Skirmish: A House War Novel

by West, Michelle

  What there was of the fight wouldn’t last long. The fight ranged over desks; papers had been scattered, letter trays almost bisected; books had fallen into awkward heaps, facedown on the floor. Duvari had no armor, and the room was tight and small; he could dodge. The Chosen, however, fought two on one—it should have been over quickly.

  But it wasn’t, and one of the Chosen was injured. Jewel didn’t recognize the House Guard; it didn’t matter. She couldn’t see Gabriel, and she couldn’t see Avandar. Turning, she stuck her head out of the large hole bisecting the doors. “Sigurne!”

  It was not, however, Sigurne who answered the urgent call, and she should have been surprised at who did: Celleriant. He wore chain that caught light in a cascade of muted, metallic color, and he carried his sword. She cursed. He smiled.

  It was not his wild, sharp smile. “Lord,” he said.

  She wasn’t up to the task of reprimanding him for the use of an honorific she disdained. “Help Duvari and the Chosen. Do not kill if you can avoid it; we want them alive.” She leaped out of the office to make way for Celleriant, and ran behind Barston’s desk to Teller’s office.

  The door was already open, and Teller stood in its frame. “Jay?”

  She lifted her hand, gesturing quickly and wildly. His brows rose and he moved past her to where Barston now stood. “ATerafin,” the secretary said. “Jewel.”

  “He’s not in his office. Was he?”

  “He was.”

  “Was he with anyone?”

  “He was.” Barston was pale, but the pale was grim; his hands had clenched in fists by his sides.

  “Who? Who, Barston?”

  Barston gestured at the appointment book; Teller slid around him and flipped it open. He read Barston’s meticulous writing and shut the book again.

  “Teller?”

  Not now. The gesture was sharp, short; it looked like a fidget. “Jay?”

  She was thinking. Thinking, in this room, was difficult. She looked for Sigurne and saw the guildmaster; to her surprise, Matteos had somehow materialized while she’d been in the chaos of Gabriel’s office. They were both standing over the prone form of the woman who had cried out and fallen, clutching her head. Rymark ATerafin, however, was nowhere to be seen.

  Was Gabriel injured? She closed her eyes. Avandar was gone; Avandar had blown a hole through the doors to gain entry, and Avandar had definitely entered them. If he was gone—not dead—he’d left voluntarily. Which meant he’d probably taken Gabriel with him.

  There would be two reasons to do that: to take him out of the reach of the assassins—the assassins dressed as cursed House Guards—or to take him into reach of healers. Would he go to Levec? Would he risk that?

  No. No, not here. Not now. That left two: Daine and Adam. She wasn’t even certain which would be worse. Daine had adopted Alowan’s healerie without making a single change; he was as vulnerable there as Alowan himself had been. Adam was in the West Wing, which was as protected—she hoped—as any other place in the manse. But Gabriel didn’t know about Adam, and if he was injured in a way that required healing, he would—

  Unless Levec hadn’t left yet.

  She lifted the hand at her side just beneath Teller’s gaze. Gestured. “Barston,” she said, in a more formal voice, “don’t worry. I’ll find him.”

  To her surprise, Barston nodded. “Take Teller with you.”

  “You don’t—”

  “No. Take him with you—but keep him safe.”

  “Always,” she replied.

  They raced down the hall toward the medium-sized function room that was used for formal dining. Teller kept an eye out, as if they were once again casing the Common. He didn’t speak; neither did Jay. He knew where she was going, and how she intended to get there. The function rooms weren’t locked because they were going to be in use in just two days. They were consequently not empty; servants were out in force, cleaning, polishing, and moving bits and pieces of furniture. The damn ladders were also everywhere.

  She glanced at Teller. Tail?

  No.

  She nodded and headed into the corner of the room farthest from the door. Because it wasn’t empty, she didn’t make it all the way there without being stopped; because Kalliaris was smiling, the Master of the Household Staff was somewhere else, making some other part of the servant corps’ lives miserable hell. And because she knew Carver, who in turn knew every single servant on staff these days, she recognized the older man who stopped her brisk walk toward the door that was used by servants, and servants only.

  “ATerafin,” he said, tendering a very proper bow. It wasn’t technically required unless they were both in the presence of outsiders, because he also bore the House Name—and in Jewel’s private opinion did a much better job of it, at least in terms of dignity.

  “Berald,” she replied. She didn’t bow because hers would be inferior.

  He winced, and glanced around. Some of the other servants were close by, but appeared to be engrossed in their assigned tasks. They were; the servants here had no difficulty both working and eavesdropping. They took an inordinate interest in the lives—especially the private lives—of the manse’s many occupants. Given the work, Jewel couldn’t blame them. “You know you are forbidden the use of the back halls,” he said, in a severe voice.

  “Yes. I know. But we’re in a bit of a pinch here. Someone just tried to assassinate me in the right-kin’s office.”

