House War - The Hidden City Part 27

It had. Hectore knew it. But if there was honor among thieves, Rath reserved it for men such as he. They ate in companionable silence, and Hectore spoke for some time about the s.h.i.+fting alliances among the merchant Houses. He failed to mention Terafin, but Rath could hear the unspoken House name in the gaps.

Only when the meal was almost at an end, did Hectore let his discretion lapse. "You thought the House War would devour her," he said quietly. "You thought she would die."

"I didn't much care," Rath replied.

"That is not the word that was carried to me by my informants." He lifted a hand. "She survived. She did better than survive. House Terafin is first among The Ten, and Amarais is without peer."

"She walked away from Handernesse," Ararath said sharply. Unwilling to be drawn into the source of old wounds; unable to let them bleed.

"Do you know who would have taken the throne had she failed?"

"No."

"Become a better liar, Ararath. Or a better actor. You know. The House would have been a much darker place had she not played her game of war; it would have had the power to inflict a great deal of damage on those with no ability to defend themselves. Amarais understood this."

"Handernesse fell."

"It fell," Hectore said softly, "because you left it."

"I was not what she was. Not to my father. Not to my grandfather. Her desertion killed him."

"Aye, perhaps there's truth in that. But he understood her, in the end. And had he been younger, had he lived up to the potential of his youth, he might have been your sister for a different generation. You judge harshly."

"She wanted power. She took what she wanted."

"Men want power for different reasons; it is what they do with the power that must be judged, and sometimes, it is history that is the best judge; not those who live under its rule.

"And what did you want, Ararath? What is it you want now?"

"To be left alone," was the swift reply.

"And yet you are here, and I am here, and your request has some of Handernesse in it, whether you admit it or not. It is for that reason alone that I will aid you as I can." The old man's eyes dimmed. "But I have misgivings, Ararath. I will not lie. You were never a fool, and if you choose to be blind where your sister is concerned, it is your only blindness.

"If you would take my advice, I would offer it freely."

"You've always offered advice freely."

"To my G.o.dson, yes. To others? They pay. I have a reputation of my own to maintain."

Rath waited, understanding that he owed Hectore of Araven this much. Costly, yes.

"Make your peace with Amarais. Make your peace with her decision. Leave this place; I fear it will devour you."

"It has not devoured me yet."

"No. But the wise do not depend on Kalliaris' smile. Only the desperate and those without choice do that. You are not the latter; do not become the former."

"And is the sundering of all ties of blood to be so easily forgiven, so easily forgotten?"

"Blood, in the Empire, has never been the sole deciding factor of worth. The Ten are The Ten not by birth, but by competence and ambition."

Ambition was, in Rath's vocabulary, the most bitter of words. Before he could speak, Hectore continued.

"The oaths we make as children, we mean. It is what defines us. But the inability to live up to those oaths is the coming of adulthood. Sometimes, in order to make something, you must break something. Believe that it was costly for her."

"It does not seem costly from here," Rath said bitterly.

"No," was the quiet reply. Hectore had finished. He was wise enough to know when a wall was unbreachable.

Clouds reflected light, making the night a paler shade of gray than even moon's light could. Rath had walked the perimeter of the block in the Common; he had skirted yards and outbuildings, seeking, in shadows, some sign of a vigilant watcher.

Finding none, he chose to approach Radell's. Light still shone in the window above the ridiculous sign. Avram's Society of Averalaan Historians was a foolish, grand boast, but it had kept Rath in clothing, food, and information-each of them precious.

He knocked at the door and waited a few moments before knocking again. There was a bell, its pull stained by water and tarnish. He touched the strands of linked metal that formed its chain, and after more time had pa.s.sed, he pulled it, listening, as the bell-its ridiculous bra.s.s bowl on the other side of the door-tolled his presence. He did not look back; if someone saw him now, they saw him. To run, to hesitate, to attempt to find shadow where none existed, would make him more of a curiosity, not less.

A bleary-eyed Radell opened the door without apparent surprise. He stepped aside, and Rath slid in.

"Where have you been?" Radell asked, when the door was closed, and the light in the store called up by his hiss of a keyword.

"Lower the lights," Rath said, by way of reply. The curtains, such as they were, were half drawn; the streets were lost to reflection.

Radell, accustomed to Rath's odd moods, bid the lights dim, until Rath could see the silent streets, the cloudy, listless night. It was cold, humid, but still; the sea winds had not yet begun their Winter howl.

Radell rubbed his eyes. His ridiculous beard was in need of dying; the dark layer showed half an inch from his jaw. "Where have you been?" he asked again. He would probably ask the same question again regardless of whether or not it was answered; it took Radell some time to fully wake. Normally, he never asked a question this intrusive, but Rath was accustomed to ignoring such questions when they did arise.

"I've been acquiring a few items that might be of interest to your new client," he replied, with just a trace of sarcasm.

Radell's hands fell away from his eyes as if they were scales. In many ways, Radell was like a child: greedy, easily distracted, and p.r.o.ne to fits of almost unholy glee. The wakefulness that had eluded him on his stumbling walk from the rooms he occupied above the store to the door now hit him fully; he was entirely himself in the clap of two overly padded hands.

"When can I see them?"

Rath did not bother to hide his disdain.

"Rath-"

"Showing them to you will mean nothing," Rath replied. "But showing them to your client, much. I am unwilling to leave them with you, as I believe them to be of value; they are delicate, and easily broken."

"What are they? Can't you at least tell me that?"

Rath almost snorted. "What," he said sharply, "were the last items that sold for such a high price?"

Radell frowned. "Pieces of stone," he said at last, wilting slightly.

