Free The Hidden City by Michelle West

to them,’ as you so quaintly put it, is an aid to sleep, not a hindrance.”
    She snorted. Weakly.
    â€œVery well. I consider my life to be worth more than a handful of silver coins. Or gold coins, if it comes to that. In fact, it may come as a surprise to you, but I consider my life to be of more value than pretty much anything under the sun.”
    â€œMy Oma used to say that. Not about her life, but the bit about under the sun. I think it’s Southern.”
    â€œThank you for the lesson,” he said dryly. “Now pay attention, because I also consider my lessons to be of vastly more import than yours.” But he said it gently, and he cursed quietly when he realized that he had turned to look at her, his hands falling still.
    â€œI am therefore in your debt. And, mindful of the words of your Oma, I am not happy to be in your debt.”
    He knew what she would say next, and unfortunately, she didn’t surprise him. “I didn’t save your life. He didn’t tell them to kill you; he only told them to follow you.”
    â€œIn my profession, Jewel, they are often the same thing.”
    â€œBut you can’t be sure.”
    â€œYou haggle like a merchant—a merchant intent on giving away everything of value, rather than selling it to make a living. Now shut up .”
    She laughed. Wrapped the blanket more tightly around her. He grimaced, picked up the cloak he had folded so carefully, and threw it on top of the counterpane. She felt cold enough now that she didn’t protest. He touched her forehead; the cold was very, very hot.
    â€œI now owe you my life. Nursing you back to what passes for health on the streets is not going to unburden me—but it will have to do. When I leave, you will come with me.”
    She started to speak, and he glared.
    â€œIf you thank me, I’ll hit you. I am not saying that you can live with me. I’m saying that I’ll keep you until you can at least walk out the door without collapsing.” There were so many questions that had to be asked. He wanted to ask them now.
    But he thought he knew some of the answers he would get, and he was dead tired; he didn’t want the bother of dealing with them.
    Her wide eyes still followed his every movement. And he found that he couldn’t work while they did; he felt haunted. So he sat on the bed again, caught one of her hands in his, picked up the wineskin in the other. Cursed her genially in three different languages. The tone of voice obviously mattered more than the content, because she smiled vacantly, and her eyes began to film.
    Gods save him from tears.
    He had nursed wounded men before. He had sat by their sides while they died. It was both easier and harder than this.

Chapter Three
    WHEN RATH LEFT in the morning—after what felt like an hour’s rest—Jewel was sleeping. She had turned away from him, and her back was exposed; her arms crossed her chest, her hands covered her shoulders, and her knees were tucked beneath her chin. She covered such a small area of the bed, it seemed a pity to waste the space.
    He rose and changed while she slept, taking the time to drag his lank hair into plaits; he took nothing out of the boxes that he did not need. He also chose to forgo his hat; a hat was almost its own character, and he needed as little character as possible. He took his satchel, made sure it was heavier than usual, and then paused to look at Jewel.
    She hadn’t moved. When he touched her forehead, she stirred, but not enough to waken; she was becoming accustomed to his intrusions, slight as they were. She was not burning, but often fever was at its ebb in the hours of dawn. It hadn’t broken; it hovered, like a cloud in the sky of her body.
    He told himself he should take her and dump her on the steps of the Mother’s closest temple. Told himself forcefully, decorating the declarative sentences with as much foul language as he knew. And then,