City of Night

by Michelle West

  She tried again, and again, a single note sounded. It wasn’t harsh, and it wasn’t horribly loud; the shock came from the fact it happened at all. “Magic?” Duster asked.

  Jewel muttered, “Oh, probably. But I don’t see any magical auras very clearly.”

  Duster muttered something about music and fear, and then began to walk; Jewel didn’t need to hear it to know what it was. Every step she took sounded a note, and each note was deep and long. Jewel began to follow, and found that her steps produced the same notes.

  “Think this is some sort of early warning?” Duster asked.

  “Yeah. Hopefully they’ve got nothing against would- be grave robbers.”

  Duster snorted. It was slightly more nervous than the usual snort, but not by much; the closed doors and the lack of obviously disintegrating walls had put her in a better frame of mind. That, and the notes themselves; there was something soothing about them. The music created by the act of walking was neither too loud nor too harsh, and as they climbed their way through even—and changing—notes, they discovered that the notes created song, one that was soft and melodic. Sad, Jewel thought, but in a melancholy way.

  They reached the top of the stairs, and the last of the notes faded into stillness.

  Chapter Four

  THEY HAD CLIMBED FOR A LONG TIME. Jewel couldn’t be certain how high the stairs were, but she was almost certain that they must be close to an exit—if an exit from the undercity existed here. She had always wondered how far the undercity went. Did it stretch past the demiwalls that in theory girded the farthest reaches of the City, burrowed and hidden by dirt and stone roads? It certainly couldn’t extend into the sea.

  The landing that led from the stairs was composed of a different stone than the stairs themselves had been; it was dark, and its surface, veined with hints of colors that might only be found in stone, reflected the magelight in Duster’s hand. Jewel bore the heavier, cumbersome cut-glass light in her hand, and held it aloft as she knelt to run her fingers across the floor.

  “Marble,” she said quietly.

  Duster had never been hugely concerned with what things were made of if they couldn’t be carried, but she waited while Jewel looked.

  When Jewel rose, they approached the frame—or what was left of the frame—of an arch. It was not a doorway; no doors, except possibly those in Avantari, the Palace of Kings, were this damn wide.

  And no rooms, Jewel thought, as magelight moved in both of their hands, were this damn big. Not even, she felt certain, in Avantari. She couldn’t see ceiling. “More light?” Duster whispered.

  But Jewel shook her head. “Not here.”

  Duster nodded. And whistled. “Look,” she said, “that’s gold.”

  Jewel, glancing at Duster’s hand, shook her head. Had it been anyone else, she would have laughed and dared them to try to remove it; with Duster, that was only a guarantee that she would.

  Duster nonetheless felt the need to say, “I’m not afraid.”

  Jewel said, “No, I am. On the other hand,” she added, pushing a little, “I’ll try, if you want.”

  Duster shook her head. Lifted one hand off dagger hilt. Not you.

  Jewel signed back, Not anyone. Duster nodded. Gold was good, but hands were better.

  The walls couldn’t even be seen, although they must have existed. Great runes were carved into the surface of marble, their edges undamaged by time and debris. Like the symbols in the first hall, they were unfamiliar to Jewel, and the scope of their size was so vast, she could not immediately identify them as single runes. But there were also circles, similar to those that had enclosed the cenotaphs; these circles, however, were broken in places, and the central figures they encircled seem to be parts of statues. She couldn’t read the writing at their bases, but they seemed to be Old Weston.

  “Do you think this was all a temple to the Mother?” Duster asked.

  “Probably,” Jewel replied.

  “Which means you don’t know.”

  “Which means I don’t know.”

  Duster snorted, and wandered ahead; Jewel followed. She followed for a while, lost in marble, and in thought, until Duster said, “Dead end.” They’d reached a wall, the beginning and end of which couldn’t be seen.

  “Go right,” Jewel told Duster. Duster obliged, and they followed the wall, stepping over the occasional broken ridge of stone, until they reached a corner.

