House War 03 - House Name

by Michelle West

  Terrick lifted a hand in warning. “I remember, Angel,” he said quietly.

  Angel nodded. “I’ve spent two weeks thinking about it. They’re connected. The House, the demon, and Garroc’s duty.”

  There was no doubt in the boy’s voice, and perhaps because of this, there was no doubt in Terrick. When Angel spoke with that quiet confidence, he was most like the man Terrick had served; Terrick wondered if he knew.

  “The Ice Wolf will not come to port in Misteral,” Terrick told him. “It will not come to the port at all until well after Veral; the seas to the north will be impassable.”

  Angel shrugged. “It’s not Weyrdon I wanted to speak with,” he told Terrick.

  Terrick stared at the boy, seeing again some semblance to Garroc in his youthful, quiet features. “I’ve no counsel to offer,” Terrick told him, after a pause.

  “You always have an opinion.”

  In spite of himself, Terrick chuckled. The shadow of the word demon shortened that sound but could not quell it entirely. He lifted water toward Angel’s chest, and Angel shook his head. Terrick drank. “I’d ask, first, how you know the word demon and how you knew the assassin was one.”

  “Oh. There was a mage,” Angel replied. “A magus. From the Order of Knowledge. He stopped the demon from killing The Terafin.”

  “And he recognized the creature for what it was?”

  “By the end, everyone did. When the demon realized he was cornered, he shed the appearance of humanity.” Angel hesitated, and then added, “I think he may have been wearing the actual body; Jay—Jewel, I mean—said there was skin and hair left behind. But what was left after he stopped looking human wasn’t human in any way.”

  “Left behind?”

  “He turned to ash when he died. There was no body.”

  Terrick lifted his hands, briefly, to his face. “Aye, boy,” he said wearily. “I know the word, and the legends. Demon, then. Garroc’s duty.”

  “Garroc’s duty was to find a worthy leader,” Angel said, grimmer now. “At this time and in this place.”

  “You said you weren’t concerned with fulfilling his quest.”

  “I wasn’t.”

  “And now?”

  “Demons.”

  Endless night. Neither of them spoke the words; neither of them needed to do so.

  “Is The Terafin a worthy ruler?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve seen her once. But . . . Jay thinks so.”

  It was clear that the opinion of this den leader, this Jewel or this Jay, carried a great deal of weight for Angel. Other things, however, were also clear to Terrick.

  “And this Jewel,” he asked softly. “Is she worthy of fealty?”

  Angel grimaced as if in pain and pulled himself up from the chair. He began to pace around it, tracing a very flat oval across the plank surface of the back office floors.

  “She’s not my lord,” Angel said, as he walked, avoiding Terrick’s gaze. “She’s—she’s not my boss. She’s a friend, Terrick. She doesn’t tell me what to do, not often.”

  “But she does on occasion?”

  Angel shrugged, staring at his feet as they moved. “Yeah. But when she does, she’s telling everyone what to do—and when she does, everyone listens.” He hesitated, and then added, “She’d be like an aunt or a mother if she were older. She—she makes sure things get done.”

  “Angel.”

  Angel looked across the room at Terrick, on the curve of the irregular oval he was tracing as he paced.

  “Do you think I bent knee to Garroc?”

  “You served him.”

  “Yes. I did. And would, were he still alive. But I don’t think you understand, yet, what that means. To either Garroc or Terrick.” He looked at Angel, refused to let him look away. “Weyrdon was a worthy lord. A worthy man. It would have been an honor to serve him.”

  “But you didn’t even—”

  Terrick lifted a hand. “Garroc served Weyrdon. Garroc bent knee. Garroc listened, counseled, and warred in his name. I did none of those things in Garroc’s. I understand the wyrd placed upon your shoulders, and believe, boy, that I understand the significance of demons in this place.”

  Something about the way he spoke the last sentence stilled Angel’s pacing. “What do you mean, in this place?”

