Skirmish: A House War Novel

by West, Michelle

  If Duvari looked ill-pleased, he did as Haval requested. Haval continued to watch as The Wayelyn offered Jewel an exaggerated performance of a bow. The bow did not please his minders, to be sure, but it was entirely within character. He rose; Jewel had not offered him a hand to kiss, which was unfortunate. He would have to speak to her about that later. “Have you made certain that the magi are watching the arrivals?” he asked, without taking his eyes off the unfolding discussion. He couldn’t hear a word at this distance without magical intervention, and while he was not above its use, only Duvari and his operatives would be granted the necessary permissions in this House, on this day.

  Snow was conversing with The Wayelyn, and to Haval’s amazement, the head of one of The Ten now burst into song. This voice was not a natural voice; it was tinged by the talent that usually drove men and women to the bardic colleges. He therefore had a tenor’s natural range, but could stretch his voice to reach lower tones; Haval wasn’t certain if this was done with ease or not, but it didn’t matter; it was done and made to appear effortless. His song, unlike his conversation, carried the full distance.

  Haval couldn’t resist a glance at Duvari’s expression; it was stone.

  Jewel reddened, but as the song continued, whatever embarrassment or hesitation marred that first reaction slowly melted, like snow at the start of spring. What song was he singing now? Haval frowned. It sounded like a children’s song, a children’s rhyme—about a young girl searching for her young man in an enchanted and dangerous land. It wasn’t—quite—doggerel, but in Haval’s opinion, came close.

  But when he heard:

  Leaves three, she carried, carried, three leaves

  Winter Silver, Summer Gold, Earth’s Grief

  Leaves three, she carried, carried, three leaves

  To find him, to show him the way

  His eyes rounded. Why, he thought, that song, and why to Jewel, now? Haval closed his eyes briefly when the cursed cat leaped off the ground, spreading his wings like contained storm. The Wayelyn, however, did not pause; he sang, now, of the hidden ways, the darkest road, and the nightmare bower that waited. If it were not for the sudden interruption of one of his minders—Haval thought it the wife, Akyna—he might have continued. Most lays of this nature were quite long, and Haval very much doubted they were appropriate for the venue, or at least the context—but he did not doubt that the bard-born voice of the Wayelyn might carry the day.

  Had the bardmaster been closer, she might have prevented it, though; she had all of her bards on as tight a leash as one could reasonably expect bards to accept. The Wayelyn, trained under her predecessor, was the exception; he was a bard who no longer owed allegiance to Senniel College, although he was reputed to favor it highly. Akyna then spoke a few words with Jewel; judging by expression alone, many of them were apologies. Jewel, however, was gracious; Haval thought her unoffended once the initial surprise had faded. She did, however, lift head and speak curtly—and clearly—to Snow, who affected not to hear her.

  The shout did nothing to enhance her dignity; the fact that she was speaking to a large, flying cat—an obviously magical creature—served to mitigate. Yes, Haval thought, the three days promised to be interesting.

  So it went. The eight remaining House Leaders met with Jewel. They spoke, of course, with the regent first—all but Wayelyn, who spoke with the regent last—and spent a few moments in discourse with the significant members of the Terafin House Council; they understood, as well as Duvari did, the nature of the conflict likely to arise within the House at the end of the funeral rites. They did not choose sides, although he was certain at least two of The Ten would attempt to offer money or support to prolong the struggle; a long battle for the House Seat would almost certainly weaken Terafin’s position on the Council of The Ten, allowing other Houses to assume a more prominent role. But as they were not yet certain who would occupy that seat, they treated all of the House Council of any note as if they were to become worthy rivals.

  Of The Ten, two leaders were absent: Kalakar and Berrilya, swallowed at the Kings’ command by the war in the South. Kalakar had, according to rumor, been as much a Terafin ally as one could expect upon a Council of the ambitious and the powerful. In their stead, senior members of their individual House Councils fulfilled their responsibilities, but their absence was a reminder that life—and war—continued unabated beyond the bounds of this singular House, this singular death.

  Perhaps Jewel needed the reminder. She was in a strange state of suspension, in Haval’s opinion; she moved and acted as if she stood upon ground that, at any moment, might break beneath her feet. She could turn in place, but at most she took a single, uncommitted step outside of her small zone of safety, hiding behind the necessary respect for the woman who had been her mentor.

  Or perhaps, just perhaps, he was being unfair. Watching her at a distance, in a dress that had not pleased her in the slightest, she stood as tall as her negligible height allowed, and if she was not perfect in her control, she was—for Jewel Markess ATerafin—as close as she had yet come. Was it enough?

  He watched her as she spoke with The Korisama, a man who affected an almost Southern style of dress in prominent, public places. Today was not to be the exception; the colors he wore were white and midnight blue, not black. Only in the Dominion of Annagar did such colors signify mourning or loss. There and in House Korisama itself. Jewel, however, seemed to take no offense at the departure from Imperial tradition; she seemed to understand its meaning.