  “Back?” Duster asked, and Jewel nodded. She was, by this point, so tired she could have curled up on the marble and slept. She was also hungry, and wondered if there was any food left in the apartment. She wanted to go home and stay there. Forever.

  But she often wanted that, and with a sigh, she began to follow Duster, and the wall, until they reached another corner.

  This corner, however, was different.

  For one, the marble stone that covered the entire hall stopped here, and the stone that did cover the rest of the floor? It glowed.

  Given the way that Duster approached it so carefully, it was a glow that Duster could also see. “Jay?” she said.

  “What do you see?” Jewel asked in reply.

  “It looks like . . . white rock.”

  “That’s it?”

  “No. It looks like liquid, white rock. But not boiling, not hot. It’s what rock would look like if it were water.”

  “That’s what I see as well, but I see more color in the white.”

  “Which color?”

  “Almost all of them; it’s like a rainbow, but moving.”

  “Throw something in?”

  Jewel nodded. She walked back along the wall until her toe hit fallen rock, and she picked through the sharp, smaller bits until she found something heavy enough to make a splash and light enough that she could carry it. She brought it back to the oddly luminescent corner of floor. “Stand back,” she told Duster, who shrugged and moved.

  She threw the rock.

  It hit the floor and sat that there for a second; it made no noise, and it didn’t skip. And then, as they watched, it sank. They both edged closer.

  “Please don’t tell me you think this is the way out,” Duster said quietly, still watching the ripples left in the wake of the piece of stone.

  “Let’s keep looking,” Jewel told her, instead.

  An hour later—if it had been only an hour, and Jewel privately had her doubts—they had crossed every inch of wall and had passed over every inch of exposed floor. There was no way back through the doors; they had even gone back down the stairs to check. There were no other halls, no other doors, no other exposed tunnels.

  They sat not far from the unusual patch of floor in the corner, watching it.

  “Does it feel safe?” Duster asked quietly.

  “It doesn’t feel dangerous,” Jewel replied, aware, at this late hour, of how pathetic the answer was. “But I do think this is the way out. It’s not water,” she added. She reached out and touched the surface with the flat of her palm. Duster grabbed her waist and held tight, but nothing happened.

  “It feels like stone,” Jewel told her. “Cold, hard.” She reached out again and this time, she pushed.

  The whole of the white surface undulated.

  And for that moment, distant and just barely audible, they both heard the cry of . . . gulls. They looked at each other, and then Jewel stood and began to unwind the rope. She tied one end around her waist, being careful with the knot.

  Duster, wordless, did the same.

  “I’ll go first,” Jewel said.

  “Two tugs, follow?”

  “Same as usual. Pull me back if I tug it once.” She didn’t add if you can, because there wasn’t much point, and Duster wasn’t stupid. Jewel took a deep breath, as if she were about to dive into water, and Duster said, “Check the knot.”

  Frowning—and exhaling—Jewel looked down at her waist.

  And as she did, Duster jumped.

  “Duster!”

  Duster turned as her feet began to sink
, and she smiled. It was that quirky, pained, and angry smile that suggested smugness rather than pleasure, and as such was wholly her own. “If it’s safe,” she said, with a shrug, “I’d just as soon get out first.”

  “And if it’s not?”

  “I’d just as soon get out first.” She met Jewel’s gaze and held it, daring her to speak, to argue, to order.

  Jewel, stunned, was silent.

  “You can’t always take all the risks, Jay.”

  “I don’t—”

  “You do, whenever it’s possible. You think we don’t notice? You rely on your feelings too much,” Duster added. “And we rely on them too much.” She was now waist-deep.

  “Can you—can you move?” Jewel asked, struggling for calm.

  “Some. It’s not like water,” Duster said. “It’s not as cold. It doesn’t move as easily.”

  “And your feet—you’re not touching anything?” It was so damn hard to speak calmly. She almost said, Let me pull you out, but she knew what Duster would say, and without some help on Duster’s end, Jewel didn’t stand a chance.

  “No. But Jay?”

  Jewel nodded.

