Jewel pulled her own vest a little closer, shoving hair out of her eyes. The only good thing that could be said for rain was this: When she pushed her unruly curls to one side, they stayed where she’d shoved them. Out of her eyes, so she could see.
It was hard to tell what color their hair would be when it wasn’t plastered to their faces, but their faces were flushed; she was certain they’d run at least part of the way.
Their breath came out in thin clouds as they at last reached the farmer’s side. The large boy handed the farmer the basket, and the farmer set it aside.
She couldn’t hear what they said; she could hear the farmer shout at his sons. He had no unkind words for the boys, and this told her—more clearly than anything else—that he pitied them.
Just as he had pitied her.
Her Oma would have been furious; pity was somewhere below charity in her rank of acceptable behavior. But her Oma was dead, and Jewel didn’t mind pity. Maybe, when she was old and smoked a pipe, she would.
Or maybe never. She couldn’t understand what there was, in pity, that her Oma despised—her Oma had pitied many people. To Jewel, pity meant understanding.
The large boy began to help the sons erect the standing cloth canopy. He was strong; she could see that clearly because his thin shirt clung to his back, wrapped around the contours of muscles. She thought him a bit like Rath; he didn’t speak much.
The thin boy, who wasn’t put to work at all, did, but only to the large boy; he avoided looking at anyone else. She could see his breath come out, again and again, in a thin cloud. He was shivering, and he had his right arm shoved under his left armpit. Jewel hadn’t Wintered in the streets, but she recognized cold when she saw it because her family had often been too poor to buy wood for burning.
Still, cold or no, his left hand was waving back and forth as he talked. He didn’t seem to be able to stand still. But the giant wasn’t annoyed by this; he seemed to both expect and accept it. Every now and then, he would answer, his breath a short grunt.
Boxes came next; the rainy season had a different rhythm than the humid, hot one, but people still had to eat. Now was the time when those who had money would begin to stock up on the things that would carry them the month or two of cold before things started to grow again.
Jewel had heard tales of the Northern lands, the farthest edge of the Empire; she had heard about the constant snow. She wondered what they ate, and how, those people who were trapped there.
Was very thankful not to be one of them. Averalaan saw little snow, but when it did, people died.
And as she stood watching, her arms wrapped unconsciously around her upper body, she suddenly knew that this year, there would be snow in Winter; that it would be cold, and bodies would lie frozen in the streets.
She didn’t try to talk herself out of believing it; she had long since given up that particular lie. It would be cold. She would have Rath.
And the boys?
She understood why Farmer Hanson had asked her about the money, about clothing. Mark my words, he’d said, although he usually said that. She wondered how he had known. Maybe his plants grew differently, if they grew at all when it was cold; theirs had.
A visceral desire to be rich warmed her for a moment with its sudden ferocity. Because if she were rich, she could give Farmer Hanson enough money to clothe every child he managed to stumble over and care about.
The work was done before she had finished with the dream of such riches, such largesse. She almost missed it, she was so involved in her momentary anger at the gods, the city, the world in all its injustice.
But the large boy stood still now, his arms by his side, waiting for the farmer. Customers had started to arrive, and his daughter was slowly being swamped; the sons were ordered—loudly—to make themselves useful. Which wasn’t exactly fair; although they were wet, Jewel was pretty sure that half of that water was sweat.
The farmer handed the boys the basket they had arrived with; if it was noticeably heavier, it was hard to tell. The large boy carried it with unconscious ease. The farmer said something else, and the two boys stopped to listen. The large boy nodded.
They began to walk down the rainy street, heads bowed against the sudden sea wind that made the rain colder and harsher. The street itself wasn’t crowded by Common standards, although it was by any holding standard. Jewel watched them dwindle.
And felt her stomach knot, her voice catch—although there wasn’t anyone to speak to—as the large boy stopped to wait, patiently, for the smaller one to catch up.
