The Hidden City (80 page)

“He doesn't talk about his past, and if he doesn't, I can't.”

“Smart girl.”

“Sometimes.”

“I can give you something for your hair,” Hannerle said, when Jewel had shoved it out of her eyes for the fiftieth time.

“Won't help,” Jewel replied. “It's been tried. My hair is just like this.”

“Rath doesn't usually involve himself in the lives of strangers. But you're too young to have any sort of links with his past. You're not the child of a friend?”

Jewel shook her head. “I'm just an orphan he found in the Common,” she said quietly. “I was new to the streets. It was warmer then.”

“And he took you in?”

Jewel shrugged.

“Then maybe he's changing, too, and high time. He's never married,” she added. “And I doubt he will, now.”

Jewel nodded. “He won't,” she said softly, and as she said it, the knowledge took sharp and sudden root, and she was paralyzed with a sense of foreboding. She forced herself to pull out plates, cups, to tend to Hannerle in spite of the sense of unease. No, of dread.

It would pass; it had nothing to anchor it. No vision, no image, nothing at all.

“Why are you here?” Hannerle asked, as she set water to boil and dried her hands on her apron.

“I'm not sure. Rath says Haval knows things he can teach us. That's all.”

“What things?” Sharper question.

“Observant things. He says Haval can tell you almost everything about a person just by watching them for a few minutes.”

“Aye, that's true.”

“And he thinks we need to learn some of it. Whatever we can,” she added. “But that's all.”

“What does he want you to learn?”

“I don't know.” She was entirely honest; she didn't. But she had a guess or two. “But it's important enough that we
will
learn whatever it is he's willing to teach us. We don't have much time,” she added, “and we won't bother you much, I promise.”

“It's not you that worries me,” Hannerle said, setting the cups on a tarnished, silver tray. “But you've a solid head on your shoulders by the sound of you.”

Jewel wondered. But not aloud. Hannerle didn't ask her anything else, which was a kindness. But she made Jewel carry the tray, which was not.

“You both carry the streets in you,” Haval said without preamble, cup in his hands, silk—or so he said—making a blue spill on his lap. “Rath does as well, but he can either embrace it or cast it off. We will begin, today, by studying your speech patterns. Tell me a bit about yourselves,” he added, looking at the two girls. Rath, sitting across from Haval, was silent; he offered no warning and no guidance.

Jewel, knowing that Duster would not speak first—and might not speak at all—began. She spoke of her family life before she'd lost her family, and spoke a little, and more hesitantly, about the days in which she had wandered the streets, without a familiar roof above her head.

“Where did you end up?”

“By the river, under one of the bridges,” Jewel replied. “It was hotter, then, and I needed to be clean.”

“Practical. Don't use the word Oma,” he added.

“Why not?”

“It marks you as lowborn here.”

“I
am
lowborn.”

“Yes, but you wish to either use that information to your advantage or conceal it for the same reason. You speak well,” he added, “given your background.”

“Rath's been teaching me.”

Haval laughed. “You also sit as if you spend most of your time on the ground.”

Jewel shrugged. She often did.

“You will need to practice better posture. You will need to imply, by the way you sit, many, many things,” Haval said. “Now, I want you to watch me.”

She did. She didn't expect magic, but Rath had often said magic was subtle—at its finest, almost impossible to detect, and yet, likewise impossible to miss. Haval was, cup in hand, suddenly imperiously cold; everything about him seemed to radiate a distinct distaste for the room. He made it, by presence alone, seem messy and shoddy, and its occupants—his guests—completely beneath him.

Duster rose instantly, and Jewel, reaching out for her den-kin's arm without looking away from Haval said, “He's not suddenly showing us what he's
really
like, or what he really thinks. Sit down.”

“Very good, young lady. Very good.” His enunciation had also sharpened, and the syllables fell like geometrical stones, each in its perfect place.

But he had changed nothing; he had not touched his hair, his face, or his clothing. In spite of herself, Jewel was almost shocked. “Hide that,” he told her quietly, his voice changing again, its tone and cadence familiar and even comforting. Gone from it was every hint of superiority and disdain; instead, it held a weary annoyance.

She watched him again, and again, he was a different man—he had done nothing at all to change his look; he was still bald, and still old, and still surrounded by the tools and materials of his chosen trade. But he now seemed like a rather peppery uncle to whom she had gone for advice.

He shook that balding head as he bent over his cup, and set it aside a moment to examine the stitches he'd made. She wasn't fooled; she knew his attention was riveted to her. But he no longer seemed too large or too fine for the room; he seemed entirely
of
it.

“Men are not made by their clothing,” he continued, picking up a needle. “Although they make a statement by the wearing of it. The poorest of men and the richest of men are separated by far less obvious things. Ararath gave you the dresses you wear, and you wear them as if they belonged to a different life; you aren't
in
them; they're simply on you, and they fit poorly.”

She nodded now.

“It is not a difficult thing,” he added, and she watched him transform again, his shoulders bending inward, toward the sudden weight of the work he had chosen, as if it were his entire care. His arms seemed thinner and more fragile as he lifted fine silk in the pale Winter light that was fading. She wondered, then, if he might not need an assistant, someone to help him or guide him; he held the cloth a little too close to his face, and his eyes were narrowed in a squint.

But this, too, she realized, was not Haval; it was yet another disguise, another appearance. When he looked up and set the work aside on his lap once again, his expression was softer, more vulnerable. “So you see,” he told her gently. “And you
do
see.”

She nodded. “I'm not sure—I don't think I can do this.”

“You may not do
this,
as you call it, with ease—but it is
this
that you must learn. Had I the proper clothing, you might fail to recognize me at all should I desire to go unnoticed; you might be unable to ignore me, should I desire to be noted.

