The Hidden City (17 page)

The waiting was hard.

No, the waiting was impossible. And because she'd done with it, and her body was stiff with uncertainty, she dressed, pulled boots—Rath's gift—over her feet, and found her father's money box. That there was money
in
it was also Rath's gift.

“We won't always have money,” he told her softly. “But if we have none for the next six months, we'll still see the Winter in and out without worrying for the cold.”

She took a handful of silver coins out of the box, and counted them carefully. She had always liked to play with coins; to line them up, to stand them on edge, to make them spin, while their sides caught light. She had also often liked to bite them or put them in her mouth, and this was a habit that was strictly frowned on by her Oma.
You don't know where that coin's been
, the old woman would say, rapping Jewel's forehead sharply with the flat of a bony palm.

You don't know where
else
it's been
.

She was no longer that child, and she didn't put coins in her mouth. Instead, she put most of them back. But not all. She needed some of them for the market.

She disobeyed Rath for the first time. Not the last; that would come much later. Climbing up on a chair to reach the highest of the bolts, she opened it, and then opened all but the last.

Hesitating for a moment, she returned to his newly swept room, his precious paper, his ink. She picked up the quill that was hers—identifiably so, because the end was chewed so badly—and scrawled a quick note.

And then she let herself out.

The bolts were beyond her current skill, but the lock itself was fairly simple; she pinned it shut. She didn't have keys, but didn't worry; Rath did.

“Lefty.”

The boy who belonged to the name looked up. He had to, if he wanted to see the face of the man who'd called him. The man—a big, bald farmer who was almost famous for not calling the market guards too often—knew Lefty well enough by now not to try to say much to him.

Lefty almost liked him; he didn't know the farmer's name, but then again, barely remembered his own. He nodded, and the farmer smiled. It wasn't a mean smile, but it seemed, to the young, gaunt boy, a sad one.

He didn't understand why. The farmer was obviously well off. Had to be, to have that big wagon and all that
food
. He had sons and a daughter who often helped him sell when the market was busy. Lefty knew this because for months they'd only dared to sneak by the wagon when it
was
busy. And the daughter was pretty, besides. She wasn't always nice, but that suited Lefty. It was often the nice ones that were the most dangerous.

“Where's Arann?”

Lefty shrugged, nervous now.

The farmer's smile changed. “It's all right,” he said, speaking in his loud buy-my-stuff voice. “I can see him now.” The farmer had also noticed that Lefty didn't like quiet voices.

Arann came out from between the stalls. Lefty smiled and ran to meet him, fitting himself into the larger boy's shadow. He lifted his hand and pointed to the farmer, and Arann nodded.

“There you are,” the farmer said. He now looked relieved, which made sense to Lefty; it was how he felt when he saw Arann. Arann was the only person in the holdings that Lefty trusted.

“Farmer Hanson,” Arann said, nodding.

The farmer smiled in reply. It was a different smile. Sad, yes, but stronger. “You've grown,” he told Arann. Most people—the ones who talked to them at all—said that every time they saw him.

Arann shrugged. “It's the clothing,” he told the farmer. “It's shrinking.” He paused and then added, “You have work for me?”

“Tomorrow, if you'll come by. I'll tell the market guards.”

Arann smiled. “We'll be here.”

“Wait,” the farmer said, as they turned to leave. Arann turned instantly, and just a little too quickly. The farmer handed Arann a basket. “Eat. Bring it back in the morning.”

Arann nodded. He never questioned the farmer's gifts. Because he didn't, Lefty knew they were safe.

“Come on, Lefty. Let's go home.” Clutching the basket tight now, large hands cradling it against his chest.

 

Jewel made her way to the market. Out of habit, and because it was almost on the way, she stopped by the old well when she saw a familiar bent back. The woman to whom it belonged looked up, her facial lines beginning to harden into what seemed a perpetual frown.

But the frown froze, and the lines shifted as the woman squinted. “Is that Jay?”

Jewel nodded. “Can I help?”

“Where's that young man of yours?”

As Rath was old enough—easily—to be Jewel's father, she snickered quietly. Elsie was a tad hard of hearing, so this was safe. “He's out working,” Jewel said, in a much louder voice.

“It's good that he's found work. I worry about you, you know.” But the old woman handed Jewel the heavy bucket and preceded her down the street, as if she owned it. She walked on hard canes, and those canes could be used to startling effect if someone was actually stupid enough to come too close.

Jewel had seen it half a dozen times. Had almost been victim to it once.

“You're certain you're all right, dear?” Elsie said, when they reached the narrow building she called home.

“I'm just going to the Common,” Jewel replied. In truth, the bucket was damn heavy, and she was struggling with it; her arms were shaking when she set it down. “To buy food. Should I buy anything for you?”

“No, my useless son will do that.” Elsie sniffed. “And he'll come home with yesterday's vegetables, mark my word.”

“They're cheaper.”

“Not when he buys 'em, they aren't. If I were younger, I'd go to the Common myself and give those thieving farmers a piece of my mind.”

As Elsie often gave away pieces of her mind, it was a small wonder she had much of one left. Jewel, wise in the ways of this particular type of woman, kept that opinion to herself, because not only did Elsie have a mind of her own, she had a temper to go with it. She said her good-byes and turned toward the great trees that marked the Common so visibly, even at this distance.

Her hands were in her pockets when she left, and silver cooled her palms. She knew that some of the farmers weren't above a little game of merchant trickery, but she also knew who they were and how to avoid them.

And when it came right down to it, there was really only one farmer that she ever wanted to see.

 

He smiled broadly as she approached his wagon, and his sons dispersed when he barked at them. Jewel had become accustomed enough to his voice that she could—barely—make out which rapid barks meant what.

