City of Night (29 page)

“Good. Will it make sense in the morning?”

“I don’t know. It doesn’t make much sense now.”

She nodded. Emptied her cup. She didn’t tell them not to speak about it; they never did. Rath had made clear, years ago, that Jay’s visions, Jay’s feelings, were unique as far as he knew—and Rath knew
mages
. He had also made it clear that if other people knew about her visions, Jay might not be in the streets much longer, her own wishes notwithstanding.

“Maybe she could work for someone,” Teller had said. “Someone powerful.”

Rath nodded his approval, as if Teller had said anything that everyone else wasn’t thinking. “She could. If she could find the right person, and prove herself.”

“And if she finds the wrong person?”

Rath hadn’t answered. But that was answer enough. Everyone in the den had found—or been found—by the wrong people before. They knew what it meant.

“Come on, Jay,” Finch said gently. Jay nodded. Nightmares like this only happened once a night, although the regular nightmares could still happen afterward. They slowly returned to their patches of floor, trying not to think about Jay’s vision, and what it might mean.

Especially Duster, who thought she could guess.

Jewel rarely went to the Common alone. It wasn’t entirely safe if you took the streets. She hadn’t. She’d slid down into the undercity, taking a route that was seldom used by her den. She wasn’t sure why; maybe she wanted to prove something. To them, or to herself, she wasn’t certain. But they’d gone, they’d found something that Jewel was certain was worth money, although Lefty still called it a club. What they dared, she had to be able to dare.

Why?
her Oma asked from across the veil.

There was no
good
answer to the question, so Jewel didn’t bother; her Oma had never been particularly kind when she’d offered a bad one.

The morning outing to the Common had come and gone, and there was food for a day in the kitchen in baskets on the floor. The well had been visited, and Finch had undertaken the laundry with whomever she could collar.

The walk through the solemn—and silent—streets of the undercity had passed without incident; it was peaceful and private. Jewel had even meandered a little, and stopped to visit the Stone Garden, in which peace could sometimes be coaxed out of hiding. Even on a day like today.

She missed the undercity.

It wasn’t the foraging, because on those days she had half of her den in tow, and they had to be careful of things like the floors and the ceilings. It was the quiet. The sense of secrecy, of hidden things. It wasn’t their home; she doubted anyone but Duster could live in continual dark. But it was, in some ways, an extension of home, and losing it was hard.

She knew they all felt that way. She knew they had gone there yesterday. She knew,
knew,
they would go back today. And she knew, as well, that she should forbid it. But she wasn’t their owner or their captain. Forbidding them, ordering them—it made her uneasy. It felt wrong.

Not that she didn’t order them around half the time—but that was little stuff, and they could snap back at her at any time (and often did). This was bigger.

She carried the candleholder in her backpack as she traversed the much more crowded streets of the Common. She was to meet Rath in two hours. She knew he wouldn’t be pleased. She wondered if he’d be angry. Knowing Rath, probably. But would he be angry enough not to fence what they’d found?

Without him, the den had no way of selling the things they could pry out of the undercity and carry home. He had connections to merchants in the Common and mages in the Order of Knowledge, and none of the den suffered under the illusion that they could build their own if he withdrew his aid. Hells, they couldn’t even afford to cross the bridge to the Isle that housed the damn Order unless they were willing to give up a day’s worth of food.

Two hours. Jewel stood for a moment, like a rock in a stream comprised of people, before she turned on her heel and made her way to the outer edge of the Common, where the merchants with actual storefronts worked.

The streets were marginally less crowded here, but the guards were more numerous, and they eyed her with tired suspicion as she walked. She wasn’t dressed as a customer. But she had shoes, and her clothing, if somewhat mismatched, was in decent enough repair; they had no call to stop her, and they didn’t.

She found the store she was looking for, paused just a moment in front of the closed door to look at her reflection, shoved her hair as far out of her eyes as it would go, and then pushed the door inward. Bells rang as she did.

