  When they finally crawled out of the undercity, dirty and not a little tired, they had one candlestick to show for the effort. It was heavy, and caused arguments about whether or not the previous inhabitants had actually used candles, but since no one could think of what else it might be used for, they dumped it into the backpack that was used to carry rope.

  Lefty reasoned that if they couldn’t sell it, they could use it as a club. Which was about as much reasoning as Lefty was up to, but Duster had to admit that the damn thing was heavy. She wanted it to be heavier, because then it might be gold; it was some sort of metal. Not silver, because old silver was always black. It also had space for three candles, so maybe Jay could make use of it while she studied those damn books, if it didn’t end up being worth money. There were letters on it, but no one recognized what they were, which was a good sign, in the undercity. Streetside, it made Jay cranky.

  “We can come back tomorrow,” Carver told everyone as they reached the small door that separated home from the rest of the twenty- fifth holding. “After market, before dinner.”

  Angel said, “I’m out.”

  “Why?”

  “My turn to cook.”

  Carver shrugged. Then he smiled. “I’ll drag Fisher.” He opened the door and walked in.

  One run to the well, and one dinner later, Jester and Lander chased flies around the apartment, accidentally swatting half the den. Or not so accidentally; with Jester, it was hard to tell. Crawling around the undercity had quieted everyone but Lander. Most of Lander’s chatter was sign, so it wasn’t exactly noisy—but he wanted people to pay attention. Hadn’t always wanted it either. But . . . he did, these days.

  Jay sat on the ground for dinner and joined in general conversation, trying to look relaxed, which meant she knew how strained she was. Carver had handed her the candlestick holder, or, as Lefty called it, the club, when he’d entered the apartment; she’d taken it with a slight widening of eyes, and then set it down on one side of her table. She looked as if she wanted to say more, and clearly she did—but for tonight, she bit the words back.

  But when Teller and Finch were cleaning up in the kitchen, she said, “I’m making everyone worry, aren’t I?” Duster, lounging rather closer to the cleanup than she usually did, heard it clearly.

  Teller nodded. “You haven’t told us what’s wrong,” he added. “So no one knows what to do.”

  “What do you mean, do?”

  He glanced at her slates. “You don’t want us to farm the undercity. But you don’t know why. We don’t know how to do much else.”

  She looked at the candlestick holder and her shoulders sank. “I’m afraid,” she said softly, aware that Duster was listening. “Because I don’t know that I’m good for anything else either. No,” she added, lifting a hand, “I’m not fishing for compliments. I can do other stuff. I just don’t know how to convince someone with enough money to pay me to do it. And without money, Teller . . .”

  “And the undercity?”

  She shook her head. “I . . . just don’t know.”

  Lame. Duster snorted.

  “It’s Emperal,” Finch piped in.

  Jewel frowned, and then she smiled. “I almost forgot.”

  “We’ve got ten days to mooch stuff from The Ten at the Festival.” Finch loved The Gathering. “We can keep our costs down that way while we try to think of something else to do.” She added, “It’s not raining, it’s not cold, we’re not starving, and we all have shoes. Smile.”

  Pretty pathetic smile, Duster thought, as Jay tried.

  But when it got dark again, Jay put aside slates and books, and rose. She stretched, because she sat like a pretzel in the chair when she worked, and then she padded off to the bedroom to toss her clothing in a pile and slide into her bedroll.

  Jay dropped the magestone into its stand on the small block of wood that served as a night table. Finch, Teller, Duster, and sometimes Lander would sleep in the room on the blankets and bedrolls that existed for only that purpose. There was often a bit of argument about who got what, but not tonight; tonight it was warm, and Jay had tried, however pathetically, to be a part of the den.

  Duster didn’t care for the room; she didn’t like sleeping with the lights on. Night was supposed to be dark. She generally shed less clothing than Jay or Finch, and if had been up to her, she’d have slept on her own, her back as close to the wall as she she could get. But . . . this is where Jay slept. And if Duster didn’t care for the room, she had one job she took seriously: she watched over Jay.

  She listened for Jay’s nightmares—the ones that weren’t the feeling, the ones that didn’t come in bloody threes. She knew where the normal nightmares came from; she’d been there at the start. It had been partly her fault, but Jay had never thrown it back at her, never thrown it in her face. There was nothing—nothing at all—that Duster could do for Jay in return, but this: wake her, when it was bad.

  She didn’t even hate the part of herself that wanted to somehow do something for Jay that would make all the old pain worthwhile. Something big. Something only Duster could manage. Like, say, killing Carmenta.

  Jay wouldn’t let her kill him. Duster accepted that.

  But . . . something big. Something like that.

  When she had first started sleeping with the den, she had refused to fall asleep until she could hear the even breathing of every other person in the room. Now? She took the sleep she could get, because there was no guarantee that there would be much of it. Jay had nightmares.

