But their parents were at the windows and doors that girded the street itself, and one by one, those children were being called inside. For dinner. Or safety. Women were beginning to leave different doors, in gaudy dresses and ugly, garish paint. They would not linger here; this was home, and very few of their customers could be found in the thirty-second.
He was not, and had never been, among them. Because of this, he could smile, or nod, and they would return this pleasantry. He did not treat them with diffidence, but he didn’t treat anyone with diffidence, and they knew it.
“You look a right mess,” one of the women said.
“And you, Carla, like a vision.” His grin was brief, answered by hers, although she took care not to show her teeth; she was missing a few too many.
He checked his satchel; it was a nervous habit. The streets were long and narrow when he departed the main road, and they were framed by alleys and tall buildings, neither of which held any friends. Rath had killed men on streets such as this, without hesitation or noise.
But in truth, he didn’t relish the opportunity. It was a messy business, the killing of men, and he had seen, time and again, acquaintances who had slid from the precipice of necessity into something darker. He had taken care not to become them. Not through any particular moral conviction; he’d long since given up on those. No; the magisterial guards were clever, they saw well, they found the bodies, and it was hard—if one continued to add to the dead—to avoid their detection.
The Common was closing down by the time he reached its outer perimeter; he made his way past boarded stalls, saw flags coming down their poles as their weary owners closed up for the day. Morning started before sunrise, and they had some distance to travel before they ate; they paid only enough attention to assess any threat he might offer.
He, of course, offered none.
He walked past the lengthening shadows cast by the Merchant Authority, and banked right, a sharp right that would lead almost instantly to the row of buildings, glass windows like an unholy temptation, that housed the city merchants properly. They were adorned by the usual guards, and where guards were not present, the magisterial patrols were frequent. Here, the source of the taxes that ran much of the city was at its most dense; only across the bridge on the Isle itself was more money gathered.
He seldom crossed the bridge.
Had he not already made the decision to move, he might have traversed it this eve, and made his way by carriage to the Order of Knowledge upon the Isle—but any negotiations that involved the truculent scholars and mages upon that Isle took weeks. Oh, the money was better—and no doubt, the man to whom the tablets were eventually consigned would go there himself—but if money was time, it was not, in this case, time he could afford.
He tipped his hat to guards; they were not familiar to him, but they were familiar enough with his contact that they nodded in turn. Bored nods, all, which was as it should be. Had they looked at all tense, Rath would have back-tracked quietly and returned on a different day; merchant guards were like personal weather vanes, and Rath was allergic to trouble.
He paused at last in front of a set of old doors; they were wooden, with large glass panes. A ridiculous name in gold leaf traced a half circle at eye level. Avram’s Society of Averalaan Historians. Avram was an Old Weston name. Like the man who purported to own it, it was pompous; unlike that man, it was succinct. The sign itself was lettered in mock-ancient style, which made it hard to read. Rath had never understood the point of having a sign that was difficult to read.
Signage, however, was not considered one of his areas of expertise, and as he wanted money from the man who had commissioned it, he kept his opinion to himself. He knocked twice and waited.
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.
&n
bsp; 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.
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.
The Hidden City Page 5