House War - The Hidden City Part 1

Mich.e.l.le West.

House War.

The Hidden City.

This is for Kelly, who waited so long, and who tries, always, to understand the things that come from the heart.

Acknowledgments.

This was a particularly difficult book to write, and as usual, was longer than I antic.i.p.ated. I often disappear inside my own head while writing, but with this book, I approached invisibility.

And so I'd like to thank Thomas, who waited, with near-perfect patience; my sons, Daniel and Ross, who understand that they will always be my babies, even if they're in no way babies anymore; John and Kristen Chew, and my parents, who also waited.

Terry Pearson remains my alpha reader of necessity and choice, and held that fort when I was in the (sadly usual) state of complete despair that any book causes any writer, and Sheila Gilbert also waited, with characteristic patience while I struggled with the words.

Jody Lee, as usual, gave me a painting that secretly makes me wonder if anything I'm writing is worth her work.

And the West list, with its constant encouragement and quiet love for the previous books also helped enormously, even if I was absent for long stretches.

Chapter One.

405 AA.

Averalaan, Thirty-second holding.

RATH CONSIDERED HIMSELF a businessman. Besides being something of an expert in the finer arts of item relocation, he also considered himself a linguist, a writer of some renown in the lower parts of town, and, in the same fas.h.i.+on, a scholar.

He did not consider himself a swordsman, although he had been considered promising in a youth that he was well quit of now. Swords were c.u.mbersome, expensive, and an instant magnet for the eye of wary guards, and for that reason, he seldom carried his. The fact that he had not seen fit to sell it said something about him; what, he was not inclined to examine more closely.

His hair was still a dark brown although with the pa.s.sage of time it grayed; he took care not to notice just how much. He himself allowed no stoop of age to threaten his posture, and if the line of his nose, once patrician perfection, was now broken, he fancied that it added some character to his face.

So did the scars, and they were a less fortunate character, especially when he chose to make excursions to the more expensive parts of the Common. But it was in the more expensive arena of the Common that merchants fought their weaponless, almost clandestine duels, and it was in those brick-and-stone buildings, with their expensive windows and deplorably inexpensive guards, that he did most of his trade these days.

He had, therefore, learned a bit of the subtle art of makeup, a fas.h.i.+on he had once despised in his youth. His rooms-he had two at the moment, although that would no doubt change, as he moved frequently to avoid the lingering resentment of some of his clientele-were littered with clothing from all walks of life. Even the highest, although that clothing was also the oldest, and the one he chose most seldom to don.

It held some part of his memory, evidence of the truth of a past he had long since forgotten. Or, if he were honest, tried to forget. Drinking helped, and he drank seasonally for that reason. That, and to dull the Winter pain of old wounds and the breakage of old bones. Empty bottles stood in a neat row in the bedroom's easternmost corner.

Here, too, he had wigs, and face paint that would make a carnival proud; he had fine rings, silver at base, but plated with gold and the occasional real gem; he had heavy necklaces, the wearing of which made him appear to be one of the pretentious people who dreamed of wealth without ever comprehending the social subtleties that truly denoted it.

And he had names, although these were not so disorderly, existing as they did in an inventory contained by memory. One of them was real, if that word had meaning here, in the life he had chosen. He had letters, complete with wax seals, that designated him a courier of choice for any number of well-known merchant Houses; he had letters that designated him the negotiator of choice in the same way. They were written variously in spidery hand, in bold hand, in feminine perfection, and in words that were barely Weston; his inventory in this regard was large.

What he did not have-what he frequently promised himself he would never have-was a companion. He disliked anything that was beyond his control, and always had. He liked privacy, isolation, and the ability to let go of all his many faces the moment he closed the door behind him. Home, as it was always meant to be.

No, he thought, unusually honest on this bright and warm day, not always. There had been a time when home had meant something different. A time, later, when it had come to stand for everything he despised.

Now? Contempt took energy.

He marshaled that precious energy, choosing clothing with care. Or with as much care as he usually did, in seclusion; he swept through the piles that were more or less orderly, if wrinkled and somewhat less than perfectly clean, and then deposited a handful of cloth across his bed.

His door came with three locks; his windows were barred. He could afford both, and they were usually the first alteration he made in any place he called home now. All of the things that could be locked, were.

