House War 03 - House Name

by Michelle West

  Jewel shrugged. “We didn’t compare notes, if that’s what you’re asking. Not after we left his place.”

  The mage raised a silver brow. Smoke wreathed his face.

  She knew what he was asking. She didn’t feel like answering. Instead, she said, grudging every word, “He showed us how to get into the maze; he showed us how to search it. He showed us a little of what to search for, but he didn’t particularly like to see us in there on our own.

  “He knew we went; he handled the sale of anything we found.”

  “You . . . sold . . . things from the undercity.”

  She nodded. She shouldn’t have been pleased to get a rise out of the mage, but, perversely, she was. “They weren’t useful to us in any other way.”

  “To whom did you sell these things? And what things, exactly, did you find?”

  She shrugged. “Useless things, mostly. Candlesticks. Old bowls. Bits of things with writing on them. And I have no idea who we sold them to—Rath did all the selling. I told you.”

  Meralonne removed the pipe stem from very compressed lips. “He never mentioned his clientele?”

  She shrugged. “Some of it went to the Order of Knowledge. Well, to people in the Order.”

  “He didn’t mention names.”

  “No. He wouldn’t let us try to sell anything on our own, and we didn’t want to cross the bridge.”

  But the mage nodded, and his usual irritable expression shifted into something that, while smoother, was vastly less comfortable. “It’s possible that’s how he was detected,” he finally said. “There can’t have been many men who offered antiques of that particular nature for sale in the Empire.” He rose. “I see,” he told her, pausing to empty the ashes from his pipe’s bowl onto the nearest clean plate, “that you’ve finished. You have finished?”

  “Yes.” She stood as well.

  “Then let us depart. If we are not successful within the next few days, we will in all likelihood no longer be working alone.”

  Jewel nodded. But as she pushed her chair back, she asked, “Have you told the Kings?”

  He frowned. “About what?”

  Her eyes widened. “About the—the creature—and the attempt on The Terafin’s life.”

  “Ah. No, I’m afraid I have not. I have been instructed,” he added, glancing at the domicis whom Jewel herself had almost forgotten, “to keep my own counsel in this affair until we have found adequate proof.”

  “Of what? There were witnesses—one of them was The Terafin!”

  Ellerson cleared his throat, and she turned. “What?”

  “The Terafin is a woman who understands politics well.”

  “What does politics have to do with what we all saw?”

  “She is The Terafin. Her death, no matter how it arrives, will have deep political consequences for both her House, and given its import, the Empire. Anyone—anything—that attempts to bring about that death in an untimely fashion is motivated, in the end, by things political.”

  “Ellerson, it wasn’t even human!”

  “So you’ve said. But The Terafin will be cautious. Unless there is a catastrophe of a greater nature, she will approach the Kings with care, if at all. She cannot afford to be seen as weak.”

  Jewel just stared at him for a long moment. “Rath was right,” she muttered.

  “Oh?” Meralonne said.

  “You’re all insane.”

  As conversations went, it was perhaps not the most politically adept Ellerson had ever heard. It was not, however, the least. Jewel Markess’ hopes for the safety of her den, and her own future in House Terafin, did not appear to cause obsequious deference to the mage. Nor, from Ellerson’s vantage, did the mage seem unduly upset by her lack of finesse, her inability to hold a fork in the correct hand, or her weary lack of guile.

  The guild of the domicis had an unusual relationship with the Order of Knowledge. Among those who served as members of the Halls of the Domicis, which was treated as a guild and often called one—although Ellerson was aware that there were articles that were not entirely in keeping with general guild charter—were those who were talent-born. Some had spent some time training with the Order’s mages, before deciding that their temperament and their inclinations did not lend themselves to a lifetime’s seclusion in the Towers.

  The Order, of course, tracked those who had learned in their halls and, in particular, those who had evinced some power. Meralonne APhaniel was reputed to be a First Circle mage of the highest order. He did not, however, seem to care a great deal about the nicety of title when he worked; Jewel Markess’ marked lack of respect—where in this case respect meant some mixture of fear and groveling—did not seem to annoy him.

