Skirmish: A House War Novel

by West, Michelle

  “Understood, Guildmaster,” the Lord of the Compact replied. The rest of the City, as Sigurne had so neatly called it, was not his concern. To Gabriel, he said, “The Kings and the Exalted will depart from the gallery; they will follow the route we discussed. The galleries are to be cleared now.”

  Gabriel nodded. He gestured to the waiting House Council, and they approached, leaving their attendants behind. “I must attend the Kings until the Lord of the Compact is satisfied,” he told them; it was not a surprise. “Return to the Council seats; lead the guests by example.”

  Gabriel seldom gave orders; only Haerrad bridled, discerning the source of those orders correctly. But Haerrad was not a man noted for his grace; the political acumen for which he was—in some circles—admired had little to do with elegant maneuvering and much to do with raw power.

  “Where is Councillor Rymark?” he asked, his broad, deep voice traveling the length of the hall.

  “He is toward the eastern end of the gallery,” Gabriel replied curtly. “Before you continue to ask questions that are appropriate for the Council Hall—and only that hall—let me inform you that his disposition was entirely at the request of the Lord of the Compact; he would have been here, otherwise.”

  Haerrad’s brow rose, as did the corners of his lips. The brief contortion could not be dignified with the word smile. “There is much to discuss in the Council Hall when the Council convenes.”

  “Of that,” was Gabriel’s dry reply, “I have no doubt whatsoever.”

  The servants were a moving army across the whole of the green; the Master Gardener’s tabard adorned several who now worked at edging the newly turned grass. Murmurs, muted, traveled between these men and women like a living, irregular wave: they had expected a disaster. It was true that the benches were damaged by their fall, but they had not been crushed or destroyed beyond possibility of use; nor had all of the intricate tenting that adorned the pavilions, although the tables had to be—quickly—replaced.

  But guiding them, watching them, were the first things that had been retrieved and reinstated: the poles that bore the banners and colors of House Terafin. The coffin itself had not been touched or harmed; it was not wet, it was not scratched, and no trace of dirt adorned it. That also caused whispers to spread, but they were muted and hushed; even the newest of the servants to the Terafin manse knew the story of Jewel Markess ATerafin’s humble beginnings, and only a handful had failed to recognize her voice.

  It should have terrified them; it didn’t. No more had The Terafin herself, when she had ruled these grand, forbidding halls. The only thing that caused them to quake in their boots—or shoes—was the Master of the Household Staff, and as that august and terrifying woman was present, the murmurs never broke a hurried whisper. Nor would they, in any case, when guests—outsiders, all—were present in such large numbers. Many of the servants were ATerafin, and they had received the offer of formal adoption from The Terafin herself. If she had been so far above them they could not ordinarily approach her, she had nonetheless recognized their service, the value of their dedication.

  This, then, they could do for her.

  The seats were rapidly filled; the desultory greetings and political wrangling that any such occasion demanded had already occurred, and no one was yet in a mood to repeat them. What, after all, could be said? If the strangers and visitors did not recognize the history of Jewel Markess ATerafin—or even the name—they would, in time; they understood for now that they had been in danger, and that that danger had been very, very real. They approached, and resumed, their seats with care; the political zeal for the best seating had quieted, although there were one or two among the patriciate who would cease their jostling for position only at death, if then.

  The House Council arrived first; they took their seats in a proud but subdued silence. Last to arrive, and last to sit, was Jewel Markess ATerafin, and the servants—and onlookers—could be forgiven for noticing no one else. It wasn’t just her dress—which had weathered an elemental storm without the bother of actually getting wet—or her companion; the servants who worked in the West Wing had spread tales of the sauciness and impertinence of the talking cats as far as such stories could reach, and they were now held in far less fear than they had been. It was her carriage, her bearing, and the way she paused beneath the banner of Terafin and bowed her head.

  Her carriage, her bearing, the quality of her silence, reminded all who worked that this was, at its heart, a funeral: that these people—Kings, Exalted, and guildmasters—were here for no other reason.

  The House Guard was now out in force, although at the moment, little evidence of their presence could be seen anywhere but along the path that the Kings and the Exalted would walk. That path was silent and deserted, but as the chime sounded, it began to fill, first with the Astari and the Kings’ Swords, second with the Queens Marieyan the Wise and Siodonay the Fair. Their thrones—and thrones had been commissioned and provided—stood empty as the Queens approached, flanked by their guards. The guards assumed positions to the right and left of those thrones, for the Queens sat side by side.

  This was a signal, and the servants now vanished as only servants can, attending to their remaining tasks almost invisibly. The Kings arrived next, and as they entered the clearing, people rose, led by the House Council. They stood in respectful silence until the Kings were likewise seated; the Kings required the presence of more guards and the vigilance of the Astari, but the necessary space had been provided.

  Into the clear, cool air, the filigree trace of the smoke burning incense provided could now be seen. The Exalted had arrived. They were preceded by priests of the Triumvirate, in robes that had not yet fully dried; the incense, however, was not so damp it would not burn. The gathered mourners had not resumed their seats when the Kings sat; they waited, tendering the Exalted the respect due the god-born—respect equal in all measures to that due the Kings themselves.

