Jewel’s mother was softer spoken and far less harsh, and she loved her husband dearly, so it was clear that not all men were beneath notice.
It hit her as she walked beside Duster: She missed her Oma. Her mother. Her father. She had to swallow, to stop, to force herself to breathe.
And to her surprise, the sounds that were mostly verbal grunts paused, and Duster was by her side with something that might have passed for concern on her dark features. She didn’t like to acknowledge weakness, especially not her own; it was natural that she assume that everyone felt the same way. So she was awkward in her concern, almost tongue-tied.
Jewel shook her head. “He reminds me of my Oma,” she said quietly. “I think she would have liked him. She wouldn’t have trusted him, but she never trusted anyone who wasn’t kin. I miss her,” she added, her voice dropping. “I don’t know what she’d say, if she saw me like this.”
“Do you care?”
“Sometimes. When I was little, I thought she knew everything. Sometimes I still do.”
“I never knew mine,” Duster told her. Jewel had already guessed this much. “I liked my grandfather, but he died early. And I don’t like the old man.”
“I know. He doesn’t dislike you,” Jewel added. “But he wants you to see things as clearly as he does.”
“As he thinks he does.”
Jewel shrugged. Stopped walking. “You wanted this. You still do. We don’t have what we need to do this on our own.”
“We could get it.”
“We couldn’t, Duster. I mean to survive this. I know you don’t care if you do—but I do. I care if you do.”
“Why?”
Jewel shrugged. “Why do you always ask that?”
“Because I want to know. You’re the one who speaks well for her station in life,” she added, in bitter mimicry of Haval. “You find the words.”
But Jewel didn’t have them. Not then. All the words she had were mourning words, lost words, and she could not bring herself to expose them to someone who had never felt the same way.
Nor, in the end, did she expose them to Teller. He came to sit by her side when she retreated into the relative privacy of the kitchen. He didn’t speak, and he didn’t touch her; he just took a seat beside her, and ran his fingers across the wood grain. He was only Finch’s size, smaller even than Jewel, and his arms were as fine as bird legs, although they were pale and smooth. His eyes were pale brown in the odd kitchen light, and his face was drawn, the circles under his eyes pronounced.
“You aren’t sleeping well,” she said, to fill the silence, but not to obliterate it; she spoke quietly.
He said, “Neither are you.”
She shrugged. “I never sleep well. I dream too much.”
Teller nodded. After a brief hesitation, he added, “Lefty told me. Arann tried to stop him, if that helps.”
Jewel almost laughed. “Lefty didn’t speak to me for days,” she told him, “but he spoke to you and Finch after a few hours. Am I so scary?”
Teller shrugged. “Yes,” he said, “and no. You’re sort of fierce, but you’re not terrifying.”
“Then why do you think they’re more comfortable around you?”
“Because they don’t really care what I think about them; they care what I think about you.”
She looked up and met his gaze. “I was thinking about my family today,” she told him quietly. “About my Oma. I miss her.”
“My mother used to say that if you remember someone, they’re not really gone.”
“Feels gone to me.”
“Me, too. I figure I’ll understand it better later.” Silence again. She took his hand in hers, and was surprised at the feel of it; it was cold to the touch. He did not withdraw it.
“Carver’s worried about you,” Teller said at last.
“He said that?”
“No.”
“But you know it.”
Teller nodded. “Arann and Lefty aren’t so worried, and Lander’s in his own world. Finch worries about everything, but only a little, and Jester worries about gloom. Everyone worries about Duster,” he added, with just the hint of a smile. “But not the same way.”
“No. They’re afraid of her, not for her.”
He nodded.
“And you?”
“You want her here.”
Jewel nodded as well. “But it’s hard. Don’t ask me,” she added. “Don’t ask me to explain. I’ll explain after. If ever.”
“I think Rath is worried as well.”
The boy almost reminded her of Haval. “Probably.”
“I didn’t ask what happened to Duster,” Teller told her. “I didn’t have to. What is she going to do?”
“Kill a man,” Jewel replied. There wasn’t much point in not saying it; he already knew.
“And you’re going to help her.”
“I’m—yes. I’m going to help her.” And the words, when they left her lips, left like weights.
“Rath would kill him for you,” Teller said quietly.
Jewel was surprised. “He won’t.”
“He won’t because you don’t want it and wouldn’t accept it—but if you would, he’d do it tomorrow. Tonight.”
“I can’t ask that of him.”
“But you’re asking it of yourself.”
“Myself is different. I’m me. I can decide what I do. And live with it.”
“Rath has killed men before.”
She nodded absently. “Probably a lot of them. But I’m pretty sure they were trying to kill him first. He’s not—he’s not a bad man.” Lame, lame words. Duster would have sneered. Teller didn’t waver.
“I want to help.”
“You are. By being here. By talking to Lefty and Lander. By helping Finch.” She met his gaze and held it, her own unguarded. “Don’t be anything else. Not right now.”
He nodded again. “Finch left dinner for the two of you,” he said, and rose. “I’ll get it.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Teller—”
He shook his head. “Finch is worried. We all are. Just eat.”
