House War - The Hidden City Part 39

Strange light, a different color, something that fell from the heights like grains of s.h.i.+ning sand, like solid rain. She heard words follow in its wake, and she looked up as Rath shoved her roughly to the side; she could see, at the height of three stories, someone looking down.

The words he had spoken were haunting because she could hear them clearly, and would never be able to repeat them; they lingered in the air as the light trickled out-from his hands. His hands, palm down, s.h.i.+ning palely.

The rest of him was dark as night-darker, really; the light that he had cast out did nothing to illuminate him. But granular, those specks of light began to eat away at the gray-and-orange nimbus that surrounded the two would-be killers, until neither color remained.

Jewel could see the men as clearly as she had before-but now that the orange-gray curtain was gone, Rath could see them as well. She started to speak; the men themselves paused as they realized that they were suddenly no longer protected. They both carried long knives, heavy belts, wrist guards; they both wore boots that seemed too light for the season. They hadn't bothered with dark clothing, although in this light the exact colors they'd chosen were muted; Jewel tried to place the style of dress, and failed.

One looked up, and Jewel looked with him; the man upon the building to the right leaped down into the alley, his hand grazing the building's side for the whole of his descent, as if he weighed nothing, less than nothing, and air was a chute he could follow. He landed in perfect silence, and in his hands, she could see weapons. They were daggers, but they were oddly shaped, things that she might have expected to find below ground, where all ancient things lay.

"Well met, Ararath," the man said softly.

Rath nodded grimly. "Stay back," he told Jewel.

Nodding, she retreated as far as Carver, and stopped. Carver, whose dagger was out, and who stood sentinel above the old chute, watching and waiting as if he had no other purpose.

I told you to stay down, she thought. The words wouldn't come. Instead, she said, "Where's Finch?"

"She's down below. It didn't sound safe."

"It's not." But she could breathe now. She could shake.

"He another friend you don't know?"

She shook her head. "He's Rath," she told him. "I've known him for weeks now."

Carver snorted. "You're crazy, right?"

"Probably."

She watched Rath's friend-old friend, by the use of the name-walk toward the men in the alley. She watched Rath do the same. "Come on," she told Carver, pointing at the chute. "Let's go down."

"Why?"

"It's safer."

He started to argue, but someone screamed, and screaming usually had one of two effects on homeless children. This time, he retreated.

Finch was waiting for them, her hands over her ears. When she saw them both, she relaxed, but only slightly; the night air carried the sounds of real fighting, real pain. There would be death, Jewel thought.

"Should we go somewhere else?" Carver asked her, nodding toward the tunnels.

She shook her head. "I'd just get lost," she told him ruefully. "I don't know how to get back."

It was a short fight.

Andrei's presence was not the mixed blessing it so often was, and nothing he did this eve would tarnish his reputation, should Rath be foolish enough to actually speak of it to another living man. The daggers Hectore's most famous servant carried, oddly ornamented even in the dim light, were more deadly than any that Rath had wielded; they drew blood.

And fire.

The fire was disturbing; a brief flare of orange light that flickered with blue heart, the shape and size of a man. Twice. The screams were loud, but they lingered only in memory; ash had no throat, no lip, no way to utter cries.

Rath watched as they died, these men who had been sent to take him. He sheathed his daggers slowly, his face utterly impa.s.sive, his expression calm.

"You were lucky," Andrei said, sheathing his own blades without comment.

"You were late," Rath replied.

Andrei nodded quietly. "Forgive me," he said, kneeling in the alley as if in penitence. What he was actually doing, however, was disturbing a fine sheen of ash with his knees, his gloved hands. "This is not the best news," he said at last, looking up at Rath's face.

"They weren't mage-born."

"No."

"And those-"

"These?" Andrei said, touching the dagger hilts. "They were a gift."

"From?"

Andrei shook his head. "Poorly done, Ararath."

"My apologies, Andrei. I am . . . not at my best, as you find me."

"Indeed." The man rose. "It was not clear to me that these men were here at all. Had they not run across the boy-"

"Boy?" Ah. The single scream.

"He is dead," Andrei added quietly. "But his death was enough. I was prepared for some difficulty, but not of this particular nature. I was forced to retreat for a moment. I did not think they wanted you dead," he added.

Rath, looking down at a jacket that could not be repaired, shrugged.

"But a question, Ararath."

"Yes?"

"The girl."

Rath turned to look back at the empty stretch of alley. "Girl?"

Andrei's smile was tight. "As it pleases you. But Ararath, be cautious. These . . . men . . . are not the men you have played your dangerous games with in times past."

"Who were they?"

"I am not entirely certain myself. I have some contact with the Order of Knowledge, but it is a fractious order, and the contacts that I do have are reticent."

"Your daggers?"