  Terrick listened to the sounds of the outer office. “My time grows short,” he said.

  If Angel hadn’t known him well, he would have said that Terrick was stalling. He wasn’t fool enough to make the accusation. Instead, he found his chair again and sat heavily on its hard surface. “There’s one other thing,” he told Terrick, watching the Northerner’s lined face with caution.

  “Speak. You could not say worse.”

  “When I met Jewel, when I met the den, we weren’t stealing. We were—foraging. We found things that no one was using—I mean no one—and we took them to Rath. He sold them for us and gave us a cut of the money.”

  Terrick waited.

  “There’s a city under this city,” Angel told him quietly. “It’s a dead place. Old stone, broken roads, sheared walls, remnants of statues. There’s no light there but the light we bring, and it goes on for miles in all directions.” Watching now. Seeing in the sudden stillness of Terrick’s expression some hint of recognition, of suspicion, and yes—something that bordered on fear. Never open fear, never from Terrick.

  “They’re in the holdings now, my den leader and the magus, looking for that damn city. She knows every way into it,” he added, “but she can’t find an entrance anymore. It’s as if they’re all being destroyed, or unmade.”

  “By . . . demons,” Terrick said. His voice was quiet enough to be a whisper; it wasn’t. His turn, now, to rise, to shed the comfort of solid chair, to seek movement to still his restlessness, mask his concern.

  “Boy,” he said at last, although he did not look at Angel, “in the North, there are stories. Legends. The North feared the South for a long time. They distrusted the ease and the beauty, the magic, the craftsmanship, the supposed indolence of the Imperials.

  “But they did so because of those stories and legends. We speak, in Arrend, of the time when the gods walked the world. They do not walk it now, and they do not speak to the golden-eyed of those ancient journeys; what we have, we have kept for ourselves.

  “And what we have, in fragments, is not the truth. I have lived here for years, and I understand the Empire as well as any from Arrend can; it is full of people, no more or less human than those that live in our cities. But here, boy, overlooking the bay, they say that one god once lived. His city was called the Shining City, and it was fair beyond reckoning.

  “The . . . Shining City.”

  “Yes. For the Lord of the dark.”

  Endless night.

  “They do not speak of the Shining City here. There are no legends or stories save those that involve Moorelas, who rode into the city’s heart and faced the god with a weapon crafted by the god’s kin. But they do not speak the name except in bardic lay.

  “They called it, in the oldest of styles, Vexusa.” Terrick bowed his head. “And if you have walked its streets, and they are now denied you, the time Weyrdon feared is almost come.”

  Angel rose in the silence Terrick’s word’s left. The lunch’s end had not yet sounded, but it was over. Terrick did not resume his seat, and Angel did not speak.

  But as he turned toward the door that led to the wickets, Terrick cleared his throat. Angel turned a little too quickly.

  “It’s hard to search for something when you have no idea what you hope to find,” he told Angel quietly. “I don’t envy you your task.”

  “And you’ve no advice for me, either.”

  “Actually, it happens I do.” Terrick’s smile was slight, but it was there, changing the contours of his weathered lips. “If they—if Weyrdon and his Alaric—knew for certain what you must achieve, believe they would tell you, and at length. They don’t know.”

  “I don’t, either.
”

  “No. But it’s yours to find, Angel, Garroc’s son. A worthy leader,” he added, “means many, many things. A man’s definition of worth says everything about the man himself. For some, it is purely based on power, and for some, on the obvious trappings of power. For some, it is based on kinship.

  “For Terrick,” Terrick added, “it was complicated. But it was also simple. Had I been told what you were told, it wouldn’t have changed a damn thing. I think you heard the word demon, and you understood what it might mean.

  “But you’ve heard the word leader, and you don’t. You hear not what the word might mean but only what the failure to fulfill Garroc’s quest might. Leave the fear. The only person who can define that word is you. Angel.”

  “My father failed,” Angel said, the words soft and stark.

