City of Night

by Michelle West

  “No, you’ll eat.”

  “I—”

  “That’s an order, Carver, not a request. Do it.”

  He hesitated for a long, long minute, and then he snapped a very sarcastic salute—a perfect mimicry of the same salute that Torvan ATerafin had offered his lord.

  Jay, adept at ignoring sarcasm, failed to notice. Or perhaps it wasn’t deliberate. Her eyes were focused on Arann, and on Arann’s face. He had started, in the broken silence, to cry; the tears were utterly silent.

  Carver started to speak, stopped, and quietly headed toward the arboretum. But he hesitated on the threshold, and turned back, watching at a safe distance.

  “Are you still in pain?” Jay asked softly.

  Arann’s nod was slight, and he tried to smile. It was a miserable failure. “But not the side, not the ribs. It’s—the healer. He’s—he’s gone.”

  “Arann? What do you mean?”

  Carver could have told her. But he waited for Arann.

  Arann reached out and grabbed Jay’s hand, holding it tightly enough that his knuckles whitened.

  “Arann, I want to talk to someone. I promise,” she added, extracting her hand, “that I’ll be right back.”

  Time, Carver thought, to go. He vanished, rustling leaves without, by some miracle, breaking stems, in his haste to reach the door before she saw him.

  More food than a den full of Angels could eat was a lot of damn food. And, to be fair, Angel had tried. But even trying—and he was now leaning back on a chair that was tilted on two legs in the cavernous room—he had been forced to leave half of what had been prepared, and it was there waiting for Carver when he was led to the wing by the servant that had, as Jay had told him, been waiting for him.

  They had all eaten, and they all watched Carver sit down and dig in. While he ate, they peppered him with questions about Arann, and about Alowan’s healerie; he answered them between mouthfuls. Well, mostly. None of the food fell out, which was good enough.

  There was a moment of awkwardness when a stiff, almost starched old man appeared in the doors of what he termed the lunch rooms, and Finch rose to introduce him.

  “This is Ellerson,” she told him, with just an edge of warning in her tone, “and Ellerson, this is Carver. You’ve only one more of us to meet, and he’s still in the healerie. Alowan told Carver he’d be there for at least another two days.”

  Ellerson nodded crisply enough that you could almost hear it. Carver lifted his hands in den-sign, and Angel signed back, Yes, real.

  “Will your duties to your den-kin take you back to the healerie, sir?”

  Carver signed, You’re sure, and Angel replied, Yes. So he swallowed, and said, “Yeah.”

  Ellerson’s expression didn’t change, but it now radiated a mild disapproval. The way snow radiated mild cold.

  Seeing his expression, Finch said—quickly—“Ellerson is here to, ummm, help us adjust to House Terafin.”

  “And feed us,” Jester added, burping.

  Winter in Averalaan had never had quite the precise ice that now settled into Ellerson’s pained expression. Teller glanced at Jester, and then, looking at Ellerson, shrugged almost apologetically.

  Carver, however, ate. And he ate as if this might be the last real meal they’d have in months—because if they didn’t come up with a way to steal something from this place, and given the guards and Arann’s dependence on the healerie, it was going to be hard on all fronts, it would be.

  Only when he finished did he ask, “Did Jay eat?”

  Teller looked across the table, which was a fair distance, and said, “What do you think?”

  “I think,” Carver replied, standing and grabbing a plate, “that we should probably save her something.”

  “That will not be necessary,” Ellerson told him.

  They all looked at the old man, who had not moved.

  “The kitchen staff will prepare food when she has the time to eat it.”

  “But what happens to this food?”

  Ellerson did not reply.

  But he did watch. He could watch in invisible silence, and sometimes he did; he could clear his throat and remind them of his presence when it seemed germaine. For the most part, their manners were appalling, but he had expected that, and while he showed some disapproval for the most egregious of mannerly sins, in reality it was mild.

