But he never had to.
She learned quickly. She watched the gray of endless rainy sky, and for the first time in recent memory, blessed rain; it meant she had time.
On the morning of the third day, Rath took her on both runs, and then, when they had made their way out of the storeroom, he returned to his room in silence, motioning Jewel to follow.
“Here,” he told her quietly. “This is yours. Lose it, and you replace it; it was costly.” He handed her a small, white stone, fire its heart. She was speechless as the cool surface touched her palm. “I trust you know how to use it?”
She nodded. A magestone. Her own. “I’ll pay you—”
“Not now, Jay. Maybe later, when I’m in a merchant mood.” At first, enthralled with this gift, she failed to notice that he was in the process of laying out clothing. He did this every morning, and the clothing varied greatly in quality.
But when he began to lay out his weapons, the magelight lost some of its shine; glinting steel did that. There was enough of it. And she didn’t recognize some of the dagger sheaths, they seemed so like clothing.
“Rath—”
He shook his head. Opened the curtain that hid the window well, and its scant light, from view. She saw a dim hint of blue, and after a moment, realized what this meant. “What if it’s the wrong day?” she asked him.
“Is it?”
“I—I don’t know.”
“Then we’ll have to make educated guesses,” he replied, turning back to the bed on which so much was laid out. “The sky is clear. The moon is not yet full.”
She nodded. Drew breath. “Where are you going?”
“What did I tell you, Jay?”
“That I’m not allowed to ask that question.”
“Good. Why are you asking?”
Her gaze lit on the daggers, and didn’t move.
He donned them, wrapping them around his thighs, as if they were pants, or part of his pants. She wanted to touch them, and wanted to avoid looking at them. She managed the latter, and that took effort.
“Throwing daggers,” he said, without looking at her face. “There is a moderate chance that I will not come home this eve.”
She swallowed, and he turned to face her. “If I don’t come home tomorrow, however, you’re free to leave. Take your money, and take mine; if I’m not back, I probably won’t have use for it.”
She wanted to tell him not to go. The words almost left her lips. She knew he would be in danger. That the dagger sheaths would be at least partially empty; that he might be injured or killed.
She could say none of this.
But he saw it in her face, as he often did. He shook his head. “Never play cards,” he told her.
“Not for money.”
“Not for anything.” He picked up his jacket and his satchel. The latter, he glanced at with some regret, as if he were certain he would lose it.
Finch.
A stranger. What was her Oma’s rule? Family came first. And Rath? Was he family? She struggled a bit with the question. Not, certainly, by her Oma’s blood definition.
“You don’t have to leave yet,” she said at last.
“I do,” he replied. “I want to be in the Common for a few hours before I make my appointment; I want nothing at all to be traced here.”
“You’ll be followed when you try to leave the Common,” she told him, her voice low. And certain.
“Will I?” His smile was odd. It was utterly unlike the unguarded amusement that had changed the whole cast of his features in the tavern; it was, however, genuine. In spite of this, she took a step back. This was a Rath that she seldom saw, and in truth, she didn’t like it.
“Jay,” he told her quietly, as he walked toward his door, “Have I forgotten to mention that I am not, at heart, a nice man?”
She shook her head. “Not forgotten,” she managed to say.
“Good. I’m not. It is because—entirely because—of this fact that I may be home on the morrow.”
And she realized, then, the significance of their first conversation in Taverson’s. “You’re going to draw them away.”
“I? I am merely going to present something to the man I believe employs them. If they are, as you so quaintly put it, drawn away from a young orphan—if she is that—it will have little to do with my orders.
“If you don’t remember by now how to follow the tunnels between Taverson’s and here, you won’t be back either.”
She swallowed, nodded, and opened his door for him. Tried not to look at his back as he left, because she knew it was all of Rath she would see. Rath wasn’t one for good-byes.
But after he left, she looked for a long time at the maps she had drawn with such determination. They were crude, and Rath had criticized them sixteen different ways, but they felt important enough that she simply curled them into a roll and stuck them on the edge of his desk.
Everything was sharper in the light of the open sun, this reprieve from the rains of the winter season. Even the smell of the streets was changed, the damp, heavy scent of moldy, wilting leaves giving way to a dry breeze. The streets were crowded with the old and the young, children and those who minded them; games were being played with sticks, stones, crude leather balls. Shouting and laughing punctuated the turn of those games, and Rath allowed himself the luxury of observation, seeing beyond the running, slender bodies of the underfed, the buildings that housed them, the open windows, the clothing that could be safely set out to dry.
Rath set out for the Common, moving slowly and without any obvious concern down the streets of the twenty-fifth. He had, of course, chosen to take the tunnels to arrive there; once there, in a territory that was in no way home, although it was familiar as all the poor holdings were, he lingered, letting himself be seen. He was neither dressed too richly nor too poorly, although he was on the edge of the former, and he did catch attention, stares, and the very youthful pointing that was instantly cut off where there was someone older and more experienced to notice.