He chose, of all things, worn velvet; he chose a leather satchel that hung across his shoulder, an open display of wealth in the poorer holdings in which he chose to live much of the time, and he chose an obvious long knife. It wasn't a sword; that was hidden in the bowels of his collection of paraphernalia. But inasmuch as his presence could evoke threat, this would have to do. He also whitened the lines of his scars with an appropriate mixture of grease and powder, and darkened the circles under his eyes. His hair, he plaited. It wasn't long, but long enough to suggest a warrior gone soft.

After another few minutes, in which he glanced through his forged credentials, he shrugged and set them all aside. Here, charm-or what pa.s.sed for charm with Radell, would have to do.

After he had finished, he glanced at the silvered mirror-it was a vanity he could afford, and in fact, one of the few he could not afford to be without-and then he made his way to the door, unlocking each bolt carefully and precisely. He made sure he had keys; he could pick the locks with relative ease, but it was a ch.o.r.e, and likely to be noticed by his inquisitive neighbors. The neighbors were getting to be a bit of a bother; it was almost time to move again.

Exiting, he closed the door, made sure it was solidly locked, and drew breath. Smoke lingered in the air, seeping from beneath the large cracks of poorly-fitted doors. Some of it was cooking; most of it was pipe. None of it was his.

He made his way along the narrow hall, and down steps that made the hall feel wide; navigated yet another long hall and a set of open doors and found himself, at last, upon the streets.

At this time of day, they were crowded. The thirty-second holding was one of the poorest of the hundred, and magisterial guards were encountered seldom; because they were absent, a.s.sorted would-be thugs lurked near the buildings or the alleys that occurred between them.

But they seldom preyed on children, and children gathered in the streets, avoiding wagon wheels by a miracle of dexterity and attention that never failed to amaze. They had sticks, hoops, leather b.a.l.l.s, and a great deal of noisy energy.

Rath smiled, fake indulgence in the expression, as he met the eyes of some of those urchins, in their poor-fitting, overly worn clothing. They were wary of him almost instantly-friendliness from a stranger often had that effect. But they made way for him, which had been his intent, and he pa.s.sed them by without another thought.

No, his thoughts were on Radell, on the next possible mission, and the next bag of coins that would make a move smoother.

Perhaps because he was so preoccupied, he didn't notice that this was the day in which his self-imposed exile would come to an end.

He didn't notice that one of the older children had broken away from a group by the far building; she skirted the alleys, giving them wide berth, and made her way toward the Common, her hands in her pockets.

But when she pa.s.sed by him, he did notice the dull glint of an equally dull knife. His was out of his sheath before he spoke or moved; she was on his right, and the knife, in his left hand. He had always used either hand with equal grace.

Had he been in the Common proper, he might not have spared her another glance; children of her kind were numerous there. But in the streets of the thirty-second? Rare enough. The consequences were higher, here.

She went, with clumsy and obvious movements, for the straps of the satchel that hung by his side. He brought his knife in, to cut the top side of her hand-a warning, and one that didn't require long explanations.

But she brought her dull knife up at the last moment, and his blade skittered off its negligible edge; she kicked him, hard, in the knee, and yanked the satchel off his shoulder as he doubled over.

This was an inconvenience; it was not yet a crisis.

But it became one-a subtle one-when he met her eyes. Brown eyes, dark skin, unruly hair-things that he expected to see on these streets. But her expression was one of shame, of regret, of things that hinted at conscience, even though it was absolutely clear from the prominence of her cheekbones and her pointed jaw that she needed the money to eat.

The expression slowed him, somewhat. Age, perhaps, slowed him more. But neither of these slowed him enough to aid the young thief.

She ran, and he had already covered half her shadow when she suddenly banked right. As if, he thought, she knew exactly what he would do next, and hoped to evade him.

He could outrun her; her legs were short, and she was spindly, exhausted. But he kept pace with her, to see where she would go. The curiosity was out of place, and he hadn't time for it-but he surprised himself. He made the time.

She didn't-quite-surprise him. She didn't head for a building; she didn't head into the holdings. No home, then.

Instead, she turned on her heel and spinning, she ran toward the busiest street in the thirty-second-the one he himself had intended to take.

This, he thought, is interesting. And he followed. It was one of his skills. Hunting.

He picked up his empty satchel about fifty yards away from where he'd lost it. He didn't bother to open it and check its contents; he could tell by its weight and silence that whatever it had contained-and it hadn't been much-was gone. The girl was gone with it; the few coins were probably clutched in her hands, and if she weren't careful, she'd lose them to thieves just like her.