  She wasn’t the only one who had nightmares; they all did. Some, like Duster, were quiet about it; some, like Lander, were as loud as Jay, but more bewildered. No one said much; they woke you if it was safe, and they let you be if it wasn’t. She thought of Arann, and grimaced. Not even Duster was stupid enough to wake him.

  Duster slept with her dagger. Sometimes she slid it under the pillow, if she had one; tonight, she didn’t, and she tucked it, sheathed, under her shoulder instead.

  She could have slept in the other room. Carver, well aware of her dislike for the night-light, had offered. She always said no. Didn’t stop her complaining about the things she didn’t like.

  No, Duster couldn’t fight Jay’s nightmares. She couldn’t calm her down—that’s what Teller and Finch were for.

  But she could roll out of bed with her knife in her hand, and she could stand watch, where Jay could see her and know that she was ready to fight for her, in all ways, at any hour, in any circumstance. That she could be, still and always, what Jay had wanted from her in the early days.

  It was import
ant, to Duster. Important because it said all these things without words, without exposure.

  She curled up on her side and closed her eyes.

  And woke with a start. Her body rolled her to her feet while her eyes focused. Jay was screaming, and Duster, dagger already gleaming in the light, took a deep breath, and listened.

  Teller was already awake, and Finch had thrown off her bedclothes; they were both slow to climb to their feet. The screaming banked sharply as Jay shot up, sitting stiff and white, bedroll twisted beneath her arms in chunks. In the hall, Carver had gained his feet, and Angel as well, and both had come to the mouth of the doorframe, waiting. For Duster’s word.

  Duster, watching Jay come back from nightmare, saw that she had swallowed the screaming in just such a way that it now sat within her widened eyes.

  “Teller,” Duster said.

  Teller nodded. “Kitchen.”

  The last to wake was Arann because, as usual, no one wanted to wake him until they’d cleared enough floor space that they could throw things at him from a distance. Teller led Jay to the kitchen table, stubbing his toes on the chair in the process. Duster had scooped up the magestone and its holder, following closely behind.

  Finch brought Jay a cup of water and set it in front of her, and Teller reached for the closest slate, taking care to pick up the one on the top of the pile. He would write what she said, if she started to talk about the dream. He would do this for three nights, because significant dreams often came in threes. No one knew why; they didn’t need to know why.

  Jay looked at the magestone, her eyes half-closed. She drank the water Finch had placed before her without ever looking at the cup. She said, “It’s dark.”

  Teller started to write.

  “It’s dark enough I can’t see. I can hear, though. Voices. Talking. Movement.”

  “A lot of movement?”

  “Heavy stone, I think.” She frowned. “Yes. Stone.”

  “Where are you standing?” Angel’s voice, quiet and direct.

  She drank again. “It’s . . .” Frowned. “Dirt, I think. I’m standing on dirt. It’s dark,” she added. “But after a while, I can see light. Just a little light, glowing faintly.”

  “Magical?”

  “I think . . . it must be.”

  “Why?”

  She shrugged. “It’s a dream,” she told him, as if that explained anything.

  No one pointed out that their dreams did not intersect with reality the way Jay’s did.

  “It’s a stone. Above the ground. I think—I think it’s a keystone,” she added.

  “A what?” Duster asked, trying to imagine a magical stone that could be used to lock doors. It had a certain appeal.

  “A keystone. It’s the top stone in an arch, the one at the height of the curve, if it’s curved.”

  Duster liked her version better, but said nothing.

  “It’s glowing,” she added softly, “and I can move toward it. I can almost see it. The stone isn’t great—it’s rough stone, and I can’t see the color; just the rune. The rune is the source of the light.”

  Duster hesitated. No one was watching her, so no one else noticed.

  “Can you see stars or moonlight?” Angel again.

  Jay frowned. Closed her eyes. Shook her head. She ran her hands through her hair, shoving it out of her eyes as she opened them again. It sprang back almost immediately, because in this weather, the humidity made the curls thick and tight.

  “So, you’re inside.”

  She nodded, but it was a slow, doubtful nod.

  They waited, because so far, nothing was worth screaming yourself awake for.

  “And then,” she said, almost unaware of the quality of waiting, “there is light.”

  Teller’s scratching was the only sound in the room. It was a constant sound, a quiet one—the equivalent, in writing, of heartbeat or breath.

  “And she’s standing in it.”

  “Who?”

  Jay shook her head. “I don’t know. She’s not human,” she added. “Maybe some minor god—I don’t know. I don’t want to know. But she’s tall, and she’s surrounded by red light and shadow. She has a red, red sword.”

  “Blood?”

  “Not yet. Light, I think. Red light. Her hair is all black, and it flies around her face and shoulders without ever getting in her way. She’s beautiful,” Jay added, as if beauty were a curse. “And she points at the arch—and it is an arch, and the keystone is glowing brightly now.”

