The Hidden City

by Michelle West

There was carpet here, but it was the same faded carpet that adorned the hall from the foyer. A few more footprints weren’t going to make much difference.

  “Jay,” Carver said sharply, as she walked toward the far wall with its lines and its unframed drawings, squinting, waiting to see what they resolved themselves into. She gave him a quick glance. “Time?” He said, the single word urgent.

  She nodded, but she walked in the wrong direction: instead of the doors that led elsewhere, which were much wider and much finer than the one they’d entered, she continued to approach the drawings. And frowned. “They’re . . . maps,” she said at last.

  “What?”

  “Maps. They’re supposed to be pictures that tell you where things are.”

  “What things?”

  “Streets. Stuff like that.”

  He frowned. “You can read that?”

  She started to nod, and then stopped. Because, she realized, she couldn’t. She could see that there were street lines, and could even see where names had been written in dark ink beneath them; she could see the squares and ovals that must have been buildings, and they, too, contained words. What she couldn’t do was read them.

  But she could recognize, in their shape and form, some of the letters that she had seen on the few items Rath had chosen to show her. “Carver, give me that knife,” she told him.

  “You’ve got one—”

  “Sorry. I forgot.” She drew the knife Rath had given her, the knife she wasn’t accustomed to wielding, and took a closer look at just how these drawings were fixed to the wall. Nails. Several in each.

  “We need these,” she told him firmly.

  “What, all of them?”

  She nodded. “There are only three.”

  “They’re not small.”

  “Just shut up and cut them down, okay? Don’t cut the lines, whatever you do; just cut around the nails.”

  He looked as if he would argue, which would have been bad. But he didn’t. Instead, while Jewel worked, he chose the map farthest from her and began his own work as well. He was better with the knife, even if hers was sharper; either that or his map hadn’t required so many nails to hold it in place.

  They met across the third one, moving toward each other in a frenzy. It was hard to get the knife under and around the topmost nails; their flat metal heads were high above the ground.

  Carver had dropped the first map, just as Jewel had done, in a heap on the floor. When the last one came down, Jewel caught it, and noticed that Finch was on her knees, rolling the other two carefully into what looked like thin carpets.

  “Heavy?” Jewel asked carefully.

  Finch shook her head. “Not too heavy. I can carry them.” When Jewel opened her mouth, she added, “And I can’t wield a knife.”

  Carver said, “She’s got a point. Do we really need those?”

  Jewel looked at them, hanging over Finch’s slender arms as she cradled them. “I think so,” she said at last, hesitantly. “I don’t always have the answers, Carver. I don’t always know.”

  “But you—”

  “I don’t always get them in time.” He wasn’t stupid. But he held her gaze for just a little longer, and something dangerously close to pity seemed to flicker in his eyes. “But—I hate to see them burn.”

  “Better them than us,” he muttered, his expression becoming one she was more familiar with. She felt a pang of something like gratitude.

  She had to agree with that. And being agreeable took a bit of work, most days. “Doors,” she said abruptly, and looked toward them. Two doors, side-by-side, wood gleaming like something new. Brass handles, as well—and they were either new or well-tended; she suspected the former. No one seemed to take much care with this place.

  Carver approached the doors first; they were rectangular, and a little tall. Then again, the frames that held them were tall; those, she suspected, were as old as the house. Wood trim trailed out from either side of the doors in a thin, dark line.

  She pushed them open, and they opened outward, into a larger hall.

  Carver frowned as he joined her. “You smell it?” He asked.

  She nodded. Smoke. The not-distant-enough scent of wood burning. “Finch, stay with us. Don’t get lost. And don’t let those doors close.”

  They entered the hall quickly. This far from the fire—and Jewel knew, for a moment, where it burned—the smoke hadn’t yet managed to reach them. The hall looked clear; were it not for the smell, she could have pretended they were imagining things.

  But pretense took time, and she’d wasted enough of it. There were two doors in the hall, and each was tall and wide. Jewel approached the nearest door, and twisted the handle; it stuck. She knelt instantly beside it, and pulled out the finer tools of Rath’s less savory trade: lockpicks.

