City of Night (27 page)

The worst thing about it had been the damn prayer, and Duster was willing to say anything to anyone for that kind of money; it was all just words, anyway.

But something had spooked Jay.

 

Things were quiet at home. Or what passed for quiet, with this many people in a small space. The windows were open, because it was hot and humid enough that the slats had swollen and wouldn’t stay closed. In the colder weather, they stayed closed because someone made the effort to tie the flapping shutters together; it wasn’t worth it at any other time of the year, unless the rain was wicked.

Finch shuffled off to the kitchen; Jay followed her, and they spent a bit of time in the small space, trying to find room on the counter for the contents of each basket. Always seemed like a waste of time, to Duster, since most of what was in the basket was just going to disappear in a meal or two anyway.

Teller carefully closed the open books on the den’s single table and set them in a pile on the floor, up against the wall. He also gathered the candles, which Jay only used when someone was out after dark; if someone was going to be late, they took the magestone. In the last few days, that had been Duster, Carver, and Fisher. And in the last few days, they’d come in to find Jay, candlelight flickering, bent over the pages of one of Rath’s books. She hadn’t looked happy to see them, but when she was working that hard, she rarely looked happy to see anyone.

She had blown the candle out as soon as Carver had produced the magestone, but she’d also closed the book. It was dark, which meant it was late, and even if the days
were
getting shorter, dawn still came early.

Jay didn’t go to sleep until everyone was home and she could put the magestone in its holder—a gift from Rath—in her room. When Duster went out on her night runs in the holding, she left after Jay was snoring, because if she left before, Jay didn’t sleep.

She’d sit up and wait.

And when Jay hadn’t had enough sleep, she was the Hells on earth. Not that Duster cared all that much what anyone else suffered; she was Hellish on
everyone,
which included Duster. It was just a bit of self- preservation at work, and she would have told that to anyone who asked. Anyone who was stupid enough to ask.

Today, bedtime was a long way off. Duster was restless, and knew it; she found a corner of the room to occupy and defended it by glaring. She ate there, in a sullen silence. Lander didn’t break it, but he did drift by and sign a bit. He talked now, it was true, but he
liked
the den-sign, and he used it about as often as he used words.

She shrugged, and took a plate from his hands; she also didn’t bite him when he settled against the wall to one side of her corner. They ate in silence. But everyone did. People were watching Jay.

Duster hated chatter. Always had. It was what people who were afraid of silence did, and Duster wasn’t afraid of anything. But there were silences that were, for all intents and purposes, a lot like chatter, and she hated those, too. She ate, brooding, until she caught sight of Lander’s fingers moving, deliberately and slowly, in his lap. He wasn’t talking to her, but she could follow, if she wanted.

She was bored enough that she looked across the crowded damn room, to see whose hands were dancing in response. Mostly, she saw legs, and she shifted against the wall to better line her gaze up with Lander’s. She snorted when she saw who was signaling. Lefty.

Lefty was still the runt of this particular litter. He was no taller than Duster, and most days, he looked shorter than everyone but Finch and Teller. This would be because he slouched, and he walked with his shoulders hunched up, as if to ward off blows. No one hit him, not here, but even years here hadn’t killed that reflex.

If she were being fair, it hadn’t killed many of hers, either. It was hard, most days, not to snap at Lefty. He didn’t keep his maimed hand tucked under his armpit anymore, but he still fell silent when Duster walked in, or even walked by him. He practically screamed,
Hit me,
just because he was a walking cringe.

You couldn’t count on him in a fight, ever. You couldn’t count on him not to eat your food (if he didn’t know it was yours; no one ate Duster’s food otherwise, not even the cat) or actually
get
clothing clean, because apparently, even beating cloth with a rock was too hard for him. He actually had a bit of a mouth, but he only really used it when he was standing right under Arann’s armpit.

And he lived here, in her space, and she hadn’t beaten or killed him yet. She shook her head. Maybe miracles happened.