  “Aye, he did. And he lived with that failure. But I think it was not yet time, and I think, in the end, it was not his burden. It was yours.”

  “Terrick—”

  “Garroc was of Weyrdon and of Arrend. He was too much of both. You are neither but are informed by them.”

  “But—”

  Terrick lifted a broad hand. “You want to ask me why I think this. Very well. You have met demons. You have seen the ruins of the darkest city of the past. You are here, now, and you have walked a path that none of Weyrdon has walked.

  “Walk it farther, boy. See it to its end.”

  “How will I know?” Angel asked, laying at last all fear bare.

  “You will, I think, know. In the end, you’ll know.”

  The horn lowed the end of the discussion.

  “And when you know, come back and tell me.” He paused, and then added, “You think that your job will be done if you somehow find this mythical leader. But I think that it will, only then, begin in earnest.”

  Chapter Three

  2nd of Corvil, 410 A. A.

  Terafin Manse, Averalaan Aramarelas

  JEWEL HAD BEEN COOPED UP in the Terafin manse for the whole of the day. It was her first “day off,” but it felt like either a punishment or a long-delayed judgment. She had searched for the undercity every day since she had first accepted The Terafin’s offer, and she had returned each time with nothing but a frustrated, tired mage.

  Today, for the first time, the mage had not come in the morning. Instead, he had sent a message with his firm but brusque regret; he would be absent. No other partner had been chosen for Jewel. No other help was offered. She could, of course, have taken to the streets on her own—but that would prove nothing. Even if she managed to find her way back into the maze, she would do it without witnesses.

  So she paced in the dining room, and when that provided no comfort, she moved herself to the kitchen—the kitchen that was larger in its entirety than the whole of the den’s apartment had been. It was her room of choice.

  For one, it was practical. It looked like a kitchen, even given its size. The table looked like a huge cutting board, and suspended above that table, on hanging chains, were various pots and utensils. They also lined the walls, their dented and scratched surfaces an indication that they had been, and would be, used. That they served some purpose.

  The dining room, the breakfast nook, the meeting rooms—they were always so clean and so utterly tidy they looked unfinished somehow, as if the people who were meant to make them a home hadn’t yet arrived. Or never would. The furniture made her feel dirty and awkward just by the difference in their respective states; Jewel came home covered in dirt and dust and smelling more than a bit rank, even though it wasn’t summer.

  No matter what the hour, Ellerson was waiting by the front doors of the wing, and he ushered her firmly toward the bath. She was surprised at how accustomed she’d grown to the hot water, the clean towels, the scent of the water; it was one of the few places in which she now relaxed.

  But she didn’t even wash her own clothing anymore. It was taken and replaced, each evening, by Ellerson.

  Around her, the den hovered. They knew better than to ask about her work for The Terafin. But that didn’t leave them much to talk about in the end—it was all she did. She listened to them speak about their own days, about the people they’d met—mostly servants—and the things they’d discovered about the manse. Some of it was interesting—the servants’ hidden hallways, for one.

  Jewel didn’t tell them what to do here. She didn’t hold the pursestrings ; she didn’t arrange outings to the Common, or to the river, or to the wells. She didn’t break up any arguments about whose turn it was to cook or clean—they no longer had those duties.

  What did they have now?

  She shook her head. She was obviously going crazy. They had a roof over their heads—one that didn’t, and wouldn’t, leak. They had enough food to feed the entire twenty-fifth holding. They had better clothing than they’d ever had and access to both the old city and the breadth of the Isle, courtesy of House Terafin.

  What else did they need?

  Restless, nervous, she shoved her hair out of her eyes, pacing in tighter circles. They needed nothing—right up until the moment The Terafin decided Jewel’s search was pointless. Then they’d have the money she’d made to date—and it wasn’t a small sum—and the streets of the twenty-fifth, or the thirtieth, or any other holding in the old city, would open up to swallow them again.

  In those streets, and beneath them, she’d lost so many of her den-kin. She’d lose more, she thought bitterly. She’d lose them.