  What he did not show, although he felt it more strongly, was the surprise they evoked in him. He did not comment when they stuffed food into the folds of their clothing, although he did wonder, if this was their normal behavior, how it was that their clothing remained even passably clean.

  He understood, within the first ten minutes of the meal, that Finch and Teller were probably the people to whom he would speak, and from whom he would gain any useful information. He discovered that most of this den could read and write—although Teller hesitantly admitted that Jester was not perhaps the most legible writer.

  He discovered, through this, that Jewel Markess had taught them. And that she was not perhaps the most patient of teachers.

  He understood that what he would learn in the future—near or far—would be deeper, and it would answer some questions that he held in abeyance. He was willing to wait.

  Now, he watched and listened to this den interact. The sign language they used frequently amused Ellerson. It was simple, and accompanied by facial expressions rather than words, it was not hard to figure out. But there seemed to be no malice at all in either these signals or their spoken words, and the concern that they showed for the absent was real.

  They reminded him more of family than of people who had banded together out of mutual self-interest, and the puzzle at the heart of that was Jewel Markess.

  It was a long, slow meal, and he allowed it to continue well past the end of late lunch; he was about to signal an end, for the sake of the servants, when a servant with whom he was not yet familiar came into the wing, walking with the crisp speed that implied that the news he carried was important.

  Ellerson headed him off, which was acceptable.

  “I’ve been asked to deliver a message to Carver,” the servant said briskly.

  Ellerson took the message, frowned for just a moment, and then delivered it to Carver.

  “Your pardon, sir,” he said, bowing stiffly and properly at the middle, “but Torvan ATerafin is waiting at the doors to the West Wing.”

  Carver, pockets half full, stood.

  “I believe the food will not be of use to you,” Ellerson added severely.

  Carver grimaced and flattened his pockets by removing the food; Ellerson had been half afraid he would simply crush them into shape.

  “What does he want?” Carver asked; the conversation had completely died around the table.

  “He wishes, I believe, to convey happy news to you.”

  “Oh?” Instant wariness sharpened the line of the boy’s jaw, and narrowed the edges of his eyes.

  “He says that you appear to have been mistaken. Ararath Handernesse is not, as you feared, dead; he is, at the moment, in the waiting rooms of the manse itself.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  22nd Scaral, 410 AA Terafin Manse, Averalaan Aramarelas

  THE SILENCE THAT GREETED THESE WORDS was profound. It was not, however, lengthy. Den-sign flashed around the table at a speed that made it indecipherable to the older domicis who watched. He understood two things, however. The news was not happy news because this group of urchins somehow knew that it was not true, and somehow, in this case, was the absent Jewel Markess.

  Carver rose. Angel and Finch rose as well, but he waved them down curtly. “Torvan came for me,” he told them all, “I’ll go get Jay.”

  “What are you going to tell him?”

  “Don’t know. I’ll think of something.” He turned to Ellerson the way a condemned man might turn to the guards who were to convey him to his execution.

  Ellerson bowed. “Follow me, sir.”

  Torvan ATerafin was indeed w
aiting for Carver at the doors of the wing, although there were a number of doors to pass through before they reached them. He nodded to Ellerson, who returned this nod with an almost staccato bow.

  Carver squared shoulders, and brushed the hair out of his eyes. This was a habit he’d picked up from years of watching Jay, and the end result was pretty much the same for him as it was for her—all the hair fell back down again almost instantly.

  “You received my news?” Torvan asked. He did not ask it in a friendly fashion; the man who had carried Arann from the road into the Terafin’s office was somehow buried beneath the exterior of an intimidating senior House Guard. What had Alowan called him? Chosen.

  Carver nodded. “I’d like to deliver the news to Jay—to Jewel. Markess. In the healerie.”

  Torvan watched Carver’s expression for a long moment. To Carver’s surprise—and relief—he finally nodded. It was not, again, a friendly nod. “I thought you might.”

