She shrugged again. “Maybe.” And turned. “Look, you’re wearing clothing that didn’t fit you a year ago. And it’s the rainy season. And it’s going to snow this year. It’s going to be a damn cold Winter. I gave him enough money the other day that he thought about buying clothing for you.”
“Jay,” Arann said quietly, “how long have you been in the streets?”
“My father died this year. In the shipyard.”
Arann nodded, as if that explained anything. Maybe it did. She looked at them, started to ask them the same question, and stopped, seeing the way Lefty tried—always—to hide his right hand. Seeing the start of a pale, slender scar on Arann’s forearm, where the sleeve was just too damn short to cover it all. Seeing the hunger in them, the lankiness, the darkness of skin that spoke of too many different kinds of exposure.
There were stories in all of it, and none of them stories she could ask for. They lay across skin and beneath it, hidden and private.
“I know you’ve had it harder than I have,” she said quietly. “I know that so many of us have it harder than I did.” She hadn’t, truly, until this moment. It was something she knew, the way one knew a boat existed, but not the way a sailor knew the truth of its wood and its sloping motion across the water.
“It doesn’t matter to me, what you’ve done. In the streets,” she added, “we all do what we have to. I’ve done things I’m not proud of. And I’m certain I’ll do more of them, if there’s no way out.” She wiped her hands on her tunic, and looked at them both.
“You can’t live here,” she said quietly. “But if you need help, come here, and I’ll do what I can to help you.”
Arann met her gaze and held it. There was something in the set of his tight mouth that reminded her, inexplicably, of her Oma. But he didn’t say what her Oma would have said. He swallowed it.
Jewel wondered if the streets could have forced that bitter swallow out of her Oma; she doubted it.
Lefty rose and looked at Arann, and only at Arann. But when he spoke, he offered an almost inaudible thank you.
Funny, how manners did matter. Even here, in the thirty-fifth holding, between children whose parents no longer existed to care about them.
She saw them out, letting Arann unbolt the high lock because it meant she wouldn’t have to drag the chair from the kitchen to do it herself; there wasn’t much room for a chair, herself and Arann; Lefty was so slight he hardly made a difference.
When they left, she leaned against the door, listening for their footsteps. She listened there a long time, and silence returned again to the home she shared with Rath.
Those two boys were strangers. And they didn’t talk much. But by presence alone they alleviated the silence she hated, and although she knew them only as boys that Farmer Hanson trusted, she found herself missing them.
Chapter Six
RATH PAUSED AT the door. It was late; dawn had not yet wedged itself across the horizon, but it would, and light—what there was of it, in these cursed and interminable rains—would make itself felt. Had, in fact, already begun to make itself felt. He was exhausted, bruised, and hungry.
But he was also instantly wary.
Although he had left strict instructions with Jewel, his absence had been long enough that he expected her ability to obey them to flag. Bending, he touched a slender wire; the door had certainly been opened.
It was not, however, open now. He unlocked the bolts and felt them resist the key in his hand; humidity had thickened the door slightly. The lock, however, turned smoothly and he let himself in. He carried only a magestone for light, and the light it cast was low. A single word brightened it, revealing the long stretch of empty hall, and the closed doors on either side.
He was aware of movement to his left before he turned to lock the door behind him; Jewel was awake. He wondered if she’d slept at all, and waited, as the sounds of rustling cloth drifted into the creak of floorboards. Not even a mouse could wander here without evidence of its weight.
Jewel’s door opened. Her hair was more of a mess than usual; clearly, she’d tried to sleep while it was wet, and had achieved a flattened wedge composed of dark curls that still trailed the edge of her eyes.
“Rath?”
Tired, he nodded.
She trudged past him before he could speak—not that he intended to—and went into the kitchen. Paused, came back, and pulled the magestone from his palm. When she had first come to live with him, she had chattered constantly. It had taken a week or more before she finally realized that the chatter set his teeth on edge. He had survived this long by living alone, and knew it in a way that he could not easily dislodge.
She said nothing. He walked past the kitchen to his room; the satchel he carried was heavy, and he wished to deposit it someplace that wasn’t his shoulders or his back. By the time he finished, she had also finished; he heard the knock at his door and he grunted.
She pushed it open with one hand, carrying a plate with another. “I went to the market,” she said quietly. “You must be hungry.”
As he was, he nodded almost curtly. He spoke a word and the light dimmed; she would see the bruises in the morning, and even if she was too wise to ask what had caused them, the worry would shadow her eyes. Her concern was more than he wanted to deal with now.
But she stood in the door, having put the plate on the flat of his desk, and she watched him for a long time.
Long enough that he realized she was waiting for attention. “What?”
She started to speak, stopped, and shook her head, retreating. He wanted her to retreat, and did nothing to stop her.
Morning came quickly, and Rath was inclined to ignore it. Jewel, on the other hand, did not; he could hear her steps, the clattering of things in the kitchen, the movement of the bucket as it hit the lower left leg of the table. He had to remind himself that she was ten; she was so determined, it was easy to forget. Or perhaps, if he were being truthful, he wanted to forget it. Living with a child had been no part of his life’s plan, and it caused him a distinct unease every time he saw her when she was quiet, or sleeping, or pensive—because at those times, she looked her age.
