Skirmish: A House War Novel

by West, Michelle

  “No, sir. But I am to obtain a signature of receipt.”

  “I…see. Very well, come in. May I ask who sent the letter?”

  The boy nodded vigorously. His answer explained his anxiety. “Lucille ATerafin.”

  In spite of the solemn silence of the preceding three days, the two words, huddled side by side and spoken in such a fashion, piqued Haval’s curiosity. He signed a statement acknowledging receipt of the letter and let the boy hurry—at a brisk jog—away from his store before he returned to Hannerle’s room. He only broke the seal once he was ensconced in the chair closest to the bedside.

  At one time in his life, such a letter would have constituted the work he had faithfully promised to keep out of the bedroom, but it had been decades since that had been the case. He slid a letter opener into the top upper corner of the closed envelope and cut it cleanly. Then he removed the single piece of paper that had been folded and deposited within. He read it three times before he refolded it and placed it on the bedside table. His wife would have recognized the way he then sat, for fifteen minutes, in silence. She wouldn’t have approved.

  “Hannerle,” he finally said. “I appear to have been granted an appointment with Jarven ATerafin.”

  Hannerle was, of course, silent. This silence, however, was not glacial.

  “No, no, it’s not like that. I realize I am getting on in years, but I honestly cannot recall requesting such an appointment. Even had I, I assure you I would have politely rescinded that request in the wake of the current Terafin tragedy.”

  He paused. Memory, and a deep understanding of his wife’s temper, allowed him to silently fill in her part of the conversation.

  “The handwriting is definitely Lucille’s. I’d recognize it anywhere.” He would, on the other hand, recognize hundreds of handwriting samples with ease. “I would hazard a guess that this is entirely Lucille’s doing, and while it is safe enough—for a value of safe which I’m aware isn’t yours—to annoy Jarven, annoying Lucille is trickier.” He rose and headed toward the closets that girded the walls.

  “The appointment, however, is for less than an hour from now.”

  Haval disliked tardiness. He also disliked being rushed. Curiosity, however, had reared its head, and he fed it because it could be fed. He welcomed the distraction. He had chosen to dress as a merchant of middling means; a merchant of humble means was not appropriate for the Terafin offices within the Merchant Authority, and today he had no wish to stand out.

  Two guards stood on either side of the double doors that led to the offices; they wore Terafin livery, which was to be expected. He handed them the letter that Lucille had penned, and they examined it in silence before nodding curtly and allowing him to pass.

  Lucille waited on the other side of the doors, sitting behind her bastion of a desk. Paperwork was placed in deplorable piles across its visible surface, but she lifted her head the minute he stepped across the threshold and the doors closed at his back.

  “Can I help you?” she asked, in exactly the tone of voice one would use if one wished to imply the opposite.

  Haval was instantly on his guard. “Yes,” he replied, the single word clipped and cool. “I have an appointment to speak with Jarven ATerafin.”

  She raised one brow. It was astonishingly similar to the movement of Hannerle’s brow, and were he another man, he would have lost heart. But he understood that she meant him to play a role here, and if Lucille was temperamental and extraordinarily territorial, she did little without cause.

  “Haval Arwood.” He had lifted his chin, lowering his shoulders as he did; he stood at his full height and looked down at her.

  She pulled a book that had, until that moment, been standing on end on her desk. She even read it with care, and took a pen to mark something beside what was presumably his name. “Please take a seat,” she said, rising. “I’ll inform Jarven that you’ve arrived.”

  Curious, Haval thought, as he took one of a handful of chairs positioned in front of the desk—and therefore in front of the watchful eyes of the resident dragon. Curious, indeed.

  She took five minutes to return, during which time Haval sat. He observed the office itself; it was not, as one would expect, quiet. Paperwork flowed from one desk to another, often accompanied by curt instructions; there were at least eight men and women visible, all of whom looked harried. He recognized four—two women and two men; the others were new to him, although it was true that he seldom attempted to visit the Terafin Merchant Authority offices.

  He merited no more than a glance or two from the office workers, which was troubling, as he had adopted a posture that should have been worthy of none. Clearly, Lucille expected his presence to be noticed; she also expected it to be marked. For that reason, she was chilly upon her return, and her instructions, as she led him to the closed door of Jarven’s office, were loud and clear: Jarven was a busy man, and he didn’t have time to waste. Lucille was not, strictly speaking, incapable of being friendly, but it was not the trait for which she was known; she was known, instead, as a veritable dragon, and the Merchant Authority was her hoard. Her clipped, curt orders made of Haval Arwood a man among the multitudes of grasping—and useless—would-be entrepreneurs.

  She was, in her way, a consummate actress—a fact that Haval had never fully appreciated before today; she even closed the door a little bit too loudly at his back. She didn’t slam it; that would have been unprofessional. But no one in the exterior office could fail to mark it for the dismissal it was.