She stood, with her plate, paused to scoop Lander’s, which was empty, out of his lap. She had never learned to cook, and she hated cut-up in the kitchen, but she was willing to help clean up, because everyone else did it.

She stopped short of the kitchen. Something Lander had just signed caught her attention.
So,
she thought.
Maze
?

She glanced around the room to see if anyone else was watching. Fisher and Carver, but neither of them added much. In Fisher’s case, that was no surprise, but Carver?

As if he could hear the thought, he glanced at Jay, who was seated at the table. She was the only one who was, and she was lost in what passed for thought in these parts. As if to underscore this, she pulled out a slate and found some chalk. Duster shrugged, and carried the plates to the counter. She set them down, and took a closer look at the slate: it had columns of numbers. Duster hated them.

But she understood that those numbers were at the heart of this den. Without them, they ran out of money, food, or clothing. Anything they’d picked up in the undercity became, by Rath’s grace, more numbers. Anything they needed was transformed into numbers as well, and making those numbers all add up to something that left room for food and rent—that was hard work and magic.

Both of which made Jay cranky.

Finch could do some numbers; Teller as well. Duster suspected that Angel was more than passingly familiar with them, but he kept the hell away from those slates because, like the rest of the den, he was both lazy and aware of what put Jay in a foul mood. She glanced at him; the bastard had strolled across the room and taken up squatting in her corner. She would have gone and pulled him out, but she saw why: He was signing with Lander.

Angel, new to the den, had not quite mastered this silent tongue. He asked questions, using words because they were faster, and Lander answered with gestures, slowing them down so Angel could see the whole of them.

Duster hated Angel’s hair, but she was all right with him otherwise. Angel, on the other hand, seemed to have no problems with anyone else in the den except Duster. She made him nervous, and they both knew it.

Fair enough. She made everyone else nervous at times, and they’d known her for years. Everyone, she thought, but Jay. Jay worried about almost everything else, but not Duster, at least not that way. Duster’s hand crept over the pommel of her dagger and rested there. It was sharp and clean; she had no reason to draw it; she wanted to, but didn’t.

Because it was still important. Not to want things. Not to let people know how much you
did
want them. Not even these people.

But she’d lived with them for three years, now. Maybe more. Day by day, she’d eaten and slept with them; she’d hunted for a place, and she’d worked with them, in the undercity. She’d fought back to back with Carver a couple of times, once when things were dicey. He hadn’t run, hadn’t left her open.

She’d considered running, then. Hadn’t. Couldn’t really say why, except maybe she wasn’t willing to be the
first
to run, and he wouldn’t while she wouldn’t. But Jay had come, with Arann and Fisher and Jester, and then the odds weren’t so bad.

Ah, Hells. She drew her dagger and held it up to whatever light she could find, just to see its edge.

 

After dinner, when Lander and Lefty rose, Angel and Carver rose as well. Carver palmed the magestone, and Jay caught his wrist; they fenced with stares, but Jay didn’t say whatever it was she wanted to say. Duster, lounging against the wall, got to her feet and headed toward the door.

This brought the other four up short, but Duster said, clearly, “You’re not sticking me with the cleanup,” before walking out. They milled about for a few minutes, but eventually they followed.

Only after the door was closed and they were most of the way to the stairs did Duster sign.

It was Angel who hesitated, not Lefty. But Angel’s signing wasn’t great. “You want to come with us?” he finally asked.

She shrugged.

He shrugged as well, but it was a different shrug. He didn’t really care. They bounced a slow nod among themselves, and then they headed out, streetside.

“Jay’s not going to like it,” Angel said.

“She hasn’t said we
can’t
go. Precisely.”

There was a lot more silence. Duster broke it, with a snort. “She’s afraid of the undercity,” she told them.

Jay’s fears were never taken lightly by anyone but Duster.

“But she’s afraid of being broke, as well.”

“Yeah, but she’s always afraid of that,” Lefty said, cautiously.