Which would serve her right. But wouldn't, in fact, do him any good at all. He stopped for a moment under the paltry shade of the ancient trees that girded the Common, smiled at a market guard, tipped his hat just a touch, and then thought.

With a distinct rolling of eyes, he made his way to the poorest section of the Common: the farmers' market. It was late enough in the day that the food there would be thoroughly picked over; what was left could be had for a fraction of its original asking price, if the child was both hungry and smart.

Having seen her, he didn't doubt the hungry.

And having lost her, his pride wouldn't let him doubt the smart. He made his way through the crowd in silence, regretting the obvious emphasis he'd placed on the scars that adorned his face. It did mean people made room for him-but that room was a hint and a warning if the girl was being at all cautious.

He prowled through the vendors that remained, and they watched him carefully. Some tried to garner his attention by shouting out praises of what was obviously not deserving of praise; the others let him be. They'd seen him, in one guise or another, and perhaps they even recognized this particular choice. It didn't matter; he wasn't thinking about them.

He was thinking, instead, about the girl.

She was nine, he thought. Ten. No older. He wondered if she had a family. Many of the street thieves did-if you considered a prost.i.tute and an absent father family. But most of those children would have made their way home with their earnings; this one hadn't.

Ah.

He could see her back. Could see her talking with a farmer. To his great surprise, the farmer seemed friendly. Not cloying, and not argumentative, the way farmers in the Common market usually were-but genuinely happy to see her. He held carrots in one hand, and something that had probably seen better days-two of them, if Rath was any judge-in the other, but it was the carrots he was offering.

So. She had friends, of a sort, in the Common.

He hesitated, and then stepped back. There were no real shadows here, no convenient way of disappearing. But anonymity had its advantage, and there were enough people in the Common that anonymity was all but guaranteed. He watched the girl pay for the food, and then she surprised him again; she offered the farmer more of the precious coin that she held.

He couldn't see her face; he could see the farmer's. The large man's brows rose slightly in surprise, and then lowered in mimicry of annoyance. It was poor mimicry; it might convince a child of ten, but it would fall flat with any other audience.

Rath waited until the farmer refused whatever she had offered for a third time; waited a little bit longer, to see the girl slowly make her way from the wagon stall, her head bent, her arms cradling the bundle she carried as if it were life itself, which, given her weight and the obvious shape of her bones, was fair enough. She dwindled, dwarfed easily by the adults that were still set on conducting business, until she was out of sight.

Only then did he approach the farmer, and raise his hat.

The farmer's face stiffened in instant suspicion.

"That girl," Rath said quietly. He was a good judge of character, and had intended to open up discussion with some sort of friendly, idle chatter-but the farmer's face made it clear how effective that would be, and Rath hated to waste time.

"What girl?"

"The one you just sold the carrots."

"I've sold a lot of carrots today," the farmer answered. "And I'm about done." He started to close the wagon's back flap.

Rath caught the man's wrist so quickly the man didn't have time to draw back. "Don't," he said softly, "play games with me. The child that just left."

"What of her?"

"You know her."

The farmer shrugged. "I see her from time to time."

"How often?"

"Why do you want to know?"

He almost told the farmer the truth. Almost. Couldn't be certain later why he hadn't. "I was a friend of her mother's," he said at last. It seemed safe.

But it produced another frown. "Her family won't be happy if you don't leave her alone."

"Judging from the state of her clothing," Rath replied, choosing his words with care, "I'd guess her family won't care one way or the other."

The farmer hesitated again, and started to raise his free hand.

"Don't," Rath told the man, lowering his voice. "Don't even think it. I've no interest in the girl in that particular fas.h.i.+on. But I'm curious. She seems . . . different."

"Different how?"

"She hasn't been on the streets for long enough."

At that, the farmer seemed to deflate. "Aye," he said, half-bitter. "Not for long enough. She won't go to the Mother's temple-any of 'em. She's still got some pride in her, and she's honest."

As she'd just stolen his satchel, or at least its contents, Rath was justifiably dubious. He kept this to himself.

"Where does she live?"

The farmer shrugged. "I don't know," he said. "She says she's living with a friend of her father's."

"And?"

He shrugged. "I told you, she's still got some fierce pride. If I had to guess, I'd say she's living under a bridge across the river."