  His iron-gray brows rose into his hairline, and unlike many men his age, he had lots of hair. True, his hair was tightly pulled back off his face at the moment; it wasn’t when he was off duty. “And you’ve come here?”

  “Obviously. I need to get back to my wing, I need to do it now, and I need to do it in a way that’s not easily watched by outsiders. This is the only one I could think of, and I don’t have a lot of time to argue—I’ve just enough to beg. Please, Ber. Please.”

  “You understand that this job is my life?”

  “I do.”

  He closed his eyes and looked, for a moment, as if he were praying for patience. Or wisdom. Ber favored Cormaris. “Go. You’ve ten seconds to get out of my sight.”

  Once they hit the cramped, narrow halls with the much lower ceilings and the total lack of windows in all but the terminal points, they could run. They did. On a normal day, it would have been a hazard; on this one, two day before every single member of the patriciate was to convene to pay their final respects to The Terafin, the servants’ halls were empty. Jewel knew the way to her apartments from here. She didn’t have the servants’ keys, but she didn’t need them; she could pick these locks with a hairpin in a pinch. These were the only doors on which she could practice anymore, although admittedly keeping in practice hadn’t been high on her list of duties in recent years.

  They entered the large function room very quietly; the servants’ door, which was also built into the paneling in a way that made it near invisible from the outside, was always kept well oiled. Jewel suspected that the hinges had somehow been enchanted for silence.

  The great room wasn’t empty. Levec was kneeling on the ground beside one of the long reclining seats; the occupant of that seat was a pale Gabriel ATerafin. Avandar loomed above them both, arms folded.

  All three looked toward her as she approached. Gabriel, however, said, “Teller?”

  “Barston insisted I accompany Jewel when he realized you weren’t…in your office.”

  “I see. How is Barston?”

  “He’s been worse.”

  Jewel turned to Teller as her jaw attempted to slide free of her face. “He’s been worse?”

  “Yes. Don’t ask. Assassination attempts—as long as they fail—aren’t his responsibility; they didn’t occur because of anything his staff did, or did not, do.”

  “The appointment book?”

  “I didn’t say he looked well; I said he’s been worse.”

  Avandar cleared his throat, which ended that discussion. “ATerafin, I see you are still
alive.”

  “I am. The demon isn’t.”

  Gabriel’s eyes closed. “Your domicis said you were attacked.”

  She nodded. “I’m not sure if you were the target or if I was.”

  “How so?”

  She looked, very pointedly, at his bloodied shirt. The fabric was sliced clean through, but the skin—and she could see skin clearly—was whole. “They may have assumed that if I were under attack at the same moment, whatever erratic vision I possess wouldn’t give me a clear warning about you. Which sort of implies they know I’m seer-born and also have no clear idea of how the talent actually works.”

  “You’re certain the two are connected?”

  “I was sent a message; you wanted to speak with me in your office, and it was urgent.”

  “I…see. Who delivered it?”

  “We are working on that now,” was Avandar’s smooth reply. He was watching Jewel intently, and she wasn’t certain why.

  “Levec?”

  “It was not likely to be instantly fatal,” was the healer’s quiet reply. “But there may have been secondary infection concerns from the wound, given where it was.” He rose. He did not look happy—but he was Levec; happiness wasn’t one of his public emotions. According to Adam, it was one of his private ones, but Jewel had her doubts.

  Unhappy or no, he was clearly exhausted. Jewel headed toward him; he lifted a large hand to ward her off. It was shaking. She stopped instantly, and examined the dark circles under his eyes. To Avandar, she said, “Get water and something bland for him to eat.”

  Avandar raised a brow, and she realized he wasn’t actually in much better shape at the moment than the healer; he was just much, much better at keeping it to himself. Teller, however, walked quickly out of the room’s main doors.

  “Duvari?” Avandar asked.

  “He’ll be fine.” But even answering, her gaze slid to Levec. This type of question, Avandar could have asked in silence; he’d deliberately chosen not to, which said something. Once again, what it said wasn’t immediately clear. “The Chosen were there. The assassins were dressed as House Guards?”

  Gabriel nodded uneasily, which answered more than the question she’d asked. They weren’t only attired as House Guards; they were House Guards.

  “Why aren’t you using the Chosen?”

  His silence was exactly wrong, and when he broke it, he failed to answer. “Your assassin?”

  “Mine? Oh. Mine. I think he was a stablehand or maybe a gardener. I know it wouldn’t be hard to get a stranger in through the gardening staff.” She glanced at Levec. “Is it okay to have this discussion?”

  “If he were in my domain, I would forbid it,” was the gruff reply. “But he is demonstrably not a patient in the Houses of Healing. You were uninjured?”

  His pointed glare at the height of her sleeve made her look down and wince. “Yes. He just cut cloth.”

  The door to the great room opened. In it were Teller, Ellerson, and a very alert Devon. Ellerson carried a tray. Entering the room he made his way to Levec’s side—and the small table to one side of the lounge chair. Setting the tray down, he lifted the heavy, silvered pitcher in its center and poured what Jewel assumed was water into a glass; this he handed to Levec.

