Skirmish: A House War Novel

by West, Michelle

  “Mostly at me.”

  The Winter King’s chuckle was dry. You clearly have little experience with the powerful.

  “No, I have a lot of experience with the powerful,” was her somber reply. The bier had come into view. “And I know how power should be handled, because I saw what Amarais Handernesse ATerafin chose to do with it. If I’m to follow in her steps, I can’t be less than she was. And what you want, what they want—that’s less, to me.”

  Neither Viandaran nor Celleriant would have perished at the hands of her assassin.

  “No. But countless hundreds of others would have perished at their hands on a whim, on a bad day. It can’t just be about our own survival. It can’t—there has to be more than that.” She hesitated before she reached out to touch the lowest of his tines. “You were a man, once. You were mortal. A King. You ruled one of the great Cities?”

  I did.

  “But you looked at the Winter Queen. You looked at the gods. You wanted what they had. I look at them, and I don’t. I want what I have. I want,” she added bitterly, “what I had before the gods and the demons chose to play their games in my House. I want my den, I want my friends, I want the people I love—yes, that word, and I don’t care if I should hide it. I want them to live, and I want to live among them.

  “Viandaran has lived forever, practically—what do you think he wants?”

  The Winter King didn’t answer.

  “ATerafin.” Duvari didn’t shout—exactly. But his voice carried anyway.

  The Winter King paused without any need for command, and turned in his tracks, his head and his tines facing the Lord of the Compact as he moved at a pace so brisk it was almost a run. He stopped just in front of the Chosen—Arann, in this case, although he apparently failed to notice Arann’s existence.

  “I must ask one relevant question, ATerafin.”

  “Please. Ask.”

  “Did Lord Sarcen and his retinue approach you at all during the reception?”

  She frowned. Lord Sarcen, Lord Sarcen. “No, I don’t believe so. Why?”

  Haval, beside the leader of the magi, joined Duvari. They exchanged a brief glance and no gestures at all, but somehow Jewel’s answer was passed between them. In a sharper tone than she’d intended, she said, “Is there a problem?”

  Duvari was not beholden to House Terafin or its leaders in any way, but he answered. “There are two dead guards. They are yours.”

  Her eyes rounded. “Dead? How?”

  “It is unclear. They appeared to be sleeping; they were not. I must ask you to make your way to the bier in haste, ATerafin.”

  “You fear demons.”

  “I fear nothing,” was his cool reply, “and suspect everything. But it was a significant omission on the part of Lord Sarcen; an uncharacteristic one. It is not his way to avoid what everyone else must see.” He joined her, displacing Jester without any apparent effort at all. Jester fell back, walking to one side of Arann. Snow hissed, and Jewel said, “Don’t even think it.”

  Together they made their way to the benches and the chairs that had been placed within the heart of the gardens of contemplation, cornered by four shrines that were largely hidden from view by the trunks of the huge and ancient trees that were nonetheless new. As the Winter King walked between these trees, and between the paths that had, in haste, been reconstructed to take advantage of the unasked for miracle of their existence, Jewel felt a soft, warm breeze touch her forehead and her cheeks. She looked up; saw a bower of leaves, and through them, spokes of sunlight.

  Frowning she looked skyward; what she could see was the gray green of encroaching storm, and not a small one, either.

  It is as you see it, the Winter King said, the timbre of his inner voice almost hushed. But these trees remember other skies. If there is peace for you at all, it will be here.

  Or nowhere?

  He didn’t answer. Instead he continued to walk; his hooves disturbed nothing, no matter where he placed them, and they came out into the assembled—and mostly seated—crowd. There were reserved seats for the House Council members, but not all were occupied; Jewel could see Elonne, Marrick, and Haerrad clearly. She could also see their advisers. They were allowed two guards for the funeral, rather than the customary four, and those guards were to stand to one side of the raised chairs; there were therefore six guards.

  No, Jewel though, with a frown; there were eight. Teller and Finch hadn’t chosen or arrived with their own guard; Torvan had requested that they allow two of the Chosen—each—to take up positions when they were at last seated. She couldn’t see Teller, but she could see that Finch was approaching the platform—and by her side, walked Jarven ATerafin. Finch was allowed two counselors or advisers; she clearly meant to take a risk and have Jarven seated as one of them.

  Jewel was willing to bet that Lucille would chop off both of her legs before she joined them, and sure enough, Lucille could be spotted in the thick of the crowd—and at a distance. Lucille had admired The Terafin greatly—but always at a safe distance. It was a pity; if their styles were different—and they were entirely incompatible—they had something in common. Lucille called it “a spine,” but Jewel privately thought it was more than that.

  Duvari gestured, and Jewel was aware enough of his presence that a slight gesture was all he required to catch—and hold—her attention. He didn’t speak; he merely changed the direction in which he was, apparently, following.

  Teller knew Lord Sarcen on sight; Lord Sarcen intended anyone of lesser power or rank or at least lineage in the Empire to know him on sight. He was allowed a small personal banner—all of the Houses who had very specific seating arrangements were—and had actually deigned to use this. Or rather, to have one of his retainers do so; Lord Sarcen was not a man who attended to his own tasks.