Arann. She did not speak the name out loud. Was surprised that it had come to her at all. In the cold, her skin was pale, her eyes wide and round, but not unseeing.
She should have hesitated. She should have stayed her ground, said nothing, done nothing. Could not have said, later, why she hadn’t; Rath’s warning was ringing in her ears, louder and more doom-laden with every stride she took. She forgot about being invisible; it took too much time.
The causeway opened up.
She could see its mouth; could see the market guards that stood, drenched in their obvious armor, by the gate. And she could feel the rattle of wagon wheels, the movement of a skittish horse, the sound of thunder. Lightning. It broke through the tall trees without hitting them, illuminating gray-green sky.
Someone was coming, late, to market. And in a hurry. People could get out of the way, or they could be run down.
Would be.
Jewel had the sense, as she ran, that she would do this again; that she had done this before. The former, she couldn’t argue with; the latter was impossible. But Farmer Hanson had been right about these two boys, and in a way that Jewel, at ten, did not understand. Or couldn’t put into words.
She put what she could there instead: She shouted two names. Arann. Lefty.
Had she been a man, things might have been different. Had she had that low, loud growl of a voice, had she armor or weapon, had she looked in any way like a city official or a magisterial guard, they would have bolted.
She looked like Jewel—drenched, curls flat as they would ever be along the top and sides of her face.
The large boy looked up, his face creasing in a frown, his eyes narrowing into a squint and a question. The younger boy, Lefty, tried to find a shadow to stand in. There wasn’t one, but he didn’t seem to notice the lack.
Just by the gates, they stood, watching, their backs toward the street. She pushed her way past people; knocked at least one over. Late apologies would have to do—if they were needed; she could hear very colorful Torra following in her wake, as if she were a ship parting water.
She had to reach them.
She had to reach them in time.
Arann’s frown shifted as he saw, at last, where his name was coming from. He didn’t recognize her—how could he?—but the difference in age and size made her no threat.
She was breathing heavily by the time she reached his side, and she couldn’t speak above the grating rasp of cold breath, wreaths of mist hanging between them. Instead of words, she reached out, grabbed his arm, and pulled.
She might as well have tried to move Farmer Hanson’s wagon. Arann’s frown deepened, and with it, she saw worry.
She turned instead to Lefty. Found breath, although it was thin. Found her words. “You’ve got to move,” she told the younger boy. “You can’t stand here, you can’t walk the way you were going to walk.”
Lefty looked up at Arann.
And then he looked at her.
She couldn’t hear what he said to the large boy; she could hear, instead, the sound of a wagon; could almost taste blood, hear the brief crunch of snapping bone as the wagon at last careened around a corner, and the boy, horse, and nailed wood and heavy cargo, met in an act of fate. Arann would turn. Arann would drop the basket he held, grab Lefty, and throw him. Jewel knew this.
Lefty? He’d be bruised. Scraped.
And alone.
She lifted a shaking arm, and pointed.
“A wagon’s coming,” she told them. “It’s heavy. The street is slippery. The driver is stupid. The horse can’t see well; it’s rainy.
“Arann will be hit by the wagon.”
Lefty looked. At the girl. Listened to her words. Even met her eyes. She was taller than he was, but she wasn’t hunched over to avoid the rain and hoard warmth. She wore clothing that fit her, but she was thin, and her eyes were dark with lack of sleep.
But her words were sharp and terrifying.
Lefty reached out with his good hand, caught Arann’s arm.
Arann was staring at the stranger as if she were mad. Lefty? Yes, he thought she was crazy. But not dangerous crazy. If she carried a weapon at all, he couldn’t see it. She had come here alone; if she was part of a den, they weren’t with her. And she’d run.
As if someone’s life depended on it.
Lefty wasn’t smart, not like Arann. He believed in stupid things. Old stories. A better life.
Mostly, though, he believed in Arann.