  He did not, in fact, seem to notice it at all.

  Ellerson watched as Jewel started to walk away from the table. She stumbled slightly, righted herself, and stopped moving.

  “ Jewel?” Member APhaniel said quietly.

  She didn’t appear to hear him, and time passed as she stared straight ahead, her eyes slightly widened and entirely unfocused. When the mage spoke her name for the third time, she shook herself. She had paled.

  Ellerson watched her with care, and he marked the moment her expression snapped into place. He expected her to speak, but he was surprised at what she said when she did.

  “The Kings need to know,” she told the mage, although she didn’t appear to be seeing him. “The Kings need to know before—”

  “Before?”

  She shook her head again, and her flyaway curls fell into a loose drape over her eyes. She did not, however, push them away with her characteristic impatience. “It’s—it’s nothing,” she told the mage. “I was just—I was just thinking out loud.”

  She was also, Ellerson realized, lying.

  Chapter Two

  2nd of Misteral, 410 A.A.

  House Terafin, Averalaan Aramarelas

  MARGARET WAS HOPPING AROUND like a little neckless bird in the lee of winter. Arann, who had spent a week in the healerie, understood instantly what this meant. He wasn’t entirely certain if the understanding was his own familiarity with her daily routine, or if it was Alowan’s, but it didn’t really matter. Folding his arms across his chest, he stood by the bed that had grown increasingly confining as the days wore on, waiting.

  Teller was standing just inside the arch that led from the arboretum, watching, the lines of his face stretched in mild concern.

  Arann lifted his hand, signed all clear, and Teller nodded, relaxing.

  “I’m sorry,” Margaret repeated, in a tone of voice that failed to convey regret in any way, “but you are not leaving the healerie wearing that clothing. I should have had it burned,” she added, “but I’m a sentimental old woman.”

  She was not entirely old. Arann failed to point this out.

  He glanced at Teller, and Teller grimaced.

  Teller was no longer wearing the sturdy but mismatched colors that Helen saved from her various jobs as a seamstress in order to clothe the den as cheaply as possible, as she had for so many years. Instead, he wore a pale blue tunic over much darker leggings. It was plain, and the fabric was a fine wool; it was also one of the few things that Teller had ever worn that wasn’t a shade too large. Helen, aware of the den’s fortunes, had always sewn things with “room to grow in.”

  Arann said, patiently, “I don’t have anything else to wear.” That he’d look the fool running through the halls stark naked, he also failed to mention. It was, however, tiring to have to talk so much.

  “It’s only as far as our rooms,” Teller told her, his voice quieter than Arann’s. “Alowan told Ellerson that Arann wasn’t to be disturbed over something as trivial as clothing measurements, so nothing’s been made for him yet.”

  Margaret opened her mouth, and Teller quickly added, “and it won’t be made for him, either, if he can’t leave.”

  Arann, arms still folded across his chest, continued to wait.

  Margaret argued for a few mi
nutes longer—as if Arann’s clothing would somehow be blamed on the healerie, and on Alowan in particular. Arann couldn’t see exactly how this blame could be placed, but Margaret seemed so certain, he didn’t argue. At least not with that point.

  But in the end, she was—as were all of Alowan’s assistants—practical enough to agree. She fussed, however, all the way to the door, and Arann had no doubt at all that she would have continued had Torvan ATerafin not been standing in the doorway.

  He wasn’t in armor, and he didn’t carry a sword, but Margaret clearly recognized him anyway.

  The part of Arann that was Alowan—that would always be Alowan, no matter how many years passed—recognized him as well. Alowan liked and approved of Torvan. He also liked and approved of the rest of The Terafin’s Chosen, a fact that Alowan found mildly surprising whenever he thought about it.

  Arann had never spent much time thinking about people, and most of the real thought had gone into ways of avoiding their notice. He’d paid attention to Lefty.