  When they arrived in the healerie, Marla took one look at them—or, more accurately, at Torvan—and her jaw tightened. He failed to meet her gaze, and he failed to leave his sword in the box at the door. Carver, however, did not fail to leave his dagger.

  “What’s happened?” Marla asked Torvan sharply.

  “We have news for the young woman who sits with the healer’s patient. It will not wait.”

  “They don’t make the Chosen messengers,” she replied curtly. “And news won’t account for a sword here.”

  “We’ll be brief.” He was entirely impassive, and she hesitated; Carver knew she was trying to decide whether or not to go fetch Alowan. In the end, Torvan took the decision out of her hands while she wrestled with it. He stepped past her, and toward the beds, and Carver followed at his heels.

  Jay was in the room, sitting beside Arann, who was sleeping. In sleep, he was clutching her hand, and she in turn had placed her other hand over the top of his. Leaning forward, she watched him, sitting so still Carver thought she might also be dozing.

  Carver passed Torvan and cleared his throat, in warning; she looked up, met his gaze, and then pried her hand free. Arann’s grip tightened, but he didn’t wake.

  “What’s up?” Edge, in those words. She was tired.

  Carver, who’d eaten enough for days, was not. Even had he had no food, he would have been awake.

  “It’s—it’s—”

  “What the young man is trying to say,” Torvan said, executing a very stiff half bow without extending his palm, “is that we have good news for you.”

  She met Torvan’s gaze, and Carver knew she was wondering what the healer’s assistant had wondered: How often did the House Guard get sent on errands? She didn’t ask, however; she owed Torvan ATerafin, and Jay had always been mindful of debt.

  “Good news?” Jay glanced at Carver. He lifted his hands to sign, but didn’t hold her attention for long enough.

  “It appears that your friend, Ararath Handernesse, is not, as you feared, dead.”

  Whatever color there was in her face—and it was scant to begin with—deserted her entirely as his words sunk in. “W-what do you mean?”

  “He’s in Gabriel ATerafin’s office, waiting for the opportunity to make an appointment to speak with The Terafin.”

  Torvan ATerafin watched her very, very carefully. He had not, as he had heavily implied to Ellerson, been sent to convey this news. He had been made aware of it, no more. But he had taken the measure of this girl, and her den, in the moments before he had decided to speak for her.

  The appearance of Ararath Handernesse, on the heels of the almost dead boy, had cast a shadow on that decision. He did not—yet—regret it. But the girl had been so certain, and he was enough a judge of character to understand that the grief buried in her words was genuine.

  She showed no joy at all, now. And this lack did not surprise him; perhaps it should have. But the Chosen operated in part on instinct, and he was willing to see how that instinct played out. No, not willing. Driven.

  “Kalliaris’ curse,” Jewel whispered. She turned away from him, but only as far as her sleeping kin; she took the boy’s hand in her own, and leaned over to kiss his forehead, as if she were either mother or sister, or in some fashion, both. It was not the gesture of a leader.

  And yet, they followed.

  When she rose, she turned to face him, folding her arms across her chest. Her color did not return, and her breath was a little too shallow; she was afraid. “That’s impossible.” There was no doubt at all in her words; they were flat and surprisingly even.

  “What’s impossible?”

  “Ararath Handernesse isn’t in Gabriel ATerafin’s office. It’s not possible.”

  “Oh, isn’t it?”

  She shook her head.

  “Jewel—Jay, if you prefer—it can’t be impossible. I led him there myself, at Gabriel’s direct request.” After which he had gone straight to the West Wing of the manse, to deliver the news.

  “That’s—that’s not Ararath.” Again, the words were flat and certain. She wasn’t nervous. Not yet.

  “And how do you know this?”

  “Because I—I know he’s dead.”

  Carver’s hands rose, and his fingers danced a moment in his palms, but her hands did not rise in like fashion. Whatever message the boy had conveyed—to Torvan’s admittedly jaundiced eye, it appeared to be a warning—she had chosen to ignore or dismiss it.