  Only when the Exalted had taken their thrones—and the procession was longer and slower than that which attended the Kings—did the guests sit. The House Council remained on their feet, waiting upon the regent’s signal, for Gabriel came last to the House Council section. He came without fanfare, without attendants, and without guards; those, he had left with the coffin.

  The coffin, however, was now carried—by the Chosen who had served The Terafin with their lives while she lived—into the clearing. A stone bier, faceless and unadorned, had been erected for the occasion, and the Chosen, without so much as a stumble, carried their Lord to that bier and gently laid the coffin upon it. When they stepped back, they stood for a long moment in silence, heads bent. They did not salute her, but brought their hands to chest as if to do so; that pose, they held for one long minute before they retreated.

  The bells rang again, and this time, the Son of Cormaris rose. He rose alone. Amarais Handernesse ATerafin had paid respects to each of the gods in the Triumvirate, but it was to Cormaris that she prayed in times of trouble, and to Cormaris that she looked for guidance. The Exalted of Cormaris left his throne—and his attendants, with their braziers, their rods, their scrolls—and walked across the flattened grass until he reached the coffin that had been placed there with such care.

  He bowed his head to her, offering her a respect that the Exalted never offered the living by the complicated rules of etiquette that governed the patriciate. Jewel watched. The coffin was closed; it wouldn’t be opened, and she wasn’t certain how she felt about that. She’d seen the dead before: her mother, her Oma. She had been spared her father’s corpse; his employers had dealt with it. There had been no funeral for him, and had there been, it would have been nothing like this one: there would have been no Exalted, no Kings, no rich merchants, no guildmasters. No one of import to the world at large.

  Jewel would have been there, and a handful of their neighbors would have joined her.

  She swallowed. There had been no funeral for Lefty, for Lander, none for Fisher or Duster; those bodie
s, she had never seen. Beneath Averalaan, in the sleeping ruins of the undercity, those who had died had been interred without benefit of last rites or burial. She was certain that three of her own were there, somewhere, lost and frozen in time. There was no way to search for them or find them; she’d asked. The entrance to the undercity could be opened only by the Exalted and the Sacred, working in concert, for hours on end.

  Even as a member of the House Council of Terafin, she did not have the power to make that request.

  But Amarais? She was here. She had built a small Empire within the Kings’ Empire. She had touched thousands of lives, tens of thousands. Even thinking it, Jewel bowed her head. Her father had touched so few lives—but one of them had been hers. He had been as important as Amarais to Jewel Markess. He wasn’t The Terafin, would never be The Terafin; had he lived, he would have worked at the docks until work was beyond him.

  It seemed unfair to her that he had given the whole of his life to the people he loved, and it counted for so little. She had loved him. In her way, she had loved Amarais. But the Exalted of Cormaris? He had, undoubtedly, respected her. The Chosen revered her. Morretz had loved her, but Morretz was dead, and the only absence Jewel resented was his. This is where he should be, in a coffin very like his Lord’s; this is where he should be buried. He had given his life in her service—and he had died in it as well; Jewel was aware, in a way she wouldn’t have been at sixteen years of age, of the difference between the two.

  But he was—had been—a domicis. Not ATerafin, not of House Terafin, he had existed only for her. She wondered if he could see the service as it progressed. Would it please him to hear the familiar words of a funeral service spoken by the Exalted of Cormaris? Did it please her?

  No.

  She felt curiously empty as she watched. She was exhausted, but it was an exhaustion that left her light-headed; as if all her anger and rage had drained away with the departure of the other wild elements. Amarais was dead. The dead didn’t care. The whole of this service—every detail, every gold coin—was for the sake of those who remained in her wake. Jewel ATerafin was only one of them. She had looked forward on a very narrow path, seeing that coffin on this day, surrounded by these people; she hadn’t looked beyond it. Why?

  Because she’d wanted to pay her respects to a woman who was in no way capable of receiving them?

  This was the reason her Oma returned to haunt her, or at least things like this; her Oma’s voice had been dangerously absent. The dead are just dead, she thought. Her shoulders slowly began to unclench. Only the living give meaning to death.

  Yes, the Winter King said. She lowered her chin, listening to the familiar timbre of his voice. But look, Jewel; look well. Here, enemies are gathered upon the same ground; they do not lift sword or voice; they have set aside their subtle war. If the dead are just dead—and I will not argue such a fundamental point—the living are alive; this juxtaposition is a reminder. It is necessary, even for you.

  Especially for me, she thought. It shouldn’t be, but it is. Rath, are you waiting for her? Will you finally speak? Somehow, she doubted it; her smile was brief and hollow. The Exalted of Cormaris continued to speak, and as he did, she heard the low strains of simple music: someone was playing a harp. The details of the funeral—details which she, as a Council member, should have memorized—had been left entirely in Gabriel’s hands; the music came as a surprise to her. The bards of renown used their voices as weapons; strange, then, that the music itself could compel so strongly.