  “Arann?”

  Arann shook his head. Lifted a hand. It’s nothing.

  Teller’s gaze shifted slightly toward the floor; he knew. But he was Teller. He wouldn’t say anything else.

  Torvan ATerafin stepped away from the door. “I came with Teller,” he told Arann.

  Arann nodded.

  “We’re to take you off Alowan’s hands and return you to the rest of your kin.”

  Arann glanced once over his shoulder; the arboretum was green and peaceful. Alowan wasn’t here, and Alowan wouldn’t come; not yet. He’d spoken with Arann three times in the past week, but Alowan had never come alone, and he’d stayed by the arch to the fountain and its surrounding plants as if they were his anchor.

  Arann knew why. He knew, but it still pained him.

  He looked at Torvan. He was the only one of the den who didn’t have to look up. Nodding, he began to walk down the hall; Teller’s hand caught his sleeve and gently steered him in the right direction.

  The halls, at this hour in the morning, were surprisingly busy—but then again, up to this point, Arann had seen only his den-kin and the healerie’s assistants, and none of them moved around a lot. Except Jester. You could nail Jester’s feet to the floor and it wouldn’t keep him still. Or quiet.

  Torvan ATerafin said very little as they walked, but he walked slowly, allowing Arann to appreciate the long, light-filled galleries, with their detailed carpets, their dark-stained floors, their wide, long windows, and their tapestries, hangings, and paintings.

  “You’re not wearing your armor,” Arann said hesitantly, the words tailing up at the end as if it were a question.

  “I’m off duty.”

  “But you’re here?”

  “I live in the manse.” Torvan’s smile was slow, but genuine. “All of the Chosen do.”

  “You live where you work?”

  “As you can see, it’s a very large place.”

  It was. Alowan seldom left the healerie, and when he did, it was always with cause, and it was almost always because of an emergency. The exceptions were his visits to the Houses of Healing on the Isle, a place at which he had both taught and been taught in his youth.

  Consequently, Arann’s knowledge of the House was colored by the healer’s; he knew he would recognize some of the rooms. None of those rooms, however, were the galleries.

  “I know you’ve had visitors,” Torvan said, when Arann didn’t speak. “So you’re aware of the rooms the den occupies.”

  Arann nodded; he was aware of that and more. He hesitated, and then he said, “Thanks.”

  Torvan could have pretended to misunderstand; he didn’t. “If I did you a favor,” he told Arann, his expression momentarily grave, “your den leader repaid it a hundredfold.” He hesitated and then added, “I’m not certain, by the end of this, she won’t repay it a thousandfold. She’s an unusual girl.”

  Arann nodded, and Teller smiled. He seemed younger, in his new clothing.

  They walked, in silence, to a large set of double doors; the wood was thick and unpainted, but it gleamed in the magelights that adorned either side of the wall. Torvan stopped there and nodded to both Arann and Teller.

  Before he left, however, he turned to face Arann and spoke again.

  “You’re large for your age. And you don’t seem to have much of either an ego or a temper. If things work out here, and I hope they will, consider applying to the House Guard.”

  Arann said, “I’m not much good with a sword.”

  “No, I imagine you’ve not had much training. And if you were expecting a berth to the Kings’ Challenge, the lack of early training would be a serious detriment. It will not be an impediment for the House Guard of Terafin. You will, however, have to learn.

  “Think about it,” he added quietly. “I’m not the Captain of the House Guard; the decision is not in my hands. What I offer is opinion—an informed opinion—not a promise.”

  “But—but—why?”

  Torvan exhaled. “I don’t know how you came to be injured,” he told Arann, glancing at Teller as he spoke. “And I won’t ask if you don’t want to speak about it. But I’ve a hunch you were injured in the line of duty, and you accepted that. You didn’t run, you didn’t hide, and you didn’t abandon your leader.” He bowed, briefly, to both boys.