  Gods, where were the damn tunnels? Where was the damn maze?

  If the demons—and the mage used the word so often it had become a fact of life, like street thieves loitering outside the Common—were somehow destroying the entrances, they were doing it with Rath’s help. With the help of his memories. And while Jewel had gone searching the maze without Rath so often in the past three years she was certain she’d seen things he hadn’t, there wasn’t any damn evidence of it.

  Someone cleared his throat. “You called?” Ellerson said.

  “You know damn well I didn’t call,” she snapped. “So you can stop that stuffy, polite act.”

  “As you wish,” he replied, in exactly the same even tone of voice. “But may I point something out to the young lady?”

  “Like I could stop you if I wanted to.”

  “It is unkind—and inaccurate in some cases—to assume that the mannerisms and gestures of another person are assumed, rather than genuine. While you will never develop the same style that I have developed, you were also never exposed to the same influences. I do not assume that your behavior is an act.”

  She snorted. “If I were going to act, I’d probably choose something different to act like.”

  “Agreed.”

  “Ellerson, don’t you have something to do?”

  “I am your domicis.”

  It was what he always said. Jewel was convinced that she could grab a random knife and try to cut his arms off, and he would still come up with the same phrase. “I forgot.”

  “As you say.”

  Grinding her teeth, and aware that she was behaving like a spoiled, tired child, she asked, “Did you come here for a reason?”

  “Indeed. Appropriate attire has arrived for you and your companions. I thought you might want to have your old clothing removed, as you will be representing The Terafin and will therefore be expected to dress appropriately.”

  She did what she usually did when he used that tone of voice: She nodded. It bought her a bit of time and space as Ellerson vacated the kitchen. Which lasted until Carver entered. In his House tunic.

  “Carver, go tell Ellerson I’ve changed my mind about the clothing.”

  “Right, sir,” he replied, his jaunty sarcasm so at odds with Ellerson’s crisp correctness it was almost a comfort. “But I’ll trade.”

  “Trade what?”

  “The Terafin’s looking for you. Torvan’s outside.”

  She should have known Ellerson wouldn’t have insisted on laying out new clothing—for
her—without cause. “Why? We don’t have another meeting scheduled for two days.” Still, the thought of a meeting without the icy silence of either the mage or the House ruler was very, very tempting.

  “Teller says he saw the mage with a group of people. Three men, a really scrubby woman, and a bunch of dogs.”

  Just like that the floor fell out from under her; her knees wobbled at the sudden seismic shift. “They’ve called someone else in?”

  He failed to meet her gaze. “Looks like,” he said, shrugging. The shrug, in the new clothing, managed to look the same as it always had: irritating.

  For the first time ever, Ellerson insisted that they dress appropriately. She knew he’d already had the run of the den, but she’d squeaked clear of the fancy, expensive clothing for the most part because even Ellerson could be practical; rooting about in dirty basements and crawlspaces did not require the same attention to detail as walking across the grand galleries.

  If it weren’t for Torvan’s steady presence, she would have gotten lost. Again. The rest of her den had managed, over the last several weeks, to learn the ins and outs of the manse; they knew it about as well as they knew the Common—or any other place they hadn’t called home.

  Under the cut-glass light of one of the multitudes of chandeliers, she stopped, gripped by a homesickness that made her throat tighten. Had you asked her—ever—she would have said that this was her dream life. And it was.

  But the problem with dreams was they were never complete. In her dreams of future glory, it had never occurred to her that she would spend weeks away from the side of Farmer Hanson’s stalls; that she would miss the way he shouted at his good-humored sons. He’d known, of course, that things had gotten bad, and he’d taken to slipping her more food than she’d paid for. She’d taken to accepting it in silence.

  He’d worry, now. It had been weeks since she’d gone.

  Weeks since she’d even thought of going. She wondered if Teller or Finch had left the grounds at all. They weren’t with her; she couldn’t ask.