  “Interesting. You didn’t mention this in your interview with The Terafin.”

  “No.” She glanced away. It was the first time she had chosen to evade his gaze.

  “Jewel, if you’re playing some kind of game, end it now. You weren’t lying there—she would have known it—but I see now that you weren’t telling the whole of the truth.” He shaded the words with more force than he felt; no one in that room had expected that a thief from the holdings would ever speak the whole of the truth.

  But she was young, and she showed her age; the tone of the words, and the force with which they were spoken, unnerved her. She was not, he thought, a very accomplished liar. This suprised him, but only slightly.

  “Torvan,” she said, spreading her hands, exposing her empty palms, “you have to believe me.”

  “Make me believe you,” he replied, speaking with the same force, but shading it now with anger, with demand. He was not bard-born; the compulsion of his next words existed only within her. “Tell me the truth.”

  What she said next should have surprised him. But he had not come to the West Wing without cause. He trusted his instincts.

  “All right! But—but you’ve got to get help, and you’ve got to get it now. Call all your guards, get them together, have them ready, please.”

  “Why?” He was already assembling the House Guard, and the Chosen, in his thoughts.

  “Because I know Old Rath is dead! No, I didn’t see the body—and I couldn’t tell you where it is—but the creature that looks like Rath and calls himself Rath is what killed him.

  “Old Rath—that’s what we called him—he made me promise never to tell.”

  Carver touched her shoulder in warning. He didn’t speak. Torvan noted both, but he waited in a grim silence that was no longer entirely an act. He believed her. He believed a thief from the holdings. It was why, in the end, he had chosen to deliver his happy news.

  “I get these—these feelings. And whenever I get them, they’re always right. They’re always true. They’ve always been like that.”

  The shock of those words held him silent.

  If what she was saying was true—and in the end, he could not doubt it, although he was wise enough to make the attempt—she was talent-born. And born, as well, to a talent that existed almost entirely in myth or legend.

  She mistook his silence, and he allowed it, gathering—marshaling—his thoughts.

  “I don’t know how,” she continued, her voice losing vehemence and strength until it was almost a whisper, “but Rath is dead. And if we don’t stop whatever
it is that’s pretending to be Rath, The Terafin—and the rest of us—will die as well.”

  “Feelings? What do you mean? Instinct? Hunch?”

  “No—stronger than that. I know when something’s true, but I can’t control the knowledge. I can’t listen to you and tell you when you’re lying or telling the truth—it’s not some sort of market trick. It’s just—just feeling.” She paled, and after a moment’s silence, asked, “Did you—did you tell him we were here?”

  He watched her for a moment, and then said, “No.”

  “No? Why not?”

  “Instinct.” With that word, he offered her a very slight smile, and he allowed the distance that had masked his expression to lessen.

  “Can I say something?” Carver broke in.

  “What?” They both turned to face him, the single word a blend of different tones.

  “You might want to point out that this Old Rath jumped off a three-story building and left a hole in the cobblestones, and then chased us down the streets and kept pace with a set of horses at a gallop.”

  “You might want to say that indeed.” Torvan turned to Carver, and he spoke quietly, intently. “What else can you tell me? Be quick about it—we don’t have much time.”

  “No,” Jewel said. The sound of her voice made Torvan turn to look at her. She was staring into the distance just beyond his shoulder, and what she saw, he couldn’t discern. “We don’t.”

  Torvan led them to the chambers of the Chosen. It was in some ways a breach of etiquette, for to these chambers, not even the House Guards or the members of Terafin who were not Chosen came. But the Chosen were expected to exercise discretion, and in emergency, liberties were taken. Jewel Markess and Carver followed in his wake; he walked quickly.

  He glanced once at Carver when they reached the outer chamber, and saw that the boy had drawn a dagger. It was a small knife, given his size, and to Torvan’s eye, it was not a particularly good one, but he did not tell the boy to sheathe it. Instead, he said, “Have either of you any experience with real weapons?”