It was true that she hadn’t had cause to enter many shops in the Common. The guards that often stood outside the doors would have put her off, even if she’d wanted to. But the owner of this particular store—which sold bolts of fine cloth and custom dresses—wouldn’t call the guards.

He barely looked up at the sound of the bells, and she walked over to the counter at which he did much of his work in the front of the store. The back room, in which the rest of the work was done was a study in clutter and mess; it wasn’t dirty, but there wasn’t a square inch of visible tabletop or chairback in sight.

He was not, however, in the back room at the moment. Instead, he was perched on a stool, his lap covered in a fine purple cloth that seemed blue and green as it caught the light at different angles. His lips were pursed around pins, which jutted out of his mouth in a fan, and the counter was occupied by glass beads and small pearls. In his hands, needle and thread moved slowly and completely steadily.

Jewel had always liked to watch Haval work, and she watched him for at least five minutes before he looked up, moving only his eyes. He looked down to his work again, and finished the stitching before removing the pins from his mouth; these, he wove into the seams of what looked a very fine skirt.

“Jewel,” he said, and nodded.

She had given up telling him to call her Jay.

He was a fastidious little man, although he wasn’t actually that small. She knew it was partly an act, a presentation meant to either ease or comfort, but she liked it enough to accept it.

“Excellent timing. It’s almost lunch,” he told her, as he eased himself off of his stool. “Will you join me in the back room?” Before she could answer, he raised his voice. He didn’t actually shout, but he had the ability to project that voice across the distance of a few rooms. “Hannerle, young Jewel Markess will be joining me for lunch.”

She slid her backpack off her shoulders, and dropped it behind the counter in the front of the store. This was practical; anything she dropped in the back of the store was likely to get buried by bolts of cloth, lace or beading, and it would take some time to find it again.

She was the one who was going to be moving most of those bolts. Haval directed her, often by the simple expedient of lifting something and dumping it, without warning or ceremony, into her arms. This happened any time Jewel visited Haval’s back room, because space for visitors had to be cleared. In Jewel’s opinion, space for Haval also had to be cleared, but since Haval owned everything here, he was unlikely to be furious at himself for any damage he caused while he moved things.

“You’re alone today,” Haval said, while he carefully gathered stray beads and dropped them into a round, leather container.

“Yes. I’m meeting Rath,” she added. She didn’t look up from her chosen task, because she was picking up pins.

“Why?”

She hesitated.

“Come sit, Jewel. Here. There’s room—no, wait, just move that carding to the desk. The desk by the wall.”

Since the desk by the wall had been buried in bolts and colorful debris, Jewel didn’t feel particularly stupid for not having recognized it.

But there was now room on a real chair, and there was space—on a small round table that looked so spindly anything would knock it over—for whatever lunch Haval’s wife had prepared. Jewel took the chair. It was at a slight angle to Haval’s, and the table formed the third point of a lopsided triangle.

Haval sat. “Why are you meeting Rath?” he asked again.

Jewel grimaced. “I’ve something to deliver to him.” She knew he’d marked the first hesitation, because he missed
nothing
. She half-suspected he knew about the undercity, but if he miraculously didn’t, she wasn’t about to betray the confidence.

“So this visit is simply killing time? I’m hurt.”

“You know Rath doesn’t like it when I visit.”

He chuckled, at that. “I should say that Hannerle doesn’t like it when
Rath
visits.”

“Why are you talking about Rath?” Hannerle had entered the room, carrying a heavy tray. A wide, well-worn apron covered her not insubstantial girth.

“To tease you,” Jewel replied. “Haval is teasing you,” she added hastily. “I wouldn’t have mentioned Rath.”

Hannerle snorted. It was one of the few mannerisms that she and Duster had in common. “We’ve seen enough of Rath in the last little while to last a lifetime,” Haval’s wife added as she set the tray down. “But, to be fair, he hasn’t asked for much.”

“No?”

“No,” Haval said smoothly. “He is aware that it’s Emperal. It’s a busy month for us. And no, Jewel, that was not a hint. Even when it’s busy, I still have to eat.”