He did what the girl couldn’t; he pulled, and Arann followed. “It doesn’t matter if she’s crazy,” Lefty said, his voice more urgent than the girl’s because he wasn’t winded. “Does it? What can it hurt?”
Arann still hesitated, and the girl was turning a pale shade of white. He started to ask her a question, and Lefty’s grip became more insistent.
“Move.” He waited half a beat, and then added, “Please.”
Arann allowed himself to be dragged to the side of the road, beneath the shelter of awnings and the suspicious gaze of merchants who were not quite busy enough to ignore them.
And the wagon came crashing round the corner, its wheels almost off the ground, horse’s muzzle flecked with foam, eyes wide. There was a lot of shouting, a lot of swearing, a lot of anger, in the street they had just left.
But not Arann.
Lefty’s mouth was hanging open; he closed it and looked at the girl who had followed them as if she were afraid Arann would change his mind.
Arann removed his sleeve from Lefty’s grip and Lefty let it go; his fingers were suddenly slack, and his hand was shaking. Cold, he told himself.
Liar.
The girl was now looking at the ground, and her hair had slid down her face and into her eyes. She wasn’t pretty. She wasn’t scarred. She was frightened, but Lefty could sympathize with that. People bumped into her and she tried to move out of their way, mostly succeeding.
Arann looked at the wagon as it passed by. Watched it moving; watched the market guards running after it, their voices more threatening than the voices of the people who had come to spend money here.
“What’s your name?” Arann asked her, when it was quieter.
The girl looked up, and up again. Most kids did, when they met Arann. But she straightened her shoulders, thin shoulders like Lefty’s, and said, “Jay.”
She seemed afraid that Arann would ask her something else, but she didn’t know Arann. Arann shook his head, drew the basket closer, and said, “Thanks.”
Jewel stared at him.
Had to. What he’d just said made no sense, and it took her a minute to actually hear the word he did say, rather than the ones she was dreading.
After a moment, after more waiting, she realized that Arann wasn’t going to say anything else. He looked down at Lefty, and thanked him as well.
“I guess,” Lefty said, shuffling from foot to foot, “you aren’t as crazy as you look.”
His first words to Jewel. His eyes were still hesitant, and they still turned to the side when she looked at him. As if she would hurt him. As if she could.
“Where are you going?” she asked them both.
“You don’t know?” Lefty replied.
She stared at Lefty. This, this was more along the lines of the expected. “No,” she told him, voice flat. “I have no idea.”
“But you knew—”
“Lefty,” Arann said, in that shut up now tone of voice.
It wasn’t a threat. Lefty shut up anyway. Shuffling. Cold. Colder than he had been when he’d been struggling to catch up to Arann.
“You have a place?” Jewel said, when they were quiet again. Rain fell in a sheet, as if the gods were emptying buckets. Thunder spoke for them all. Lightning changed the Common for a brief second.
Arann nodded. “You?” he asked her, after a minute.
She nodded as well. “It’s in the thirty-fifth, so it’s a bit of a walk. If you—” Rath was going to kill her. If he ever came home. “If you want, you can come to my place. It’s dry,” she added.
Rath wasn’t home. For the first time ever, Jewel felt relief rather than worry at his absence. She motioned Arann and Lefty into the apartment, and closed the door behind them. Hesitated for a minute before shoving the bolts home. Arann stared at them as they slid shut. He even reached up to touch the highest one—the one Jewel needed a stool for.
They dripped on the floor in the hall for a while, Arann touching the bolts, Lefty touching nothing. There was a long, awkward silence, and Jewel realized that if it was going to be filled, it was going to be by her.
She was good at that; too good for Rath’s liking.
“This is where I live.” Or maybe not too good.
“It’s all yours?” Lefty asked her, his voice pitched to whisper, his eyes wide.
“Not all. I share it with a friend.” She hesitated, and then added, “I’ve only lived here for a couple of weeks. Before that, I was by the river.”
They both looked at her then.
