The Hidden City (93 page)

She was certain, now, holding her breath, trying not to be overwhelmed by nausea and—yes—fear, that she would
never
be interested in men. Not like this. That she would never want them touching her, or holding her, or owning any part of her time, or her attention.

And yet, she thought, stiffening, unable to relax in any way, she
was
here by choice. Duster, Finch—all of the others—had had none. And this man? He hadn't cared. He had cared about money, and about what he wanted; the fact that they didn't want it meant nothing.

Or maybe, she thought, as she noticed the shifting lines of his expression, it meant something. She wanted to be ill. She almost was.

But her Oma's voice was there, steadying her with its harsh anger. She had chosen, and not in ignorance, and she could abide by the choice.
You put your hand in the fire, it burns. You live with the pain. You pray there are no scars
. She meant to. She honestly meant to.

But when his hands touched her face, cupping her cheeks, her body reacted before she could confine it; she shoved his hands away and almost fell back off her chair in her haste to put distance between them. Any distance at all.

And she had been right about one thing; although his expression mimed a frown, there was something in his eyes, something etched in the weathered lines of his face, that was like . . . glee. Glee made dark and personal, where there should have been light and life.

He said, “You don't understand why you're here, do you?”

She rose quickly, trying to put table between them; he was slower, but more assured. She said nothing.

“Come here.”

And held her ground.

“Your father's future depends upon what you do. It depends upon my goodwill.
Come here
.”

There was no Rath in this room. No Duster. No one to interrupt them; hadn't there been a plan? Food? Something drugged? It was hard to recall, now. Now was Lord Waverly, a man with the power and money to make a cage of even the most beautiful of rooms.

And she had walked in through the door, in this dress, with that letter, determined to be what she had to be. Determined to somehow give Duster a choice. She had not thought—had not honestly thought—that she would have none beyond the first act: walking in. Sitting down.

She
could not
bring herself to obey him.

And she saw that this was both the right thing and the wrong thing to do. He was not ill-pleased with her refusal, but his words were ugly, ugly words. In her rising panic, the only ones she understood clearly were
teach you something you will never forget.

And she knew that he was right; that he could do this; that she could do nothing but remember.

 

Patris AMatie stiffened slightly, lifting his chin, exposing the underside of a jaw that seemed so smooth it might have been made of glass. Or steel. His eyes were wide and so dark they did not reflect light, or the life that grew fettered in pots and dirt.

Duster sat by his feet, felt his hand brush her shoulder gently, possessively. But her eyes were on the plants, on the place where their stems and trunks emerged from, yes, dirt. They were beautiful, they were expensive, they were cared for in ways that she had
never
been cared for—and yet they relied for their beauty and life on . . . dirt.

And she was dirty.

Jay had said something. Sometime. Someplace that was not this fine, fine building, with its glass, its impossible ceilings, its paintings and tapestries. Someplace that did not offer privacy to men who—

She heard it, then. What she had longed to hear.

Short, muffled, but sharp as dagger's edge: a scream. A high scream. It did not linger. It did not echo.

And yet it did, and Duster understood something about desire, and hated herself for the understanding.

And without thought, thought was too harsh and too ugly, she rose, shedding the Patris' hand in a smooth movement learned in the streets of the poorest quarters of this horrible city. Bringing the dagger she clung to to bear, cutting his skin.

Cutting skin that did not shed blood.

She was away before he could grab her; away before he even seemed to notice what she had done; he seemed mesmerized by what they had both heard. But if he seemed caught in a trance, he was not slow, not clumsy; he was not weak enough to be caught off guard.

He simply didn't care about her dagger.

She'd seen enough fighting in her life—enough death—to recognize this immediately. And she
knew
what to do to preserve her life. Knew it intimately, she had done it so often.

But she couldn't bring herself to do it here—that required thought, acting, planning. It required
caring
one way or the other whether or not she survived.

He reached out as casually as Duster might have were she to crush a bug. And Duster traveled halfway across the room, tumbling through the stalks of slender plants, crushing fragrant blossoms. Finding dirt in her face, and beneath her hands.

“Do not,” he said, although he didn't even look at her, “disappoint me.”

Even now, she had a chance. A chance to preserve her life. A chance to take back the dream of power and twisted, bitter justice.

But it wasn't a dream—it was a nightmare.
This
is what she had so loathed when she had been chained in the crumbling manse, visited by guest after guest until all touch and all sensation blurred into pain and humiliation.

Herself. She had loathed herself. Because she had known, even then, what they hoped for; she would grow stronger and angrier and darker until only the killing lust remained. Then, only then, would she be free to move and act.

And she had told Jay what it was that frightened her. Why? She couldn't remember.

Only that she had told Jay.

And that Jay had told her she would be judged by her actions. Oh, she had hated the answer, had known it would come, had despised the pathetic attempt at comfort.

But—and this was another lesson, another terror—she had
wanted
it as well. The bitter double edge of desire.

And she stood on it now, bleeding in so many ways that her time in the manse now seemed a distant blessing. Because in that room, chains around her, she
had had no choice
. And gods forgive her—if there were gods that could—she had had a choice here.

“Jay!” One strangled word. A name.

The Patris approached her as she scrambled through the foliage, breaking it, destroying it, bringing it at last to just dirt, to her own level.

“So,” he said softly. But the softness filled the room, rebounded off the ceiling, off all the broken things that lay beneath her and within her. She was still free of him, her dagger twisting in the air before her as she tried to make a wall of its edge. It had worked before, a time or two. It had failed just as often.

