The Hidden City (85 page)

Only Lander's silence was persistent, a reminder of the things that lay both in the past and the future.

At the end of the ninth day, Haval told them he thought they had come as far as they could under his tutelage.

“So we come to the last and the least of things,” he told them, and he headed toward an armoire against the west wall, one that had never been touched or opened in their presence. “Appearance. It is easy to alter appearance,” he added, “but harder to live
in
it. What I have taught you will carry you through much; you can suggest training and birth by carriage and speech, and if you must spend any time under scrutiny, that subtle suggestion is more powerful than all of the dyes and superficial artifice in the world.

“But the world is superficial, and now that we have come as far as we can in the time we have, I will teach you how to alter your appearance.”

“Your appearance,” he said, turning to Jewel, “is unfortunately distinctive. Especially your hair.”

She said nothing. Distinctive was not the word that was usually used to describe it, but mess was nothing she wanted to offer as an alternative when Haval had that particular expression on his face.

 

Everyone gaped in their own special way when Jewel finally opened the door, took a breath, and walked in. Duster was almost skulking
behind
her. There was a loud moment of silence that was broken by Finch.

Unfortunately, Finch didn't exactly
say
anything.

Rath, watching in silence from the door to his room, which had remained slightly ajar for the better part of the two hours they were late, was surprised to find that he
was
jarred, as unsettled for a moment as the rest of the children here, although he'd been witness to far more spectacular transformations.

If there was one thing that defined these two—besides their ability to curse in Torra—it was the fact that they were who they were. Duster, capable of lying when it suited her, also loudly proclaimed the fact, whittling away at any possible gain subterfuge might lend her. And Jewel? Practical in the extreme, she barely paid attention to what she was wearing as long as it was either warm enough or cool enough to suit the weather. Her hair, which had always been a tangle of curls, was like a visual punctuation to the statement of who she was.

And neither of them looked precisely like themselves.

He recognized them, of course; would have recognized them anywhere and under any circumstances. But Duster's sleek hair had been both cut and dyed; it was a pale, almost platinum blonde. Her faced had been powdered, and were it not for the color of her eyes, she would have been able to pass for a cold Northern servant. Were it not for her eyes and the way she was uncomfortably crowding behind Jewel, her shoulders hunched inward as if expecting a blow.

Jewel herself? Her hair had been ironed. Rath was aware of the custom; had seen it several times in his youth. But Jewel's hair was actually quite long when it was straightened. Haval had not chosen to change its color; it was the same auburn that it had always been. But it reached for her back, and in the dress she now wore, it was striking. Her eyes, Haval had also left alone; he had powdered her skin, paling her natural complexion, but he had done little else.

Yet what he had done was enough; she looked only slightly less wary than Duster as she confronted her group.

But she was still Jewel; something caused her to look past her den down the hall; to see Rath as he stood in his open door. To say, “Sorry we're late. Haval insisted.”

“Given what he's done, I'm surprised you arrived before dawn,” Rath replied. “You look . . . different. Both of you.” He took a breath, like a pause, and held it. “The timing is not, perhaps, poor. I have some business that will keep me away this eve, and some part of tomorrow, but I believe that tomorrow night, or the day after, we will be ready.”

Jewel nodded. Her nod was entirely her own; it was all business. Duster, behind her, said nothing. And Teller, watching as Rath watched, offered no words, but he turned and met Rath's gaze with something akin to disapproval. It was not a bold glare, such as Duster would have offered; it was not—quite—an invitation to argument. In fact, it invited no response at all, and Rath was almost at a loss for words. Which, considering how often he spoke with Jewel's den, was just as well. He retreated, leaving them, and returned to his room, where the letters he had written lay unfinished. They were in various stages, and no single one of them had been left untouched or unmarked; he had sifted each word for tone and weight, choosing first one and then another. Tonight, however, at least one must be finished and sent, and before it was posted, he had one more visit to make.

 

The Den—the bar—was dark and noisy when he arrived; this was not his preferred time of day, but he was not there to enjoy the rather unfortunate atmosphere. He was there to speak with the men of
The White Lady
. Northerners all, they sometimes referred to themselves as sea wolves, an incongruous term that nevertheless suited them.

Here, with snow in the air and on the ground, they were beached and stranded; the port itself was nothing short of hazard, for it was not the job of the port authority to maintain passages in and out of the shipyards when the ships themselves were in harbor for the season.

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.