City of Night

by Michelle West

  She nodded.

  Everything tasted like dust, but she ate because he was watching.

  Haval looked up when the chimes rang and the door was pushed open. He immediately set aside the beading he’d been working on, and set aside as well the glass that he wore to do the work; it was technically a jeweler’s glass, but it served him well.

  “Ararath,” he said, nodding.

  “Haval.” Rath was tired, and he looked older. He wore summer linens, and these were cleaned and, apparently, pressed; he wore a light jacket. And he carried a backpack that Haval had seen scant hours before.

  “I’ve had some word,” Haval said, dispensing with idle chat entirely. He retrieved an envelope from under the volume of powder-blue silk that had occupied most of this week’s afternoons; he had graduated from purple silk, a color he disdained, as the day had progressed. He handed the envelope to Rath.

  Rath took it, and placed it casually inside his jacket.

  “Jewel was by,” Haval said quietly.

  Rath frowned. “A social call?”

  “A social call. She is not in a situation in which any of my other skills might prove useful to her.”

  Rath nodded.

  “She’s concerned about you, on the other hand. She thought that I might have some influence with you, where she does not.”

  “And you offered her what comfort?”

  “None. She is not a child.”

  “You could lie.”

  “I could,” Haval replied affably. “But any lie I tell her will comfort her for as long as she is in my presence, no longer. The truth will crush the delicate illusion that I build, and she’s not capable of maintaining that illusion, however greatly she desires it. I am, as you are well aware, famously lazy. I won’t go through the work of lying to her when it will serve so little purpose.”

  Rath exhaled.

  “You,” Haval said, “are also, I see, indulging in laziness today.”

  “Oh?”

  “You look haggard, Ararath. I’m aware that you could look hale and dangerously energetic if you so chose, and I am also aware that you intended this visit to last no more than a handful of necessary minutes. A few minutes of acting is not more than I have come to expect.”

  Rath shrugged. “Perhaps on another day. Today, it’s beyond me. I came for information,” he added, “not a lecture.”

  “No. No man ever comes for a lecture. I will tell you, however, that I think your Jewel is wasted here.”

  “You’ve said that a hundred times. If we’re tossing accusations of laziness back and forth, you might come up with something more original.”

  “Oh, very well. But remember, Ararath, that you insisted.”

  Rath raised a pale brow, and his lips turned up at the corners in something that might, by a different man, be mistaken for a grin.

  “She thought to ask me if I had word of any unusual disappearances, or the discovery of a larger number of bodies than would be usual, in the holdings.”

  Rath cursed. “And you answered?”

  “I explained as gently as I could that the holdings in which she currently resides are not my area of expertise. And no, before you turn grim, I did not explain that her inquiries and your own are not, in this case, that disparate.”

  “Good.”

  “Rath.”

  Rath closed his eyes. “I know,” he told Haval.

  “She is worried for you, and it is a peculiar type of worry. I understand the shallow insecurity of the young, and I understand the insecurity that a hard life imposes. Her worry is neither of these things. I know the nuances of her expressions, because one can hardly not know them; she is not good at hiding. I find it painful to watch her try.

  “And I understand that she does not fear your death. She knows it is coming, the way she knows winter will come. It is a certainty for her, and it grieves her. I am not Jewel. I take no responsibility for either your life or your death. I will feel no guilt when word at last reaches me. She will, however.”

  “I should never have brought her here.”

  “No,” Haval replied. “You did her no kindness, there.”

  They had never spoken of Lord Waverly’s death. They never would. Nor would they speak of the events that surrounded it. But Haval, in his way, had now been as blunt as he had ever been. What Haval guessed, he guessed—but Haval missed little.

  “What will you do, for her?”

  “Have a care, Haval.”

  Haval was silent for a moment, but the moment didn’t last. “As I can, Ararath.” He slowly unfolded from his habitual slouch, shedding years and the slightly dotty demeanor that he so often adopted in the store. It was easy to think of Haval as a quirky, curmudgeonly older man.

  But it was easy because Haval desired it. At the moment, he shed the pretense, and when he met Rath’s gaze—and held it—he was no longer the comfort-craving dressmaker. He was no longer old, and he was no longer harmless; he was no longer the nonjudgmental wise man.

  His face was a mask.

  The smile Rath offered him was genuine. It was informed by, of all strange things, delight. The delight of discovery, or of rediscovering something you had thought lost. “So,” he said softly. “You wear your age less poorly.”

  “Less deliberately, certainly,” Haval replied, the subtle inflections transforming the agreement into a distant neutrality. “It is not entirely an act, which is why I am successful. Truth has its own feel, and where it is possible, it should be used. A careful blend of truth and the expectations—even the unconscious preferences—of one’s audience have always been powerful, in a quiet way.”

  “And now?”

  “Even now, old friend,” Haval replied, “what I have just said is true. You are not, however, that audience.”

  “Which audience, then?”

  “You are Ararath Handernesse,” he replied, and he bowed, just slightly, at the name. “What you were three years ago, you are not now. I offered Jewel no comfort because she would take none; she is afraid, both for her own future, and of the end of yours. But she cannot understand what she sees in you, and I see it clearly.”