  Carver watched her as she worked. She wished—for just a minute—that it were Rath, instead, because she made no mistakes; she worked quickly, but everything fell into place as she did, and that almost never happened.

  She’d have to be grateful for the lessons; Rath wouldn’t see the results. She heard the mechanisms inside the door click, and she stood. “Ready?” she whispered, almost to herself.

  She pushed the door open.

  The room was a much larger room, and perhaps, in a different life, it had been a very fine one; what remained was in no way fine. There was a large bed, yes, and a large standing cupboard—what had Rath called them?—on one wall; there was a window with real glass, and with equally real bars, through which gray light poured. There were curtains, but they were tasseled, held back.

  And there was a girl.

  She wasn’t on the bed, or even under it; she sat against the far wall. Her hair was long and dark; it was also matted; some of it clung to her face, and some to her shirt. Her eyes were the bruised of beating, not lack of sleep, and her lip was split. Her wrists were also cut, but not deeply.

  She looked up as they entered, and her eyes were the same color as Jewel’s—the brown of Southern descent. They were not flat and lifeless; she hadn’t withdrawn. She was dressed, but the clothing was tattered.

  She frowned, seeing Jewel, seeing Carver. The frown thinned as she saw Finch, and her eyelids closed over that dark black-brown as her head sagged forward into her arms.

  But Finch said, “We’ve come to get you out.” She spoke in Torra.

  The eyes flickered open.

  “And we don’t have much time,” Jewel added, speaking in Torra as well. She looked over her shoulder. “They’ve set fire to the damn building, and it’s going to burn quickly.”

  The girl’s grin was a lopsided, bitter thing—if it weren’t for the curve of her lips, Jewel wouldn’t have identified it as a smile. “You brought an ax or a pry bar?”

  “Neither. Why?”

  And the stranger stood. As she unfolded, as her arms fell away from the knees that were curled into her chest, Jewel saw that she wore a manacle, which was attached to an intimidating thickness of chain. And wall. “I’m not going anywhere,” she added softly.

  “Duster,” Finch began.

  “You shouldn’t have come. You were the only thing I did right in this place. You shouldn’t have come back.”

  “And you shouldn’t have—” Finch couldn’t even say the words. “I would have ended up here,” she finally managed. “Instead of you.”

  Duster’s eyes were a narrow hint of something dark and cutting. “Not here,” she said at last, her glance flickering over the walls. “Not for you.”

  “Yeah, well, she’s here.” Jewel snapped. “We’re all here.”

  “Must be something about Finch,” Duster said bleakly. “Everyone wants to help her.”

  “Except for the people who want to kill her, you mean?”

  Duster shrugged, the corners of her lips twitching between a smile and a frown—neither of which was pleasant.

  “Well, surprise! We didn’t come here for Finch; we already had her.”

  The eyes widened sligh
tly; they now looked normal, rather than hunted. If, by normal, one meant almost predatory. It was hard for Jewel to decide; something about Duster’s face, something about her physical posture, spoke of danger.

  “This wasn’t Finch’s idea.”

  Jewel considered lying, but only briefly. “No.”

  “Yours?”

  “Mine.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you did help Finch,” Jewel replied.

  “Friend of hers?”

  “Just another stranger.”

  Duster shook her head. “What’ve you got in mind?”

  “Getting you out of here before we all burn to death.”

  “So . . . you brought an ax?”

  “No. I’m a thief. I brought lockpicks. Don’t kick me in the face.” Jewel made her way to Duster and knelt by her ankle.

  “Jay—”

  “I know.” She could smell the fire burning. Couldn’t see it yet. Her hands were shaking as she pulled the lockpicks out; the lock itself was both simple and heavy. A padlock. She hadn’t had much experience with those; Rath didn’t favor them.

  Then again, he couldn’t—most padlocks were usually on the wrong side of the door. “Finch, Carver—pick up those maps. We’re not leaving them behind.”