And because he was right, she ate, and if the food tasted like sand in her mouth, it was good sand in its way. It reminded her of all of her promises.
Haval was waiting for them when they arrived, but although he was perched on his stool behind the vast, chaotic stretch of colorful counter, he rose. He wore a coat, a waistcoat, and carried both hat and cane. The hat was almost comical, its brim was so wide, and the cane looked thicker than his arm.
“I’ve decided,” he told them, as they huddled in the room for warmth, “that some fresh air would do us all a world of good.”
Jewel stepped on Duster’s foot before Duster could describe “fresh air” in more colloquial terms. “Ararath,” he added, speaking to their silent shadow, “if you wish to accompany us, you may; if you have business elsewhere, I suggest that this would be a reasonable time to conduct it.”
Duster, frowning, attempted to pick meaning from his complicated words, and Jewel whispered, “He’s telling Rath to get lost.”
“All that means get lost?”
“Pretty much. It’s politer.”
Duster said something about manners under her breath, and Haval wisely chose not to hear it. He made his way to the door, and lifting their snow-fringed skirts, they sighed and followed him, drawing their sweaters tightly around their arms and chests.
As he left his store, he straightened slowly, gaining inches in height. He did not seem nearly so old in the streets as he had in the magelit quarters behind which he ruled his small world; nor did he seem frail. The cold seemed to bolster him, to remind him that there was an outside world of which he was still part. Or, more likely in Jewel’s opinion, he didn’t want to look harmless out here.
“I do not know how much Rath has discussed with you,” he told them genially as he walked, pausing to look at the sparrows that were feather puffs in the
snow, picking at invisible grains. “He has discussed nothing with me, but I am not a man to rely on words, as you will both no doubt have observed.”
Duster gave up and nodded.
Jewel, however, listened carefully.
“Duster, please, lift your shoulders and your chin; you are not heading toward a fight.”
This produced almost the opposite effect, but Haval must have expected no less. He frowned a moment, and air left his mouth in a cloud, like a bubble of silent conversation cut free in the winter air.
“Patris Waverly is not widely known for some of his less respectable inclinations; were he, he would be ostracized. He is feared, with cause, and he is not loved by many. It is rumored that even the Astari—” He shook his head. “Too complicated. The Kings would not weep to attend his funeral.”
Jewel nodded, aware that Haval was observing them both, although his gaze seemed to be caught by everything that Winter ice had transformed.
“It is seldom that he has the opportunity to indulge himself, but not, unfortunately, never.” His gaze did not pause or linger on Duster, but it didn’t have to. “He is cautious, but between caution and desire there are always many slips and many errors in judgment made.
“It is upon such an error in judgment that your plan depends, if I am any judge.”
Jewel nodded again.
“And it is not, in the end, the lovely young lady who must be offered as his entertainment, for I fear he would recognize her.” And he looked at Jewel. There was no insult offered in the carefully chosen words.
Jewel had carefully refused to think this through until this moment. Thinking, however, changed nothing. As if Haval was a window through which she could gaze, she watched him. “Your hair,” he told her gently.
This time, she did not argue.
“We can iron it out. The air is dry, and it will hold some semblance of length for a small time, if you will consent to it.”
Jewel nodded.
“I believe Rath means to introduce you to the Patris, in a location of his choosing. It will be as safe a location as he can make it,” he added, “and Ararath has always been a canny man. But if the location is not entirely safe, there is a risk, and I judge it to be a large one. For you.”
“It’s mine to take.”
“Indeed, young woman, it is. Were I you, I would not, but I am no longer young, and in my youth, I might have been just as foolish, just as determined. Our youth—should we survive it—teaches us much. But you must face the fact that there is every possibility that Ararath will be unable to come to your aid in a timely fashion, and that what is offered the Patris, he may well take.”
Jewel closed her eyes.
And Duster snarled. The sound drew Jewel back into the now of cold streets, Common streets, tall, bare trees girding it as if it had grown up within an ancient forest.
“I won’t let her be hurt,” Duster said, heat instead of cold transforming both her words and her expression.
“You want two different things,” he told Duster, without pause and without apparent concern. “And you are willing to let her take this risk in order to achieve one of them.”
“I’ll be there.”
“How?”
“I’ll—” The words faded. Duster was not a planner; she reacted, and she reacted quickly, but she had to react to something.
“You begin to see,” Haval said quietly.
“Leave her alone, Haval,” Jewel said, equally quietly. “I’ve already made my decision. There’s no point in talking about it.”
Haval was silent for a full minute. “It is not for your sake,” he said at last, and more heavily, “that I make the attempt. It is not even, in the end, for Ararath, although any harm you take will scar him. It is for Duster that I speak.”
Duster startled. She hadn’t given the old man her name.
“Because if you die, Jewel Markess, do you think it will have no impact on your friend?”
Jewel expected Duster to snarl; expected her to deny any friendship, any ties. But Duster said nothing; she stared mutely at the old man. “For me?” she said at last, the two words harsh and grating.