  He set that thought aside as he turned toward the room’s single desk. It was wider and longer than the desk Lucille occupied, and it looked as if it were a display piece; not a single paper was out of order. There was an inkstand, a quill, and a small stack of untouched paper in a tray; there were a few books that had been neatly organized and wedged between two large, marbled bookends.

  Haval glanced from the desk to the man who occupied the chair behind it. The years, until this moment, had been kind to Jarven ATerafin. Jarven watched his visitor in silence. After a moment, he gestured to the two chairs that faced the desk, and Haval nodded. He slid into the rightmost one; it was the farthest, by only a foot or two, from the desk itself.

  “ATerafin,” Haval said, lifting his chin.

  “Haval.” Jarven rose. The movement wasn’t graceful; the weight of age had descended at last. The man who theoretically ruled the Terafin offices in the Merchant Authority sought the refuge of the window, and the street-side view it offered, just as Haval might have done. “You’ve no doubt heard word?”

  “I am neither dead nor sleeping. Yes, I’ve heard.”

  “And what, exactly, have you heard? I admit that I haven’t the stomach for rumormongering, at the moment. Or rather, I haven’t the stomach to listen.”

  “I have heard only that The Terafin is dead,” was Haval’s cautious reply.

  “Truly?”

  “I speak of credible rumors.”

  “And those that lack credibility?”

  “I feel they are beneath notice, Jarven, and it pains me to repeat them.”

  “I will trouble you to take those pains.” He pushed the curtains aside and held them open while he watched the streets below the window.

  “Some have said she was assassinated.”

  Jarven said nothing.

  “Some have said she was executed by the Kings themselves.”

  More nothing. Since Haval was the master of silence, he bore up under it well, although it chaffed him. Jarven had always had that effect. “Some have said she was murdered by demons.”

  At that, Jarven lifted a hand, and Haval was suddenly grateful for the chair.

  “Have you heard any other rumors?”

  “There are no other rumors at the moment, Jarven.”

  The older man winced. “To be expected, I suppose.” He let the curtains drop, and turned to face his visitor. “You are perhaps wondering why I called you here.”

  “I am, indeed, although I be
lieve it was Lucille who instigated this meeting.”

  Jarven smiled, and if it was a faint smile, it was genuine. “And how much do you truly think my dragon instigates?”

  “Rumor,” Haval replied gravely, “implies that she owns the entirety of the Terafin Merchant arm that is not connected with the Royal Trade Commission.”

  “She has her hands full, at the moment.”

  “I noticed; the training of new employees is always trying; it is why I have none.”

  “Would you care for tea?” Jarven asked quietly.

  “Tea?”

  “Indeed.”

  “Perhaps. It’s been chilly these past few days. I wouldn’t find something stronger unacceptable.”

  “Ah. I might.”

  “Shall I fetch Lucille?”

  “No. I believe that I would like to walk, Haval. I’m in want only of company.”

  “If you consider a humble—”

  “Humble? You?”

  “—A humble dressmaker worthy company, I would be honored. I think Lucille’s approval will be withheld, however.”

  “Oh, probably. But it will give her something to fuss about.”

  Haval was politic enough not to point out that Lucille seldom lacked something to fuss about.

  Jarven’s version of a walk lasted until a carriage could be called. His simple tea didn’t take place in the Common; nor did it take place in any of the establishments located nearby. It required crossing the bridge to the Isle. Haval was surprised enough to allow Jarven to absorb the tax incurred by the bridge crossing. The carriage stopped outside of the Placid Sea.

  It was not an establishment with which Haval was intimately familiar, although it wouldn’t be the first time he’d crossed its threshold; it would, however, be the first time he had done so as a merchant.

  “My apologies,” Jarven said, when they were seated. “But the bustle of the Authority and the Common at the moment is something I wish to avoid.”

  “I can understand that,” Haval replied, “but I cannot stay for long.” He hesitated, and then said, “Hannerle has fallen to the sleeping sickness.”

  Jarven said nothing, although his expression softened. Haval wanted no sympathy, and where it was unwanted, it was impossible to offer. In its place, Jarven did something vaguely more disturbing; he set a small stone down on the center of the table, to one side of the bread basket. He tapped it three times.

  “Jarven, I want no difficulty,” Haval said, his voice softening, his expression hardening. “At this time, at my age, I cannot afford it. Do you understand?”

  “Is there a man anywhere who desires difficulty?”

  Haval said nothing. Wine arrived, handled by a silent man who immediately withdrew.

  “In the perfect world,” Jarven continued, as the waiter receded, “we would sit in our diminished, familiar domains; we would drink our tea and conduct our business—trade deals or dresses, it matters little—and we would think, and hope, for safety. We are neither of us young men.”

  “And in our imperfect world?”

  “We might—or perhaps you might—do the same.”

  “And you?”

  “The Terafin is dead,” Jarven replied, as if that were an answer.