  The banner was in plain view, unfurled and weighted; it was in the center of the small arrangement of chairs—an arrangement somewhat different from that originally put into place by the regent’s office. The chairs themselves—not benches—had been pulled and gathered to one side; they had also been moved forward, displacing some of the other seating that had not yet been claimed.

  This would have annoyed Teller—given the hectic days of nothing but emergencies and what would, on the surface of things, appear to be trivial complaints from people who couldn’t be treated as inconsiderate boors—but he was already annoyed. Everyone of any import had been invited to attend the ceremony—and as with all such invitations, it had been made clear that the Kings would be present. The presence of the Kings generally implied that the invitation list was strict, not casual, and had that not been clear by implication, it had been made explicitly clear in various follow-up communications.

  Nonetheless, there were always men—and women, to be fair—who felt themselves above such petty dictates; those rules, of course, applied to other people. Never to the Lord Sarcens of the patriciate of Averalaan. The banner was present, yes, and beneath it, people were seated. Teller recognized Sarcen’s third wife—the first two had predeceased him—and two of his daughters. He recognized the sons-in-law, men of wealth but of lesser lineage. He did not, however, see Lord Sarcen; he certainly didn’t see any of his guests. He stopped to count the two attendants who had also been allowed entrance; they wore Sarcen’s colors, and they attempted to be almost invisible.

  But they were accounted for; if there was a breach of security, it would not be there. Not even the servants of attending guests had been beneath Duvari’s scrutiny; it had surprised Barston. It didn’t surprise Teller; had Teller the need or desire to infiltrate a House, he would do it as a servant, or as a temporary gardener, many of which had been necessary in the manse in the past two days. He wouldn’t do it as the guest of a Lord of great self-import—or as a guest of someone with actual import, either.

  Jester, however, argued the inverse: that people who were willing to present themselves as important were often overlooked when suspicions were high. If one had to lie at all,
the brazen lie was better because brazen lies were so outrageous many people failed to question them. Teller decided that some point in between these two was now called for; he therefore approached the banner.

  The servants very politely intercepted him; politely and deferentially, to be certain. They noticed the House Council ring, although they’d done so without being obvious. Teller had long since become accustomed to treating servants as servants; he did so now. “I have a message for Lord Sarcen,” he told the older man. “Is he present?” He was clearly not present, but forms had to be observed. Or so Barston said.

  The two servants exchanged a glance; the younger, the woman, said, “You may leave the message with Lady Sarcen.”

  “Ah, no, I’m afraid that would not be possible.” He straightened his shoulders, smiled, and said, “The message is from the Lord of the Compact.”

  The servants were clearly of enough import in the Sarcen internal hierarchy that they blanched; it was the first sign that they were capable of panic. “Please,” the man now said, “Lord Sarcen was present but a moment ago, and I am certain he will return.”

  The woman, however, retreated, heading straight for Lady Sarcen as she did. That Lady, august and severe, lifted her chin as the servant approached. Teller couldn’t hear what was said, but Lady Sarcen rose from her chair, and her expression could have cut through walls.

  Teller straightened his shoulders. He had seen similar expressions in the office of the right-kin, and similar in the office of the regent, albeit not usually in such public circumstances. Facial expressions were like games to many, many people: a bluff. Not, sadly, to all; the trick was to know which was which. Teller had become adept at it, but he didn’t have Barston’s certainty of position and territory to fall back on here. This was not the right-kin’s office, after all. Any gaffe on Teller’s part reflected the whole of House Terafin, on the day for which respects for its most noteworthy member were to be offered.

  He kept fear—and grimace—off his face as Lady Sarcen brushed past the servant to whom he’d been speaking.

  Jewel heard Lady Sarcen’s voice as the small party approached the area clearly demarcated as Lord Sarcen’s, and she stiffened. She had dealt with her share of angry merchants in her time—many of them in theory affiliated with the House, and with her responsibilities in particular—in her office; she had not, however, been situated in Teller’s position, and the obvious, scathing contempt with which the grim-faced Lady now looked down at her den-kin set Jewel’s teeth on an edge so sharp if she bit her tongue, it’d fall off.

  Stay, the Winter King said, as she started to slide off his back. You have forgotten with whom you travel. The Lord of the Compact will speak, regardless; I believe, from observation, that this particular difficulty is best left in his hands. If it becomes a larger problem, you may then make it yours.

  She stared at the back of his head because that’s what she could see. He was aware of it, and offered his silent chuckle in response. He never quite stood still, on the other hand, as if aware that she might disobey what was clearly not even a request.

  Duvari, however, had no difficulty separating himself from either Jewel or the Winter King. He stepped past them quickly, coming up behind Teller in a way that immediately stemmed the icy flow of Lady Sarcen’s unfortunate harangue.

