And among those, of course, Harald.
The smoke was thick, but the scent of ale and the sweat of men too smart—or too stupid—too remove their winter vests, was almost as tangible. In a youth that troubled him enough he seldom dwelled on it, he would have shuddered just passing the doors. And now, a world away, he felt at home here, where death was evident, and manners not layered so thick that they could hide it easily.
Harald was quiet; this was not unusual; he joined Rath by the simple expedient of glowering his way through the crowd. Reputation—in context—was always valuable; it obviated the need for Harald to actually injure the fools who might otherwise stand too long in his way to prove a point. He sat and Rath waved one of the brothers over; the man came and plunked two mugs across a table that had already seen at least one good spill.
Rath nodded; Harald nodded. That was all the time left for social intercourse when the bar was busy.
“Well?” Rath said, as they bent over their drinks. The question was casual, but it held weight. Harald did not answer immediately, which was usually a bad sign; when he gathered his thoughts, rather than his weapons, things were often slow.
But Harald only looked like a thug; had he been, in fact, no better than an ill-tempered warrior, he would not now be alive. “The report handed to the Magisterium by the magisterial investigators spoke simply of a cooking fire,” he said at last.
“A cooking fire.”
“Aye.”
“And the dead?”
“Trapped in an old building. Probably drunk; it was morning, after all.”
“The Magi were not summoned?”
“No.”
Rath was silent. “The investigators?”
“Their names were attached to the report,” Harald said quietly. And he removed a sheaf of papers from within his cloak. “This was costly,” he added.
Rath nodded and handed him a small bag. The tinkle was lost to the crowd, but it didn’t matter overmuch; no one would think of taking the money by force when Harald would gamble at the tables sooner or later. No one smart, at any rate.
“They thought a kitchen fire started in the grand hall?”
“They imply that little enough was left standing; the fire spread.”
“Incompetence?”
“The magisterians are not my domain, Rath. If they’re anyone’s here, they’re yours. You tell me.” He paused. “You made a report?”
“I sent rumor with a runner,” Rath replied. It was an evasion. Harald clearly expected no less. “But there were other witnesses in the streets; mage fire was clearly used there.”
“They didn’t speak with your witnesses then,” Harald replied. “If any of them are still alive. You gave names?”
“I failed to retrieve names,” Rath said. “It did not, at the time, seem necessary.”
“Then perhaps no one was willing to come forth.”
“I told you—”
“Beyond your rumormonger,” he added.
But they were both disturbed. The use of battle magic in the streets was not a daily event; it was perhaps an event witnessed every decade or two, and that with both dread and fear. Mages were feared; they could, by dint of both birth and training, do the impossible. It was only the iron grip of the Kings, and the watchful eye of the Magi themselves, that kept that fear at bay.
And it had slipped here, and slipped badly.
“You expected this?” Harald asked, draining half his mug. He was still stone sober.
“Not this,” Rath replied, drinking less heavily. “But something, yes. I would not have said it would be possible to . . . prevaricate to this extent.”
“Money buys silence.”
“So does death.”
And trouble. They were quiet for a long moment. “I owe you for this.”
Harald laughed. “You couldn’t pay what you owe,” he replied. “But I’ll keep it on the books.”
“One of your men is part of the magisterial guards now?”
Harald shrugged. “Does it matter? You have the report. You can read it at your leisure. But I would say it’s a bad sign for this holding.”
“I’d say it’s a bad sign,” Rath nodded. “But not for the holding alone; for the City as well. Concealment of this type would be less obvious in the holdings, where the powerful seldom travel.”
“Something’s going on down here.”
Rath frowned. “Something must be,” he said at last. “But I can’t make sense of it yet; I don’t have the whole picture.”
“If anyone can see it, it’s you. Not that I’d suggest it,” Harald added. “You’re Old Rath for a reason. This one—it reeks of trouble.”
Rath nodded. “The magisterial guards have been less present in the streets of late.”
“And the streets have become more dangerous.”
“A place where men can die.”
“Or disappear,” Harald said agreeably. “There are two other reports there. One’s about Jim,” he added.
“Same station?”
“Same station. Different names on the documents.”
“Good.” Rath rose almost hesitantly. He did not want to leave The Den, or his chair.
“You think uptown is involved in this.”
“I think,” Rath said, “that the Isle itself may be involved in it.”
Harald shrugged. “Not my problem,” he said curtly.
“No, thank the gods, it’s not.”
“Not your problem either, Rath.”
But Rath didn’t answer.
“Don’t get mixed up in mage business.”
“A good piece of advice if ever I heard it,” Rath smiled. “And worth every copper paid for it, as well.”
Harald reached out; caught Rath’s arm. There was no humor in him, although he was capable of it when the mood struck. Lightning would strike first, tonight. “I mean it, Rath.”
“I know. And were I in a position to take your advice, I would sojourn in the country.”
“That bad?”