  “I can hear things. People’s voices. Gulls. Can you hear them?”

  Jewel hadn’t tried. Too many of her own words were getting in the way. She took a deep breath, forced her shoulders to relax. Tried not to panic as Duster continued to sink.

  “Don’t,” Duster said, as Jewel took a step forward. “Let me do this. Wait.”

  “Does it matter?” Jewel shot back. “There doesn’t seem to be any other way out.”

  “Let me do this, Jay.”

  Jewel folded her arms across her chest and waited. Her hands bunched into fists when the white stone hit Duster’s chin, and she watched as Duster swallowed air. She said nothing. Duster was not a person you could thank. She wasn’t a person you could fuss over, and she loathed and despised tears, for any reason. Jewel only despised her own.

  The pale white stone closed over Duster’s head before Jewel exhaled again. She picked up the rope in both hands, and waited as it grew taut. Come on, Duster.

  She waited. Counted seconds, and then minutes: five. Which wasn’t that long to get bearings, if bearings were needed. But it was an eternity to Jewel, in the silence and darkness.

  Waiting was hard.

  Jewel wondered if it were as hard for the rest of the den as she found it now. The reason she went ahead? Because if it were her own life in danger, she knew. She always knew.

  But theirs? No.

  It was practical. She was practical.

  And Duster? Hells.

  She crouched, settled her elbows on her knees, her hands still holding the rope that bridged the distance vision couldn’t. Come on, Duster. If this is your sick idea of a joke, I will kill you slowly myself. She would have paced, but there wasn’t enough slack in the rope for it. She stood anyway, because her knees were becoming cramped.

  Kalliaris, smile. Smile, Lady.

  Kalliaris, capricious god of luck, did smile. The rope in Jewel’s hands grew taut, loosened, and grew taut again. Tucking the cut-glass magestone back inside her shirt, where it nested awkwardly above the rope and her stomach, she took two steps forward.

  18th of Morel, 410 AA Sanctum of Moorelas, Averalaan

  She had expected to fall slowly, because the stone gave way slowly, like thick, cool mud. She had expected that as she finally sank through it, as Duster had done, her feet would magically touch the ground, and she would be standing someplace else.

  Unfortunately, when she at last felt the liquid stone close over the top of her head—which had taken just a little bit longer than was comfortable, given the lack of air—she passed through whatever it was that had been holding her up, and she dropped into sudden, painful light—sunlight, as unlike the darkness of the undercity as any light could be.

  She landed as well as she could, given the sudden lack of anything beneath her feet, and rolled, cursing, to those feet. Her eyes were tearing; she rubbed them, covering them until they had acclimatized to daylight.

  The first thing she saw wasn’t Duster. It was the pedestal of a vaguely familiar statue. The statue’s feet started just above her head, and she looked up, shading her watering eyes, to see the sword arm of Moorelas, against the perfect azure of cloudless sky. He wore armor, although it was all of stone, but no helm and no shield; the sword was a greatsword.

  At his feet, carved in stone in eight directions, were reliefs of Moorelas writ small; the one Jewel had landed on was a scene that depicted a young Moorelas wielding sword against a demon. The demon was taller and grander than Moorelas; it had wings. Jewel moved her feet slightly because she was standing on its tail.

  A shadow crossed the demon, and, like a child, she leaped out of its path, but it wasn’t Moorelas’ shadow, and she returned to the relief. Demons, she thought. And ancient heroes. Things she never wanted to see. But she felt uneasy, because she was here, and because they had both—she and Duster—been disgorged from the undercity into a wholly unexpected place.

  I should tell Rath, she thought.

  The sun wasn’t high; it was, Jewel thought, not far off dawn.

  She turned to look for Duster, following the rope from one end to the other. Duster was leaning against the base of the statue. She had untied the knotted rope from her waist, and now held the end in both hands.

  Jewel, shaking, did the same. She started to wind the rope, and Duster let it go, one hand sliding into her pocket and one dropping to the hilt of her dagger. She winced, and pulled the hand back.