  She didn’t look to see whether or not they’d heard her; she worked at the damn lock. Duster kept still; her foot might have been nailed to the floor. Even her breathing was so silent it couldn’t be heard.

  Jewel had never been that good about silence. Then again, she hadn’t had to be; she wondered about Duster as she worked. About who she was, how she’d become whatever that was, and how in the Hells she’d wound up here. Duster wasn’t like any of the other children they’d rescued.

  “Jay—”

  “Not yet, Carver.”

  “The fire—”

  “I know, damn it.” She shifted picks, choosing the finest, the narrowest—and the easiest to bend. The other, she shoved back into her hair; her hair was good at keeping whatever got stuck there.

  The lock clicked; she felt it more clearly than she heard it. She said something in Torra, half prayer and half curse, and then pulled the manacle open. The hinges were sticky and stiff; they opened slowly.

  Duster was on her feet before Jewel had finished prying them wide. She offered Jewel her hand, and Jewel took it, rising quickly. “Can you run?” she asked.

  Duster grimaced. Looked down at her bare feet. “Sometimes faster than others.”

  “This would a good time for fast.” She turned to Carver; he carried two of the maps; Finch cradled one beneath her delicate jaw. “Back the way we came,” she snapped.

  Carver nodded.

  To Duster, Jewel added, “Unless you know this place well enough, follow. If you need help, ask for it. We don’t have time for—”

  Duster shoved Jewel forward. “I’ll follow when you’re moving. So move.”

  Carver, closest to the door, leaped through it, and Finch followed; Jewel was right behind her. But she’d chosen the rear for a reason. She kept an eye on Duster.

  Duster didn’t like it much, but she didn’t complain; they both knew this was no place for an argument.

  The hall was full of smoke; it was a thin smoke, an acrid mist that eddied slowly beneath the tall ceilings.

  Jewel drew her sleeve to her mouth and nose, breathing through it. Aware that Carver and Finch, hands full, didn’t have that option. She almost told them to drop the maps—but she couldn’t quite make herself say the words.

  The maps—like Duster—were things she couldn’t leave behind.

  But the fire was below them. They could feel its heat in the floor, especially Duster. They ran into the wide empty room that still had bits of parchment nailed to the walls; they ran around the long table and toward the open door. There was no pursuit here, but none was needed; the fire was enough. It would take the floors from them; it would devour the walls and the fine wood, the faded carpets, the doors, both old and new.

  They reached the servants’ hall—Jewel had figured out that much in the short time she’d been here—and ran past the closed doors toward the narrow flight of rickety wooden steps.

  These, they took quickly, with small leaps and jumps, using the walls as large, flat rails. Jewel stopped Carver from leaping down the half flight that ended in the door to the second floor, and he didn’t argue, but when he gained the small flat, he reached out with his palm and drew back much more quickly.

  The door was hot, and smoke plumed out from beneath it. “It’s worst here,” she told him, half meaning it. “Let’s move.”

  “The others?”

  “They’re well out, by now.” She silently added, They’d better damn well be. She glanced at Duster; the girl didn’t seem even slightly concerned at what remained of her thin clothing. She followed Jewel.

  It was the first time they would run this way, Jewel in the lead and Duster her shadow. Jewel caught the image as it flew by, as real for a moment as the walls, the curved steps, the threat of fire. She wanted to turn and touch Duster then, to fix her firmly in the here and now, but she didn’t dare. If Duster was nonchalant in appearance, she was—she had to be—approached with care.

  And care took time.

  They made their way down the steps, sent the metal bucket clattering in a spin, and grabbed the mop. Or rather, Jewel did. Duster’s brows rose into the tangle of her hair, but she said nothing.

  They left the kitchen; Jewel led them, not back into the hall that ran to the grand—well, almost grand—foyer, but rather, into the dining room. It was empty, and it wasn’t exactly dirty; there were no dishes here, and the chairs looked new. But the ceiling was patchy with water damage and poor paint; the makeover, such as it was, was simple and dirty.