  “ATerafin,” he then said. Both Gabriel and Jewel looked up at him. “Devon ATerafin has arrived to question you about the possible whereabouts of the regent; the Lord of the Compact is…concerned.”

  “Devon,” Gabriel said quietly. “Tell the Lord of the Compact I am both safe and—” he glanced at Avandar, “—secure, for the moment. I would be in your debt if you could also inform my secretary of the same.”

  “I can carry that message,” Teller offered.

  Both Devon and Gabriel swiveled to look at him; neither accepted. Jewel lifted a hand in brief sign, and Teller winced, but nodded. To Devon, she said, “Duvari is probably still in the office of the right-kin. If he’s not, I don’t want to know where he is. I need—I need about fifteen minutes. I’ll be back.”

  She made it five feet. Avandar was on her heels at the sixth. “Where,” he asked, in the tone of voice she least liked, “do you think you’re going?”

  “To check on the cats. If you feel like subjecting yourself to gratuitous insults, please feel free to accompany me.”

  Sigurne Mellifas had never particularly cared for the Lord of the Compact. She was, however, aware that he was a necessity, and on most days could be polite, respectful, and civil in his presence. In fairness to herself—and at this juncture, any fairness was of dubious value—she seldom encountered Duvari carrying a blooded sword. She was aware—as were all who had encountered the Lord of the Compact—that he was in theory a capable man, where capable in this case involved both self-defense and the ability to kill quickly and efficiently. It was seldom, however, that she was called upon to witness the effects of his vaunted and yet unknown training.

  She was underimpressed.

  Matteos, by her side, was not; he was far too grim, far too angered, to find the detachment necessary. His anger, however, was entirely contained behind the compressed line of his lips and his narrowed gaze. The Chosen had come, in numbers; both of the Captains—Arrendas and Torvan—at their head. They entered an office that was now largely vacated; the regent’s unfortunate secretary was still present, and appeared to be attempting to remove a dagger from the frame of a painting. Sigurne almost winced on his behalf as she recognized the painting and the artist. She noted, however, that the long knife embedded in the desk remained where it was standing.

  The Captains of the Chosen treated Duvari with all the diffidence due the partially invisible. They ascertained that the dead were indeed Terafin. Barston informed them that the regent had survived the attack, and was now resting in an undisclosed location until further notice, which annoyed Arrendas, and skittered off Torvan. They examined the seared carpet and the remnants of what had once been a demon—of minor power, in Sigurne’s opinion, although she felt it politic at the moment not to emphasize this point. They were diplomatic when speaking with the guildmaster, because the matter of magic and writs was not the business of the Chosen; it would be Gabriel’s business—and Duvari’s.

  Duvari, however, grudgingly executed his very broad writ of exemption. It was the only time in Sigurne’s long career that she had been grateful for that breadth; she had argued against it biannually for as long as she had held her office, a fact that was not lost on Duvari. Nor, sadly, was the presence of the unconscious Brialle. She was not dressed as a member of the Order, and clearly neither of the Captains of the Chosen recognized her. Were it not for the presence of Duvari, Sigurne might easily have claimed that the woman had fainted in fear at the sudden outburst of both violence and magic. Brialle was a mage of the Second Circle, but she was young and her power had never been adequately tested, in Sigurne’s opinion. Given her actions here, it was unlikely that it would be now—not in a way that did not end in someone’s death.

  Duvari, however, was speaking with Barston about the matter of Rymark ATerafin’s use of magic. Duvari could, if bold, go directly to Rymark to demand a writ of exemption—but given that the target of Rymark’s magical fire had been the demon, it was unlikely that the writ would be withheld. Sigurne, however, resented it briefly; she disliked the paperwork and the discussion demanded by such a writ, because writs granted after the fact were far more political and far more time-consuming.

  “Why, exactly, did you elect to reside in the Terafin manse until the close of the funeral rites?” Matteos asked softly.

  “I thought it would simplify things, and, if I am being honest, I desired a small break from paperwork.” Sigurne’s smile was grim and brittle.

  Matteos eyed Brialle. “How long will she be out?”

  “I am not entirely certain. She will not wake soon.”

  He raised a brow.

  “I wished to apprehend a criminal; I was not perhaps as cautious as I might be were I in the teaching labs. We will
need to contact the Mysterium,” she added.

  “We will need to get out from under the Lord of the Compact.”

  Sigurne frowned and Matteos once again fell silent, regarding Brialle. “Go,” she finally told Matteos. “Have Eranil summoned; tell him who we have in custody and tell him to be prepared. I will wait upon Duvari.”

  Matteos clearly wanted to argue, but they had been together for decades; he knew when he could be protective and when he must surrender that role. It chaffed. The magi did not have Chosen, but had they, Matteos would have been their Captain. He nodded and retreated from the room while she watched.