“Bad enough,” Rath replied, “that this is the last favor I’ll ask of you for quite some time. Take your own advice,” he added. “You’ve already lost men to this.”
“Aye.”
“The money there should cover some of their responsibilities, if anyone was fool enough to marry them or bear their children.”
“Aye, and in at least one case, it’ll be more welcome than having him back. Sea’s good for something.” Grim humor. “This isn’t a fight.”
“Not your kind, no. But it is a fight in the sense that there will be deaths by the end of it. If the whole City isn’t affected,” he added, “we can offer thanks to the gods.”
“Which ones?”
“Doesn’t matter. Choose one, and be sincere while you’re there.”
Harald did laugh at that. “You know my god’s Cartanis.”
“Cartanis,” Rath said quietly, “would not frown on this. I will take what you’ve brought. If there’s trouble that follows, I’ll send what word I can.”
“And I’ll know it’s from you?”
“I’ll make sure it’s obvious.” Rath nodded and rose.
“Pay before you leave,” Harald said, reaching for what remained of Rath’s ale.
“Already done, old friend. And a round’s worth as well if your crew shows up.”
“If? Not much else to do in this town at the moment. Damn snow,” Harald said, with a vigor that was surprising, given his homeland.
Rath took the reports home. It was quiet when he arrived, if by quiet, one meant a scattering of barely muffled voices behind closed doors. He made his way to his room, and saw that the slates were not in their usual unwieldy stack; Jewel was teaching, then.
He liked to watch her teach, on the rare occasions it was possible. He found some comfort in it, and if she was a somewhat waspish teacher—and she wasn’t particularly gentle—she was also a determined one. Arann had the most difficulty absorbing the shapes of letters, and his memory
was poor; he tried several times to give up. Lefty spoke only when Arann was in a state of frustrated despair. Had Jewel wanted to excuse Arann, Lefty would have pinned him there. And, struggling with his off-hand, his good hand sometimes visible, he could silently shame Arann into continuing.
She allowed only Lander, however, to be excused. If Teller and Finch were her most able students, the others surprised, for Carver was quick with chalk and Jester, ebullient in his humor, only a whit slower. Duster swore loudly, especially when the answer to a question was beyond her. Jewel allowed her to hide her ignorance, but did not allow her to keep hold of it. She whittled away at them all.
Her father’s gift, no doubt; Rath did not know what part his own teaching played in Jewel’s. His role, when he had the time for it, was to teach the rougher things, and he had already begun—to Jewel’s mute amazement and concern—to teach Duster and Carver the rudiments of what might best be described as illegal entry.
Jewel was trying to prepare them for a different life. Rath, in his practical way, was trying to prepare them for the life they might have to lead instead; he was old enough to have witnessed failure, endured it, and survived. Noble cause did not, in the end, guarantee success.
Determination often did. He marveled at Jewel’s. It did not stem from ignorance or naivete, although she was undeniably naive. She wanted more for these orphans than the streets were prepared to grant them, and she was willing to wrest it from the streets, through dint of will and struggle if need be. He did not desire to take that from her. Hope had its place.
And it was a better place, he thought wearily, than these reports occupied. He read them carefully, and with growing contempt and weariness. The Magi had not been called; they were not even mentioned. And the fire itself was indeed, as Harald had indicated, blamed on the kitchen which had probably been among the last of the places to burn; it was tiled there, and wood was scarce.
He took note of the names of the two investigators—for only two had signed this report. One was a man of little rank, and probably scant years; the other was a Primus of the magisterial guards. The second name, Evanton Billings, was therefore of more interest.
Money could buy men. It always had.
But seldom among the magisterians, who answered to the judgment-born. It was not merely their jobs that were at risk.
The second report, scant, was more annoying. It was not a missing person report, as Harald had suggested—for Jim was undeniably missing; it was instead a domestic complaint. From the report, Jim had taken what money he and his wife had, and had left the city. His wife was described as hysterical, and angry, but no credence was given to the idea that he was “missing.”
The other report was similar. It detailed the description of a young girl who had run away from home. It gave her name, the names of her parents, her address.
These, Rath filed away; he thought he might pay a visit at some point. And soon. He wondered if that girl had been in the mansion at some point, before the mansion had simply ceased to exist in gouts of magical flame.
And he wondered, not for the first time, what would have become of Finch had it not been for the interference of Jewel and—yes—Duster.
He set the reports to one side and returned to the letter he had seen through so many drafts. Duster. If he had been stupid enough to walk blindly into Jewel’s life—and he could almost acknowledge that he had, and in that direction—he could understand it.
But Duster?
Jay, he thought. Jewel. And then, of course, his sister’s name. All of them. Terafin. Handernesse. Amarais.
Had he always known that their lives were, in the end, too large for his? Or were they both simply too arrogant or ignorant—or both—to acknowledge the burden of the responsibilities they accepted, and even fought to bear? Had he, he thought, pen hovering over paper again, while he stared dully at magelight, failed his sister? Had it gone in that direction, rather than in the one that he had built an angry life upon?
