Part 50 (1/2)

”Another girl as well. And a boy.”

”Good. I think it's about time to leave.”

”Well past, I'd say.”

But Rath lingered until Jewel had decided for herself that the danger was past. She spoke words that he didn't catch to her companions, and then walked slowly over to what should have been a corpse. She paused to look at what was left of her sole effective weapon. Frowning for a moment, she touched it with her toe, and then frowned more deeply.

What in the h.e.l.ls was she doing?

He had his answer a moment later; she picked the d.a.m.n thing up. Looked under it, as if for a hole in the ground, some escape route that the large, flame-robed man might have taken.

She found, instead, what was left of Rath's dagger, and she touched that with care. In fact, she wrapped her hand in the carpet, and picked it up by the hilt. Only then did she look up to see him, and when she met his eyes, she smiled weakly.

He nodded. He could manage that.

But words failed him for a few minutes longer, and in the s.p.a.ce of those few minutes, she had a.s.sembled her den, and she had dragged it, motley odd thing that it was, down the broken stone that had, in grander days, once been a narrow road.

Carver carried two carpets, rolled and bent over his arms; Finch and the latest stranger walked hand in hand, and it was hard to tell which of the two-the slender, young Finch or the dark-haired, bruised stranger-was in command. Certainly, the new girl looked as if she should be vacant-eyed or terrified.

But as she approached and Rath could clearly see her expression, he revised that thought and then threw it out. She wasn't terrified.

”Jewel,” he said.

”Jay,” she replied, her voice a little on the low side.

”Jay, then.” He leaned in, so that his words only had to carry a very short distance, ”that girl-I think it best that you leave her.”

”Her name's Duster,” Jewel told him quietly. She looked at Duster as she spoke. ”I'm taking her with me.”

”She's-” He hesitated. He knew what he might say to another person-to almost any other person. But to Jewel? The words would have no meaning. What experience she'd had of life had been sheltered; if it had been marginal, it had been safe.

Duster? No.

”You can't trust her,” he told her instead.

”No,” Jewel replied gravely, surprising him. ”I can't. Not yet. But I will.”

He let it go, then. He had no choice. ”The others are waiting for you,” he said, standing back. ”And I think you'll be more of a comfort than Harald will.”

She looked up at Harald's face and forced herself not to recoil-but Jewel's face was as expressive as it always was.

Harald, however, was not offended. He even smiled. It was meant to shock or scare. And because she was Rath's, she knew it, and it annoyed her instead.

”Duster?” Jewel said, touching the strange girl's shoulder with just the tip of a finger.

Duster turned to look at her. ”I want to stay,” she said quietly.

”We can't.”

”I don't care if you stay. I want to watch it burn.”

Jewel frowned for a moment, as if trying to make a decision. ”It doesn't matter. No one's in it.”

”I was.”

”Yes. You were. You aren't now. But if we stay and watch it burn, we'll be caught here.”

”By who?”

”Magisterians,” Jewel replied quietly. ”If we're lucky.”

Duster stiffened. ”And if we're not?”

”You tell me.”

They squared off, his Jewel and this orphan girl. And into their uncomfortable and unfriendly silence, Rath spoke. ”Jay's right,” he said quietly. ”The men you want aren't there. And if you stay here, and they find you, the loss of this building won't matter.

”You want to watch it burn? Watch it, then. But you'll probably never have a chance to make them pay.”

She was young. Had she been another ten years in the streets, she wouldn't have blinked. Wouldn't have been tempted by what he seemed to be offering.

This was vulnerability, of a type. But not a welcome one. She nodded slowly.

Rath turned and walked down the street, skirting the gates, his own gaze drawn to the fire that now raged in the open, broken windows. Mage fire, yes, and strong at that.

He frowned. ”Jay,” he said, aware that the others listened. ”What are those?”

She looked at him for a moment. ”Maps,” she said at last.

Of the answers she could have given, this was not one he'd expected. ”Maps?”

She nodded. And held out the one she carried. ”I picked up your knife,” she added. ”It's not very . . . practical.”

”Practical,” he replied, as he took it from her hand, noting its blackened metal, ”is only in the doing. Remember that; just because someone looks rich, bored, and lazy doesn't mean they aren't dangerous.”

She frowned. ”Rich is usually-”

”Never mind. Come. We've been too long as is.” But his gaze fell upon what she held, and in turn, he held his questions.

He almost made a detour to the Mother's temple in the twenty-fifth holding, but one look at Jewel's compressed lips told him how successful that would be. He would have this argument with her, when they reached the safety of his apartments; for the moment, he chose to retreat into the pragmatic. He counted.

Lefty. Arann. Carver. Finch. Duster. Three other boys whose names he had yet to discover. And, in their midst, Jewel Markess. Nine children. He doubted they would all fit in Jewel's room, but had no doubt at all that he was going to make her try; let her bear the brunt of her impulsiveness. Rath would.

They were silent when they left the thirty-second holding, but their silence unfolded, peeling back in layers as if it were an onion, one thin word at a time. Lefty's hand was in his armpit, its customary sheath, but his eyes were darting back and forth as if they were moving of their own accord; he practically crossed them. Arann hovered over the rest of the children by at least six inches, although Carver, in Rath's estimation, would one day equal his height.

He wasn't certain what the other boys would do or be. The redhead was chatting almost amicably with Finch, who was doing her best to keep up-mostly by nodding. The other two kept as much to themselves as it was possible to do, but to Rath's surprise, Lefty spoke to them.

Not loudly enough to be heard, and not loudly enough-at first-to get much of a response. But where Arann was intimidating, and Harald and Rath were terrifying, Lefty, his hand hidden, his shoulders hunched as if to avoid a constant rain of blows, was the opposite: he was like them. Too slight to be either dangerous or independent; too damaged to be of use.

And if Lefty felt safe enough, here, to speak, then there must be some safety. Rath could see the understanding, although he wasn't certain the boys themselves would have put it as succinctly. They were underdressed for the weather, and the rains-and curse the skies, it was raining-caused their thin, pale s.h.i.+fts to cling to their skin, exposing too much.