  The Korisama was quiet, and from a distance, respectful. Jewel extended the same courtesy, albeit not for long; the Houses gathered, but so, too, the significant and powerful among the merchants and the guilds. They gravitated toward her as word of her attire and her companions spread.

  Haval’s attention slid from his young charge toward the House Council members he considered a possible threat. Harraed kept his distance, although he did deign to speak with significant members of the patriciate. Haval recognized two that lingered longest: Servalis and Daetton. They were not of The Ten, of course, but their prominence in the Merchants’ Guild was unassailable; they were part of its governing body. So.

  His gaze moved on, to Rymark ATerafin, and stopped there. Rymark was not in conversation with anyone of significance—but he was in conversation, briefly, with someone Haval failed to recognize. Rymark’s arrogance and his disregard for the common class was a hallmark of his personality; if he had words to offer someone insignificant enough that Haval would fail to recognize him, they were offered in disdain or disregard.

  But he was clearly engaged with this one man. Haval turned to the Lord of the Compact, still present. It warmed his heart—in a manner of speaking—to see that Duvari had both followed the direction of his own observation and had arrived at the same silent concern.

  “Who is he?” Haval asked quietly.

  “A very good question,” Duvari replied. “I will leave you to your long-distance babysitting; I have inquiries to make in haste.”

  Chapter Twenty–one

  SIGURNE MELLIFAS drew close to Jewel when the girl—and at thirty-two years of age, girl was perhaps unfair—had become almost vacant-eyed. It was, even for Sigurne, hard to look away from her. The man who stood by her side—immortal, Sigurne was certain—helped, but in truth, far less than Sigurne would have expected. The guests had begun some movement toward the chairs, benches, and small platforms erected for their use. When they were seated, the Kings and the Exalted would at last join them. The Kings only milled in this particular way in their own Courts and, truthfully, seldom there.

  The Queens, however, had arrived, with their respective Courts. Sigurne was pleased to see Commander Sivari in attendance at the side of the Princess Royale. Only the Crown Princes would fail to make the first day rites; they were to be present to pay their respects upon the quieter and more introspective second day. This was, as far as Sigurne could tell, normal operating procedure for the Crowns, or at least for the man c
harged with their physical safety.

  Princess Mirialyn ACormaris headed toward Sigurne, an odd half smile at play on her lips. She was grave and measured in her approach in almost all things; she clearly favored her grandfather, on her father’s side. She wore a Court dress, and not more martial wear, although she was at home in either. Her hair, bronze and long, had been partially captured in pins and braids; pearls and small emeralds had been woven through the strands. They were kept in place by magic, but it was a legal use of magic—if an expensive one.

  “Guildmaster,” Mirialyn said, bowing.

  “Your Majesty,” Sigurne replied. “If we are being formal.”

  Mirialyn smiled; the smile was cautious. “We are being very formal, as always, in grave circumstance. I see you are watching over the young ATerafin House Council member who has caused such a stir in the crowd.”

  Sigurne raised a brow. She did not, however, deny it; Mirialyn was too observant by half and would only attempt to ascertain the purpose of any lie she cared to make. “I am an old woman,” was her austere reply, “and should the need arise, I will be forgiven any interruption or demand on account of that age.”

  “And not on account of your position as the leader of the magi?”

  “No, certainly not on that account. Would you like to speak with her?”

  “No; I merely wish to observe. The…cat—did it arrive with her?”

  “No. Not immediately, but it came shortly thereafter. I believe it appeared during the difficulty in the Terafin grounds.”

  Mirialyn nodded. “And the Lord of the Wild Hunt?” Her voice was cool, clear.

  Sigurne tensed, stiffened, and smiled. “He arrived at her side. It was his sword that dispatched The Terafin’s assassin.”

  “So I was told. You are certain he arrived at her side?”

  “As certain as I can be. Jewel ATerafin is many things—some inexplicable and possibly dangerous—but she is almost without guile. I have observed her in her own quarters, among her kin. She has a pack of councillors who are, at the same time, close siblings. At least they squabble as if they were.”

  “The assassination attempt on Jewel?”

  Sigurne cursed privately behind the facade of a tired smile. The Princess was well-informed. But she would be, if she desired it. “You must speak with the Lord of the Compact.”

  “I have.” She glanced past Jewel to her domicis, frowned, and said, “I am not entirely comfortable with the current arrangement.”

  “Then you must speak with Jewel ATerafin, ACormaris. I believe she will put you at ease.”

  “It is not Jewel ATerafin that I mistrust. Those without guile are often easily misled,” she added.

  “It is true. Those without guile are, however, seldom seer-born.”

  “Has her talent given any possible warning of danger or disaster during this funeral?” Mirialyn asked, watching Jewel at a distance.

  “I don’t know. It saved her life; I believe it saved the regent’s life as well. But you are aware that her talent cannot be directed.”