It would fail here, she saw that.

She cried out louder, louder now. A name. Not hers.

And if it did fail? If it couldn't protect her?

It would be
over
.

She was wild with panic, and fear, and neither of them were familiar to her; they were all wrong.

She cried out the name a third time, her whole body shaking with the single syllable, the weight of it, the need to have it answered.

But if Jewel's single scream, curtailed, went unnoticed by any save Duster, the clear cry of Jay's name did not.

Patris AMatie noted it, and understood it for the denial it was. He approached Duster as she rolled to her feet in her dirty, awkward clothing, her pale hair—false as everything about her had been false,
was
false—mired in petals and soft soil.

“They failed me,” he told her softly, moving like a cat moves, a great cat, a hunting beast. “They failed me by allowing you to escape. You were so very close to the choice; so close to making it, and becoming one of ours.

“I do not have the time, in this life, to fashion more out of what I see in you. But you will return, and I will see you when you do; we will begin again in earnest, because, little one, when you
do
return, we will once again rule over these pale lands, and the world will be ours.”

“The world that is yours,” a new voice said, “is not this world.”

Duster recognized the voice, but it was cold and hard, and in its way, it was as terrifying as the Patris. It was not as terrifying as the silence that followed—that still followed—Jewel's single cry.

Rath stood in the room, framed by an arch that was covered with vines that drooped flowers. He was tall, and well-dressed; he was also armed. But armed, he appeared to be at ease, as if this were simply an unpleasant conversation, a trifling negotiation.

“Duster,” he said, without once glancing away from the Patris, who had stopped and pivoted to face him, “I do not know what part you have played in the plans that have gone awry, but you are not needed here, and you are not wanted here. Go where you must go, and do what you must do. The Patris and I have matters that cannot be discussed openly.”

“There will be little discussion,” the Patris replied, and he seemed to grow taller and wider as he spoke, as if he were shedding the patina of vulnerability—such as it was—that he had worn throughout the evening.

“Rath—I—”

“I don't know,” he said, his voice lower. And she knew that he suspected, and that she would pay.

And the price seemed almost like a promise of peace, although it was death. She who could deal death could recognize at least that much.

She struggled to her feet, shoving broken things from her lap, her arms, pushing her hair out of her face. With it came makeup, the color that Haval had chosen; beneath the surface of powder, swept away in a gesture, she exposed her true face.

And then she turned and ran, and once again, she lifted her voice, crying out a single name, as if by uttering it she could cling to it.

You wanted this
.

Gods. And what gods could forgive, what gods could understand, what gods could care for someone who
could
? They would never forgive her, the others, Jay, this Rath who would be her death.

And tomorrow, if she somehow survived her awkward flight, she would find excuses and reasons and she would make them walls so tall she would never see over them again. Because she
had
seen over them in this room, and what she had seen had hurt her far more than even Lord Waverly and the demons who had given her to his care.

 

Across the building, Carver lifted his head so quickly, his hair flew, revealing the eye that was almost always hidden. He froze, his hand dropping to the dagger he concealed in the width of Winter clothing. He ran into Arann's back, and felt the stiffness there as if it were a slowly burning heat.

Teller, letter clutched in hands that had balled into fists, was white and silent; Finch was shaking. They had heard Jay's name, and in the white of bright light and beautiful floors, walls, ceilings, they saw the bars of familiar cages.

Cages that Jay had opened, so that they could live.

Lander was shaking. Lefty was utterly silent, his hands still. Finch could not see what Jester and Fisher were doing; she didn't care. She recognized the voice that uttered the name so strangely it sounded strangled and horrified.

“Duster,” she said, her voice a whisper. They were frozen for just a minute; the whole damn place was
so
big.

But before they could move, or run, or shout, someone cut them off.

Not now,
Finch prayed.
Kalliaris, not now. Goddess, smile, smile please. We'll bear your frown later; we'll pay. But smile now.

Gods didn't answer prayers.

But Kalliaris was a god of whim and if she chose to listen, if she chose to find amusement in this overdressed, undermonied den of misfits and orphans, Finch could only offer gratitude.

For the person that approached them was perhaps a handful of years older than they were, and he was pale, his face pinched with indecision and worry. Fear, maybe, but it was not of them, and there was no contempt when he reached Carver's side.

Carver said, “We've come for a friend.” All pretense, all lie, even the official and officious letter that Teller now held as if it were garbage, forgotten.

And the man—the boy?—said, “I'm sorry.” It was the whisper of a word, two words. “I think you may be too late.”

 

Rath was not dressed for the political; he was not dressed to impress. He was—barely—well enough turned out that his presence in the inn would be tolerated, and at that, only in the off season when business was poor.

The Patris was, of course, finely attired. His clothing was dark, and perfect, and it stretched a little too much at the shoulders and chest as he faced Rath, shedding now even the pretense of humanity. Of mortality.

“You should not have come here,” the Patris said, and he smiled, and his teeth glinted, long and strange in the bright light of the inn. Too bright, Rath thought, to contain what he saw. “But I offer my thanks for your consideration,
Wade
. I have lost a number of my servitors to your intervention, and had almost considered hunting you myself.” His expression darkened as he spoke the words, and the nuance in them was not lost on Rath.

Rath knew, both instinctively and intellectually, that he had no advantages here; in this fight, height or speed were lost him, and he did not doubt that the Patris was capable of fighting. That he carried no sword and no obvious weapon were of little concern; he expected Rath to provide him with amusement.