“You think you’d remember that first thing in the morning, when breakfast is congealing,” Hannerle replied sharply. She wiped her hands in her apron, and offered Jewel a tired smile. “He likes company,” she said. “I’d have more over if there was any place to put it.” She looked around Haval’s workspace as if it were a particularly dirty kitchen she’d been both ordered to work in and forbidden to clean.

Haval, accustomed to this, lifted the teapot with great care, and poured two cups. He offered one to Jewel. He offered one to his wife, who declined to join them because it would, in her words, take until dinner to find another chair. To be fair, Jewel thought she was underestimating.

But she touched Jewel briefly on the shoulder, telling her to make sure Haval ate well, before she retreated.

Haval said, “She’s a good wife, for me.”

Jewel nodded, because she agreed. Her Oma would have liked Haval’s wife, and Jewel had no doubt that Hannerle would have thoroughly approved of her Oma—although neither of the two would have been comfortable living under the same roof.

“You’ve grown again,” Haval said, when Jewel had put the small sandwiches Hannerle liked to make on his plate.

“Have I?”

“At least three inches, although it’s difficult to tell when you slouch.” The last was said with slight reproach.

“There’s no reason not to slouch, and the backpack is heavy.”

“And you’re not to tell me what’s in it?”

“No.”

“Ah, well. I did have to ask.”

“You could ask Rath.”

“There is no chance whatsoever that he would answer.”

“There’s no chance
I
will either, if he won’t.”

“True. But the way you refuse to answer tells me much,” Haval replied, this time with a smile. It was an old smile, but it was friendly enough—just—that Jewel didn’t bridle. “And if you did not come to regale me with information, you must have come seeking it.”

Jewel started to say, quite truthfully, that she had come for no such thing, but she stopped herself. “What information would I be seeking?”

He chuckled. “Very good, Jewel. Very good. We will make a politician of you yet.”

“You’d have to make me rich first. And powerful, if they aren’t the same thing.”

“They are not, as you know, the same thing. A man, or woman, can be rich and never leverage wealth to gain power. A man, or woman, can be titled, and never leverage title to gain wealth. Power comes in many forms. Some power extends itself as far as a sword can swing. Some power is more subtle, but it extends further.”

“One of these days, you’ll tell me how you met Rath.”

“I hope not,” Haval said, in mock horror. “Hannerle would kill me.”

Jewel was silent then. “Haval—”

He lifted a slender hand. The humor left his face, and his eyes were dark and clear as he studied her in the workshop’s light. It was good light, bright enough to do fine work in, but it cast sharper shadows.

“Do not tell me anything that Rath would not tell me,” he said softly. A warning.

“Why not? You’re the best liar I’ve ever met. If you know it, and you don’t want him to know you do, it won’t even occur to him to ask.”

Haval simply watched her.

She said, “Can I talk about myself, instead?”

“It is not for yourself that you’re concerned,” he replied. He took a loud sip of tea, but his eyes didn’t leave her face.

“I’m always worried about myself.”

He raised a brow. “Because I’m the best liar you’ve ever met,” he told her, “I take a professional interest in the lies of others. Yours are so far beneath rank amateur that I suggest you not bother. Lies are not, and will never be, a part of your armory.” He took another sip of tea, and watched her through the rising steam. “Why did you come?”

“To visit. To kill time.”

“Ah. And you are just now bothered by something?”

She picked up her tea and put it down again. She disliked his cups, because they had so little handle and the surfaces were always hot. “Rath listens to you,” she said. She looked at the little sandwiches on her plate, and began to eat one. Because she was with Haval, she ate slowly. He disliked it when she shoved the whole thing into her mouth, even though each one was only two bites’ worth of food.

“He listens when it serves his purpose. If you mean he obeys me, you have failed entirely to understand the nature of our relationship. If you want me to tell him not to do something,” he added, his eyes narrowing slightly as Jewel’s widened, “I will have to refuse.”