Andrei nodded. "They were delivered to my hand when I made inquiries about the death of Member Haberas. I will have to return them," he added, without regret. "And in return for their use, I will be compelled, by rules of hospitality, to surrender what information I've gained.

"Rath, if that's what you prefer to be called, quit this game. It is beyond you. Do you understand? It is beyond me." He ran a hand through his hair; it was an uncharacteristic gesture. It almost made him seem human.

Rath merely bowed. "I am in your debt. I am, again, in the debt of Hectore."

"Your G.o.dfather counts you as blood-kin; he requires no such accounting."

"Of course not. But that changes nothing. The Patris AMatie?"

"Do not play games with him. What dealings you have had, Ararath, must come to a close here. He will know, of course, if he does not already know." Andrei offered Rath a brief bow. "I must return to Hectore, and you to your home. If I have information for you," he added, "I will find you."

No other man could say that with such confidence, and Rath had no doubt that it was well-placed. He turned, then, as Andrei did.

"If the girl is mage-born," Andrei's voice drifted back, "have her tested. She is young, to come into her power-and there is a risk."

"She is not mage-born."

"Good."

"How so?"

"If she were, and she were already evincing some power, it could destroy her if it were not discovered and trained; I have heard it is not a pleasant death, and in all likelihood, she deserves more. In my opinion, she saved your life."

Rath slid down the chute, and almost collided with Jewel. Not a good start. He righted himself, and Jewel managed-barely-to get out of his way. So that he could clearly see not one but two children, standing just above the tunnels that he so prized.

He looked a mess, even to Jewel, but he didn't appear to notice, and if he didn't, she couldn't. That was one of the unspoken rules that governed their life together.

"This is Rath," she said quickly. "Rath, this is Finch. And this is Carver."

"Carver?"

She shrugged. "I didn't name him."

"You brought him."

"I'll explain it later."

"Good. I look forward to it. How did you get here, Jewel?"

"Jewel?" Carver repeated. She hit his shoulder.

Rath ignored him.

"I followed the maze," she told him. "I-"

"Later, then. Do you know how to get back?"

She shook her head.

"Let me lead, then. I think we'll stay clear of the streets for the moment." He paused. "Don't use this tunnel during the day."

"I don't think I could find it again," she offered, as he drew a magestone out of his pocket.

"Good."

She was going to be in so much trouble.

They made their way home, sticking to the tunnels. Rath was not in a mood to offer wonder. He was not in a mood to share words either. He led, and Jewel took the rear, bracketing the two orphans with light. If it was dim, the darkness of the undercity was so complete it didn't matter.

They crossed the crevice with ease; there was less urgency, and Rath was easily heavy enough to bear their weight. He asked Jewel how she'd crossed it the first time, and she pointed to the pack that hung awkwardly, across Carver's shoulders. But it seemed that in this, at least, she'd done well; he nodded grimly and said nothing more.

Only when he led them, at last, to the apartments he called home did he pause. He leaned against the storeroom wall, and looked at the door; it was locked, but it was a lock that he could open in his sleep.

He didn't. "Two more," he said, voice heavy with something that was suspiciously devoid of anger.

"I didn't mean-"

"You never do. The boy?"

"I met him in an alley."

"And you trusted him enough to expose us all?"

"Yes." And then, stronger, "Yes."

Rath nodded curtly, as if he had expected no less. "Carver," he said quietly.

The boy nodded. He was wary of this adult in a way that he had not been wary of either Jewel or Finch. Which made street sense; Jewel and Finch couldn't hurt him, even armed. Rath could.

"And Finch."

The younger girl nodded as well, wrapping arms around herself, as if against cold. Or inspection.

Rath turned and opened the door. He made a show of retrieving his keys in the scant magelight, but no one was fooled. He didn't need them.

"Jewel will show you to the room she occupies. There are two other children here, and they-as you-are her responsibility." He opened the door and held it, waiting. They had to almost sc.r.a.pe past him to reach the hall. Jewel went with them to the room; Arann and Lefty were in it, waiting in a tense silence that dissolved slowly when they saw who stood in the door.

Arann rose slowly. And towered. "Jay?"

She nodded. "This is Finch," she told him, although she looked at Lefty as well as she spoke. "And this is Carver."

"Carver?"

"I, uh, met him in an alley."

"Is everyone going to do this?" Carver asked, lounging in the frame, like a very young version of Rath. He'd drawn his dagger to make a point; Arann was a lot larger than he was, in height and in width.

Jewel smacked him hard in the chest, to make a different point. "Put it away," she snapped.

He raised a brow, his hair flat against his forehead and a third of his face. Dark hair. Dark eyes. Prominent bones forming the jut of jaw, the height of cheek. But after a moment, he sheathed the dagger.