The Hidden City (57 page)

Exhaustion had come upon him very shortly after Jewel had left his rooms; he had chosen to listen to the conversation that filtered out into the narrow hall, catching the cadence of both words and the silences that bracketed them. Jewel wasn't good with silence yet, but she would learn; she'd have to. She said too much, and said it too easily.

When he had finished dressing, and had taken inventory of his various disguises, paints, clothing, he placed the dull ceremonial daggers in the smaller of his satchels, and this he slung with care over his shoulder. He also carried money, but it was hidden in the folds of his sash.

He glanced at the fallen light, at the way it had faded, seeing the hours in its coloring of floor and desk. He was going to be late. But it would be a fashionable late, not a disastrous one.

Or not, he thought, eyeing the table at which his companion waited, disastrous had he not been on his way to see Andrei. He had half-hoped that Patris Hectore might accompany his most famous servant, but as with all faint hopes, this was doomed to be dashed. And, in the flickering candlelight of the damn Peacock, Andrei looked both annoyed and slightly menacing.

On the other hand, half of his disdain was reserved for the stemmed glass he held in his hand; he looked at the liquid as if it were what was left after dishes had been scraped clean in its depths. For a servant, Andrei was one of the most profoundly snobbish men that Rath had ever met.

He was also impeccably dressed; he wore a tailored jacket, and his hair was drawn back in a braid that fell beyond Rath's sight. He wore green velvet pants, and no obvious weapon, but then again, it
was
Andrei. Rath joined him, and Andrei nodded. He also placed a small and familiar stone between their plates on the surface of the table, where it was shrouded by the fall of wilting flowers. When he touched it, Rath felt his tension easing.

“Ararath,” Andrei said, inclining his head, “I was wondering if you would deign to show up at all.” His smile was genial, but as was so often the case, it failed to match his actual expression.

“I was detained,” Rath replied, taking a chair. “But not, I hope, to our detriment. I see you've chosen to dress more colorfully than usual.”

“An experiment,” Andrei replied, with a shrug. “How was your morning?”

“It was eventful,” Rath answered, as if he were speaking of some social gathering whose main event was boredom.

This was a signal to Andrei, and he treated it with the disinterested attention he did all matters that concerned him; his eyes were slightly brighter, and slightly narrower.

“I have some items to return to your care,” Rath added, and he removed the satchel, handing it over the table to Andrei. “I fear they have sustained some material damage in transit, however; they are quite dull.”

“Ararath. Did I not warn you?”

“You offered warning,” Rath replied, pouring wine out of a heavy decanter.

“It's not a good vintage,” Andrei told him.

“No doubt. But it will do. Your warning was, as usual, almost prescient.”

“But not, as usual, heeded.”

“I had undertaken the task; I could not, with grace—or without explanation—refuse it.” He paused, and then, after confirming Andrei's opinion of the wine, added, “Nor would I have the explanation to offer, should I have desired to do so.” He leaned slightly toward Andrei, which brought him closer to both stone and flower. “I desire explanations,” he added softly.

Andrei's face was a mask. “There is explanation here,” he said at last, as he lifted the satchel. He set it down beside him on the bench he occupied. “But it is not an explanation that bears examination.”

“I met two men who could not be injured by the swords we carried.”

“We?”

“I decided it would be wise to hire help.”

Andrei's frown was prominent. “This is, of course, your usual definition of wisdom.”

“Of course.”

“And you trust these men?”

“They saw what I saw,” Rath replied, with a shrug.

“And that?”

“A mage.”

“You've seen mages before.”

“Several times. I would have said I had better acquaintance with them than you, but it appears I would be mistaken.”

“No doubt you have more numerous contacts.”

“No doubt.”

“We will have to return these,” Andrei said quietly, motioning to the daggers that lay hidden. “And perhaps you will have some answer there.”

“I have no desire to—”

“Rath, you have chosen to play the game.”

“And you have not?”

“No, I have not. What I have done, I have done with discretion. What you have done—and I believe there was a fire in a large, old manse in the thirty-second this morn—was not.”

“And this is of significance?”

“Where there are witnesses, yes.”

Rath nodded.

“Patris Hectore is, of course, aware of the difficulty. And I will say that he is not ill-pleased by it, although some of this can be attributed to his fondness for a godson.”

“How aware?”

“He is apprised of what the purpose of the manor was. From his discreet inquiries, you were seen leading children from the burning ruins, and age has made him sentimental; he believes he is proud of you.”

“I see,” Rath replied dryly. “And you, of course, did not see fit to explain that fires of that nature generally do not spread quite as quickly in our current weather.”

Andrei's face lost some of its distance. “Your godfather has earned the right to some meager happiness,” he told Rath softly, “and the belief that he holds is not essentially wrong. But now, he is concerned. Were he not, I would not be here.”

“There was money involved, there.”

“There was more than money involved. But yes, on the surface of things, more money than you can imagine.” Andrei's smile was sharp, a hunter's smile. “It appears that some of the manse's visitors were rather surprised by the nature of the consequences of their visits.”

“Blackmail?”

“Indeed.”

Rath nodded; it made some sense. But only some. “My own research tells me that the manor was used for barely a month.”

Andrei said nothing.

“It would take some planning and foresight; you would have to be aware of the foibles of the men you wished to entrap, and you would have to have the necessary contacts to approach them at all.”

“Indeed.”

“How, Andrei?”

“How is less of an issue. You have not asked where I heard of the fire.”

