Part 83 (1/2)

No one asked who ”they” might be.

”We will proceed to the Common from here,” he told the den. ”The Common is poorly patrolled at this time of year; it is, however, patrolled. We will leave the Common and head toward the upper holdings, but our destination is not far from there.”

He glanced at Jewel.

She stopped, then, and before Rath could rearrange her dress, she hugged them each in turn, holding them a little too tightly. She had nothing else to say to them, nothing that she could put into words. They didn't ask, and they held her, briefly, just as tightly-all save Lander, who retreated again into silence when they breached the invisible barrier between what lay hidden by the streets, and what lay upon them.

To Lander, then, she made a few gestures, visible in the bright moon, and after a moment, he offered a tentative response, his hands rising, his palms turning, his fingers twisting-all with a grace that surprised her.

This might be good-bye, and this was all she allowed herself. Then she turned, as Rath waited, and followed where he led, taking Duster with her, and leaving the rest behind in the cold of the growing night.

Chapter Twenty-Six.

THE COMMON AT NIGHT was not Jewel's favorite place. One chance meeting with would-be a.s.sa.s.sins had changed it, as events often changed the meaning of a place. It was linked, now, with a terrified run through the undercity, two strangers by her side-one that she had set out to rescue, and one that had come to her by the grace of Kalliaris' smile, and had stayed. She looked back once at Carver and Finch, and smiled; her smile was lost to shadow, but it lingered a moment.

They had not quailed or argued; they had not doubted for a moment that wherever she was going was someplace she had to be.

And they didn't doubt her now.

She doubted, but kept it to herself; there was no point in sharing. Rath would hear her, or Duster would, and either of these would be bad.

But as she emerged from the scattered wagons, some sitting like the cavernous bodies of beached s.h.i.+ps on the drifts of Winter's bitter white snow, she shook herself, straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin. No, she thought, changing posture again, that was wrong. She lowered her chin slightly, and she let her nervousness show-and knew that that was better. She could almost hear Haval's voice guiding her movements.

But she had always heard absent voices. They were often clearer than the voices of those who walked with her; they became some part of her thought, some part of her way of looking at the world. Crowded head, hers. Her Oma's voice was mercifully silent. She didn't try to call it back. She had been a grim woman, in her way, and her sense of justice was acute and profound; she would no more allow a man like this lord to live than she would a c.o.c.kroach found crawling near the food.

Jewel clung to that belief, and no argumentative voice came back to pry it from her.

She could breathe, here, and the air was sharp and cold; it was also so clear it felt as if she'd stepped into a different country. The night was piercing, almost beautiful, as it hovered above the city; the magelights were glowing softly. No missing stones here, and no long gaps between the poles; this was a place where people who had no fear of starvation lived.

They weren't lords, she thought, looking at the houses on their small parcels of land. Whether or not the lawns were bright and well tended she couldn't say; the snow covered all in one forgiving blanket. But the snow on those lawns was clean; no wheels cut into it, and very few footprints muddied or sullied it.

But they owned no horses, no great carriages, the people who claimed these houses as their own. They had fences, but they were short, and not the grand fences that had all but fallen over in some parts of the old holdings, where legend said great men-and women-had once chosen to live.

Not even their ghosts remained. And here? No hint of ghosts at all. The houses rested upon the earth and above the snow, unaware of the history that lay beneath them in silence and darkness.

But it was not to these houses that Rath led them; he walked the road, pausing here and there beneath the magelights. Patrols were not infrequent, but Rath merely waved as they pa.s.sed, and was rewarded with a curt nod-or sometimes a friendly one-as he did. Duster kept her head down when they pa.s.sed, but this, too, was appropriate. Jewel thought Haval would be pleased with her, but didn't say as much. No telling what Duster would say in response, and they didn't really need a fight here.

But Jewel found the patrols unnerving.

”They are here for our protection,” Rath told her grimly. ”And only that. You have nothing to fear from them unless you bolt.”

