Haerrad opened his mouth, thought better of words, and closed it again.
The fourth day of Henden was set as the first day of the funeral rites.
The first day. As a concept, this was new to Jewel. Glancing at Teller and Finch, she saw signs of a similar lack of comprehension, but they, like she, kept their ignorance to themselves, alleviating it by inference as they listened. The funeral rites of monarchs and Exalted were, apparently, extended to the ruling head of each of The Ten, from the greatest to the least, and one day did not suffice to allow the correct respect—and presumed grief—of the populace to be shown.
Therefore the first day was given to grief and respect, and it was the first day rites that would almost certainly draw every man, woman, and child of power or notable rank in the City through the Terafin gates. The House Council agreed on a staggering sum of money to be devoted to the grounds and the manse itself in preparation for those three days; had they the luxury of time, the sum would, of course, be less.
Jewel, who hated the extravagance of excessive pomp and display, could find no voice to raise objection. This was for The Terafin, and it would be seen. It wouldn’t be seen by Amarais, but it didn’t matter. She wanted the world to know just how valued, how important, how beloved The Terafin had been, and if the world operated on money, she would live with that.
Of course, it wasn’t about Amarais for much of the House Council. They were jackals, carrion creatures; they wanted the House. It was about the House itself. Respect paid to The Terafin accrued to the House they wanted to rule in the very near future. She hated the conflation of respect and grief with bolstering their own future identities—it made her want to scream in fury.
She didn’t. She swallowed the rage, instead—because she knew that half of it was directed at herself. She came home too late. She had known what The Terafin faced—and she left her to face it alone. There had been demons and death in the South; things ancient and terrifying. But nothing she had seen in the South seemed to justify her absence from the House—and the death of The Terafin only confirmed its pointlessness.
“The second order of business.” Gabriel’s crisp, clear voice broke her train of thought—and she wanted it broken. She dragged her gaze from the surface of the Council Hall table and fastened it onto the man who had been right-kin. But she glanced at Rymark on the way; he was silent, his expression angrier than it had been. He did not rise; he did not raise hand or voice; he did not call upon the House Council to once again witness his presentation of claim.
“In the absence of an acclaimed House Ruler, House Terafin will require a regent. I assume there is an absence of such acclaim.”
Silence.
Haerrad, grinning, said, “Clearly.”
“The House Council will now entertain the claims of those who feel they are worthy to rule House Terafin.”
Elonne rose first. She rose slowly, gracefully, deliberately. She gave the entire Council table one steady measured glance. “I am Elonne Derranoste ATerafin. I have been responsible for the merchant routes along the Southern Annagarian coast, and to the Western Kingdoms, and if the Council deems it wise, I will lead Terafin.”
Gabriel did not call for a vote. Gerridon ATerafin rose. He was a junior Council member, although he was no longer the Junior Council member; that was reserved for Finch. Or Teller. “I offer support to Elonne’s claim.”
“Thank you, Councillor,” Gabriel said. Gerridon sat.
Haerrad rose next, but he waited until Elonne had fully resumed her seat to do so. “I am Haerrad Jorgan ATerafin. The more difficult landlocked routes in the Dominion have been mine; they have prospered, even during the war. In my hands, Terafin will likewise prosper, regardless of events that occur outside our domain.”
Sabienne ATerafin rose from across the table. “I will support Haerrad’s claim,” she said quietly. “Given the manner of both Alowan and The Terafin’s deaths, a Lord who retains his power during martial difficulties is necessary.”
“Thank you, Councillor.”
Haerrad took longer to sit than Elonne had.
Marrick rose third. He was the only man to smile at the Council table, but it was a restrained smile, for Marrick. “I am Marrick Bennett ATerafin,” he said, bowing slightly. “I am not, it is true, martial—but during my tenure as Councillor, I have made gains within the Queens’ Court, on behalf of the House, and within the Makers’ Guild; Guildmaster ADelios has thrice in the past year accepted invitations to the House—when they have come from me. Such are the alliances I have built, and will continue to build, to strengthen Terafin when I rule.”
To Jewel’s slight surprise, Iain ATerafin rose. Of those who had taken a stand, he was the oldest. His hair was white. His clothing was neat, tidy, and entirely unremarkable; it was neither too fine nor too coarse. He was, according to Teller, very good at his job—which involved the internal financial workings of the manse itself. He rarely raised his voice, but no one doubted that he had a spine; the Master of the Household Staff reported to him when more staff was required, in her opinion. She did not always get that staff, and Iain was demonstrably still alive.
“I support Marrick in his claim,” Iain said quietly. Of the support offered, Iain’s was the most significant, and judging by the expression on Haerrad’s face, Jewel was not the only person to be surprised.
“Thank you, Councillor,” Gabriel said. He gazed across the table.
Rymark, his son, rose. “I am Rymark Garriston ATerafin. I claim the right of rule by designation.”