  “Ah, no. I am aware that she cannot—yet—direct it; they are not the same thing.”

  “The guests,” Sigurne said quietly, “are being diverted toward the bier’s location.”

  Mirialyn nodded, but her gaze went up to the tree’s full branches and rested there in silence.

  Teller slid through the crowds to reach Barston—and Gabriel, to whom Barston was almost physically attached, if invisibly.

  “Are there difficulties?” The most formidable secretary in all of House Terafin asked, voice stiff and almost inaudible in the milling crowd.

  “There are variations to the invitation list that I last received.”

  Barston frowned. “Impossible.”

  “So I would have said, given Duvari’s presence.”

  “Who is present?”

  “There are two extra guests in the retinue of Lord Sarcen.”

  Barston’s frown deepened. “He is not an insignificant man.”

  “He is not.”

  “I almost feel guilty asking you to do this, Teller, but—”

  “You want me to find Duvari.”

  “Or someone who reports to him, yes.”

  “Now?”

  “Absolutely now, while the Kings have not yet arrived.”

  Teller nodded as Barston turned his attention to Gabriel. The funeral was, to Barston, Barston’s office, and therefore anyone of significance who worked with him, a nightmare that would not end for three days. To make matters worse, Lord Sarcen was a member of one of the oldest Houses in the patriciate, and what he lacked in raw money and political power, he made up for in prestige. He had had three daughters, all of whom were advantageously married into families of power and note. He was rumored to have a small and expensive gambling problem; Teller wondered, as he drifted away from the regent’s retinue, if Sarcen had actually sold secondary invitations. It wouldn’t be beyond what he knew of the man, although admittedly that was very little.

  Barston’s request, however, was problematic. While Teller recognized Duvari on sight—anyone of any position in any House did—he couldn’t easily spot him in the crowd, which probably meant he wasn’t in it. Crowds had a way of parting whenever Duvari walked into them.

  But easy or not, Barston’s concern was serious. Teller surveyed the gathering of guests with care before he began to move through it. Even in Haval’s somewhat heavy and confining clothing, he hadn’t lost the ability to navigate a crowd; it was more difficult when half of the people in the crowd recognized him, however. He considered removing and pocketing his House Council ring; it was new, anyway, and he still wasn’t accustomed to its weight—both literal and figurative—on his hand.

  “Ah, Teller,” a familiar voice said, at his left elbow. He grimaced and turned; the crowd was now thick with moving bodies as people began their surge toward the seats and benches in the distance. Even at a funeral it appeared that attaining the best position was a necessity that allowed for a little loss of dignity.

  He turned to see Haval looking at his jacket with a markedly critical expression. “You did speak with Ellerson before you left the wing this morning?”

  Teller grimaced but ducked his head in a nod. “At least three times.”

  “Allow me.” The erstwhile clothier reached up and straightened Teller’s collars, adjusting the gold pins that held them place. They were not terribly expensive and not terribly ostentatious, but suited Teller. On most days. From Haval’s expression, this was clearly not one of them. “You are in a hurry?”

  “I need to find Duvari.”

  Haval frowned. “Why on earth would you need to find the Lord of the Compact?”

  “Lord Sarcen has two guests in his entourage that weren’t on the list. Two extra guests,” he added, in case this wasn’t clear. He hesitated, because he realized that he was also explaining this to a man who made dresses for a living, and he was explaining it as clearly and as quickly as he might have had Jay asked. Not a good sign.

  Haval, however, frowned. “I see.” He glanced through the moving crowd. “Have they left the grounds?”

  “They’re with Lord Sarcen,” Teller replied, as if that was all the answer required. It was, if you knew anything about Lord Sarcen. Haval’s brief and economical nod indicated that he did. It should have surprised Teller; it didn’t.

  “How long ago did they arrive?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You know the guest list?”

  “I don’t know it as well as Barston does; I know the original list, but there were about a hundred and fifty amendments by the time it was done, and each and every one of them was an emergency of one kind or another.”

  “I will find Duvari,” Haval replied, his voice losing inflection and irritation and becoming something more distant and inscrutable instead. “You, however, will find Lord Sarcen’s guests. Take one or two of the Chosen with you; if you are at all obvious about it, you will attract the attention
of one of Duvari’s famed Astari, and you may need them.” He turned on heel—quickly—and vanished through the crowd with an ease that belied both his age and his general demeanor. It was an ease that Teller himself could have managed only in his youth.

  “ATerafin,” Avandar said quietly.

  She was trying—hard—not to shout at Snow; Snow was blithely ignoring her, although she was certain he could hear every damn word she’d spoken. Sadly, she was certain anyone else in the crowd could also hear them, and Avandar would make her suffer for eternity if she started cursing in Torra, which she desperately wanted to do.

  “ATerafin,” the domicis said again, this time with more urgency.

  She looked away from the sky and the sight of wings that were both powerful and graceful. “Sorry. Did I miss something I shouldn’t have?”