"Pieces of stone," Rath sighed, looking at the back side of the letters the curtains didn't obscure. "Yes, they were that." He touched the curtains. "Have you seen the Patris lately?"

"Two days ago. But I can contact him at any time."

"Good. Tell him that I have, in my possession, items that may be of interest; tell him that you are uncertain-"

Radell puffed up, like a little bird in winter. "I know how to speak with my clients!" His outrage was only partly for show.

"Indeed. I forget myself. I will return in three days, but in the early evening, after the market has closed. If he is unable to meet me at that time, I will attempt to arrange another meeting; I am busy, however, and it may be some days."

"You won't go to the Isle?"

"No, Radell. Not to sell these. Not unless they prove of little interest."

Radell nodded, asked a number of pointless questions, and then yawned. It was a terrible yawn, a thing of yellow teeth and indescribably poor acting. "You woke me," he said, as he lowered the arms he had raised in an overly obvious stretch above his head. "And I need my sleep."

"Of course. Forgive me." Rath bowed. It was a half bow, and it was inflected with every nuance of sarcasm that Rath could produce, all of which was wasted on the over-focused dealer.

He knew that Radell would instantly go to his desk and compose his letter; he half expected that Radell would wake some poor, desperate fool and send the message before morning.

Which suited Rath; he himself now had work to do.

Arann was able to sit up, which was good. He was in pain, which was-according to Jewel's Oma-also good, because in his case, it meant he was still alive. Jewel had taken a few years to get comfortable with her Oma's definition of the word good. His left eye was less swollen, but more discolored. He had all his teeth. He could breathe, but his chest was very tender.

And Jewel had to admit that he was a far better patient than she had ever been. He was quiet, for one, and he ate and drank whatever he was given; he never complained, and his only worry seemed to be Lefty, who still shadowed him for most of his waking hours.

Jewel envied them, some, when she had time.

But her worry about the unknown Finch took most of that time, and left envy in second place. She tried not to let the worry show, and Arann was in poor enough health that he didn't notice it.

But when she had been working in Rath's office for an hour, the door slightly ajar, she was surprised to hear a creak; the door itself being pushed slowly inward.

The map she had retrieved lay before her and she'd added what she could to it. Had even gone out of her way, on her daily excursions to the Common, for just that purpose. Taverson's by day wasn't very crowded. She'd added the river, a few footbridges, and the people who lived beneath them. She'd added street names, and cross streets, the better to plot an escape route.

If she'd had the courage, she would have attempted to figure out just how it was that magisterial guards traveled the holding; they seemed to only be present when they weren't wanted. But the magisterial offices in the holding were intimidating enough that she had lingered across the street for a few minutes before losing all nerve. What was she going to say? h.e.l.lo, I have nightmares that sometimes come true, and I'd like you to patrol in front of Taverson's on one of these four nights because I think a girl will be in danger?

They'd treat her like Mrs. Stephson and her endless tales about her cat. Or worse.

As she was adding another street, the door opened fully and she turned. She didn't expect Rath; the step was wrong for him. But she was surprised to see Lefty, even if he was the only other person who could be walking in on her.

He came to stand by the desk, avoiding her gaze. She'd grown so used to this, she hardly noticed. She still noted that he had a habit of stuffing his right hand into his left armpit, but she understood why.

He waited for a full five minutes in silence, and when it was clear that he wasn't going to talk, she went back to her work.

"You can write," he said softly. As if it were a miracle.

"Some," she replied. "Not as well as Rath."

"Can you read?"

She bit back the first reply that came to mind, and forced her voice to be soothing. "It's hard to write if you can't read at all."

"Oh." He drew closer to the table, drifting as if his feet weren't actually touching the floor. "You can't draw."

"No," she replied, again biting back bitter commentary. "I'm not very good at that. I don't think Rath is either, though."

"Can you do numbers?"

"Numbers?"

"Counting. Adding things."

She nodded hesitantly. "Some," she said at last. "I'm not good enough at it, yet, but Rath is teaching me."

"Could he-" Lefty stopped, his teeth shutting so quickly she could hear them click.

She tucked the quill between her hair and her ear, and turned in her chair. Well, Rath's chair. "I'll teach you," she told him quietly. "And I'll teach Arann, too, when he's better."

"We can't pay."

"No. I can't either," she added, "but it didn't stop Rath. And it didn't stop my Oma or my father."

He stared at her.

"They taught you things?"

She nodded. "They tried. I wasn't always good at paying attention. I wish I had, more."

"Why? I mean, why did they teach you?"

The question was so strange to her that it took her a moment to even understand it. When she did, she wanted to hug Lefty; the urge was so strong she was almost off the chair before she remembered who she was dealing with. She kept her hands to herself.

"I ruined my mother's life," he told her, his voice matter-of-fact. As if it were weather, and not his life, that he was talking about.

She really wanted to hug him. Wished she was with Arann, because Arann would know what to do.

"You didn't choose to be born," she told him.

"Neither did you."

She nodded. "My father taught me because he hoped I would make it out of the holding. That I would find a job someplace with a rich, fat merchant. A better life."

"Why?"

"He was family. I was family."

Lefty said nothing. He started to drift away and stopped, his back toward her. His voice was like nothing she'd heard him use before when he spoke next. "If you teach us," he asked her, his good hand on the door, "does that make us your family?"

But he didn't wait for an answer. He left the question in the air, hanging there as Jewel stared.

You don't get to choose your family, her Oma had often said, usually when she was annoyed at a member of said unchosen family. Jewel couldn't remember the first time she'd heard it; she couldn't remember the last time, either.

Your family are the only people you can count on. That, too, had been her Oma's saying. Blood is thicker than water.

Only when it dries, Oma.