“By designation,” Haerrad said, pushing himself up from the table in obvious anger. “Now that the Kings do not crowd our shoulders, let us see your document.”
“It is in the keeping of Gabriel ATerafin.”
All eyes turned to Gabriel. Gabriel met his son’s angry gaze, and it seemed to Jewel that it was Gabriel who blinked first. But if he did, he did not then produce the offensive document Haerrad had demanded. He said, instead, “Who stands as Rymark Garriston ATerafin’s second?”
Verdian ATerafin stood. She was very much a younger version of Elonne, although her hair was paler, and her eyes gray; she was, and had always been, striking. She served as liaison with the Port Authority. “I support Rymark ATerafin’s claim.”
“Very well. It must now be asked: will three of you cede your claim to any other?”
Silence.
Gabriel nodded; the answer—or lack—was not a surprise to anyone who crowded this room. “Put forth your nominations for regent.”
Teller rose. “I nominate Gabriel Garriston ATerafin as regent. He has served as right-kin for decades, and he knows the political affiliates of the House, and its internal structure, well. If the office of right-kin becomes the office of Regent, there will be very little disruption in House Business, as seen from the outside.”
Haerrad drew breath, which usually served as a warning. But Haerrad’s supporter, Sabienne, rose. “I will second that nomination. Gabriel ATerafin has chosen to support no claim to the House Seat; he has made no claim himself. Both of these facts are necessary in any Regent the Council now chooses—and only those who are otherwise very Junior could claim to do neither. The strongest members of this Council cannot take the Regency cleanly—if at all. Gabriel has the experience necessary to guide the House while the Council considers all claimants, and their worth.”
She sat.
Haerrad did not speak further, although Jewel imagined there would be many words said after the meeting was at last over.
Gabriel said, “I will accept the nomination with a clear understanding that when The Terafin is chosen, I will retire.”
“And if you do not serve as Regent?” Teller asked.
“I will retire now. A man cannot be right-kin to more than one Lord in his life.”
It was Teller who now turned to the table, in much the same way. “Gabriel ATerafin as regent,” he said clearly and in a voice Jewel hardly recognized. “Vote.”
Chapter Two
28th of Corvil, 427 A.A.
The Common, Averalaan
THE SIGN ON THE SHOP’S closed door didn’t look promising: Closed for business due to family emergency. Jewel hesitated, and glanced briefly at the length of the shadows that now pooled at their feet. Four sets of feet: Avandar’s, hers, Finch’s, and Teller’s. To say she’d had a sleepless night wouldn’t have been entirely accurate, but it was close, and at the moment, she wanted nothing so much as to crawl back into the carriage, out of the carriage, and into her room in the West Wing of the Terafin manse. It was cool in the city, even in the sun, although early morning sun was seldom warm in any season but summer.
Teller and Finch exchanged a glance; Jewel caught it because she was watching them. They’d clearly learned to rely on each other a lot in her absence; she wondered if either of them was aware of how much.
“What should we do?” Finch finally asked—this time of Jewel.
Jewel winced. The idea that the shop would be closed on the sixth day of the week hadn’t even occurred to her.
“There are other shops,” Teller offered. It was tentative. “We could choose one of them.”
Not choosing one was not an option. As House Council members, no matter how junior—and although Jewel was young, she was not so junior as all that—they had no choice but to dress “appropriately” for singular and important occasions. Jewel often minded the fuss and the expense, which she considered a colossal waste, given how many starving people that money could be used to feed, but not this time.
This time, she needed funereal clothing for The Terafin, and it was the last such display of respect she could give the woman who had saved, and changed, all of their lives.
For years now, Haval had made—had insisted on making—all of the significant clothing in Jewel’s life. He traded gossip as it pleased him for the custom of House Terafin, as he liked to call it, and she traded the same, probably more recklessly. Haval was slippery, canny, and shrewd. He also disliked emergency work, and as all three of them needed suitable attire before the fourth day of Henden, this was an emergency. It was a costly one, or would be, by the time he was done.
If he accepted the commission at all.
Jewel stared at the sign for a long moment, and then she reached up for the bell pull and began to yank at it as if it were a lifeline and she were drowning. She pulled for five minutes and the store failed to come to life.
“Jay,” Teller began. He stopped. Through the window with its precisely lettered sign, he saw movement from the back of the store. The shadow resolved itself into a familiar figure, his face completely free of any expression at all.
Jewel stepped away from the door as he approached it. She glanced once at the sign, and once at her nerveless hand, still wrapped around the bell pull. The hand, she removed. Haval opened the door.
In the morning light, she thought he looked pale, his skin stretched and delicate with wrinkles. Certainly his eyes were ringed with dark circles. But he was Haval; the momentary expression of age or fragility cracked and shattered as he smiled. He even bowed, standing in the doorway. “Jewel,” he said.