  Arann was still shaking his head when Teller opened the doors.

  Ellerson heard the shouting from the small waiting room he habitually occupied when his services were not required by the den. The definition of required was, in this case, elastic; it was not the more formal scheduling and care that one would normally find in a House of any quality. It therefore demanded a certain discretion.

  This discretion, he now exercised, rising from the tea that Finch had prepared for him. Any attempt to tell her that this was not an acceptable definition of master and servant had been politely ignored, and in the end, Ellerson was well aware that this group of almost-children would have to be eased into a more formal future. He did, however, insist on instructing her in the proper preparation of tea.

  Her reaction? Laughter.

  “You could have just skipped the part about master and servant and gone right to ‘you make bad tea,’ you know.”

  He’d raised a brow but had allowed himself a small smile; it was difficult to refrain when her laughter—at her own expense—was offered so openly.

  He heard that laughter as he entered the hall that led to the greeting rooms and narrowly avoided a collision as Finch rounded the corner at a run. She passed him, skidded to a halt, grabbed the wall with the flat of her palms, and spun.

  “Finch,” he said, in his most severe voice. “The walls are not meant to be used as brakes.”

  “My hands are clean, honest,” she replied, removing them instantly. “I was just coming to get you,” she added. “Arann’s back.”

  “I believe I did tell you he would be.”

  “You did. He took a bit of time convincing someone in the healerie that he needed to wear his old clothes.”

  “Of course. Has he eaten?”

  “He says he’s not hungry.”

  “Which would, in the parlance of Finch or Teller, mean no. Angel does not, I believe, understand what those words signify. In any language he speaks. What does it mean for Arann?”

  “You probably want to meet him,” she replied.

  “Oh, indeed.”

  Arann was not quite what Ellerson had expected, but then again, none of the den were. The boy was larger than he had imagined a scant living on the streets would allow, and he was quiet. When he spoke, there was always a marked hesitation before words, as if he were sifting through them and painstakingly removing the offensive ones.

  None of his den-kin seemed to find his size intimidating; he carried himself like a much smaller person.

  “Is Jay here?” Arann asked Finch.

  Finch’s expression lost a bit of its sparkle. “No. She’s out.”

  “Out?”
/>   Finch nodded. “With the mage. They had a screaming fight in the breakfast nook this morning. I thought the guards would break the doors down.”

  “They did not have a screaming fight,” Ellerson said, pinching the bridge of his nose.

  “What would you call it?”

  “If I were to discuss it at all—and it is inadvisable in the extreme to discuss it outside of these rooms—I would say they had a heated discussion.”

  “A . . . heated discussion.”

  “Indeed.”

  Finch shook her head.

  “A fight generally has a less positive outcome.”

  “You call that positive?” Carver cut in. “Jay was in a foul mood.”

  “Mage wasn’t much better,” Angel added.

  “It is positive in that neither the young lady nor the very respected Member of the Order of Knowledge were injured; it is positive in that they both left—on time, I might add—with the same goals as they had evinced before their discussion.” He frowned. “The mage did not quit,” he said severely, “and neither did Jewel.”

  Arann listened to this as if picking meaning from syllables that only barely made sense. When he seemed to have found enough of it, he turned to Finch. “She hasn’t found anything, then.”

  Finch grimaced. “Not yet.”

  “It’s been a week. Why aren’t the rest of us—” he broke off, and glanced at Ellerson.

  Ellerson expected the boy to raise his hands in the crude, but silent, hand language the den used.

  Before he could, Teller said, “You know why.”

  “Carver knows the maze at least as well as Jay,” Arann said. Teller seemed slightly surprised, which told Ellerson that Arann seldom argued.

  “Better,” Carver said. “I know it better.”

  Of the den, Carver was the most flamboyant. Jester’s noise was different ; it required a crowd, and it demanded attention. But it was not the attention that many young men often sought. Angel, whose hair was arresting, was of a height with Carver, and they were often together—but Angel and Carver were not the same.