“She’s trying to get better at reading again. I think she thinks she can get some kind of job that pays her to read. Or do numbers,” Duster added. “I can’t do either. The rest of you can’t read half as well as Teller or Finch. Some of us can fight, but we’re sure as the Hells not going to get jobs with the magisterial guards, even if we can.

“But this? We can
do
this. We’ve all gone on runs in the undercity before now. We can head there. Just for a few days. We can scrounge around for stuff, give it to Rath later.” Since it’s pretty much what Lander and Lefty had been discussing in the silent apartment, no one should have been surprised.

“Come on,” Duster said, when no one spoke, not even with their hands. “We can do that much, for her. It’s only a few days. We’ll want money for the rainy season. Look, we’ve been doing this for three years now. She’s been doing it for longer. Nothing bad’s ever happened before. She hasn’t told us
not
to go, but she’ll work her way up to it sometime this month, so if we’re going to do this, we’ve got to do it soon. And,” she added, as she headed down the street, “it’s not like we’ve got anything else she’d ever let us sell.”

Echoes, in those words, and she knew it.

 

Lander held the magestone. In the undercity, he often did. Not always, because he liked to wander, and when there was only one source of light, wandering wasn’t an option.

Lander liked the undercity. He liked the quiet, and the empty spaces; he liked the stones, both fractured and whole, with their broken words, their engraved runes. Duster liked the undercity for different reasons, but there was something about Lander’s open wonder that was comfortable, for her.

In the streets above, he often talked with his hands, which was sometimes a problem, because he wasn’t much for repeating himself. But in the dark, he often used words, and no one forgot that it was in the undercity that most of the den had first heard him speak.

Not Duster; Duster had heard him someplace else first, before he had realized that words, especially his, served no purpose and offered no help. He had abandoned them, just as he had been abandoned. But his return to speech had come here, first, as if the boundaries between below and above controlled his mouth.

They made their way to the Stone Garden, because Lander held the magestone and they were forced to follow him. The Stone Garden never changed. The den had, and most of the changes, even in Duster’s cynical view, had been good ones—but there was something calming about the garden’s immutability. They could return to it, in any weather, and at any age, and it would be like this: Stone flowers, vines, and small trees, arrayed around a courtyard that was larger than any building they had ever lived in.

You could feel wind in the bend of stem and the slow turn of petal; you could feel sunlight, even in this endless night. You could smell the earth beneath stone roots. Even the downward drift of petals was captured; it was as if a mage had found the perfect gardens, and transformed them, in an instant, to stone.

There had been some discussion about that, among the den. There had been questions about how the maker-born worked. But even the answers they’d managed to dig out of Rath hadn’t really done much to quench curiosity, because Rath was very definite: this was not made by the mere maker-born. The Stone Garden, Rath had said, was the work of an Artisan—and Artisans were both famously mad and inexplicably magical.

The Twin Kings held a rod and a sword that had been Made by Fabril, the first and the best known of the Empire’s Artisans, so it wasn’t as if the den had never heard of Artisans. Everyone had, no matter where they lived, or how. But those, the rod and the sword of Kings, were the stuff of legend, and therefore properly the work of Artisans.

The Stone Garden, though? It made no sense.

They never tried to take anything from the Stone Garden; the Stone Garden, likewise, never took anything but their mute admiration from them. Even Duster, who liked to hold herself aloof, was not immune.

But Duster, unlike the rest of her den, could only bear to wander here for so long before she grew restless, and it was therefore Duster who eventually called a halt to Lander’s progress.

The building beyond this garden, they did not enter. Duster had tried once or twice, but the farthest she had ever gotten was with Jay, and Jay had stopped at a closed door and shaken her head.

“Dangerous?”

“Might be.”

“Too bad.”

It was. Anything they could find
here
was guaranteed to be worth money. But it wasn’t, as Jay pointed out, worth injury. Healers in the Empire weren’t easily found, and they were never cheap. Doctors were more easily found, but they still weren’t cheap, and Duster privately thought they weren’t worth what they wanted to charge. Duster had old scars from injuries that no doctor had ever seen, and she’d survived.