  “Lady Sarcen,” Jewel heard Duvari say, in a voice at least as unfriendly as hers had been, “Where is Lord Sarcen now?”

  Teller retreated immediately to Jewel’s side.

  “Trouble?” he asked her, glancing at her face. His eyes stayed there; the momentary—and trivial—annoyance at Lady Sarcen, her husband, and the patriciate’s selfish demands in general slowly drained from his face as Jewel watched. “Jay?” He lifted his hands, sketching the question in rapid den-sign. She knew what he saw; was torn between comfort and irritation.

  She answered the same way, her hands dancing briefly above the shimmering fabric that covered her lap.

  Where?

  They had no den-sign for what she said next. “Avantari. Avandar, Celleriant, and Devon have gone.” She swallowed, shook herself, and shifted her shoulders, bringing them down her back to change her posture into something more suitable for the dress she wore and the creature she rode. “Come, Teller. We’re expected, and we’ve little time before the third chimes start.”

  Duvari, however, lifted a hand. He didn’t actually look back; he was still in conversation with Lady Sarcen. Jewel grimaced. To Teller she signed, Go sit. Take Jester. I’ll follow when I can.

  Teller hesitated, and she repeated the gestures more emphatically. You’re exhausted.

  Yes. She smiled as she gestured; he winced. But this yes carried an unspoken corollary with it: too tired to have this argument. All of the den understood it; only Angel generally pressed her otherwise. Angel, she thought, and then—for no reason at all—Duster. Duster had been the girl who could never, ever just say yes. Not unless half of the Hells was riding down their backsides and any other syllable meant probable death. Even then, she wouldn’t actually say the word—but she’d obey.

  Teller grabbed Jester, and then signed a single word: Angel?

  She hesitated a moment before she signed Leave him. Arann was with the Chosen; he would stay until she was allowed to finally join the House Council in their seats. Jewel had no idea where Carver was, but Carver was now Teller’s problem; he was in theory to sit with Teller as a member of Teller’s retinue for the duration of the first day rites.

  She had a suspicion that even today, Carver was sneaking private time with a very harried Merry; the Master of the Household Staff would probably spit him if she caught him. Jewel might not be that far behind, all things considered. Her arms and legs were aching, her throat was dry, and the sky above the gathering had folded clouds into such a dense brew it looked like night; she felt—impatient. Fearful.

  Lightning split the sky as she watched, its sustained white flash illuminating the grounds and leaching all color from its inhabitants—flower beds, grass, fabric, faces—thunder followed, drowning out speech, although speech had, for a moment paused. People rose as rain began to fall but resumed their seats once they realized it wouldn’t reach them; the barrier erected by the mage-born did its work.

  Teller grabbed Jester—almost literally, and in a way that would have made Ellerson wince had he been present. Frowning, Teller scanned the crowd—Ellerson not technically a member of the House, was nonetheless domicis; at some point, he’d be here. Given the way the day had been going to this point, he was probably watching, with that slightly starched frown on his otherwise impeccable face. Teller released Jester’s arm, but did some rapid signing, and Jester rolled his eyes, but ducked his head to follow. It was slow; he was glancing back at Jay every half step or so.

  “She’s with Duvari,” Teller said, voice low. “Inasmuch as there’s a threat here, it can’t be worse than that—but Duvari’s selfish; he doesn’t share. If he’s not going to be the one to bring her down, hard, no one else is going to do it while she’s standing under his nose.”

  That made Jester chuckle, and the sound filtered up through his expression, easing his tension. “Your point,” he told Teller, and then added, “And yes, today I’m keeping score. What was with Lady Sarcen anyway?”

  “She knows where Lord Sarcen is, and she knows Duvari,” Teller replied, although he also felt uneasy. “She’s making a clear point to the Lord of the Compact: she’s not afraid of him.”

  “If she has to make that point—”

  “It’s probably not true?”

  Jester nodded.

  “Well, she doesn’t look like a fool.”

  “I was thinking more witch.”

  Teller did laugh at that, and then grimaced, because if Ellerson would frown, Barston would practically explode. “She’s a significant Lady of, as they put it, society.”

  “So was The Terafin.”

  “No. The Terafin was a power. Terrifying, absolute, and, in her fashion,
just.” Amusement drained from Teller’s face. “And we know what killed her.”

  “But not why,” was Jester’s surprisingly serious—for Jester—reply. “No one’s really asked why; it’s like, if she’s powerful, that’s reason enough.” He glanced once again over his shoulder. “For Duvari, it probably was.”

  “Duvari didn’t kill her.”

  “No. I’d say he wouldn’t have been upset—but given the alternatives are all bad to him, he’s probably content to live with the least bad.” This time his gaze traveled to the Council seats.

  “Do not impersonate Harraed here. He’ll find out, and we’ll all suffer.”

  Jester said nothing; he didn’t, however, deny that he’d intended to do just that. Jester could mock with affection, but not often. His critical faculties for appropriate mockery, however, would only be considered acceptable in the bardic colleges; in a House of any power, it was both suicidal and rude.