She shrugged, meeting Arann’s gaze, and trying to catch Lefty’s.
“This friend of yours,” Arann began.
“He’s older,” she said. “He hates questions, and he doesn’t talk much.”
“How’d you meet him?”
Jewel shrugged. “In the street,” she replied. “You hungry?”
Arann nodded and lifted his basket; Jewel motioned it away. “I wasn’t well. He brought me home. Well, to the other place. This is sort of new.”
“You work for him?”
“Not yet.” She met Arann’s gaze, daring him to put into words everything that lay behind the question. He didn’t. When she was certain he wouldn’t, she turned and went into the kitchen. Stuck her head back out into the hall when she realized they weren’t following. “Food’s in here,” she told them both.
“She has a whole room for food?”
Arann looked down at Lefty. “It’s a kitchen,” he told the smaller boy.
Lefty nodded, and Jewel knew the word probably didn’t mean much to him. But he didn’t want to look stupid. Fair enough; she hated that herself. She pulled a chair over to the table. There were only two. The other one was in the hall, by the door, and as she left the kitchen to retrieve it, she told Lefty to sit down.
When she came back, dragging the chair across the wet floor, he was seated uncertainly, his legs hanging over the side, his feet tapping ground. Well, his toes anyway.
The kitchen was cramped, narrow, cut by cupboards and one measly counter. But she had the idea that these two were used to small spaces, besides which, her room had daggers and other mess that she didn’t want strangers to see.
She pushed the second chair toward the table, and told Arann to sit. Arann hesitated for a fraction of a minute, and then he joined Lefty. But he was still and watchful, where Lefty seemed almost frenetic.
She began to cut apples, cheese, and bread. There were plates, but again, only two; Rath didn’t believe in owning more than was necessary. And Rath never brought friends home. If he had any.
Her mother’s upbringing took hold. They were guests. Jewel didn’t need to eat, not yet, and they were obviously hungry. Hungry and wet. She was wet, too, and dry clothing was in easy reach—but she wasn’t an idiot; even if Farmer Hanson did like these two, she wasn’t about to leave them alone in Rath’s place.
But she had a sense, watching them, listening to their silence between slicing, that had she had her own place, she coul
d have. There was something about Arann that she instantly trusted. Instinct, not feeling, but her instincts were usually pretty good. Good enough to trust.
So she dripped, as they did, standing while they sat. When she was finished, she brought two plates to the table and put them down, one in front of either boy. “We have water,” she added.
“Seen enough water today,” Arann replied, with just the hint of a smile.
Lefty looked at her, and Jewel waited. When she realized he wasn’t going to ask, she went and fetched him a cup of water and put that on the table as well.
“What’s that?” Lefty asked Arann, as if Jewel weren’t really there. He pointed to the wood stove.
“For burning things,” Arann replied. “It’s warm in the rainy season.”
Jewel nodded. They’d always had a stove, but they hadn’t always had firewood for it. Rath wouldn’t have that problem.
Arann looked at Jewel when he was halfway done. He chewed, swallowed, and straightened up slightly. His expression was friendly. “You went to market for something?” he asked her.
Had she actually bought anything, she would have lied. But there didn’t seem to be much point; she’d already exposed the only thing she could do worth lying about. “Yeah,” she said. “Farmer Hanson asked me to stop by.”
“You know the farmer?”
“Same as you,” she replied. “He didn’t catch me stealing food. But he did let me know he knew.”
“You work for him, too?”
She shook her head. “I’m not big enough. Like Lefty.”
“What did he want you to stop by for?”
“To see you two.”
Arann was quiet. After a moment, he said, “Why?”
She shrugged and went back to the counter; it was easier to answer this question when he wasn’t looking at her face. “I have some money now. Don’t know how long it will last. I buy everything from him,” she added, “and I still have some money left over. I told him to keep it. He wouldn’t until I told him it was for other kids. Like me.”
“He wanted you to help us?”
The Hidden City Page 14