He could ask the question now. It was more painful, and less painful, than the questions he had asked for all of his adult life. And as in so many questions, he did not have an answer ready; no one, after all, was waiting upon it but he himself.
But he thought, as he penned this letter, that he knew what the answer was, because he felt a grim determination. What use mistakes if not to learn from them? What use learning if, in the end, one clung to the old? If he had indeed failed the sister he had once adored, he could not now fail the child he had grown to care for.
Because her life would be larger than his.
But only, in the end, with his help, and only in the end if she survived.
Chapter Twenty-five
JEWEL WAS NOT a patient teacher. Her Oma had not been patient. Her father and mother had, but Jewel had often been left in her Oma’s care, and it was her Oma’s blood that ran true—or so the old woman had taken some pride in saying.
But Duster’s words still stung her, and she bit back her anger and her frustration, channeling it into words that were less harsh and less quick. It was harder work than running the maze had been, the night she had gone to save Rath. Harder than finding Finch. Because there was no end in sight to the need for it; it was a constant worry, and a constant burden.
For the first time since she had invited Lefty and Arann into her home and life, she wanted privacy, the space in which to scream and swear and punch the wall in fury. She wanted to let her hair down—where had that phrase come from, anyway?—and just be herself. But herself in this case wasn’t what was needed.
Hard, to change it.
But necessary. Tiring, vexing, and necessary.
She did the work. Because she could see, from the moment she started, that Duster—damn her—was right. It was Jewel’s moods that set the tone for her den; it was her anger—or her lack of anger—that either destroyed peace or let it settle. What she wanted for her den-kin wasn’t simple, and when they didn’t obviously want it for themselves, she wanted to slap them. Her Oma would have.
But she couldn’t be her Oma here. No one could. She had to be, not better, but different. Her father, or her mother. Or maybe Finch, although that was beyond her reach. She was learning while she was teaching, and if the others had trouble with their lessons, it was fair; Jewel was struggling with hers.
Duster, to her credit, didn’t fight Jewel. She bit back her sullen words, her angry threats, her declarations of independence. She stopped herself from chewing on Lefty when she was bitter and resentful, and it was at least as much work for her as Jewel’s hold on her temper was for Jewel.
They were all trying. She wanted to be proud of them. Was, in fact, proud.
But she was frightened as well. Because Rath had grown silent and withdrawn, and she knew, she knew, that tonight he would lead them away from this basement apartment, this crowded home, and into the unknown. Haval had done his best to explain what they might face. But the waiting was killing her; her imagination was far worse than reality.
She hoped.
But she didn’t know what would happen if they failed. What would happen, not to her—although she was worried about that as well—but to them: To Lefty, Arann, Carver, Finch, Teller; to Jester, Fisher, and Lander. Even to Duster, although she imagined that Duster would land on her feet and run.
So she sought Rath out on the morning of the night, and she inserted herself quietly between his door and its frame, waiting to catch his attention. She didn’t wait long, but he was slow to turn, slow to face her. She didn’t like what he was thinking, even if she didn’t know for certain what it was; his face looked worn and haggard, as if sleep had eluded him for days.
“Jay,” he said, motioning toward a chair.
She took it, drawing her knees up to her chin. “I wanted to talk to you,” she told him, armored in that way, her arms wrapped round her legs.
“About what?”
“My den.”
“Ah.”
“I want to know—” She hesi
tated. “I still have money,” she told him. “From the other stuff. Not as much, but it’s still a lot. It’ll hold us through the Winter, and maybe through the next one as well, no problem.
“It’s mine,” she added. “You said it was mine.”
“It is yours.”
“If we fail—no, if something goes wrong—I want you to set them up someplace. With the money. Because I won’t need it then.”
“They’re not my den,” he replied.
“No, they’re not. They’re mine. But I have to do this, and—”
“And?”
“I’m not certain, Rath. I don’t have the visions. I know you’ll take us somewhere tonight. I can see the rooms; I can almost see the place. But I can’t see the people. I can’t see where the danger is, or where it will come from. It’s like I’m blind.”
He watched her, neither nodding nor shaking his head, and after a moment, she continued. “They’re special.”
“Are they?”
She nodded forcefully. “You know it,” she added, half accusing.
“I know you think they are.”
“Can you do this for me? They don’t have to live here,” she added awkwardly. “You don’t have to keep them here. But the money—their own place—”
“Jay—”
“I need to know you’ll take care of them at least that much.”
“Or you won’t go?” Soft words. Almost dangerous. They were an offer, one last chance to back out. And the damnable thing was that she wanted to take it.
That he wanted her to take it.
He watched her carefully, neutrally, the desk at his back. This was a test, and some part of him wanted her to fail. He knew it, and was not diminished by the knowledge; he was curious instead, in a calculating way.
A minute passed; he could see the indecision across her features, and it was so clear, he could almost touch it. Could, if he wanted, tease it out and make it stronger. That tempted him.
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