“No. Asking questions is usually frowned on.”

“It is in most cases. This one is interesting. I did not come down to the lower holdings; I did not do the research on my own. I merely . . . listened.”

“When?”

“There was a luncheon at the Guild,” he replied quietly. “And much is said in the presence of servants that would not otherwise be voiced.”

This was generally true; it was not specifically true of Andrei. Rath did not point this out.

“Come, Ararath.”

“Where?”

But Andrei rose and signaled the innkeeper. He did not answer. He expected to be followed. He did, however, pick up the stone from the table before he left.

It had been some time since Rath had ventured across the footbridge that led to the Isle. For one, foot traffic was less common than carriage traffic in the crossing; it was certainly less common than horseback. As either horse—if it were fine enough, and obviously meant for riding—or carriage, proclaimed a certain status or wealth, the guards upon the wider bridge were both more officious and less intrusive.

The toll across the footbridge was smaller, but more rigorously enforced. For this reason, Rath tended to hire a carriage when he made his visits to the Order of Knowledge, and his occasional forays into Senniel, the bardic College upon the Isle.

But Andrei led him to the footbridge, and he followed. There was, in Andrei, a certain officiousness that outmaneuvered all others, while at the same time implying no obvious threat. He was polite beyond any civilized bounds, and in his obvious courtesy, no one could point to any specific word or gesture that spoke of condescension.

But no one seemed to enjoy speaking with Andrei when he was in this mode, and if they were distant, they were also quick. Rath made himself a follower, rather than a leader here, drawing his shoulders in, and hugging the edge of the shadow Andrei cast; he spoke when Andrei had recourse to demand it, but otherwise kept his silence.

This wasn't natural; Rath had, however, become accustomed to donning personae as if they were clothing. He allowed Andrei to pay the toll on his behalf, and when Andrei strode off, he quickly followed.

Andrei was unimpressed, Rath unruffled.

“Have some dignity,” Andrei said quietly.

“I have chosen to define dignity in a slightly different way.”

“Not, clearly, a Weston one.”

Rath shrugged. “Dignity isn't worth a man's life.”

“Not especially when it's yours?”

“More or less. Dignity of the sort you favor is a luxury I can ill afford.” He lifted a hand. “We've had this conversation before, Andrei; it's unlike you to retread old ground.”

“Perhaps I'm bored.”

“You've never looked anything but bored.”

At that, the servant granted Rath a rare nod, his equivalent of a smile. The smile itself would probably have cracked his face.

The streets here were wide, and they were almost empty; there were no children in them, no old women with buckets, no buildings packed into small spaces. Instead, there were fences, magnificent structures that both excluded and yet invited the eye. Beyond these, there were grounds; they were not so large or fine as the grounds in the upper holdings, but upon the Isle, the rich made do with the lack of space; the Isle was the address of note to those in merchant families.

Upon the Isle, the bards could be found; upon the Isle, the Guild of Makers, and the Order of Knowledge. And above them, the palace of the Twin Kings towered.

But not so high in their reach as the great cathedrals at which the Kings paid their respects to the gods. There were three: The Mother's temple, the Temple of Cormaris, Lord of Wisdom, and the Temple of Reymaris, Lord of Justice. Other gods made their home here, but none in buildings so fine or old; these three were the heart of the Empire.

Seeing the direction of Rath's gaze, Andrei shook his head. “Not yet,” he said quietly, “but later, if we've time. I am expected by the Patris before sundown.”

“The Order of Knowledge?”

“The Order,” Andrei conceded. “But not directly.”

Rath said very little for a moment. “You think you've been followed?”

“I doubt it, but the possibility exists. Having seen what once followed you,” he added, “it is not a risk I am comfortable taking.”

Rath nodded. He had watched the streets less carefully after he had crossed the bridge, but he had watched them nonetheless. There was, in his life, no definition of the word safety that did not require—or even demand—caution.

But it was harder to be as cautious here, where no one approached them; where polite distance between strangers was defined in yards and not feet. Where guards, wearing the colors of the Houses they served, were more numerous than barefoot, underdressed urchins.

The rain was thin and fine. The air that left their lips hung before them like something that yearned to be fog. He could taste the salt of the surrounding sea on his lip and tongue; the breeze, where it existed at all, failed to send the clouds on.

But the buildings that rose in spite of weather, gray for the season, were capped or adorned by dank, heavy fabric that might otherwise reveal House crests, and these they passed quickly.

“We go to the High Market,” Andrei said quietly. “There is an inn there of some quality, and it is there that we will pause and eat.”

“Will we have companions?”

“One, perhaps, if it is a suitable time.”

“And if it's not?”

“We will have had some exercise.”

And no answers. Rath nodded. He had played these games for most of his adult life, but he had seldom played them here; here, games were played in parlors, foyers, great balconies; they were played in the special preserves used by the Kings for the occasional hunt; they were played in the halls which Senniel College's master bards filled. They were even played in bedrooms. But in all of these places, men with power, women with power, gathered.

That power, he understood.

This one? He had envied it, in his childhood. He did not envy it now.

“A Member of the Order of Knowledge?”

“And in good standing,” Andrei replied. “Perhaps, if we are lucky, we will see two such. But their presence would be cause for gossip, were they to be recognized; I think it unlikely.”

Rath thought the definition of lucky needed some fine-tuning. But he was weary of the cold and the damp, the stillness of air that spoke of, whispered of, the coming of true Winter.