The question of Jim’s disappearance still disturbed him, and he had briefly considered spending the morning doing research into just that—but after consideration, he decided that it might trigger the type of interest he could not afford on this particular day. Later, he thought.
Later was a different country.
He did not go to the usual merchants that punctuated Jewel’s daily routine. He desired no questions, and they would ask them; he desired no evidence of the life he actually lived. He could be almost certain that he was unobserved by anyone in a position to harm him, but almost was a far cry from certainty. And if he was called Old Rath in some quarters, there was reason for it. None of them were in evidence today. Were he in the right frame of mind, he would not be here.
Jewel’s existence changed all frames of reference. He had not thought to accept this when he had first found her so unusual. He barely accepted it now. But he had, and he did, because he was here. Radell had been informed; Radell had set up the meeting—and although Rath had made it clear that he waited upon the whim of Radell’s important client, he was completely certain that the meeting would take place. He was less certain that Radell’s lovely shop would not be overrun by magisterial guards by the meeting’s end, however that end played out.
Part of the way it played would be determined in the Common. Rath made his sauntering way to one of the few inns that were of note at the edge of the Common; it was near the Merchant Authority, and as such, was often frequented by men who had money and power. For the most part, their choice was a matter of convenience, and the more ostentatious of the new merchants chose to adopt rooms upon the Isle; the address itself was worth the doubling in cost.
He entered one of the four sitting rooms that the inn—dubbed the speckled egg, for a variety of reasons that had nothing to do with its actual name—possessed. It was the most informal of the four, the most formal being a ladies parlor, with appropriate chairs, tables, and service.
Still, inf
ormal was relative; it wasn’t Taverson’s. He was met at the door, and after he introduced himself by yet another name, was led into the room, with its low seats, its mock homey environment. The tables and chairs were old, but they were designed for comfort and a long stay. He took one, and waited.
He almost rose to leave when he saw the man who entered the room; it was not the man he was expecting. Patris Hectore, his godfather, was noted and noteworthy, but the man who had come in his place—and no other could have sent him—was both more and less so. Less, in that he had no official position, no title, and no obvious wealth; more, in that he was deadly.
Rath had once seen him kill, and it was Rath’s opinion that the man would have been at home among the Astari, the almost legendary body of men and women upon whom the Kings depended for their safety. They were the bane and the fear of the Empire’s patriciate; they were despised and watched by even The Ten. He was not, however, Astari. Or if he was, he had not claimed the association publicly.
He did not rise. Instead, he forced himself to look as relaxed and comfortable as any man who found himself in the speckled egg.
“Andrei,” he said, as the dark-haired man joined him. “You look well.”
Andrei was not, in seeming, a man who enjoyed small talk. But he was more than capable of it, and he smiled politely, and with an efficient sort of friendliness that could put hardened merchants at their ease. Rath, hardened by different things, was instantly on his guard.
Then again, around Andrei, he always was.
“The Patris sends his regrets,” Andrei said, after asking after Rath in the politest of ways. “He finds himself unexpectedly detained in a meeting of some import to his House, and he begs your understanding and your patience. Matters of the House, of course, are his primary concern.
“But you are his godson, and he did not wish you to be left waiting for any period of time; he asked that I join you for the day.”
Too much in those words to assimilate at once. While Rath digested them, Andrei ordered wine. It came quickly; the service was both efficient and unobtrusive. Rath couldn’t name the vintage, and didn’t care enough to try; the wine tasted like bitter water as he swallowed.
“Did he ask you to convey a message?” Rath asked at last, noting Andrei’s clothing. It was workmanlike, but it was not the clothing he usually wore; it bore no obvious hallmarks of wealth, nothing to indicate that it was expensive. Andrei wore no sword, of course; as a servant to the Patris, and not a bodyguard, a sword was not only not required, but could be viewed as an active insult.
It was also not necessary.
“He asked me to convey a message,” Andrei said, nodding agreeably. “Understand that, given the time constraints, he could not write it out himself, and he did not choose to dictate it; I am therefore quoting from memory, and memory, as you know, is often . . . unreliable.
“You asked about a Patris AMatie, a man who has been involved with the Merchant Authority in minerals and pearl trading. He is known to the Patris, albeit not well; they do not overlap much in their business interests. Because they do not, information about Patris AMatie was more difficult to obtain than it might otherwise have been.” He smiled, and took a small stone out of his pocket.
This, he set upon the table between their glasses. He spoke a soft word, and passing his hand over it, he met Rath’s gaze. Nothing about his expression changed, but his eyes grew colder.
Rath was impressed in spite of himself. The stone must have cost a small fortune. Hectore, of course, could spend a small fortune without noticing its loss, but he seldom chose to do it among the Magi. To the eye, it seemed a magelight; it had the right shape, the right color, and the right activation key.
But many things could be activated by word and gesture. This one? Silence, of a sort.
“What are we now speaking about?” Rath asked, with just the hint of a smile.
“Hectore’s family,” Andrei replied. “His troublesome sister and her unmarriageable daughter, his troublesome nephew and the possible difficulty his brother might be experiencing.”