Jewel nodded. She understood every word, but some part of her didn't believe it, and she had to squelch all the noise it made. With effort.

”Do you know where we are?” he asked at length.

Jewel shook her head. Duster was mute, which was pretty much a No. That was just her way.

”This,” he said quietly, ”is where the foreign merchants have housing when they are forced to Winter here. The houses are often owned, not by the merchants, but rather by the companies they work for, or through; they are sometimes owned by the owners of the Kings' charter.” He waved briefly to one side. ”This is the Northern quarter. The Southern quarter is just beyond this.”

”Is that where we're going?”

Rath shook his head, but not with impatience. ”Some merchants do not work with larger companies; they own little land here. But they find homes or rooms in some of the inns built for that purpose.”

”We're going there?”

He nodded. ”To one of them, yes. It is quite large, and during the height of the trade season, it is full. At this time of year, it is almost empty.” He paused. ”And therefore houses men who are perhaps less reputable. But innkeepers require some sustenance, and as long as the occupants break no laws, they are vastly less strict in the stormy season.” He led them down blocks of Winter street, until they were pulling their heavy cloaks around their shoulders and hunching their bodies against the inevitable cold.

”Here,” he said quietly, and stopped. He handed Jewel a letter. ”Do not open it. It is for Lord Waverly,” he told her, although her hands were now shaking enough that opening it would have been a challenge. Dresses of the kind she now wore were not designed for warmth, or rather, they were designed for people who didn't have to contend with the d.a.m.n cold. And she told herself it was only the cold.

”I must go. I may not see you, but I will be there.”

”Rath-”

He waited. She knew that she could, even now, turn back, and part of her wanted to. But only part.

”You will arrive,” he told her softly, ”and you will wait for Lord Waverly.”

She nodded. Nodding was easier than speech.

She entered the inn, Duster at her heels, Rath nowhere in sight. Haval's lessons were firmly entrenched in her bearing, but they hadn't prepared her for what she would see: The floors were made of marble that gleamed in the evening lights. Magelights, adorned by gla.s.s sculptures, in pale hues that made light their heart. She was still a moment, tilting her head up, and up again, toward the tall and rounded ceilings. They were pale, and the shadows diffuse that lay against their surface.

Her whole den could have made a s.p.a.cious home of the room that lay empty beyond the desk-and the desk itself might occupy three kitchens' worth of s.p.a.ce. But the wood here, gleaming as if it were a dark reflection of stone, was unmarked, unscored, utterly untouched.

She had never expected so much money could feel so . . . empty.

The warmth melted snow; she stood dripping in the glare, and tried not to feel self-conscious. A man appeared behind the desk. It was not so late that he looked tired or grouchy with lack of sleep-but given his expression, and the perfect drape of his stiff, pale clothing, she doubted that he ever slept. He nodded politely in her direction, and this, too, came as a little shock. But the clothing she wore spoke of affluence, not poverty; she was not out of place here. Or she didn't look out of place.

Drawing her chin up, she walked slowly toward the man behind his fortress of a desk. ”I'm here,” she said quietly, ”to meet a friend.”

”Your name?”

Her name. She hesitated for a moment. ”Amber,” she said at last. ”Amber Hartold.”

He paused, and then opened a drawer to his right; he pulled out a long piece of paper, and studied it. It neither annoyed him nor amused him; his expression was like the stone she walked across. Since her parents had died, she had learned that being unnoticed was good; therefore it didn't bother her much.

The wait did; she had never been patient. Even when awaiting punishment, the wait was a torment, the punishment almost a relief. She didn't glance at Duster; she studied her boots instead.

”Yes,” he said at last, and this time he did look at her, and a brief expression, flickering by too quickly to be pinned down, touched his face. ”You are expected.” He clapped his hands, and a man appeared from the other side of a small door she hadn't noticed. His perfect clothing was almost exactly like that of the man behind the desk, but he was younger, and a bit less stern. He even smiled-when the older man's back was turned.

”The Arboretum dining hall,” the older man said.

This stilled the smile. ”But that's-”