  For Jarven, ATerafin for the majority of his life, it was. With obvious reluctance, Haval said, “Did she announce no heir?”

  “Not after the death of Alea, no. Even had she known that her life was in danger, it is unlikely in my opinion that she would make an open declaration.”

  Haval didn’t ask why. He had some suspicion, and he desired no confirmation.

  “Alowan is also dead.”

  “I…had heard rumors.” Almost against his will, and certainly against his better judgment, Haval added “You think there will be a struggle for the seat.”

  “You think otherwise?”

  Haval grimaced. “ATerafin, have I mentioned this is not a discussion I wish to have?”

  “Yes. But misery enjoys company.” Jarven lifted his glass by its stem and looked at Haval through the red transparency of wine.

  “Very well. I will keep you company in your misery, but not for much longer; I must return to Hannerle.” He hesitated, and then lifted his own glass, as if it were a shield.

  “There is one other piece of news that might not have reached your ears, given the remarkable din of current information.”

  Haval was now weary of the game—of all games; mention of Hannerle’s name had robbed them of their glitter. It was his wont to control the flow of conversation; to guide it, as if he were stone and words were a small stream he could part. With Jarven, however, it was always a contest, because Jarven desired to exert the same control. There was no such thing as small talk between the two men. Even if one of the two made the attempt, it would never be trusted; every word, every nuance, and every silence would be weighed, examined, tested. It was the nature of the game.

  “The presence of the Twin Kings at the manse on the purported day of The Terafin’s assassination?”

  “Ah, no. You do have decent sources; I will grant you that point. It is true.”

  “The current near-war between the Houses of Healing and Avantari?”

  “Between Healer Levec and Avantari. No, but again, I will grant you the point.”

  “The presence of demons in Terafin? I grant you that the last point is given very little credence in more intellectual circles—which is possibly why it’s been spread at all.”

  Jarven was silent again.

  “What news?” Haval finally asked, as if the words had been dragged out of him.

  Jarven reached out and tapped the stone again; he did not remove it from the table. His expression as he met Haval’s gaze was as smooth and neutral as Jarven’s many lines and wrinkles allowed. “Jewel ATerafin has returned from the South.”

  There were sounds in the room, but they were the sounds that any room contained: breath, stifled movements, breeze through curtains. For a moment, two men for whom words were both weapon and art were in want of words. But when one discussed matters of import, words had to be handled with care.

  “When?” Haval finally asked. He expected Jarven to hesitate.

  “On the day The Terafin was murdered.” Each word was blunt and guileless. Jarven was capable of honesty, as was Haval; capable did not, however, imply probable.

  “Some word would have reached—”

  “Word will,” Jarven continued. “But she did not arrive by road or vessel.”

  “How, then?”

  “Magic,” was Jarven’s soft reply.

  Haval knew enough about magic to know that such arrival—if indeed the claim was true—would be costly in many, many ways. “And how certain are you of your sources?”

  “Haval, that is almost beneath you.”

  “It is, I admit, lacking in subtlety.”

  “I am entirely certain of my source in this case; it was an eyewitness to the events.” He did not warn Haval that this must not travel farther than this room; the stone which he’d placed upon the table had already made that clear. Nor did the dressmaker ask who the eyewitness was. For one, Jarven wouldn’t answer and might actually be offended, and more important, Haval now knew.

  Haval weighed words, weighed questions, and watched his only audience. “You know who the contenders for the title are.”

  Jarven nodded; they did not exchange names.

  “Tell me, Jarven, is Jewel among them?”

  “If she were?”

  “Pardon?”

  Jarven winced. “Sloppy. That was sloppy, but you are under some stress at the moment, and I will allow myself to forget it.”

  Haval drank the wine. He seldom drank. It was a passable vintage. “What are you asking of me? In the event that she could be considered a contender—and given her background, that claim would be both tenuous and more readily contested—I would remain a dressmaker. What, exactly, do you feel my relevance would be?”

  “A question you must, at th
is moment, be asking yourself. Come, Haval, it would not be the first time you have offered advice to Jewel ATerafin.”

  “The advice offered her was advice about clothing, Jarven.”

  “Ah.”

  “Clothing and appearance.”

  “I see.”

  Haval snorted. In the endless minutes since Jarven had made his announcement, facts had begun to mesh and combine; he could no more stop this process than he could resist falling should he happen to jump off a cliff. Names, unspoken, came to him in a list: Rymark. Haerrad. Elonne. Marrick. Of the four, Rymark had one singular advantage: he was the son of Gabriel ATerafin, the former Terafin’s right-kin, and therefore the most trusted man on the House Council. Haerrad had strong merchant concerns, and access to the most obvious money. Elonne was a quiet, elegant woman; she had poise and a ready wit, and she, too, had her own base of power within the House. Marrick, Haval knew less well; Marrick was genial, slightly underdressed, and charismatic in a very avuncular way. Nothing about Marrick implied either power or danger.