“In either case, it is my choice. And it is a choice you will learn, if I am still capable of teaching it.”

“But I—”

“You will be aided by the perceptions of those who observe you,” he added. “In a way that I am not aided in this room. There are men who will consider you helpless simply because you are young; your carriage and bearing will change almost nothing. You
are
young,” he added quietly. And he glanced up at Rath for the first time.

Rath was impassive.

“Patris Waverly is a predator, but he is a jackal, not a wolf. He does not seek strength, but weakness; he does not desire companionship, but rather humiliation. What he sees in you, if you are indeed to suffer his company, will be a young girl. If you are haughty, you will simply be more easily destroyed.” He paused and frowned. “But you must do something about your hair.”

“Short of shearing it off, you mean?”

“You could go with bald; it would be a bold statement,” Haval replied, treating flippancy with unusual gravity. “But I do not think you would be able to carry it off; you don't have the bearing, and I don't have the time to teach it to you. Your friend,” he added, nodding toward Duster for the first time, “could, but it would be a pity to shave
her
head.” He shook his own. “She has other difficulties. I assume that you will not speak much about your own past,” he added, shifting the weight of his focus to Duster.

Duster shrugged sullenly. She was on edge here. Rath had once again forced them to dress in ways which neither girl found comfortable. “Not much to say.”

“No. And it is not by your words—although your cadences are of the street—that you are being judged at the moment. You
do
know how to sit straight?”

“I can,” she snapped. “But what's the point?”

“In this room? There is no point. However I would like to see your version of sitting up straight.”

Jewel caught Duster by the arm. “Remember why we're here,” she said quietly. “And do as he asks.”

Duster froze for a moment.

Jewel said, “How badly do you want this, Duster? How badly do you need it?” Her voice was quiet, almost a whisper.

Duster swallowed.

And Haval came, unexpectedly, to the rescue. “You do not prize honesty,” he told Duster quietly, “and I am teaching merely a more refined form of lying. It has less to do with words than is your wont, but it is essentially the same. It is a way of hiding,” he added, “what must be hidden until the last moment. Come. Sit.”

Duster swallowed air, and then she sat, pulling her shoulders slightly back. Haval's frown was almost gentle. “No,” he said, quietly, “that will not do. It is, however, a start, and we must all begin somewhere.” He turned to Rath, and said, “You must have things that will occupy you.”

Rath frowned.

“Leave the girls with me, and come back for them in two hours; by that time, I am certain we will have had enough of each other for the day.”

Rath did, indeed, have other things to do, but he did them reluctantly. He left Haval's shop and headed for the Proud Peacock. For this reason, he dressed well; the innkeeper there was not so fine or perceptive a judge of character as Haval, and clothing was the signal by which he tuned his behavior.

He greeted Rath obsequiously, found him a good table, and offered him a few solicitous words. Rath returned them curtly—which was not as much effort as it should have been—and after a few moments spent hovering, while Rath explained that he was waiting upon a companion, he left.

That companion was Andrei.

Andrei was dressed as he always dressed—like the finest of servants money could buy. His bearing and carriage were a testament to the import of House Araven, and if he was not himself a noble or a man of worth, he nonetheless served one in a position of responsibility, and was led—his jacket taken to the safety of the coatroom—to the table at which Rath waited with barely veiled boredom.

Andrei sat, and after a moment, he once again placed a stone in the table's center. Rath noted it with distaste, but the glance was fleeting. He nodded a wordless greeting, and Andrei returned it; they faced each other over fine brass candlesticks and silver plates.

“You are determined,” Andrei said, a hint of question in the flat statement, no more.

Rath nodded.

“And you will, therefore, ignore any advice I offer.”

“Indeed.”

“Then I will come to the business at hand. Patris Waverly is, as you suspected, on the periphery of the merchant circles in which Patris AMatie moves. They have been seen on occasion together, but not frequently.” He paused, and then added, “He has, however, been called upon to visit Patris AMatie three times since we began to observe the AMatie household.”

Rath nodded.

“The servants of which I previously spoke are no longer present; they have been replaced. And the replacements are remarkably similar; they are all foreigners, they are all new to the city, and it is impossible to trace their past to any known city or distant country.”

Rath paled. “In what numbers, Andrei?” he asked, in a low tone, unmindful of the secrecy bestowed on them by magecrafted stone.

Andrei nodded briefly, a sign of approval. “There are five.

“His household has, however, established accounts with some of the finer bakers in the High Market, and in the past two weeks he has been entertaining more frequently than was previously his wont. His personal life, however, is still nonexistent.”

Rath nodded.

“Patris Waverly has been, of late, distracted. Much of his previous business dealings have been moved to AMatie's mining concerns, and Patris AMatie has also proved to have some influence in the importing of pearls and other similar trinkets.”

“And Waverly?”

“He has not left the High City since the incident. When he leaves his abode, he travels with no fewer than four guards. The guards have been in service to Waverly for at least a decade; two of them are sons of the men who served Patris Waverly's father. If there is a weakness in his escort, it will not be found with his guards.”

Rath nodded again; he had expected no less.

“Patris Hectore, my lord, is not well pleased by your inquiries, Rath.”

“I am aware of this.”

“He is afraid that you will fall in with bad company,” Andrei added, and both men exchanged a brief smile.

“He hasn't changed much, has he?”

“He has, in my opinion, softened considerably with time,” Andrei replied. “But he is essentially the man he was when I agreed to a lifetime's service.”

“How much have you told him?”

“I have discussed little of your affairs with him,” Andrei replied. “I deem it wisest that he know as little as possible. But if he has softened, he is by no means a fool. Waverly has a reputation that even Hectore has become aware of over the years.”