He didn’t even wrinkle his nose.
“You can’t get this stuff off for weeks, I swear.” She paused and turned to Rath, who lay still across the bed. “Look, Angel, do you want to cook?”
He shrugged, his lips quirking in an odd smile. “Thankful you brought me instead of Carver?”
“Not really. If I’d brought Carver, he’d be using this . . . stuff, and I’d be cooking.” But she smiled as she said it, and he lifted the surprisingly heavy chair and put it down, quietly, by the side of the bed, taking care not to catch anything on the floor under its stout, round legs.
“Get me a cup,” she told him, and Angel disappeared.
She sat, heavily, and then touched Rath’s forehead with the inside of her wrist.
He opened his eyes. Just his eyes, but they were ringed and dark. Not bruises. Care, she thought. Or age. Rath looked old. And tired.
“Rath,” she said, very quietly.
He smiled, but it was slight, and it left creases at the corners of his mouth that spoke of pain, not amusement.
“Your arm?”
“Fractured. It looks worse than it is.”
“Your hand . . .”
“That looks about as bad as it is,” was the wry reply. Rath’s voice was low, and his eyelids drifted down.
Jewel, inspecting his face, drew a sharp breath which Rath didn’t choose to acknowledge. But she pulled a rag from the bucket, and very gently began to sponge his forehead clean. The cut an inch above his hairline wasn’t deep, but it hadn’t yet closed completely. This, she began to dress with the unguent. It was familiar and almost soothing, even given the smell.
He knew. He must have known; he lifted his hand—his uninjured hand—and placed it almost gently over hers. Hers stilled. “You’ve seen worse, Jewel.”
It was true. She’d even seen Rath worse. But the only time that had happened? It was the night she knew he would send her—send them all—away. She’d lived in fear of it for months and months.
It was gone, that fear; he could only do it once. But he had. And truthfully? The hurt had been buried so deep beneath the fear and panic of having to feed, clothe, and house her entire den, she hadn’t had much time to dwell on it.
But . . . she hadn’t done it on her own. Rath had been there, while she looked for a place—any place—that would take their money and not toss them out the minute Rath’s back was turned. Rath had answered her questions, prodding her to ask more, and to ask them herself, first. He had helped her forage in the undercity for the first of the things he could try to sell, and he had given her the money he had made when he had completed the transaction; he would not take her with him to negotiate, nor tell her where he was going.
And he’d made her promise, again, that she would bring things to him to sell—and only to him. He’d been there for her. He just hadn’t been willing to have her in his space, and his life, in the same way he had when he’d first found her.
She hadn’t understood why.
Seeing him, hand broken, arm fractured, forehead bleeding beneath the welt of sticky, smelly unguent, she suddenly did. Like the previous injuries, these weren’t the result of an accident. But the last time? She’d believed that those injuries had finally reminded him of what he was called: Old Rath. He’d lived by wits and cunning and caution for his entire life in the holdings—and probably outside of them as well—and he knew when to cut his losses and back away.
She saw, clearly now, that he hadn’t backed away. Whatever it was he’d been doing before he’d thrown her out of his apartments, he was still doing. He’d never meant to stop.
And if he wasn’t going to stop, he put them all at risk if they lived with him. Hand still sticky with unguent, she looked away from his bruised face, his closed eyes. She could feel the slow unknotting of pain.
It stopped before she could let it go. Because she felt a sudden certainty as she gazed at his face, at his skin, at the lines around his mouth and eyes. He would go wherever he went, and he would not come back. That’s the way she thought it: not come back. The other word, she shied away from, although it was there in its stark and empty simplicity.
But he must have felt it, or seen it; his hand was still on hers, and his eyes were still watching her face.
She worked for the words, for the breath to say the damn words. These words, she had never been good at.
His hand tightened. “Jewel,” he told her softly, “I know.”
He did.
The knowledge didn’t comfort her; it absolved her of nothing.
“You don’t know,” she began. She broke off, met his gaze, and held it. Then she pulled her hand away, rocking the chair backward as she stood. She caught it as it teetered; slammed it down hard. He was injured. He was hurt. She shouldn’t be angry—shouldn’t be shouting—but she couldn’t, damn it, stop.
He closed his eyes. “No,” he replied, letting his uninjured arm fall to his side. “But what you tell me will not give me knowledge, either. You see what you see, Jewel. But I see what I see.”
“What do you see?” Her voice was low, almost wild. She had to curb it, had to hold it in.
He shook his head.
“Rath!”
“Jewel, leave it be.” He paused, and then added, “I am not your father. What your father would not hear, he would not hear because he did not believe. The failure you fear is not, in the end, your failure. What you say to me now—if you even know what to say—will be true. I’ll understand it, little urchin, because I have always understood it. I did not come to this life by accident, nor do I pursue my curent goals by accident. I am not driven by the need for money; I’ve always had enough to eat, I’ve always had a place to live.”
“Liar.”
He frowned, and this time, it was not a frown of pain. “Your manners are somewhat lacking of late.”
It was not what she’d expected to hear, and her laugh was, like her voice, wild, unexpected.
