The Hidden City

by Michelle West

  But she showed none of Arann’s hesitation, was marred by none of Jewel’s. When she at last struck, she struck up, from a low stance, and she moved damn fast. Rath parried, a glancing blow that sent Duster’s arm just off to the side; he continued his single motion toward the base of her throat, and she threw herself back before his stick’s point could make contact.

  Rath nodded. “Good.” And then it was his turn, and he showed her no mercy at all. Which was good; Duster wasn’t much for mercy. He hit her; she swung round, and caught his sleeve, slicing it open. But he’d given her that; he caught the underside of her jaw and sent her reeling. She staggered back, blade still in her hand. He gave her nothing; she found the space in which to ground herself before he was on her again.

  But she managed to back up enough, managed to make contact again, this time with his forearm; there was blood, and Jewel stopped breathing. Rath didn’t notice. Duster didn’t.

  When he switched from right to left hand, she was prepared, and in the switch, she backed up suddenly and threw the knife. Rath parried it, but only barely, and it flew to the side, landing on the ground behind him.

  Duster stared at him, and he stared back, but he made no further move. “What do you have left?” he asked her quietly.

  “Another knife.”

  He nodded as she pulled it. But he lifted a hand. “Enough. I wanted to take your measure, and I believe I have it. I will train you,” he added. “It may mean you have less time to spend in reading and writing.”

  Duster spit. So much for reading or writing. But she looked—almost happy. Almost.

  “Duster, Jewel, I would like to speak with you in my room. Carver and Arann, you may return the room to its previous state.” He paused and then added, “Clean up.”

  They didn’t wait to be told twice.

  “Lord Waverly,” Rath said, bending over the map, “lives here.”

  Jewel whistled. “That’s on the Isle,” she said.

  “Yes. For that reason, his domicile is unsuitable for any encounter we may plan. It is guarded, and you will not be able to cross the bridge to the Isle without being noted. But he does not spend all of his time in his home, as Duster is well aware. Of the men whose names you gave me, Duster, I believe Patris Waverly is the most driven by his own desires, and the least cautious.

  “We may lure him out of his dwelling with the right incentive,” he added quietly.

  Duster said, “And that?”

  “Jewel.”

  Jewel startled.

  And Duster said, in a cold, even voice, “What do you mean?”

  “Finch would be better as bait; she is, I think more to his liking. But—”

  “No.” Jewel’s voice was cold and clear. To Jewel’s surprise, Duster’s was just as cold, and the word she spoke was the same.

  Rath smiled. It was not a friendly smile, but it was genuine. To Duster he said, “So, you have some limits. If Finch was the only way—”

  “No.”

  “Good. I do not consider it wise, although I believe if you asked it of her, she would do whatever it was you required.”

  “Don’t ask.” Duster again. Jewel had fallen silent, watching Rath and listening to the words. He was testing, now. She wondered if they had just passed or just failed; it was a test of resolve.

  “I will, of course, respect your wishes in this,” he said, his tone very formal. “But I must ask why. I believe she is the most suitable, and the most likely chance you have of success here.”

  Duster’s eyes were black; they glittered like . . . like the eyes of the men who had held her captive. She opened her mouth to speak, frowned, bit the words back. “She’s suffered enough.”

  Jewel was staring at Duster. At words that she would have bet would never leave Duster’s mouth, even if she was also certain they weren’t the first words that tried. “Her parents sold her,” Duster added. “And she knows it. She’ll always know it.

  “I won’t sell her that way.”

  “And yours?”

  “Mine died,” Duster said with a shrug. “I don’t remember them. I grew up in the Mother’s temple until I was old enough to run away so they couldn’t find me. We can do it without Finch. I can look helpless, if I have to.”

  At that, Rath raised a brow. “And Jewel?”

  Duster shrugged. “Up to her.”

  And Jewel understood then that Duster considered her an equal. It was a compliment, of sorts.

  “Jewel?”

  “I’ll do what I have to. I owe her that much.”

