The Hidden City (28 page)

The Proud Peacock was, by anyone's standard, a stupid name for an inn. Rath privately thought the owner had named the place after himself; he was that type of man. Officious, self-important, and condescending. Which were his good points.

He was balding, and his head gleamed in the open flood of light that girded all visible walls; magelights, of course, and set in a way that their glow could not be mistaken for anything as common as lamplight or fire. He wore fine velvet, silk velvet, a deep burgundy offset by a cream shirt with ostentatious ruffles; his hands were girded by rings that could in no way be mistaken for tasteful, and his smile was like oil.

His expression was a great deal less friendly when Rath appeared than it had been for the couple that preceded him, but he was a cautious man; he examined Rath's clothing as if he were calculating its worth—and Rath was certain he was, and had its value down to the coppers the lace cost—as he clapped his hands and servants appeared to take Rath's outer coat. Rath wore a sword openly, and the innkeeper hesitated as he stared at its pommel. In the end, the man decided to ignore the weapon; Rath was certainly not the only armed man in the room. That most of the men were guards was not at issue; Rath was not dressed as a guard.

“You'll want a table for one?”

“No. I've accepted an invitation; I believe you will find I'm expected.”

“Your name?”

Rath did not so much as tense. He gave the innkeeper a name from a list of names, each one slightly pretentious in its obvious Old Weston roots, and each, fake.

The man went away, which was a relief; Rath disliked him. His return, however, was vastly more supercilious than his departure had been, and the bow he offered Rath made Rath want to kick him. Rath, however, wanted to kick most of the men—and women—he met, and had mastered the art of self-control. When he had been a much younger child, it had eluded him entirely, and only by the grace and will of his sister had he managed to behave in a way that did not disgrace his House.

A bad sign, to think of his sister here.

He followed the man, ignoring the babble that accompanied him; it was long, it was pointless, and it would have been—had he chosen to mind it—irritating.

But as he approached the table at which a lone man sat, and at that, an older one, he assumed the carriage and bearing that he had chosen to reject, and became Ararath of Handernesse.

He bowed to the seated man. “Patris Hectore,” he said quietly.

The Patris, Hectore of Araven, a merchant house that was both old and well-regarded—inasmuch as any merchant house could be—nodded. The nod was meant both as acknowledgment of the name Rath had chosen not to use and as a dismissal of the hovering innkeeper. The innkeeper was not a fool; he hovered for only a moment longer, and then left.

The table was a fine table; it was covered by pale linen, and the vase in its center was a gleaming silver that housed a single, pale blossom. The plates were china, edged with silver; the utensils silver as well, warm with a patina of age. Everything hinted at delicacy and expense; the crude, thick utensils of the poor commoners was not to be found in the Peacock.

The chair Rath occupied was dark, unscratched, well-oiled; it was high-backed, but padded and comfortable, as ostentatious as the magelights that adorned the dining room.

But the Patris seated across from Rath was dressed in a much less pretentious fashion; he had reached the age and station in life where pretense was for those who lacked substance. He wore linen, not velvet or silk; his fingers were free of all jewelry, save a single signet ring. His name was well enough known that the rest was unnecessary, but even had it not been, he would have disdained high court fashion. It was for this reason, among many, that Rath trusted him.

“Ararath,” the Patris said, after Ararath had taken his seat.

Rath nodded. “I appreciate the honor you do me,” he replied. The phrase was formal. But it was also genuine.

A gray brow rose. Hectore's gray was the gray of steel, not age; he was neither young nor old, and to Rath, he looked like the human epitome of the Northern wolf. There was always an edge of danger when one dined with Hectore, which was why Rath chose to dine with him at all.

“You look well,” Hectore said quietly.

“And you. I hear that you resolved the difficulty with the Northern trade route.”

The man nodded. “You heard that, did you?”

“Half the city heard it. On the other hand, half the city has heard that the Princess Royale has been engaged at least fifteen times in the last five years.”

Hectore laughed. It was a rough laugh, deep and offered without hesitation. “Not the same half, surely?”

“Almost exactly the same half. There is always a grain of truth in the most outrageous of rumors.”

“Oh, indeed. The Princess Royale would make a fine wife for an ambitious man. And there have been many ambitious men in the last decade.”

“She is, from all accounts, uninterested in ambition.”

“That, I believe, is heard by far fewer people than the half city you claim.”

“And is therefore more likely to be true.”

“Indeed. You haven't changed much since we last met, Ararath.”

“I've had little cause to change.”

“Little cause, but not none.” He paused, and then added,

“Amarais seems to have done well by House Terafin.” It was a probing comment. The question in it hung between them for a long moment, and Rath wondered if his answer would be the price of admission. A pity, if it were, as he would not tender it.

“I have little business with The Ten,” he replied, cool now.

“And The Ten, little business with you,” Hectore conceded. “She is not unlike you; she is not unlike the girl she once was. And she, like the Princess Royale, has never sought marriage as her entry into the world of influence and power.”

“She never needed it. Had she, she would have married in a heartbeat.”

Hectore frowned. It was, as his laugh had been, genuine. “You underestimate her, Rath. Or you overestimate her. She is not—”

“She is ruthless; she will sacrifice everything in order to achieve her goals.”

“Indeed. I will not gainsay you. But her goals themselves define the worth of the sacrifice. Enough, Ararath. I will let it go. One day, perhaps, you will do the same.”

Wine was brought by silent men; it was carried in a crystal decanter, a deep, red liquid not unlike the color of the innkeeper's coat. It was poured while the men sat in silence; when the servers had retreated, they resumed their quiet speech.

“Why did you contact me?” Hectore asked, as he lifted a crystal stem between his large fingers.