  Rath’s smile was slight, a thin edge composed in part of lips and bitter humor. “Clumsy of me,” he said. “How did I fail, this time?”

  Haval smiled in return, and there was some kinship in the expression. “The nature of your inquiries, and the breadth. Three holdings, Ararath.”

  “I believe I inquired after ten.”

  “Indeed. And a disparate ten, at that. But of the ten, three are held by a Patris Cordufar. The thirty-second, the thirty-fifth, and the seventeenth. It is unusual,” he added, “that a lord who owns three holdings should have no residence upon the Isle; he does not.”

  “Haval—”

  Haval lifted a hand. “You have come to ask me a favor. You will indulge me before you ask.”

  “Very well. Should we adjourn to the back?”

  “No. I prefer the front of the store. I can see the street, and anyone who watches or approaches.”

  Rath nodded.

  “The current Lord Cordufar is a man one approaches with caution, if at all. He is like his father, in that regard. For well on thirty years now, Cordufar has amassed wealth in the Empire, and yet, were it not for the acquisition of two of the least significant of the hundred holdings, the family has done little with that wealth; they have not advanced the family or its political rank. Given Lord Cordufar’s obvious interest in the powerful, this is strange. Still, strange things often happen.

  “But, and this is interesting to me because it is in territory about which I know so little, the two poor holdings that he owns have had some difficulty with their native precincts of magisterial guards. You may correct me if I am wrong,” he added, in the tone of voice that clearly said such correction would never be forthcoming. “It is a tricky difficulty, and in this regard, a political one. The magisterial guards in theory report to the Magisterium. In practice, in the Cordufar-held holdings, t
hey seem to report to no one. Oh, some reports are filed, but the reports filed do not represent the complaints received by the offices in the holdings. They no longer keep a morgue, and when questioned, explained that cost cutting has led them to transfer bodies for identification to other precincts. This, at least, appears to be verifiable.

  “The duty roster is skeletal; it is impossible for the magisterial guards in these holdings to run a full street patrol, and many of the older and more experienced guards have been transferred to different holdings.”

  Rath nodded again.

  “And last, Ararath, your own interests in antiquities. You are not the only man to have such interests, but you are at the moment, the only man whose interest runs counter to the current trend: You find, and you offer.”

  “Why are you telling me this, Haval?”

  “Because I wish to admire my own cleverness for a moment, and I seldom have the opportunity.”

  “Liar.”

  “Yes, habitually. It is a modest skill. There are other rumors. These are much harder to find,” he added softly, “and for that reason, harder to trust on the surface.”

  “And those?”

  “Lord Cordufar, or someone in his direct employ, is a mage.”

  “Given his wealth, that would not be a stretch. All Houses of note employ mages.”

  “Do not insult me.”

  “Very well. Yes, old friend. I admire your cleverness.”

  “I do not understand the game you play, Ararath. I understand, at this juncture, that it ends in death. It is not coin that you seek; it is not gain of any type that I can perceive. It vexes me. And it worries me. If I guess correctly, you have enough information now to unravel the most heinous of plots; you do not, and have not, done this.”

  Rath said nothing.

  “I must ask you why.”

  “Ask, if it pleases you.”

  “Very well. Why do you hold your hand so close to your chest, now?”

  “Because, old friend, I can prove nothing. And if I attempt to bring what I now know to light, I will die, and my death will serve no purpose. I have, as you have not suggested, allies in this fight. I have, as you suggest, information that, were it to be believed, would force the highest hands in the land to action.

  “But my enemies are cunning, and they have operated unseen and undetected for decades, at best guess. Patris Cordufar serves The Darias,” he added bleakly.

  “The Ten,” Haval’s voice was soft. “You suspect Darias, in this game?”

  “I suspect everyone.”

  Haval watched Rath for a long moment.

  “But The Darias, in this as in much else, is canny and wary, if short-sighted; the rumors of Cordufar’s mage, while not widely circulated, are believed. Inasmuch as a lord trusts his liege, there is trust—but it extends only to a point.” Rath waited a beat, and then said, “Old friend, what if, in the Empire, there existed magics that could transform a man completely, so that he might replace another man, and take by that transformation, all power and title?”

  “Such sorcery does not exist.”

  “Ah. And if it did, and you believed in it?”

  “I would, as you guess, remain silent.”

  “For what reason?”

  “I am not overly fond of charges of insanity, and I am attached to my existence, meager though it might be. I would also be loath to spread the type of panic that is sure to follow such announcement.”

  “If I had proof,” Rath said, “I would make my move. But proof is a complicated thing, and even with the help of the Magi, it has eluded me.”

  “Ararath—”

  Rath lifted a hand. It shook, but only slightly; a man less practiced in observation might have missed it entirely. Haval was not that man.

  “I accept what I cannot change,” Rath said. “This war—and it is a war—will touch us all before it is, at last, in the open. It is my hope that it will not kill everything it touches. Had I not abandoned my family and my birthright, I would not now be in possession of the knowledge that drives me. I consider it a bitter act of fate.