  “Good. I have taken the liberty of procuring clothing, but clothing alone will not be enough. If the two of you feel you are ready—and determined—I will begin negotiations with Patris Waverly.” He pointed at a different spot on the map. “Do you recognize this?”

  They both shook their heads. “It’s in the older holdings, but near the Merchant Quarter. It is there that you will meet Patris Waverly when you are ready.” He rose. “Duster, you fight well enough; I believe you are capable of killing should the need arise.”

  He turned and looked at Jewel. “But you, Jewel Markess, have not yet been tested.”

  “I’ll do what I have to.”

  He said nothing for a long moment, and it was not a silence she liked. “Then come,” he said at last. “There is a man you should meet; he will teach you about the art of disguise. It is not as simple as clothing; you could dress as the Princess Royale and you would be spotted in an instant as a fake.”

  He opened the door, and Jewel was aware that this opening was different. But she followed where he led, Duster in tow. Wanting to see the future. Wanting not to see it. Torn between these things, as she would so often be.

  Chapter Twennty-two

  WASHING HAIR IN the Winter was about the last thing on Jewel’s mind. It was a waste of wood, a waste of heat, a waste of time—with her hair. But she didn’t say much because she didn’t have the chance to slide any of her words between Duster’s curses. Rath looked slightly unamused, but mostly bored, which meant he expected no better of Duster. Duster failed to notice; Jewel didn’t.

  The clothing he had taken the liberty, in his own words, of securing was neither too fine nor too poor—but it was a dress. Well, two dresses. Duster was livid.

  Rath was cold. “How much do you want this, Duster?” he asked, and Winter air seemed warm around his words.

  She fell into her habitual sullen silence in Rath’s presence. But she dressed, and even allowed him to help with the ties that bound the back of the dress in a crisscross pattern. “The skirts are wide enough,” she said at last. “You could run in these.”

  He nodded. “They are meant to be as practical as base fashion will allow; indeed, they are not considered high fashion. But among the less poor, they would suit for visitors and possibly the Challenge season; they will do.” He eyed Duster critically. “Try to smile,” he said, “as if you weren’t contemplating removing the limbs of a helpless cat.”

  He turned to Jewel. Frowned at her hair.

  “I could cut it,” she offered.

  “No.”

  “But it’s not—”

  “No. We don’t have time. Now if you will both be so kind, I, too, must make myself presentable.” He nodded meaningfully toward the door but did not tell them to get out; they left awkwardly, aware of sleeves and skirts, of bodices that were too tight and too unnatural.

  “You say one word,” Duster said loudly as she exited the room, “and I’ll break your arm.”

  She said it to no one in particular, or to everyone. Jester, Jewel was certain, had bitten off his tongue; he liked his arms.

  Finch said, “You look beautiful!” before she could stop herself, and Duster turned a glare on her. But it wasn’t much of a glare; there was almost a hesitance in it. She touched the skirts; they were soft and shiny. “I look like a—a fop.”

  “You look like a girl,” Finch replied. “I never knew your hair was so long.”

  And it was long; lo
ng, fine, dark. It framed her face, made it seem less threatening and more regal. Well, as much as someone with Duster’s mouth could ever look regal. She cursed a bit, but only a bit. She wanted to look at herself, to see what Finch saw, but the only mirror in the apartment was in Rath’s room, and Jewel knew she’d die before asking to use it.

  “You look nice, too,” Lefty told Jewel. Jewel almost laughed. “I don’t look like Duster,” she said. He shook his head. Mumbled a few words she couldn’t catch, but could understand anyway. She touched his right shoulder gently. “We’re going out with Rath,” she told him. “Make sure Teller’s okay.”

  He nodded. “Can I teach him the letters?”

  “If you want. You’re better than Arann with letters.”

  “I have to be better at something.”

  “You talk a lot more, too,” Arann said.

  Jewel laughed. “Everyone talks more than you do,” she told him. Everyone except Lander. She didn’t say it.