“I wish information,” Rath replied, lifting his glass in turn. “Narayan,” he added, as he tasted the wine.

“Indeed. I believe it was favored by you in your youth.”

“Much was.”

“What information would you have of me?”

“Merchant information, if you have it. Gossip, if you don't.”

Hectore raised a brow. “I am not overfond of gossip,” he said quietly. “But I keep an eye on the Merchant Authority.”

Rath smiled. “This would involve a very small portion of the authority; perhaps it would bypass the Authority entirely.”

“Not a trade route, then.”

“No.”

“Very well. You've piqued my interest, and I'm inclined to help you, if only to hear the question.”

“There is a Patris in Averalaan, a man whose name was previously unknown to me. He is not unpleasant in countenance, but he is not friendly.”

“That describes a great many of the patriciate.”

“Indeed. This one, however, has an interest in the antiquities.”

“And money to spend?”

“A great deal, or so it appears.”

“His name?”

“Patris AMatie.”

Hectore frowned. The frown was like a vintage of its own, with hints of various lingering experiences in its creases.

“You've heard of the man.”

“I've met him,” Hectore said at last. He set his glass down. The frown had settled across forehead, darkening eyes. “He does a great deal of trade in the Authority, although he is—as you surmise—new to the stage; he has been but ten years in Averalaan.”

“Where does he hail from?”

“The North, or so it is said.”

“You have some reason to doubt him?”

“I have reason,” Hectore said, offering the wolf's grin, “to doubt
all
men, Ararath. Even you.” He sat back. “The bread here is fine, and the butter sweet. Break bread while we speak.”

“What does he deal in?”

“Minerals,” Hectore replied. “And ocean jewelry; pearls of some quality. It is an odd combination. I have not heard that he is a scholar or a sage of any note; nor have I heard that he has any particular interest in the antiquities, as you call them. Be more specific, Ararath.”

“I will be as specific as I can,” Rath replied, with care. To lie to Hectore was difficult; better to skirt truth, and let the gaps be. “He has an interest in artifacts that pertain to ancient Weston culture.”

Hectore ate as he listened. “And he is willing to spend coin on these?”

Rath nodded.

“Is he a fool, or has he some method of determining what is genuine?”

“He has some method,” Rath replied, “but he did not have—to my knowledge—a mage-born member of the Order of Knowledge in his employ.”

“I would say that he would be an ideal customer, then,” Hectore replied, keen-eyed now.

Rath nodded. “I would have said the same.”

“But?”

“His interest is strong enough that he had me followed on the one occasion we met.”

Hectore nodded, neutral.

“He did not know—could not know—that I would arrive when I did; he did not have, to my knowledge, guards waiting. But clearly, he had the establishment with which I deal watched, and when I left, two men attempted to follow. The first was good. The second was unnaturally good.”

“Not so good that he was not detected.”

Rath failed to mention Jewel. “He was good enough that he should not have been detected. It took me almost eight hours to lose him, and I had to resort to a use of the magisterial guards that was beneath my dignity.”

At this, Hectore laughed. “You care a great deal for your dignity, given how little of it you possess.”

“Things scarce are a valuable commodity, where they are wanted. I believe—”

“Yes, yes. You may use my words against me; I'm particularly fond of those ones.”

“The second man was in the Common. Fair enough. While most of the expensive trading is done in the High City, items of dubious origin seldom make their way across the bridge.”

“Dubious origin is such an unfortunate phrase.”

“I was rather proud of it.”

“You must have coined it when you were younger.”

Rath shrugged.

“And so he had one good man in his employ. This is cause for concern?”

“For me? It is some cause, but you see clearly, as always. I have reason to believe he has employed others as competent.”

“And they?”

“They are in the old holdings. The thirty-second, possibly the twenty-sixth.”

Hectore frowned. “Why? There is little of value in either.”

Rath nodded.

“Very well, Ararath. I will spend time and resources to see what I can discover about this Patris.”

“Discreetly.”

“Oh, indeed. If he made an impression on you, discretion is necessary.”

“I would not have you shoulder the cost of the investigation if it is costly.”

“Of course not. I'll bill you. It's not my usual line of work,” the merchant added, “and I am therefore free to set my price. Can you be reached in a reasonable way?”

“No.”

Hectore rolled his eyes. “Then reach me. Give me two weeks.”

“I have perhaps three days.” Rath grimaced. He reached into the inner pocket of his jacket, and handed the Patris a rolled parchment. “Burn it,” he said softly, “when you have word. I will come.”

Hectore's brows rose, and Rath felt a moment of genuine pleasure; it was so rare that he was able to surprise his father's old friend. “This must have been costly.”

“It was . . . barter. But yes, it was costly.” He watched as Hectore slid the paper into a similar inner pocket. “I am not involved in anything illegal,” he added, before the merchant could speak. “Were I, I would not have come to you.”

“Believe it or not, Ararath, I wasn't going to ask. Whatever decision drove you to this place, drove you; it drives you still. But I cannot think that it has so changed you.”

It had. Hectore knew it. But if there was honor among thieves, Rath reserved it for men such as he. They ate in companionable silence, and Hectore spoke for some time about the shifting alliances among the merchant Houses. He failed to mention Terafin, but Rath could hear the unspoken House name in the gaps.

Only when the meal was almost at an end, did Hectore let his discretion lapse. “You thought the House War would devour her,” he said quietly. “You thought she would die.”

“I didn't much care,” Rath replied.

“That is not the word that was carried to me by my informants.” He lifted a hand. “She survived. She did better than survive. House Terafin is first among The Ten, and Amarais is without peer.”

“She walked away from Handernesse,” Ararath said sharply. Unwilling to be drawn into the source of old wounds; unable to let them bleed.