“I told you, Jewel: You cannot save everyone. Learn to accept this.”
“I’m not trying to save everyone. I’m trying to—”
“Very well,” he told her, lifting a hand. “You cannot save me. If that is why you came, I apologize for wasting your time. I do what I do because I can. I even tell myself it’s because I must. I believe it,” he added softly. “And because I believe it, I do not require you to do the same.”
“It’s not why I came.”
“Ah. If you came for lessons, I fear that I must disappoint.”
She shook her head.
His eyes, as he gazed at her face, were clear, and the pain left them. “Angel,” he said, although he didn’t look at Angel. “Help me stand.”
Bad, Jewel thought numbly. She hadn’t even heard Angel reenter the damn room.
Angel came up behind Jewel, and then hesitated for a moment before sidestepping her. He handed her the cup that was dangling from two fingers, and she took it automatically while he waited. And he waited, Jewel thought, for her order, or rather, her countermand. She had no words to spare. All of her words were on the inside of her mouth, her throat; they were a messy jumble of anger and fear. She wanted to believe that if she untangled them, if she chose the right words, Rath would understand. Rath would listen.
Wanted to, and couldn’t.
Angel took Rath’s good arm, put a hand behind his shoulder, and pulled him to his feet; he let Rath lean against him as Rath moved to the head of his bed. He gripped the rounded wooden end, but didn’t let go of Angel, and Jewel watched him as he twisted the head of the post off. “Come here, Jewel.”
She did. He handed her the knob, and pointed at the post. It was hollow. She had seen it before, of course. She’d even taken pleasure in it; it was a secret, a way of communicating with Rath if she needed to do so.
“If anything happens to me—”
“When?”
“If you prefer. When I die, and you are certain I am dead, come here. What I can leave, I will leave.”
; She said nothing.
“Jewel—”
“It’s not a game, Rath.”
“No. I merely display a sense of humor. I do not, however, require that you develop one. If I need information to reach you, and only you, I will leave it here.” He held out his hand, and she handed him the top of post. He replaced it, and then shuffled, with Angel’s help, back to bed.
“Angel,” she said gruffly. “You finished in the kitchen?”
Angel said nothing, but he did retreat.
She listened for the sound of the door. When she heard it, she came back to the bed, and the chair she had vacated. She picked up the rag, picked up the unguent jar—the latter from the folds of a cape which lay over jackets and shirts—and began to tend him again. She worked in a silence that was part mutinous. The other part? Didn’t matter.
“You do what you can,” he told her. “You’ve always done what you can. You’re blameless here.”
“Does it matter? I’m not trying to lay blame.”
He grimaced. “Your point,” he told her, as if they were keeping score. And maybe, she thought, one of them was.
Fifteen minutes went by. Maybe more. Rath had a clock that a mage had given him, and Jewel had learned to read it. And to watch it.
Rath.
“I don’t want you to die.” When the words left her mouth, they surprised her. And embarrassed her, a little.
He reached out again, placed his hand on one of hers. “I don’t particularly want to die. If I thought what you would tell me would preserve my life, I would listen—but you’ll tell me to stop, to quit, to retreat.”
“Only for now,” she began.
His hand tightened. “Only for now, Jewel?”
“For now.” But her gaze slid off his face, slid away.
“What are my rules for visitors?”
“Never lie to you.”
“Very good. Jewel?”
“Why is it so important? What’s worth dying for?”
He chuckled. It was not a happy sound. “You sound,” he told her, “like a younger version of me.” His hand tightened again. “Never become that. There are things in your life that you would die for.”
She heard the door, this time. But she had to ask. “What do you think I’d die for?”
“Your den,” he replied. “You would die, without thought, for your den.”
“If I died without bloody thought, I wouldn’t deserve them.”
“No. And perhaps we come to the crux of the matter. I, Jewel Markess, don’t deserve you.”
“Because you haven’t done anything bad enough?”
“Oh, be a good girl and shut up.” But his hand relaxed, and the tone of his voice invited words, instead of rejecting them. “You’ll tell me to stop or to flee, Jewel.”
She swallowed. Nodded.
“I can do neither. And perhaps, one day, you will be proud of the fact; perhaps, one day, my ancestors will know, when they meet me in the Halls of Mandaros, and they, too, will forgive my desertion.
“Why did you come, today?”
“I meant to come earlier,” she told him. “We’re broke, and we want to head into the tunnels; we need to sell things.”
He hesitated. “You’ll go?”
She nodded.
“You, personally.”
“Yes.”
“Then go. But don’t linger, Jewel, and trust your instincts while you’re there. I . . . may not be in a position to fence much in the next few days. If you require money, borrow some. From me,” he added.
“If it comes to that, we will.” She swallowed. “Rath—”
“Stay,” he said abruptly. “Stay, feed me. Read to me, if you like. Do not talk to me of death. Do not offer me your fear. I have fear of my own to drive me, and if my own fear is not strong enough to keep me from my duty, yours will only grieve me, girl. It will give me guilt and no rest, but it won’t preserve my life.”
And she swallowed. “Angel,” she said softly, “go home.” She paused. “Can you get home, from here?”