  “When are you coming back?” Finch asked.

  “Don’t know. It’s Rath; it could be any time. Don’t let anyone in,” she added. But she always said this.

  Rath joined them in the hall, and everyone fell silent; he looked like a lord. His face was the same face, his expression the same expression, but the clothing he wore—dark purples and blues—somehow made everything seem more severe. More distant.

  Jewel wasn’t sure she liked the difference.

  “Are you ready?” he said, and then added, “Stop playing with the skirts.”

  “No pockets.”

  “No. Young ladies are not expected to carry things in their pockets; it ruins the fall of the fabric.”

  So, as young ladies—as uncomfortable young ladies—they followed Rath where he led. The apartment, the crowded and messy noises of home, made way for the noises of cold wind and half-empty streets. Snow had been carved into tunnels by footsteps, paths had been made; what had been new in the morning had become just another part of the City, an inconvenience, even a deadly one, but not more.

  Duster had none of Lefty’s wonder or glee, and no desire for it; weather, like anything else, was beneath her. She lifted her skirts when Rath told her to lift them, but it was impossible not to trail snow at the hems; impossible not to be touched by it.

  “Where are we going?” Jewel asked.

  “The Common.”

  She nodded. “By the—”

  “We will walk the normal way, yes.” Warning, in the cool words. Jewel subsided. She thought the tunnels beneath the streets would be both warmer and drier, but knew also that for Rath, they were a hoarded treasure. Not something she could share with Duster; not yet. Maybe never.

  Duster didn’t ask. Curiosity was a weakness, in Duster’s eyes—because curiosity implied ignorance, and she wasn’t about to look stupid for Rath.

  There were a few wagons in the snow, but they moved slowly; everything seemed to except Rath. The snow didn’t touch him, and it didn’t hold him back.

  He led them through the stalls, where voices were carried by clouds of breath, human mist that wreathed faces red with cold. There were fewer of them than usual, but Winter or no, the Common was still busy. People had to eat, even if the food itself was Winter food, and scarce. Prices would be higher, in most places. She wondered how her farmer was doing. Wondered if he still had the voice to berate his sons for their imaginary wrongs, or to praise his daughter.

  She wanted to bring Teller to meet him. But she was afraid to take Duster. Maybe later. And maybe, always, never.

  The beggars were out in force, and the Winter made them look genuinely afraid; it lent an edge to their pleas for money or food that the Summer robbed them of almost entirely. She had taken some small amount of coin in a pouch she had tied to her waist, but Rath’s single forbidding glance made her walk around them.

  It was hard. And harder not to resent this other Rath, this nobleman.

  Duster, however, was unmoved by their plight. In this, she could have been Rath’s daughter, for if she lacked his grace of movement, she didn’t lack his callous indifference. Jewel had neither, and wanted neither.

  But she had given Duster her word, and she meant to keep it. Her eyes begged forgiveness, but she did not apologize or make excuses for her lack of generosity; she followed Rath.

  The stalls passed by as she struggled with her anger, and the streets suddenly cleared of snow; she could see its white between the stones that made the road where the actual shops hovered, crushed together like birds in a nest. He led them to a dressmaker’s store. It had a wide window, one that bowed in the front in a half circle, displaying dresses that only a princess might dream of wearing. Light caught them; magelight, she thought with disdain; light made them seem unnaturally lovely.

  And someone would buy these dresses instead of offering food to the starving and the freezing. Whoever that someone was, she hated them.

  There was a bell attached to the door; it rang as the door opened, jostling its gleaming brass dome. A woman looked up as they entered; the store itself was almost empty. A man sat behind a counter, surrounded by beading and needles, by spools of thread, each a different color. He wore glasses and a ready frown, and did not bother to look up from his work.

  He was a bald, slender man, and seemed bowed with age, but that was artifice; he bent over whatever it was he crafted as if it were the only thing of consequence in the world. And perhaps to him, it was.