Not just silence, then. Rath shook his head.
“Yes,” Andrei said, “it was costly. The more so because he did not have it to hand; it had to be crafted, and in speed. This may return to haunt us,” the man added, with a small, sharp frown. “But I am known to serve your godfather, and the discussion would not be out of place among the merchant class. If we are overheard, we are overheard.”
“And if someone is looking for magic?”
Andrei’s brow rose a fraction. “They will find it,” he said with a shrug. “It is stronger than the average magelight, but not by much, and not if the person searching is not looking directly at the stone.”
“You think of everything.”
Andrei shrugged. “I have to,” he said softly. “And, of course, I have a few questions of my own, Ararath.”
“As long as they don’t involve Handernesse, I’ll endeavor to answer them.”
“I doubt that. I doubt that highly.”
Rath smiled. His expression was not that different from the one Andrei wore. “Why did my godfather send you?”
“Because our investigations were . . . unsuccessful.”
“Which means you can tell me nothing about the Patris.”
“We can tell you that he appears to be sponsored by Patris Cordufar.”
Rath whistled. “That’s an old House.” Not rival to The Ten in size or power, as some of the merchant houses had grown to be, but lineage, in the Empire, counted for much. “Is Cordufar still associated with The Darias?”
“Yes. House Darias has found that association profitable, and Patris Cordufar is not hurt by the association. He has not sought to better his standing with a more powerful House, but there is always risk in that.
“AMatie was brought in about ten years ago. From where, it is not clear. And I doubt that clarity will ever come of the investigation.”
Rath frowned. “What else?”
“Very few men were willing to speak of Patris AMatie at all.”
“Not unusual.”
“But it is. He does not appear to be married; he does not appear to be otherwise involved. He keeps to himself, although he has a fine house upon the Isle. He has five servants; they are all men of roughly my age. They arrived with him when he arrived in Averalaan.”
“You didn’t try to speak with any of them.”
“No more would anyone try to speak to me of the affairs of Patris Hectore. I did not see wisdom in making the attempt, however.”
Which said much.
“He does have money. He uses it in odd pursuits. He is known to the Order of Knowledge as a hobbyist scholar.”
“Everyone who is not a member of the Order is known that way,” Rath said, with just a trace of annoyance.
“Indeed.”
“His areas of expertise?”
“Ah, now that is interesting. It appears that he has some interest in knowledge of Ancient Weston.”
Which was disappointing. “That much, I knew.”
“Then I will add to your knowledge. You knew Member Haberas?”
Rath frowned. It had been months since he’d seen Haberas, but he knew the old man well. Truculent and wheedling by turns, he was the foremost authority in Ancient Weston writing in the Empire. “I know him.”
“You knew him.”
Rath’s frown froze. “When?” he asked softly.
“Two months and seven days ago.”
“How?”
“That is the question. He was found dead. He is an old man. Had he died of age, there would be no difficulty. Indeed, it was assumed that he had.”
“But?”
“One of the Magi—Member APhaniel or perhaps Member Mellifas—has an investigation pending on the circumstances of that death. The magisterial guard has not been called,” he added.
Rath did not ask how he knew about an internal investigation ordered by First Circle mages of the Order of Knowle
dge, not because he wasn’t interested—he was—but rather because he had known Andrei for far too many years to expect more than a frown for an answer. Instead, he waited.
“Patris AMatie is a man of almost negligible needs. His food is the same, day in and day out, and it is sparse. Only when he entertains—which he does seldom—does it differ.”
“Who does he entertain?”
“Merchants of the Guild.”
“No other—”
“None whatsoever. If he has a private life—and I concede the possibility—it is conducted entirely off his grounds, and there is no trace of it that could be found on short notice.” Andrei leaned back, lifting the wineglass that he would not actually drink from. He frowned, however, as its scent wafted beneath his nose; he was a very picky man, and his expression clearly said, I have no intention of paying for this.
Rath had no intention of causing a scene, however, and grimaced.
“Hectore believes that you have encountered AMatie in professional dealings in the Common.” The neutrality of the statement bordered on the absurd. Rath, however, did not laugh.
“Given the deadline—”
“It was a request, Andrei, no more.”
“Given the deadline that you imposed upon the gathering of information, it is not beyond belief that you intend to have similar dealings with him again. It is, of course, why I am here.”
“Not to ask questions about the details of those dealings.”
“That is beneath you, Ararath. Your godfather is fond of you, and has always been fond of you. I personally think that you hold on to too much, and for far too long, but my opinion is neither wanted nor relevant. He is concerned for you, however, given the death of Member Haberas. Is there cause for concern?”
Rath nodded quietly.
“Good. I hate to waste my time.”
“So do I.” Rath looked out the windows. He had grown so used to his dwelling that he had almost forgotten how much he liked sunlight. “The meeting is not for some few hours yet.”
“And where will it take place?”
“Radell’s.”
The Hidden City Page 26