At those times, she reminded him of a past that he loathed, and he could feel that old anger spill over. A bit of a bind, that; he hated the chatter and the noise of animation, but the lack of it had other costs.
He watched her disappear with her buckets, the brace slack against her slender shoulders. He’d taken the time to follow her three days running, and had seen for himself how she interfered in the lives of strangers, making them, by the odd kindness of her actions, less strange. Less threatening. She helped the elderly, she chided the young, she paused to play at sticks and hoops with some of them while she waited her turn in line. She talked. A lot.
Her flyaway hair in her eyes, her skin pale, her lips turned up in a smile, he regretted almost everything about her life, although he knew little enough about it. What she had said, and what she had not said, made little difference; watching her, it was clear to Rath that she’d been wanted, she’d been loved, and she’d been protected. The protection had not been gentle, clearly, but it had planted the seed of a similar instinct, and he watched its slow flowering with a kind of dread fascination.
Seeing, again, another girl.
Another life.
After the third day, he didn’t bother to trail after her. “Jewel.”
“Yes?” Her voice drifted in from the hall. He heard the scrape of the chair as she dragged it to the door, and wondered if she would live long enough in his shadow that she would one day be able to leave without standing on it.
“Wear the oiled shirt. It’s raining.”
He knew she wouldn’t. She hated the smell and the feel of it, and it was far too large for her. Anything that made her look younger was instantly despised. The door opened, and the door closed. Rath waited until she was gone, and then began to eat. The rain fell against the window as wind caught it; the patter of its fall shifte
d as the same wind did.
He felt certain that she was going to do something stupid one day.
But he had, and he knew better. He’d invited her into his home.
When Jewel returned, an hour and a half had passed. The well was almost flooded, but it was also almost deserted. Only people who had no money or space for rain barrels stood in the diminished line, hair hanging about their faces, buckets slipping in wet palms. She’d carried water for a spindly older woman before she’d filled her own bucket—had, in fact, paused to empty her buckets in order to ease their weight while she carried the bucket of a stranger. The old woman was familiar, but not enough that she chose to tell Jewel her name; Jewel was polite enough not to ask for what wasn’t offered. Street polite.
Jewel was determined that the old woman would one day offer her at least a name, and she was persistent. Today, although there was little cause for it, the woman had actually smiled, her slack lips rising on the left, and only the left, side of her face. She spoke about her daughter, a woman that Jewel had never seen. Given how old the woman was, the daughter was either ancient or dead.
Which was why Jewel never asked. Street polite: never ask. Just accept.
After she returned with the day’s water, she left for the Common with a handful of coin and an empty basket. Rath was in his room, and the door was closed. She stood in front of it, dripping, her hand an inch from its hard surface. But in the end, she chose not to knock. Rath was busy.
Rath was always busy.
Jewel’s suspicion that Farmer Hanson had no clue where Arann lived was borne out by a short question. The farmer, huddled under the lee of his awning, spread his thick hands in the tail end of a long shrug that started with his shoulders and stretched down the rest of his body. “I don’t know where you live either, if it comes to that,” he told her, when she looked at him in silent disappointment.
“He didn’t come today?”
The farmer shook his head. “He’s got food enough to last another day or two, if they’re careful. He’s not,” he added, “a greedy boy. And he’s not, more’s the pity, a thick one. He knows that I’ll make work for him when I have it—but he’s smart enough to know how often that isn’t.”
“And Lefty?”
“He never comes without Arann.”
She knew that as well, but had felt compelled to ask. She couldn’t say why. “I’ll see to their clothing,” she told him, as she picked over fruit that had already, by the looks of it, been handled by a hundred people.
Seeing her expression, the farmer snorted, and mist left his lips like the thin stream from an invisible pipe. But he didn’t defend what was left of his food, and she didn’t insult it. Worse than this—far worse—had kept her from starving while she’d lived on the banks of the river. She filled her basket, lingering by the stall in hopes of actually seeing either boy.
Hope was scant, and it stung.
“If you see them,” she said at last, “tell them I’m looking for them, okay?”
“They know how to reach you?”
“They know where I live,” she replied, with an almost guilty smile.
The farmer’s smile was unfettered; broad and wide. “It’s getting colder,” he said, looking up, his gaze focused on the sky the awning hid.
She nodded. “It’ll get colder,” she added softly. “But Arann’s not much for charity.”
“He’ll take it,” the man replied sternly.
“I know. But he won’t like it much.”
“We all have to do things we don’t like.”
She made her way home, thinking of Lefty. Not certain why, and not much liking it. Her breath was a wreath that followed her, and she found herself clutching the basket as if its bent, threaded thatch was a blanket. Cold, yes. Too cold for Arann.
She took the straightest route home, pausing only to rescue a cat from a bored child—or to rescue the bored child, because with cats it was hard to tell—and made her way in through the door. It wasn’t raining hard; it was raining; the key was slippery and cold in her hand, and she dropped it once, adding colorful language to the bend of knees as she retrieved it. The sky was gray, which was not her favorite color, but it cast less shadow.