  There were doors from the dining room that led to the foyer, and doors that led to the sitting room. Carver started toward the foyer, and Jewel shouted his name. When he looked back, she shook her head. “Touch the damn door,” she said, her voice low.

  He touched the handle instead, and cursed loudly. “Good call.” He would have said more, but the mansion spoke for him; it cracked.

  “That’ll be the stairs,” Jewel said grimly. “Come on. Sitting room.”

  Duster bridled and stopped just short of the closed doors. Jewel knew why. “It’s day,” she told Duster. “Morning. If the bastards who visited are anywhere, they’re up in their expensive homes in the high holdings; they won’t be waiting for you there.” She saw, instantly, that this was exactly the wrong thing to say.

  Wrong, but necessary. She pushed the doors open, and hoped that Duster would follow her. Not trust her, not precisely; saving her life hadn’t earned that. If anything would.

  Because in a life like this, salvation could be just another trick. Had they not all been about the same age, had Finch not been with them, Jewel wasn’t certain how it would have played out.

  But the crack of timber was its own imperative, and Duster, last through the doors, entered the sitting room.

  This room was a fine room. The care that hadn’t been taken elsewhere had been concentrated here. The carpets were new, and thick, a dark, deep red that reminded Jewel of Rath’s wine. There was a low, plain table that gleamed; it was unmarked by anything but a silver vase that was, at the moment, empty. There were cabinets that rested against the far wall, and behind the clear panes of diamond-shaped glass, bottles of different shapes and sizes, and cut crystal glasses that she almost stopped to pocket. They’d break, or she would have.

  The chairs were also fine; the wood, dark and oiled, the velvet armrests and the rounded padding on the chairback a match for the carpet they were trampling. And beyond them, beyond the new mantel that girded an old fireplace, beyond the framed paintings that hung above it, curtains that were edged in gold. They were drawn.

  Carver shifted the weight of the maps into one arm, and shoved those curtains apart, exposing the full height of windows in a bay that stood some six feet abo
ve the flower beds beneath the window. At least the beds weren’t fancy; they were mostly—like the rest of the grounds—composed of weeds.

  Jewel hefted the mop in her hands, and began to break glass.

  “Chair would be better,” Duster offered.

  “We can’t lift them,” Jewel replied tersely.

  Duster tried. “Good point.” She looked around for something else, disappeared, and came back wielding what could only be called brass sticks. “For the fire,” Duster said. “But they’ll do.”

  Jewel nodded. They lifted their chosen weapons—brass and wood—and swung them wherever they could reach.

  Glass flew in shards, falling outward. The sharp edges that remained in the frame were struck again and again by brass rods.

  Jewel looked at Finch and Carver; they both had boots. So did she. Only Duster, barefoot, risked shredding skin against what remained of the windows.

  But bleeding was far less painful—and deadly—than fire. “You ready?” Jewel asked her.

  She nodded.

  “Finch?”

  Finch looked at all of them, her eyes wide. Then she moved toward the window, map still in arms, and her eyes widened. “I see Rath!” she shouted.

  “Anything else?”

  “His friends. Some of them. But, Jay . . .”

  “They’re not alone.”

  She shook her head. Her face was white.

  And Duster came to stand beside Finch; she was a good four inches taller, and if her face was bruised and her hair was clumpy, she looked, for a moment, more regal somehow. Certainly more dangerous. Her eyes followed Finch’s gaze, and her lips thinned.

  “They’re not going to make it,” Duster said softly. “And if we join them, we’re not going to make it either. There’s a back way—”

  “There isn’t,” Jewel replied grimly. “There’s a lot of fire, and the joists on the second floor have fallen.” She paused, and added, “The fire started at the back end of the building on the second floor; it’s spreading now.”

  Duster raised a brow. “You saw this when we weren’t looking?”

  “Something like that.” She pushed her way past Finch and looked out of the glassless frame. The weeds were burning, but they didn’t burn for long; they were wet. Everything outside was, except for the man who wore fire like a cloak. Mage, she thought, and swallowed.