City of Night (58 page)

Duster watched her, and kept her expression as flat and neutral as she could. What the
Hells
was Jay talking about?

“I see,” Rath finally said, after a long, cold minute. He lifted a hand to his eyes, pressing his fingers against his lids. His arms were stiff, rigid. When he lowered them, he exhaled, and his expression was different. Less cold, Duster thought. But not kinder. “Go home, Jewel. I’ve kept out of the maze for long enough now. I’ll find Lander for you. If he’s injured somewhere in the maze, he’ll have left some sort of trail. If there’s something there . . .” He turned to Carver. “Where did you say you entered the tunnels?”

He hadn’t.

Duster couldn’t keep the frown off her face. This was
wrong
. The whole conversation was wrong. Jay’s anger, Jay’s fury—it was gone. And what was left felt a whole lot like fear. But Jay held it down.

Whatever was frightening Jewel hadn’t taken hold of Carver. He shrugged. “Fennel’s old space. At the edge of the holding.”

“The warehouse?”

“Whatever. It’s not used for much right now.”

“Good. Ladies, gentleman. If you’d care to depart?” He pointed to the door of his room, which was slightly ajar.

“What?” Duster said softly.

They all converged on that door as if they could fit three people through its frame at once. Duster’s breath was short and shallow; Jay didn’t seem to be breathing at all. Carver glanced at both of them, and signed, but Duster missed it, the gesture was so fast and so understated. They walked down the hall to the familiar, bolted door; Carver reached above Jay’s head and pushed the bolts open.

“Where are you going?”

They all started. Jay turned as Rath walked toward them.

“You told us to get lost,” Duster replied, hand on the knob of the apartment door.

“Use the underground.”

No one moved.

“Well?”

The silence lasted for a minute. They let Jay break it, because it was Rath. “We don’t use the maze,” Jewel told him quietly. Her hands were by her side, and she signed:
Get ready to run.
But she was still and she sounded calm.

“I’m not telling you to go very deeply into the maze. Jewel, don’t let the events of the last two weeks turn you into a frightened child. The tunnels are the safest way through the holding. Use them.”

Duster took a step forward; Carver grabbed her arm. With his free hand he signed a simple
no,
and since there was no way to sign
Who the Hells does he think he is?
Or
He can’t talk to Jay like that,
her own hands were motionless in reply.

“No,” Jay said again. “Carmenta’s gang is probably wandering around all through it. I won’t risk it. And I won’t risk any more of my den- kin to it either.”

Rath stared at her—glared, really. “Carmenta’s gang doesn’t know about the maze.”

She met that glare and held her ground. “They don’t have to to get lucky. Seems like they already have,” she added bitterly.

He looked as if he wanted to say more. Hells, he looked as if he wanted to kill someone—and wasn’t particular at the moment about who. But he didn’t try, didn’t move. After a long damn minute, he said “I’ll meet you back at your den, either with Lander, or with news of him. Don’t get yourself killed on the way back.”

“Thanks, Rath.”

They spilled out of the apartment door, and pushed the boundary between a walk and run in their haste to leave the building. No one spoke a word. The front door of the building itself wasn’t locked at this time of the day, and had it been, it was a crappy lock that even Teller could pick, given enough time. Carver pushed the door open, and Duster, hand dropping to the comfort and familiarity of her dagger hilt, stepped into the streets of the thirty-fifth. Carver followed.

Jay waited until they were clear, and then she closed the door behind her and leaned back into it for a minute. It was only a minute; she straightened, plastered a really fake smile across her face, and began to stride down the streets. She wasn’t being careful either; it was as if the thirty-fifth no longer held much fear for her.

Since it held the same people, more or less, that they’d taken detours to avoid, this said something. Duster didn’t wait to find out what the something was; she’d never been much for subtlety.

“What was that about? Carmenta hasn’t come anywhere near the maze.” She walked to Jay’s left, taking up her usual position; she also glared at an alley or two as they walked past the openings.

“Carver,” Jay asked, instead of answering Duster’s question, “are we being followed?”

Carver shrugged, and said something random. He repeated the phrase, and then laughed; Jay laughed as well. Duster understood what they were doing, but didn’t join them. Then again, she didn’t usually join them when the laughter was genuine either.

They followed the streets, Duster wincing at Jay’s expression, which was so fake it was practically its own sign. But after a couple of blocks, each of which took them closer to the end of this godsforsaken holding, Carver signed,
Yes. Followed.

“Who?” Jay said, voice low.

Carver hesitated for a moment, and then shrugged. “Old Rath.”

“Kalliaris.”
Jay stumbled. Duster grabbed her arm before she could take a spill onto the cracked cobbles, and held her up until she found her feet again. She was white, and she was shaking. “Smile. Smile on us, Lady.”

Carver and Duster exchanged one long glance. They
all
prayed to Kalliaris at one time or another; gambling, thieving, taking a risk. All of them. But they almost never prayed out loud, and if they did, it was bad.

How bad? Duster thought. She opened her mouth to ask. Closed it. Felt Jay’s fear invade her, as if it were a disease.

Jay didn’t hear the question, because Duster didn’t ask it—but she answered it anyway, in her fashion. She was walking, but she was walking badly, the way she did when she’d woken in the night because of a nightmare. “Duster, go home. Now. Take a route so twisted even your shadow couldn’t follow you. Get everyone out.”

“But—”

“Don’t argue with me!”
Jay took a deep breath. Held it for a second, and spit it out, wrapped around more words. “Get everyone out! Take the iron box and leave
everything
else. Find a place out of holding to hunker down, and then send a message to us.
Send
it. Don’t come yourself.”