  Jewel had always liked to watch people work when they were consumed with their particular vision. Clothing itself had rarely interested her, but she found, in his focus, some hint of passion or fire, and if she stood close enough, she might catch some of its heat.

  But Rath cleared his throat as the woman curtsied before him, and as if that were the signal, the man at the counter looked up with a frown. His eyes narrowed in a squint, and he reached for his glasses.

  “Hannerle,” he said curtly. “My glasses?”

  “They’re on your head,” was her soft reply. She shook her own; clearly, this happened often.

  He reached up and pulled them down from one perch to settle them on another: the bird beak drift of his nose. His eyes were a pale blue, and they were clear. “Is that young Ararath?” he said, with affected surprise.

  “It is, as you well know,” Rath answered.

  “It’s been a while since you’ve come visiting. And in the Winter, too.” The man hopped down from the stool upon which he’d perched. “Don’t touch anything,” he said to the woman on the other side of the counter.

  She rolled her eyes. “Yes, Haval.”

  “What is that you’re wearing?” Haval asked, looking Rath up and down—and failing entirely to notice his companions. “It’s not this season, Ararath.”

  “No, Haval; I’ve never been one to follow fashion.”

  “No, nor common sense, from what I hear. But come, come, enough pleasantries. I’ve work to do; you can keep me company in the back while I tend to it. It’s damn cold in here and I want my tea.”

  Tea, as far as Jewel could tell, was mostly alcohol. She and Duster exchanged a single look, but Duster was carefully not casing the place. It made Jewel realize just how aware she was of Duster’s constant probing. Duster was uncomfortable, but then again, so was Jewel; they stood side by side for a moment in genuine companionship.

  “Well,” Haval said, indicating not one chair but three—his first acknowledgment of either girl—“you might as well sit and have a drink, Rath. Business hasn’t been bad,” he added, “so we can afford it.”

  “Given the quality of what you drink, business had better be booming,” Rath replied, with a smile. He nodded to Jewel and Duster and they sat, Duster fidgeting slightly with her skirts.

  The older man noticed, his eyes narrowing slightly over the rim of his cup. “I won’t ask you your business,” he told Duster, “or yours,” he added to Jewel. “But I’ll tell you both that you’ve taken up with a rather odd patron.”

  “Enough,
Haval.”

  “Better they know.”

  “You think they don’t?”

  “I’ve known you for half of my life, and I’d lay odds that I don’t.”

  Rath laughed. It was a clear sound, free for a moment of either edge or worry. “I wouldn’t take any odds you were willing to bet on,” he said at last. “These two are friends, my charges if you will.”

  “And you brought them to me because they have no fashion sense?”

  “That, too.”

  Jewel could not stop herself from grimacing. She didn’t even bother to try; there was something about this man that set her at ease.

  “Girl,” Haval said, “don’t sneer. Fashion is a statement that people listen to whether or not they know they’re paying attention. They have that luxury, most of the time; if Rath brought you here, you don’t.”

  He was now serious, although he still perched over his cup as if it were three sizes larger than it actually was. “I don’t like it,” he said at last, to Rath. “Did I mention business has been good?”

  “At least once.”

  “I’m out, Rath. I’ve set up a decent shop here, and I don’t have to blackmail more than a third of my customers to keep them coming back.”

  Rath laughed. Jewel, however, wasn’t entirely certain Haval was joking. “You can relax,” he said, when his mirth had diminished. “It is merely your knowledge we wish to tax, not your actual ability.”

  “I never betray a confidence.”

  “Not if it won’t get you somewhere, no,” Rath replied. “And we’re not here for that type of information. I can’t afford it,” he added. “Tell me a bit about the two girls here.”

  Haval shrugged almost genially. “That one—what did you say her name was?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Ah. Well, the one with the nest of hair.”

  Jewel grimaced.

  “Torra, I’d guess, by descent. Probably speaks it. Lives in the hundred, probably between the twenty-fifth and the thirty-fifth. She can read some, which suggests she might be able to write. She pays attention. She never wears dresses. Enough?”