  But it did. It was soft, somber, strangely gentle. She thought she could listen to it forever. The Exalted of Cormaris did not sing—but the music wound round his words, lifting them, elevating them. There were things that could be sung that couldn’t be said, and the flat, rhythmic patterns of a centuries-old sermon—at least—were given a sense of urgency and life by the notes that attended the syllables.

  Jewel closed her eyes. In the darkness of lids and attention, she could suddenly see The Terafin, dressed in dark blue, her hair in a net, her face less aged, less harsh. She could see, clearly, the expression she wore; it was the first time they had met, and it had occurred in the safety of Amarais’ stronghold. House Terafin was Amarais’. But she had been confident enough that she had opened her home to Jewel and her den at the request of a brother she had not seen for decades—a brother she would never see alive again.

  Rath had hated her. Hated her the way that only the loved can be hated.

  She opened her eyes to see coffin, Exalted, and banner, and closed them again to see Amarais in the armor of Terafin, the sword of the House strapped to her side beneath the glittering lights of the Terafin foyer. War had come to her House, and she intended to lead, to fight. She had seemed invulnerable at that moment—and less than an hour later, she lay dying, the marble floors broken, the chandelier strewn across what was left. She had survived that attempt on her life only with the intervention of a healer.

  And that healer was also dead.

  Amarais had been so strong, so wise, so certain—and there she was.

  Alowan—dead. Morretz—dead. Courtne, Alayra, Alea—dead. Jewel forced her eyes open; it was so dark, suddenly. The three had lived to protect Amarais, each in their fashion. Was her death, then, their failure and a failure of their lives? She had given the whole of her life to Terafin; she had fought and survived one House War to win the right to rule it. She had built a Council that was strong enough to weather the wars that merchant houses fought in the streets, and there had been no war to depose her. She’d built well.

  What did it mean now? She was dead; did everything have to crumble with her?

  No, Jewel thought. I gave her my word. But the truth? She wasn’t a strong enough person to live solely by word. Alowan, Alea, even Morretz—they were stronger than she; even Gabriel was, in his way. She needed more, and always had.

  But she had built what she loved here. She had built around Amarais, and beside her. What Amarais valued, Jewel valued. Oh, not everything; Amarais loved the arts, and the very few pieces she personally chose to own did not, and would never, speak to Jewel in the same way. But the sword was named Justice, and it did. Amarais had given Jewel the House Name, and it had become so much a part of her, it was hers, now; it was part of who she was, and even part of who she wanted to be.

  When she had first arrived at the front doors, literally penniless, all she had wanted—desperately, viscerally wanted—was a roof over her den’s head, a place where they could be safe.

  What she wanted now was not so different; what had changed was the knowledge that it had to be built and it had to be defended. She could do both. Breath filled her lungs as she lifted her head, opened her eyes. Yes, she could do this. But she didn’t want to have to do it; she wanted—oh, she wanted what children wanted: Amarais back. She wanted the opportunity to tell her all of the things she should have told her before she left for the South; she wanted the chance to ask advice, and to receive her oblique and sometimes harsh comfort.

  What she had, instead, was this: the Exalted of Cormaris fell silent, bowing his head for a long, long moment above the coffin. Then he stepped back, lifted his arms, and called sunlight. In the gray and threatening clouds above the magical barrier, it was in very short supply—but it came at his call. A golden, diffuse light surrounded the bier upon which The Terafin had been laid. As the light spread, Jewel felt the warmth of summer breeze—without the stultifying humidity that usually accompanied it.

  The Exalted of Cormaris spoke three long words in a language Jewel didn’t recognize. He then bowed to The Terafin and said, “Go in peace, daughter.” Shrouded in the brief, brief Summer, the Exalted of Cormaris turned to the other two sides of the triad; the Mother’s Daughter and the Exalted of Reymaris. They joined him, silent, their robes brushing flattened grass. Their priests remained by their thrones; they stepped into the soft, slow radiance alone.

  They then began to speak.

  Jewel had heard a variant of this speech v
ery seldom; it was delivered, start to finish, in a language specific to the temples and cathedrals of the gods, and her Oma didn’t hold with churches. She had both admired and disdained the men and women who labored under the auspices of the Mother, and when ambivalent, her Oma kept her distance. In her Oma’s home, her distance was a distance observed by anyone who wanted to live in relative peace.

  The light grew as the Exalted of the Mother and the Exalted of Reymaris joined the Exalted of Cormaris, and Jewel finally remembered where she had last seen it: in the Terafin manse, hours after the attack of the demons, their mage, and their Allasakari had all but destroyed the grand foyer. The Exalted had come to examine the bodies of the dead—Chosen, House Guards, and Allasakari, all—and they had labored under the warmth of just this light. Jewel stiffened; her hands did become fists. Did they think The Terafin somehow defiled by her death?

  But she could not hold on to that anger. She had chosen to go South, and her understanding, in any visceral sense, of the events that had led to The Terafin’s death was therefore secondhand at best. She had no right to indignation, and it served no purpose. The Exalted of Reymaris and the Exalted of Cormaris fell silent; the Mother’s Daughter continued to speak. The words she chose—in the strange, strange language of churches, hit Jewel, dislodging memory in the way striking events sometimes could. She had heard these phrases before.