  “She doesn’t kill anything?”

  “She doesn’t have to. I can see what the arch contains.” She shuddered. “It’s like darkness, but it’s not—there’s light in it, but it sheds nothing, it just roils. And it’s moving,” she added softly.

  Silence. Jay’d had a lot of dreams in the years they’d been together, but this one was new and disturbing. “Toward me. It’s moving toward me, and I can’t move—I want to run, but I’m afraid because if it sees me—” She closed her eyes, tight, and wrapped her arms around her shoulders.

  “And then it speaks.”

  “What does it say?”

  “I don’t know. I can’t understand it. But it’s not one voice—it’s like every ugly thing any voice has ever said.”

  Okay, Duster thought. That was worth a wake-up scream.

  Teller finished writing in the silence. Then he took the slate and set it apart. “One night,” he told Jay softly.

  “Good. Will it make sense in the morning?”

  “I don’t know. It doesn’t make much sense now.”

  She nodded. Emptied her cup. She didn’t tell them not to speak about it; they never did. Rath had made clear, years ago, that Jay’s visions, Jay’s feelings, were unique as far as he knew—and Rath knew mages. He had also made it clear that if other people knew about her visions, Jay might not be in the streets much longer, her own wishes notwithstanding.

  “Maybe she could work for someone,” Teller had said. “Someone powerful.”

  Rath nodded his approval, as if Teller had said anything that everyone else wasn’t thinking. “She could. If she could find the right person, and prove herself.”

  “And if she finds the wrong person?”

  Rath hadn’t answered. But that was answer enough. Everyone in the den had found—or been found—by the wrong people before. They knew what it meant.

  “Come on, Jay,” Finch said gently. Jay nodded. Nightmares like this only happened once a night, although the regular nightmares could still happen afterward. They slowly returned to their patches of floor, trying not to think about Jay’s vision, and what it might mean.

  Especially Duster, who thought she could guess.

  7th of Emperal, 410 AA The Common, Averalaan

  Jewel rarely went to the Common alone. It wasn’t entirely safe if you took the streets. She hadn’t. She’d slid down into the undercity, taking a route that was seldom used by her den. She wasn’t sure why; maybe she wanted to prove something. To them, or to herself, she wasn’t certain. But they’d gone, they’d found something that Jewel was certain was worth money, although Lefty still called it a club. What they dared, she had to be able to dare.

  Why? her Oma asked from across the veil.

  There was no good answer to the question, so Jewel didn’t bother; her Oma had never been particularly kind when she’d offered a bad one.

  The morning outing to the Common had come and gone, and there was food for a day in the kitchen in baskets on the floor. The well had been visited, and Finch had undertaken the laundry with whomever she could collar.

  The walk through the solemn—and silent—streets of the undercity had passed without incident; it was peaceful and private. Jewel had even meandered a little, and stopped to visit the Stone Garden, in which peace could sometimes be coaxed out of hiding. Even on a day like today.

  She missed the undercity.

  It wasn’t the foraging, because on those days she had half of her den in tow, and they had to be careful of
things like the floors and the ceilings. It was the quiet. The sense of secrecy, of hidden things. It wasn’t their home; she doubted anyone but Duster could live in continual dark. But it was, in some ways, an extension of home, and losing it was hard.

  She knew they all felt that way. She knew they had gone there yesterday. She knew, knew, they would go back today. And she knew, as well, that she should forbid it. But she wasn’t their owner or their captain. Forbidding them, ordering them—it made her uneasy. It felt wrong.

  Not that she didn’t order them around half the time—but that was little stuff, and they could snap back at her at any time (and often did). This was bigger.

  She carried the candleholder in her backpack as she traversed the much more crowded streets of the Common. She was to meet Rath in two hours. She knew he wouldn’t be pleased. She wondered if he’d be angry. Knowing Rath, probably. But would he be angry enough not to fence what they’d found?

  Without him, the den had no way of selling the things they could pry out of the undercity and carry home. He had connections to merchants in the Common and mages in the Order of Knowledge, and none of the den suffered under the illusion that they could build their own if he withdrew his aid. Hells, they couldn’t even afford to cross the bridge to the Isle that housed the damn Order unless they were willing to give up a day’s worth of food.

  Two hours. Jewel stood for a moment, like a rock in a stream comprised of people, before she turned on her heel and made her way to the outer edge of the Common, where the merchants with actual storefronts worked.

  The streets were marginally less crowded here, but the guards were more numerous, and they eyed her with tired suspicion as she walked. She wasn’t dressed as a customer. But she had shoes, and her clothing, if somewhat mismatched, was in decent enough repair; they had no call to stop her, and they didn’t.

  She found the store she was looking for, paused just a moment in front of the closed door to look at her reflection, shoved her hair as far out of her eyes as it would go, and then pushed the door inward. Bells rang as she did.