  “And Jewel, as well. A bitter act of fate, but for all that, important to me. I have already failed her once, and if I abandon my fight here and now, I will fail her again.”

  “She would not count it a failure.”

  “No. Not while she lived. Not while I lived. But I have always been an arrogant man, and it is my opinion, in this, that holds sway. You have said she is wasted here. She would disagree, and vehemently. If she had not been here, she would never have gathered her den. It defines her, in ways that you might not entirely comprehend.

  “But it is not my intent that she remain here.”

  “Ah.” Haval bowed his head for a moment.

  Rath thought the conversation at an end, but he should have known better; Haval decided when a conversation was at an end.

  “You do not question her,” Haval said.

  “I frequently do.”

  “And you misunderstand me with such grace I will assume it was genuine. Ararath, she has spoken to you of your death, and you accept, now, that it is your death.”

  The quality of the silence in the enclosed shop sharpened and changed in that instant.

  “So,” Haval said, lifting a hand. Placing it, palm out, between them, a gesture that implied surrender without the embarrassment of actually offering it. “I will not speak of this further. Trust me or not, as you deem wise.”

  “If you think that it is because of her knowledge that I value her—”

  “No. I understand well what you see in her. I knew it the first day you brought her to me. If you die, as you now expect you will do, will you send her to the Isle?”

  “If it comes to that.” Rath added, “I am weary, Haval. I had not known how weary I could become, and still continue to fight. I did not come here today to ask more than I have already asked of you.

  “But we live in a world that confounds our expectation, time and again. Where she goes, I cannot follow. It is my one regret. I might offer her advice, if she were of a mind to hear it, but she sees only her own small world. Do,” he said softly, “what I cannot do. Go where I cannot go. If she is lost, help her find her way.”

  “Where she goes, if she does indeed go where I suspect you will attempt to send her, I cannot follow.”

  “No. But she is Jay. She will come to you, because you’re familiar. She’ll clean out your back room looking for a place to sit, and she’ll answer your interminable questions and engage in your verbal tests because she will long for the comfort of people who knew her, and helped her, when she was just another orphan in the streets of the twenty-fifth.”

  “I will be that, for her. And perhaps more, as I am allowed. For your sake, Ararath Handernesse.”

  “And not for hers?”

  “For hers, in years to come, but for yours, now.” With that, he surrendered conversation.

  The Placid Sea was quiet in the midafternoon hours of High Market commerce. Rath was underdressed, but not of a mind to be concerned; he was seated in the much more casual room in which one met with friends and associates for drinks, rather than meals. He had, under his arm, the pack that he had taken from Jewel. In his hand he toyed with the slender stem of a wineglass, which contained chilled plum wine, suitable for the warmer climate.

  He had taken care to shave and to plait his hair, which had grown wild over the past few months; it had also grayed considerably. Rath had his vanity, and the obvious silvering pained him, but not enough that he was willing to resort to permanent dyes.

  He looked up when movement caught his attention. The longer, oiled robes that warded off the worst of the rain afforded a certain protection and invisibility when one traveled in the High City; it was not, unfortunately, a day for rain. A day for sun, yes, and as was the fashion in the courts at the moment, parasols were all the rage, but a parasol, like a hat, was a statement. It was not a statement that Rath wished to make, and likewise, the long-haired, almost f
eline Meralonne APhaniel; he wore his hair in a straight fall from head to waist. It was all of white; if it had once had another color, even the hint of it was gone.

  But his white hair suggested austerity and gravitas, not age. Age, he left to his companion, Sigurne Mellifas. She, however, carried a folded parasol in one hand. She wore simple, summer robes, and no obvious adornment that spoke of her affiliation with the Order of Knowledge; indeed, she had forsaken even the pendant that all members wore.

  Rath rose.

  It was not habit, although the grace and the depth of the bow he offered Sigurne was informed in all ways by the harsh and rigorous etiquette lessons he had so despised in his youth; nor was it flattery, for without her emblem, she came to him shorn of title or rank. It was a gesture of genuine respect and admiration, one he seldom offered.

  Sigurne had, in any case, refused the styling of House title to which her position all but entitled her; she had not been born to the patriciate, and she had no pretensions in that regard. Rath suspected that there was more to it than a mere lack of pretension. She was a woman who had made difficult choices, and accepted onerous responsibility, in service of her life’s goals; she did not wish to be burdened with more of either.

  He took her hand and walked her around to the front of a heavily cushioned armchair before surrendering it.

  Meralonne had already taken a chair, and was now padding the bowl of his pipe with new leaf. He paused a moment as Rath resumed his seat, and taking from his pocket a mid-sized stone, he placed it upon the table. It was not their custom to shield conversation by magical means, but then again, it was not their custom to meet at the Placid Sea, although this was not the first time they had chosen to do so.

  Rath glanced at the stone and grimaced.

  Meralonne, catching both the direction of the glance and the implied criticism, shrugged and returned to his tobacco.

  “Were you followed?” Rath asked. He asked the question of Meralonne.

  Meralonne nodded. “I will add that it took some time to be certain that we were followed, and we are therefore somewhat late.”