Part 7 (1/2)
”This is the only set of rooms I have available,” the wiry man said over his shoulder. He carried a lamp, rather than a magelight, and the flicker of fire contained in gla.s.s made all shadows dance and quiver. Even Rath's.
”These halls,” Rath said quietly, ”are they wood?”
”They are now.”
”And before?”
”Dirt. Stone. I don't know. I bought the building from someone who had a few gambling debts he couldn't pay down fast enough.”
Rath didn't ask. The man offered no more about the former owner, but he did continue to speak in his grating rasp of a voice. ”There are only these rooms, in the bas.e.m.e.nt. There are windows,” the man added, as he stopped in front of a solid door and pulled out an ostentatious ring of keys. ”But they're not good for much. I've had them barred,” he added.
Rath doubted that the bars would be any good. He'd have to examine them from the outside. ”No neighbors?”
”The ones above you.”
Better. ”How much do you want for the place?”
”I get paid by the week,” the man said. ”Five silver crowns.”
”Four.”
The man shrugged. ”Four and a half.”
Rath said nothing; the door slid open. It didn't creak; it was in good enough repair. ”These rooms-they don't have an exit of their own?”
”They do. We don't use it much,” the man added, his eyes s.h.i.+fting to the side. ”The frame's warped, and the door needs to be leveled. It takes an ox to pull it open. Or two.”
Rath nodded. He walked through the open door and into a small hall. The hall-in repair that was only slightly better than the one that led from the stairs-contained four doors, two to the left, one to the right, and one at the end. ”Four rooms?”
The man shrugged. ”The fourth's not much. It's storage.”
”You use it?”
Again the man's eyes s.h.i.+fted sideways. ”No.”
Rath liked men whose expressions gave almost everything away; it made them easy to read, and easy to predict.
The air in this place was cool. And Summer was hot enough that this appealed to Rath. ”What's in the storage room now?”
”Old furniture,” the man said, just a shade too quickly. His voice had gone slick and oily in the scant syllables. ”Look, use the three rooms, and I'll give them to you for four crowns. The storage room's unfinished.”
”You could have-”
”There are floors there, flooring, but it's old and rotted. My nephew broke his leg falling through them. I wouldn't suggest you try.”
”What's beneath the floor?”
”Dirt.” Again, the man spoke too quickly.
Rath kept his smile to himself. He tried to make a mental map of the building, tried to gauge the depth of the bas.e.m.e.nt. ”Four crowns,” he said quietly. ”When do the rooms become available?”
”They're available now.”
”Good.” He pulled his satchel off his shoulder and made a show of fumbling with its buckle. The man drew closer, the ring of keys rippling in the lamplight. He seemed eager, which was generally a bad sign.
”Two weeks up front,” Rath said.
”Fair enough.”
”Do you have a curfew?”
”What, do I look like your mother? Don't make a lot of noise, don't bring your business here, and don't cause problems with the magisterians. That's all I ask.”
Rath put eight coins in the man's key hand. ”Don't bother,” he said, as the man looked for some place to set the lamp down. ”Leave the door unlocked; I'll want to change the locks myself.”
”You leave me copies of the keys.”
Rath stared the landlord down. ”I'll pay a month up front,” he countered. ”And I'll pay per month ahead of time.”
All men were merchants if you dug deep enough; some required only the barest of surface scratching. The landlord bickered and whined, but his heart wasn't in it; he went through the motions because to do otherwise was to imply that the rooms were empty for a reason.
Which, clearly, they were. Rath didn't ask, largely because he didn't expect an answer that would be either truthful or useful.
When the landlord collected his money, he gave Rath what would pa.s.s for a friendly nod in a bar brawl, and retreated. ”Don't change the lock to the building's front door,” he said, ”or I'll call the magisterians.”
Rath nodded absently; he doubted that the locks of the front door were even in pa.s.sable working condition.
He'd left Jewel alone for most of the day; had to. He stopped at the Common farmers' market, and then forced himself to go to the well and wait in line, avoiding bored boys with buckets. He filled two waterskins, spoke pleasant, empty words to one of the two grandmothers who minded children far younger than Jewel, and then departed.
Jewel was waiting for him when he opened the door.
Her eyes were sleep-crusted and heavy; she rubbed them as he slid bolts back into place and looked at the neat and empty rooms. ”I've called for a carriage,” he told her quietly.
”You called a carriage here?”
It was a reasonable question. He approached and touched her forehead; she grimaced. It was not a wince; it was a child's complaint. ”You're still running a fever.”
”Why do they say that?”
”What?”
”Running. A fever.”
He shrugged. ”I don't know. Possibly because people get hotter when they run for too long. You're still hot. Is that better? Here.” He handed her a waterskin. ”I've brought food as well, and I expect you to eat it. I'll be moving things into the carriage while you eat.”
”No one calls a carriage to the thirty-second holding,” she mumbled.
It was true.
”Is it because of me?”