  The gulls were out in force, loud and raucous. They eyed Jewel and Duster like thieves eyed careless people in the Common. Duster said something rude, and made a throwing gesture; she had nothing in her hand, but the birds startled slightly, before settling in to make even more noise.

  “Come away from the statue,” Jewel said quietly.

  Duster snorted. “Are you afraid of its shadow?”

  “On bad days,” Jewel replied, “I’m afraid of mine.”

  Duster snorted again, but she followed Jewel to the seawall, and leaned back against it on her elbows. Jewel climbed up on its flat top, and dangled her feet off the seaside. Salt wind blew her hair off her face; the air was cool and bracing.

  From here, you could see Averalaan Aramarelas. The three Church spires. The Palace of the Twin Kings. From here, you could see the ships in harbor, and the Port Authority; you could see the bridges that led to and from the Isle.

  You couldn’t see the twenty- fifth holding, and the Common was only visible because of its trees. She would have gone straight to the Common, but had very little money with her; certainly not enough to do the daily shopping. Besides which, she was dead tired.

  She looked across at Duster. “Let’s not do that again.”

  Duster shrugged.

  18th of Morel, 410 AA Twenty-fifth holding, Averalaan

  They walked back to the apartment in the open air. The streets were crowded, and they skirted the Common to avoid the worst of those crowds. Home, however, was also crowded, and most of that crowd surged to the door when it opened. They surged back when they saw that it was Duster who entered first; Duster looked about as tired as Jewel felt, and it was always a good idea to give her some space when she did.

  But there were hugs all around, and explanations demanded, before Jewel asked who’d gone to market in the morning. If she’d hoped to have something to complain about, she was out of luck; Finch and Teller had organized a small outing, taking Lefty, Arann, and Angel with them. They had also sent Carver, Fisher, Jester, and Lander to the riverside, to wash clothing, which privately made Jewel cringe. Still, there was food, and Finch was in the kitchen before Duster cleared the small hall, so they didn’t go hungry for long.

  There was something that was comforting about Finch in the kitchen. Jewel wasn’t sure what it was, or why, and it didn’t seem fair that there was something totally wrong with, say, Carver in the kitchen, because
Carver wasn’t actually an idiot. But fair or no, she liked watching Finch. Duster, true to the earliest of her words, seldom helped in the kitchen.

  Jewel showed the den the one prize they’d taken from their outing in the maze, and then went to sleep for a couple of hours. She needed to go see Rath, but she wanted to be awake when she did.

  When she got to Rath’s, taking the maze with Carver rather than the open streets, Rath was awake. The weeks had improved his color, soured his temper, and made him extremely impatient. His hand was now mostly a sallow yellow, with a bit of purple around the knuckles, but the cut on his head had healed, and hadn’t infected; they found him in the practice room, throwing knives and cursing.

  As Rath didn’t often curse, they waited a bit for silence before they knocked on the door. He knew they were there, of course. He answered the door at the second knock, and Jewel, who had already been to the kitchen with the food she’d purchased for him, handed him a plate. “Eat,” she told him.

  He lifted one silvering brow, but he nodded toward his room, and Carver and Jewel followed him. He sat on the chair at the map table. It hadn’t always been the map table; it had once been almost a second desk. But these days, it carried maps of the undercity.

  Rath sat in front of them, and Jewel said, “Rath, can I see the maps?”

  He glanced at her, and then nodded.

  She walked around his chair, and began to examine the maps; there were three. Rath had added his own marks to the thin leather parchment over the years, but for the most part, he left them alone; they were, he had once told Jewel, almost complete. The ruins of old buildings and fallen causeways were an echo of these maps; these had been made by people who had known the undercity before it was under the City. Or at least so it seemed.

  Jewel was never going to be as good at reading maps as Rath was. The buildings and facades that she had seen didn’t collapse into lines and rectangles in her mind with any ease at all, and it was difficult for her to translate them into something she could read on a map. But she’d brought Carver with her for a reason. She waved him over, signaling Come here without really thinking about it.