“I swear,” Farmer Hanson told her, as she stopped in front of the wagon, pushing herself between the small gap two larger people left, “you've gotten taller.”

“It's just you,” Jewel said with a grimace. “I'd've noticed.”

“Aye, and maybe it's just that at
my
age, you only get wider and shorter.” He laughed. “What'll you be having today?”

Jewel was eyeing his vegetables as the question floated past her. He didn't tell her not to touch; he'd long since given up on that. When her Oma had come to the Common, she had inspected
everything
, and her sight—as she'd explained in a rather annoyed tone—wasn't all it used to be. Everything was touched, lifted, looked at, sniffed.

This is how dead people lived on. Jewel's motions were almost exactly the motions of the older woman, absent only pipe and narrowed eyes. She took her time, partly because she enjoyed her brief conversations with the farmer, and partly because the inspection itself demanded lengthy consideration.

Farmer Hanson waited. Not quietly, but he did wait.

When Jewel had chosen her vegetables, and the luxury of fresh apples, she held out her coins.

The farmer took them, counting them with care. His coins replaced some of hers, but she'd brought far more than was necessary. She always did, when she had the money. Until Rath, that had been never.

“Your change?”

She smiled. “Keep it.”

“You've paid me now for anything you might have taken,” he told her.

“It's not for me.”

“Who is it for, then?”

She met his eyes and held them, her own very serious. They always were. Farmer Hanson seemed to enjoy this particular conversation—he must, they'd had it so often.

“For others like me. But not as lucky.” She held his gaze, a smile escaping her earnest expression. “If it weren't for you—”

He shook his head. “There's enough money here to feed a lot of children like you. Especially given how much you used to eat.”

“Feed the ones you can,” she told him quietly. She shifted her basket. “While the money lasts.”

She started to walk away, but he called her by name, and she turned; he hadn't finished speaking. Today the conversation took a slightly different turn.

“There are a couple of boys,” he told her, lowering his booming voice. The market noise forced Jewel to draw closer, and Farmer Hanson opened the small gate that separated his clients from the men he affectionately called his useless sons, making clear by that gesture that he wanted her to join him. As she obeyed the wordless invitation, Jewel wondered if there
were
any other kind of son, given how often she heard the phrase. But there was no malice in it.

“Boys?”

“Aye.”

“Who?”

The farmer hesitated for just a minute—old habits—and then said, “They call themselves Arann and Lefty.”

“Well, the first one sounds like a name.”

“The second one is a name as well, or the only name the lad'll answer to. He's missing two fingers on the right hand, and it's crippled. The right hand,” he added, just in case she hadn't heard him.

She had. “They come here?”

“When they can,” the farmer replied. “Just like you did. You might have seen them.”

She took in the whole of the Common at a glance, and the farmer winced. “Aye, well, you might not.”

“What about these boys? You like them?”

“I like them as well as I did you,” was the unusually quiet reply. “They're street kids,” he added. “And they don't have family they care to live with, if they have family at all.”

“They're part of a den?”

He shook his head and frowned.

Fair enough. It was a stupid question. “You're feeding them?”

He nodded again. “The older boy, Arann, is big. He's strong, too. When I have work, I pay him.” He held out the hand that still contained the remainder of Jewel's coin. “But this is enough to actually clothe them. It's getting cold,” he added, still quiet. “And Arann outgrew what he wears about a year ago. Maybe two. He's a big lad.”

“Is he simple?”

“Not in the head, no. He's canny enough.”

“Then why is he—” Jewel stopped speaking for a minute. “If he's big enough, he could find a place with a den, easy.”

Den was not a word that Farmer Hanson liked or approved of, and Jewel cringed as his brows grew into one long line across his face. Luckily, it didn't last long.

“He could, yes. But Lefty couldn't. Lefty is smaller than you are. I don't think he's any younger, but he might be.”

Jewel met the farmer's gaze. “You want to use the money to buy clothing for them?”

“Mark my words, there'll be snow this Winter. The rains are already falling cold for this time of year,” the Farmer replied. “And if you see clear, yes. I would. You should meet them, Jay. I think you'd like them. I think,” he added softly, “that Arann would like you.”

Jewel shrugged uneasily. “I couldn't do anything for them,” she said at last. “But you can keep the money. Use it any way you'd like. You see 'em. I don't. You'll know what they need.”

She started to walk away, and then turned. “You like this Arann because of Lefty, don't you?”

“They're not kin,” the farmer replied quietly. “But they might as well be. I think Arann would die before he abandoned Lefty. And they live in the poor holdings, Jay. If he were a different boy, I wouldn't have noticed him at all.”

Jewel nodded.

“They'll be here come morning. You should come, if you can.”

“Why?”

Farmer Hanson shrugged. But he slipped the money into his generous pockets, a generous man, richer in every way than Jewel Markess, but poor enough that he couldn't help everyone he thought needed aid. He did what he could.

Which was why Jewel liked him.

“Maybe,” she said.

Home, this month, was the boarded remains of one of the old buildings in the thirty-second holding.

They'd found it at night, and Arann had pried just enough of the boards loose that they could squeeze in. Of course, given how big Arann was, that was most of 'em. They tried to put them back. It was always better if no one could tell where you lived.

They'd been caught before.

Lefty's secret guilt: They'd been caught, but Arann would have been okay if he'd been willing to leave Lefty behind. A lot of den leaders would have taken Arann on in a second—he was big. Strong.

Lefty? He was neither. And his right hand, the hand he always tried to keep hidden, had once been his good hand. He might have been useful for begging, if he were just a bit younger or prettier. But he'd never be a thief. Never be muscle.