Haval nodded, but it was a slight gesture, framed by bitterness. “You will have to live with the outcome, whatever that outcome may be. Be certain that you can.”
“She can,” Jewel said again. “Let it be, Haval.”
“And are you so eager to see your friend kill?” There was no heat or anger in the question; he might have been talking about the weather.
“Eager?” Jewel asked him, turning the syllables over on her tongue. “No.”
“Then?”
“She’s Duster. She is what she is. And she’ll become what she’ll become. But she has to do this, and because she does, I have to do my part.”
“And you are so certain?”
“Always,” Jewel replied, with complete confidence. Because at this moment, in this street, she was. If there was fear—and there would be, she could feel it coiling in the pit of her stomach, and waiting, biding time—she would face it then.
“Then you must learn. You are not highborn, and Ararath is no fool; Lord Waverly would not touch a highborn girl for all the money in the world. But you cannot be lowborn.”
“What do I have to be?”
“The naïve child of grasping, merchant parents,” he replied. “Parents who are ambitious enough to desire any means of elevating themselves above their circumstances.”
“You’ve talked to Rath.”
“No, Jewel. He will say nothing at all to me of this; he gave me the name, and that was a surprise to me.”
“You wouldn’t have helped him without it.”
The old man favored her with a sharp smile. “You’ve got good instincts, girl,” he told her. “And you are, of course, correct. Remember this about Ararath: He gives what must be given, no more and no less.”
“And me?” Duster asked quietly. Quietly enough that Jewel turned to look at her. “What do I have to be?”
“You will be, no doubt, a waitress or a barmaid, possibly even a servant.” He frowned for a moment. “A personal servant would not be unknown; the highborn have their attendants, and merchants who are desperate to be associated with the highborn will often ape them.”
Duster shrugged. “I could do that.”
“You could, yes. But you will have to do it well. Lord Waverly must both see you and see through you; you must be in all things what a capable servant is: invisible. Part of the furniture. Nothing you do must draw attention to who you actually are. Everything you present must be a surface, a mask, and it must fit you so perfectly it seems utterly natural.” He paused before the rounded curve of a wide, wide tree, and reached out to touch the ice that smoothed out the surface of ancient bark. “If I had two months,” he said, almost to himself. “If only I had two months.”
“Why don’t you?”
“I am not entirely certain. I assumed it was because your friend, your Duster, will seek redress without patience or concern for her own safety. But . . . it is never wise to make assumptions based on so little knowledge. Rath is not hasty,” he added, “except when the need forces haste upon him.
“And he has chosen the time. Could he, I believe he would choose differently. But enough idle chatter, and enough of this damnable cold. Let us return to my shop, and let us begin there as we must continue.”
And so it began: Jewel, seated, her back straight, the folds of her dress arranged and rearranged by a very focused Haval, and Duster, fidgeting and agitated, carrying everything: trays, silks, cups, and—yes—a duster. She was not, Jewel thought, good at any of it; she resented the lessons.
But she did as Haval ordered. It gave Jewel an odd sense of hope to balance a growing anxiety.
Ararath Handernesse sat, once again, with Andrei. They did not dine in the formal rooms of the Proud Peacock; instead, they chose drinks by the fireside in the round room that was the Peacock’s pride. The mantel that surrounded the fire
was a gleaming piece of redwood, oiled and stained so that it caught and transformed flickering light. Above it were silvered plates that were polished and obviously unused. Above those plates rested a painting of the seascape, waves battering the seawall beneath the proud rise of Senniel College.
Rath recognized the scrawl of a signature in the corner of that painting, and was impressed in spite of his dislike for the pretensions of the Peacock’s owner; this was not a masterwork, but it was the lesser work of a known artist. Emory Blackwood. A man who, in his august years, was often invited to paint the portraits of the patriciate, and whose brush strokes and fine sense of light had captured the likenesses of even the Kings.
Andrei nodded in recognition, if not quite approval. “It is small wonder the man can afford so little potable wine,” he said grudgingly. “It is a lesser work, but it is unmistakably a Blackwood.”
Rath nodded as Andrei touched the round stone that was a constant third party in their conversations. He did not allow Rath to touch it, which was wise; Rath wished to see how it was marked, and by whom. He would not ask, and Andrei would never volunteer the information.
There were other questions to be asked, however. “I received your note,” Rath said quietly. “And you must know that it is not to my liking.”
Andrei nodded slowly. “You’ve been speaking to Haval.”
“And if I have?”
“You’ve been in the company of two young women.”
“Andrei, do not play these games.”
“They are not games, Ararath. You are canny enough to pass through the streets unnoticed should you desire it; they are not.”
“You think I’m being hunted.”
“You don’t?”
Rath shrugged. “I would play another game of distraction,” he said softly, “but I fear that it would end in a fashion less to my liking.”
“I assume that your timing is due in large part to the presence of the young women.”
“In part,” Rath replied uneasily. “But only in part. There are games being played in AMatie’s circle, and if I am not privy to them—and I am not, yet, in such a position—I fear they are coming to a close.”
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