It was bad. She knew it was bad. He usually remembered to call her Jay except when he was offering subtle—or not so subtle—advice. But Haval was one of nature’s natural liars. After five minutes in his presence—even if he was circumspect and near-silent—anyone would believe anything he chose. Anything at all.
She’d never learned enough about Haval to know, clearly, when he was lying; the only time she could catch him was when her own gift, her own “natural” talent, emerged. Avandar was better at reading the inscrutable dressmaker. But Avandar was silent and near-invisible, as he always was in Haval’s presence.
“Are you—are you really closed for business?” Jewel managed to ask, when Haval rose from his deep and embarrassingly perfect bow.
“I am, at the moment, very busy—but I am not entirely adverse to commissions from valuable customers.” He stepped away from the door. “Please, come in.” He didn’t remove the sign, however. “I would like to speak in the back room. If we are seen in the front, people will question the veracity of my carefully scribed sign.”
“You…heard that I was back,” Jewel said, following where he led.
“Yes. If knowledge of your return concerns you, take comfort in the fact that it is buried beneath much larger news.” He paused, turned, and said, “Ah, forgive my lack of tact, ATerafin. I’ve slept very little these past two days, and I am not at my best.”
She nodded, and took the opening he’d offered. “Actually, we’re here because of the larger news.”
“We?” He glanced at Teller and Finch. His gaze—as always—slid past Avandar.
“Finch, Teller, and I. The funeral begins on the fourth, and we need clothing appropriate to our station within the House—for however long we actually manage to keep said station.” She could now feel Avandar’s chilly glare boring a hole through the back of her head, and ignored it.
She expected some sign of outrage, because while Haval was perfectly willing to work on tight deadlines, he detested them, and made it known—usually by charging vastly more than he otherwise would. He said nothing; instead he turned and continued his slower than usual march into the back room.
Jewel stopped in the doorframe. Teller walked into her back. The room was almost spotless. There were a total of five chairs, two tables, and a solid, respectable desk. Bolts of cloth rested against the wall opposite the door, admittedly in several high piles; boxes and jars held beads of various colors. There were even small tables of the type that were easily moved, and upon which tea was usually set in a pinch.
“Ah, you’ve noticed,” Haval said, as she snapped her jaw shut.
Of all the things she’d heard or witnessed since her return, this—small, trivial, politically unimportant—shocked her the most. In all of her years of coming to Haval’s shop, she had never, ever seen the back room so tidy. It was almost as if…Haval didn’t live here anymore.
But Haval was standing there, breathing and speaking, his hands by his sides. She raised her eyes to meet his gaze, and her own hands tightened into fists. “Haval,” she said quietly, “where’s Hannerle?”
“She is currently indisposed. Please, take a seat.”
“No.”
“ATerafin?”
“No. Where is she? How is she indisposed?”
“That is more personal than I wish to be at the moment, and frankly, if I accept your commission, we will have no time for trivial details.” He walked to his desk, opened a drawer, and fished out a measure.
“How long has she been indisposed?”
“Jewel,” Avandar said, before Haval could sidestep the question for a second time. “The question is inappropriate; Master Haval has given the whole of the reply he wishes to give at the present time.”
Jewel nodded and took a seat. Avandar, however, wasn’t fooled. He came to stand by her side, and he placed one hand on her shoulder. Haval gestured Teller into the center of the room, and Teller, in a silence tinged with compassion, lifted his arms and turned obligingly in whichever direction Haval indicated. Finch did likewise, first shedding one layer of clothing at Haval’s request.
But when it was Jewel’s turn, although she stood as requested, she failed to keep silent. “Is she sleeping, Haval?”
He heard the question, she’d said it so close to his ear. But there was no change at all in his breathing, no shift of muscles to alter his expression. He took the measurements, writing each down with fastidious care. He didn’t even fail to meet her eyes—he did, several times. But there was nothing to acknowledge the question, no indication that she’d either hit or missed.
His hand was steady as he wrote down the numbers that reduced her to a size with which he could work.
“Haval.”
“I have what I need at the moment; if you wish to choose appropriate cloth, please do.”
“We’ll leave it up to you. You�
�re still better at it.” She turned toward the door as he set aside all of his measurements. “Haval—”
He lifted a hand. “I think it advisable to refuse your commission, but against my better judgment, I will accept it. Do not make me regret my generosity.”
“How much will your generosity cost?”
A shadow of a smile touched his lips. “Not more than three times what the work would have cost had you the time to plan ahead. I will have to visit House Terafin when I have something to actually fit.”
“We can come here,” she began.
“I think, in this case, it would be less difficult for me to attend you there.”
“There’ll be more people listening there.”
“Yes. But I will say nothing that will not bore the listeners, and you will be forced to do the same.”
Skirmish: A House War Novel Page 7