“I can walk.”
She hesitated. “Carmenta—”
“I’ll circle around the holding. Jay—I spent months outrunning random dens. I can make it home.”
So she read.
She read from one of the books that graced the shelf above Rath’s mantel, taking comfort from its aged leather, the faded brilliance of its letters, the occasional pictures. Rath had taught her well; she saw the parchment maps of the undercity, half-furled on the table that also held the magestone by which he worked. Saw, as well, the clothing that lay scattered around the room, and could pick out the pieces that had probably seen recent use. His boots were dusty, and the leather was badly gashed, as if someone, or something, had slashed at his retreating feet.
She thought of the widening chasm that she and Angel had had to cross, and shuddered, but the words on the page still left her lips.
She got up once, and went to check the soup in the kitchen before returning to Rath’s room. There, she gave him water, watched to make sure he actually drank it, and read some more.
It was hard, to sit and read. He did not correct her mispronunciations, and he did not catch the words she missed; she missed them deliberately, a kind of test. His eyelids drifted down, and then sprang open, several times, but he said very little.
When she had finished reading, and checked the soup again, she spoke to him, her voice as soft and low as it had been when the text had provided boundaries for it. She spoke of Helen, in the Common, and of Farmer Hanson; she mentioned Taverson. She talked about the summer squalls which had been unseasonal and had caused gossip about the port for a few days.
She didn’t ask him about the undercity. Most days, she would have. But today?
She wanted to tell him to stay out, to keep away, to abandon the tunnels on which his wealth was based. She wanted to tell him to go home, and since he was home, the words would make no sense, but they were there, waiting. Vision was strong.
And she almost hated the undercity, because she could see his death in it. He had already suffered because of what he’d taken from those silent streets; something was hunting him.
But maybe life was like that: it held your death, waiting, and you had no choice but to walk toward it if you wanted a life. She touched his forehead when his eyes were closed.
Then she rose again, and this time, the soup was as ready as it would be; if she let it simmer forever it would be a sort of mushy stew, with bits of disintegrating potato for ballast. She scooped some out of the pot, put it in a cup, threw a spoon in, and headed back to the room.
His eyes were open; his gaze was on the door, and although he wasn’t fevered, she thought he was delirious. Because he smiled—a real smile— as she entered the room, and he whispered a name that she couldn’t quite catch. She wanted to: to catch it and hold it as if it were hers.
But it passed. She came back to the chair, sat in it, the cup in her hands, and waited. When he tried to push himself up, she set the cup on the table, and helped him, rearranging the pillow at his back. All of this, wordless. It was hard, to be wordless.
She remembered the first few weeks she had lived with Rath. The silence had been so hard, because no home, no real home, was silent; it was full of frustration, and joy, anger and gossip. It was full of interruption, intrusion, and care. It was full of people you wanted to strangle and hug.
But she had been at home here, regardless.
He took the cup from her hands and then grimaced and held it out; she retrieved the spoon, which he could barely use. He could drink, and he did.
“You will not always be here,” he told her.
“I can stay a couple of days if you need me.”
He raised a brow. She knew what he meant, and she had chosen to ignore it. But politely, as he had also taught her. After a moment, he smiled. “I am feeling somewhat refreshed,” he told her. “And you are obviously bored. Tell me the names of the Kings.”
She star
ed at him.
“And,” he added, “of The Ten.”
“With or without their current rulers?”
“Without, for the moment. The last time we attempted this, you knew perhaps six.”
She shrugged. “It’s not going to make much difference to me,” she told him softly. “And the things that do take up most of my time.”
“Not enough of your time that you didn’t pick up Angel.”
“Angel was different.”
“They always are. The Kings?”
She thought about telling him to stop. She thought hard about it. “Cormalyn and Reymalyn,” she replied. “They’re always Cormalyn and Reymalyn.”
“Good. The Queens?”
“Siodonay the Fair and Marieyan the Wise.”
“Good. The Ten?”
Really, really thought hard about it. “Look, Rath—”
But she saw his expression. She couldn’t even describe it because she didn’t understand what it meant: it wasn’t pleading, and it wasn’t desperation, and it wasn’t fear, or love, or pride. It was maybe all those things. He didn’t want her to stay to feed him or dress his wounds; he allowed that, for her sake.
But this? He wanted this for his own, somehow. For his sake.
And she hated it, because she hated exposing her ignorance. But in the end?
She would do it, for Rath. Because if she did, he would let her do the other things: feed him, dress his wounds, watch him sleep, and clean his damn kitchen. She could come here during the day, after the market. He had money, and she was willing to borrow it against future earnings, at least until he was on his feet. Maybe a week. Maybe two. Then she’d take Duster and Carver and head into the undercity.
“The Ten, Jewel.”
“I’m thinking, I’m thinking.” She exhaled. Yes, she could do that; the den would understand. “Terafin. Darias. Kalakar. Berrilya. Korama . . .” She grimaced.
“Five?”
“I told you—” she was probably going to have to stop herself from strangling Rath before the end of the first week, however.
Chapter Three
17th day of Morel, 410 AA Averalaan
City of Night Page 13