Rath’s door was still closed; she could see that clearly as she entered the front hall and made a small puddle as she stood, shedding what water her clothing could no longer contain. She went to the kitchen.
Stopped in the arch.
Rath was seated at the table.
And beside him, hunched and white, was Lefty.
Of all the people she had thought to find here—
“Jewel,” Rath said coldly. He raised a pale brow as she met his gaze. “Is there something you forgot to mention?”
The whole of her answer was to hand Rath the market-heavy basket. He took it without comment, waiting for words she didn’t have. She passed him—it was about two steps, as the kitchen wasn’t large—and came to stand beside Lefty.
To stand, in fact, between Lefty and Rath.
Lefty was staring at the table. And Lefty, she saw, was bleeding. He didn’t look up. Was afraid to look up. His eyes were fastened to wood grain as if the table were his only anchor.
“Lefty,” she said, pitching her voice low, but forgetting to strip it of urgency, “what happened?”
Lefty began to rock. His feet didn’t touch the floor. His left hand was in his lap, and his right, shoved under his left armpit. His shirt was torn in two places, and his forearm—left arm—was adorned by an ugly gash.
Uglier, she thought, by look than in fact; it wasn’t deep. She couldn’t see bone. “Why didn’t you tend it?” she asked Rath. This time, she worked to keep accusation out of the words.
“He was not of a mind to be, as you put it, tended. Had I not caught him, he would not have been of a mind to enter the apartment at all.”
“He’s frightened, Rath.”
“He should be. Why is he here, Jewel?” Jewel, not Jay. Rath was annoyed. But his voice, even and calm to the ear, gave none of that anger away. She suspected it was why Lefty was still seated.
“I don’t know,” she snapped back. Shoving wet hair out of her eyes, she knelt by the chair; it was uncomfortable in the cramped space. “Lefty,” she said, not touching him, not trying to catch his eye, “where is Arann?”
“Jewel, who is this boy?”
“I met him at the market,” she replied, wishing Rath was someplace else. Preferably someplace far away.
“And you told him where we live?”
“I brought him home.”
Rath rose, shoving the chair back. “And the other boy you mentioned?”
“Same.”
He started to head out of the kitchen, and Jewel turned suddenly and caught the leg of his pants. She would have caught his arm instead, but she didn’t want to rise too quickly; she didn’t want to panic Lefty. “Don’t leave,” she whispered. “Not yet.”
“Jay,” Rath replied, relenting, some of the unnatural stiffness leaving both voice and face, “how often have I told you not to get involved with strangers?”
“I haven’t kept count,” she replied, “And I’m bad at numbers anyway.”
“Not,” he said severely, “that bad.” He shook his leg free and found his place in the frame of the kitchen door, bracing himself against it. Waiting, as she had asked.
“Lefty,” Jewel said quietly. “We don’t have much time.” And as she said it, she knew it was true. “Where is Arann?”
Lefty shook his head. “We were home,” he told her, although he would not look at her face. “We were just home. It was night. It was raining. The mice ran away.”
Rath was utterly still. Frustrated, but watchful.
Jewel was almost dancing in agitation, which was impressive, given the crouch. She took a guess.
“Whose den?” she asked. “And which holding?”
“It’s the thirty-second,” he answered. The words came out quickly, the syllables running together in too l
ittle breath. He suddenly pitched himself forward, feet hitting ground, chest hitting table edge.
“Whose den?” she asked again.
“Cliff’s.”
The name, of course, meant nothing to Jewel. She looked at Rath quickly, almost afraid to take her eyes off Lefty, although if Lefty bolted, he’d have to get through Rath. Rath nodded slowly.
“Where?”
“They tore the boards down,” Lefty said, to no one. “They came in.”
“How many, Lefty?”
Lefty held up his hand. Left hand. Five fingers. Jewel would have to teach him to count. Different day, she thought. On a different day. “What did they want?”
“Money. Arann.”
“You don’t have any money.”
“Food.”
“You ran?”
“Arann threw me out. I scraped my arm on the board. I—” His eyes widened, and Jewel could see the water that filmed them, the reddened whites around a pale brown. “I ran.” He looked at her then, for the first time. “He told me to run.”
“And you came here.”
From his expression, it was clear that he would never be able to tell her why. And it didn’t matter.
Rath stared at Jewel. Watched her face pale, her eyes widen, watched her expression slide into the peculiar absence that sometimes took it for seconds at a time. Often when it did, she didn’t choose to speak, and he didn’t choose to interrupt her. He had come, in such a short passage of time, to trust the girl.
And she had dragged two strangers into the hidden heart of his life. He should have been furious. And on some level, he was.
Cliff. Cliff’s den. Cliff’s gang. He knew the name, and knew the boy, although to Jewel, Cliff would not be a “boy.” Rath thought him eighteen, possibly nineteen. He had seen Cliff’s group in action twice, and had observed them with disgust but little concern; they would be magisterial prison fodder within the six-month, if that long.
Child gangs were often tolerated if they did little damage. In the holdings, death was not uncommon, and children were allowed some leeway in their awkward attempts to survive their orphan years.
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