The silence fell like night. Duster struggled with it. Struggled with the trembling in her arms, in her chest, the certainty of danger. Not starvation. Not cold. Worse. She wanted to tell Jay to send Carver, but she couldn’t force the words out.

Don’t trust me with this. Don’t trust me with them, Jay.
What she said, instead, was:

“Where?”

“The trough.” Taverson’s place was one of the few watering holes the den felt at home in. It didn’t deserve the nickname they used. Nicknames were like that. “If we’re not there, or you don’t hear from us again, the den is yours—and it’s your responsibility to keep it safe. Stay out of the maze;
never
use it again.”

“This have something to do with Rath?”

“Yeah.” Jay brought her hands to her face, and rubbed the sides of her cheeks. “I don’t know who that was back here, but I do know it wasn’t Rath.”

“Rath’s dead. Now go, Duster, or we’ll all end up that way as well.”

 

Rath—or whoever it was that looked so much like him—followed Jay and Carver when Duster split off. But he’d glanced at her as she did; it was a quick glance, and in it, she felt herself weighed, as if the single look was a scale. He hadn’t hesitated, and he’d barely paused, but he’d noted her, noted where she took off running.

He hadn’t followed.

He hadn’t had time to make sure someone
else
did. She clung to this as she began to make her way home. She didn’t go straight, but she didn’t take as long and twisted a route as Jewel had demanded; she didn’t have the
time
.

The one thing Rath had taught them all was this: the ability to travel, quickly, while being tailed. He’d also taught them to notice tails, to watch for them, by pointing out the little things that were often wrong. The man who smelled like a bar but who seemed too alert and aware. The woman who lingered in doorways in clothes that advertised availability, but who somehow failed to engage a customer.

Duster had paid attention while pretending to ignore him. She cursed herself for her need to impress him by her display of obvious boredom, because she wasn’t completely certain that she’d learned
enough
. Wasn’t certain that she wouldn’t have learned more if she’d just given him the whole of her attention.

Gods, she could be so damn
stupid
.

Carver should have done this. The den—they all knew Carver, and they all
trusted
Carver. She’d done damn little to earn their trust—what would they say when she burst into the room and told them all to clear the Hells out? To follow
her
?

Her hand fell to her dagger. It was a comfort, its pommel warm with sunlight. She could threaten them all, round them up. If Arann stayed sane, it would work. Or she could just tell them that Jay had sent her—but would they believe her?

She used everything Rath had ever taught her, now—because she was afraid. That was the truth, beginning and end. She had
never
seen Jay look like that before, and even if she wasn’t blessed with Jay’s vision, she
knew
what it meant.

She glanced over her shoulder. The streets seemed like streets; she’d crossed the boundary of the thirty- fifth on her way to the twenty- fifth, cutting corners around the thirty-second to do so. In all of this, ducking across yards, where they existed, and around stalls and shops where they didn’t, she wondered if she’d seen enough. If she’d avoided enough.

She hated it. The worry. The fear. It was all wrong.

What the Hells was she doing, anyway? Why was she running
to
the den, when something this big was up? She didn’t even
understand
it. Rath was dead. Jay had said Rath was dead.

But Duster, thanks to Haval, knew enough about makeup and pretend to know that the man who’d plucked her out of her old bedroom
was
Rath. It wasn’t makeup. It wasn’t just clothing and dye. The only thing it could be—if Jay was right—was magic.

Magic could kill. It could kill them all, yes.

But it could kill
her
.

She slowed her stride, hands shaking as she made her way up Wright Street. She cornered it cautiously, and avoided one teetering wagon that was dangerously close to the building fronts. She stopped as the shadow of the wheels rolled past, long and crenellated against the uneven stones of the street.

There, in the shadows cast by wagon and by the unknown, Duster finally admitted the truth: She had wanted the den. She had wanted a home. She deserved
neither
.

Maybe this was her punishment: to have it only so she could lose it. Because she knew, and Jay knew, it was gone. Maybe it had vanished with Fisher, and they’d all been too damn stupid to acknowledge it. When had she gotten so stupid? She could run home—but all she’d be doing would be clearing it. Scaring people out into the streets who didn’t have the brains to survive there.

She shouldn’t go.

She’d only have to leave one way or the other, and this way, she’d be safe. Her hand hit her dagger hilt almost reflexively, and paused there. She didn’t look down at it; she didn’t have to. A birthday gift. Her only birthday gift. She’d
hated
it. And wanted it. That was her life. It was never just one thing, never just the other; it was always dumb, always complicated.

She turned; the wagon was long gone, and the streets were full of people. None of them seemed to notice her, much.

Godsdamnit.

She started to run.

 

She didn’t stop until she reached familiar turf, and even then, she slowed just enough to catch breath. Carmenta and his den weren’t ranging the streets—not that she could see, and given their den, you could see them swaggering a mile away—and she made the front door without pause. She slid into the familiar daytime darkness of the stairwell, and then bounded up those stairs, too numb to pray. Even if she’d been able, she wouldn’t have been certain what she would be praying
for
.

But the door was still shut, and when she swung it open and staggered into the familiar large room, with its spread collection of bedrolls, blankets, plates, and crumbs, she saw the den look up. Everyone except Jester, who was talking to Arann and Angel while lying against the window-side wall.

Teller, sitting in front of the slates, his hand white with chalk, looked up. Finch was seated to one side of him; she rose.

“Duster?” Finch said, her brow furrowing and her dark eyes narrowing in concern.