House War 03 - House Name

by Michelle West

  “Jewel?”

  She glanced at Torvan, took a deep breath—or as deep a breath as she could in this dress, with its mile-long sash wound so tightly around her middle—and nodded. The stray curls that characterized her hair in any season had been pulled back so tightly it made her teeth hurt.

  Torvan led her down the public galleries, ignoring the people who were gathered there in twos and threes. They didn’t entirely ignore Torvan, but none of them spoke; Jewel tried to hold her head up high and to walk as if she belonged here.

  Her clothing did. She didn’t. And the only way she would ever belong here was if she found the undercity, miles and miles of streets and deserted buildings that she couldn’t even reach anymore. So she made her silent list of the entrances and exits they’d tracked, ticking them off, one at a time.

  She was at the tail end of this process when she noticed that Torvan had stopped walking. Turning, she looked at the doors in front of which he’d come to stand. “Isn’t this where—”

  “Yes. But the repairs have been done, and well. Except for scoring in the stone, you would not know that a battle of any sort took place here.” He nodded toward the doors.

  “Aren’t you coming?”

  “I wasn’t summoned. There are other guests.”

  “Which means I’ve got to be on good behavior, right?”

  “The choice,” he replied, with a very slight smile, “is always yours.”

  “Not much of a choice,” she replied as she caught the handles of the closed door. “Starve or jump through hoops.”

  “Welcome to the adult world.” But again, he smiled, to take the edge off words she knew damn well were true. She’d gotten so used to Torvan it was hard to remember, sometimes, that he belonged in House Terafin.

  If Jewel wasn’t exactly comfortable in The Terafin’s presence by this time, she was no longer terrified. The Terafin wasn’t friendly and would probably never be friendly, but they had grief in common, and they were both used to hiding grief; The Terafin was just better at it.

  Jewel, however, was unaccustomed to other visitors, and she froze a moment in the open door.

  Three men sat in chairs around a long, low table, only one of whom she recognized. Meralonne. He was either not annoyed at the moment—which was a minor miracle in and of itself—or he was on good behavior because he didn’t really know the other two strangers that well. There was a silvered jug, with appropriate cups around it, on a tray that also shone with reflected light; there was food of some sort, but Jewel was not yet adept at recognizing the ways in which ingredients were disguised in a fine House.

  If she had been stuffed into a dress—with a full skirt, and a sash that cut off breath—the two strangers had not. But they wore clothing that even the dirt of the road could not make common. That clothing was not in Averalaan colors; it was a deep, deep green, with some flashings of brown on the full sleeves and in the gathers of the breast.

  One of the two men looked as bored as Carver could get. His hair was a dark brown, and his eyes, in this light, dark as well. The other man, who gave him a glance that clearly said pay attention, was blond; his hair was long but not braided, and his eyes were lighter; she couldn’t tell, at this distance, what color they were. They were both older than she was but significantly younger than The Terafin.

  In and of themselves, they would have been a bit unsettling, because they were clearly foreigners. Jewel wasn’t certain how she knew, but she knew. But seated quietly—and on the ground—to one side of the dark-haired stranger, was a young woman. Her hair was matted and lank; it hung in clumped strands all about her face, and she took no trouble to brush it out of her eyes. She wasn’t lovely, although possibly if Ellerson had been allowed to take her into hand—and more important, into the baths—she might have been.

  Something about her was . . . wrong. She looked up at Jewel when Jewel entered, but she didn’t rise, didn’t nod, didn’t otherwise seem to notice.

  The two men, however, left their seats and offered Jewel bows, which was awkward, because Jewel had no idea what to offer them in return. As she hesitated, The Terafin spoke.

  “Jewel. Good. Please join us.” The Terafin sat behind her desk. It was new; the old one had been scored and burned. But new or no, it was elegant and clearly well crafted.

  “This is Lord Elseth of the Kingdom of Breodanir,” she said, indicating the very bored, dark-haired man. “And this is his companion, Stephen. The young woman,” she continued, as if said young woman weren’t seated on the carpets across the floor, “is called Espere. She is, unfortunately, mute—and they have traveled this distance to find a cure for her condition.”

  Mute. Jewel glanced at the two men. Mute was not the girl’s problem.

  Oh? And what is?

  She ignored the inner question; she didn’t know. Had they been guests in her own home—or even in the wing the den now occupied—she would have questioned them. But this was The Terafin’s domain, and what The Terafin accepted, Jewel was forced to accept. Besides which, it was nice to have something be someone else’s problem, for a change. Her only problem, and her only fear at the moment, was that these foreigners might somehow take from her the only job she’d ever had.

  She took a chair. If The Terafin noticed that she’d chosen the chair as far from the strangers as possible, she made no comment. Jewel looked at the cups laid out on the table and glanced at the food. But as the guests had touched little, she couldn’t. Even without the benefit of a House’s wealth and tutors, she had some manners.

  “Gentlemen, this is Jewel Markess. She is one of three people that I’ve personally appointed to investigate the unusual occurrences in the inner holdings.” A brief, but distinct, knock interrupted her, and she glanced at the door. Jewel heard the knock, but she was having trouble with the “three”; as far as she knew, neither she nor Meralonne counted as two.

  “Enter.”

  Jewel, to her embarrassment, hadn’t bothered to knock.

  The doors opened, and a man she had never seen before entered the room. He was Torvan’s age, but aside from gender, he had very little in common with the House Guard; his hair was dark but sprinkled, faintly, with silver; his eyes were darker than the foreign lord’s. He could walk, and did, silently and gracefully. He wore House colors, and they suited him.

  He took the chair closest to the foreigners, nodding briefly at Meralonne APhaniel as if they were more than passing acquaintances—and not entirely comfortable ones, at that.

  “I’m sorry I’m late, Terafin.”

  “I’d prefer that you were less sorry and more often on time,” she replied, but the words were too wry to be a reprimand. “Very well. You know Meralonne, more or less. The two gentlemen are visitors from beyond the Empire. This is Lord Elseth of Breodanir, and this, his companion, is Stephen. The young woman to your right is Jewel Markess; it is she whom you will be advising.

  “Devon ATerafin has been a member of my House for almost twenty years. He is absolutely trustworthy.”

  Lord Elseth turned to his companion; his companion shrugged. It was brief, but it might as well have been den-sign.

  “Although his duties are to the Trade Commission, he has agreed to aid us in this difficult time.”

  Jewel attempted to accept this news with grace; she managed silence. She had no idea what the Trade Commission actually was, but she could hazard a guess, given the name. She couldn’t figure out why the Trade Commission’s advice was supposed to help her. That The Terafin felt she needed advice from anyone besides the mage was nerve-wracking. And, she thought, given her total failure to date, it was also deserved.

  The fair-haired companion now rose and offered Devon ATerafin a perfect and correct bow. It was a little on the stiff side. His lord rose a few seconds later, and performed a bow that was, surprisingly, just as good. Jewel would have sworn he’d had to be dragged to his feet, and she’d seen no glance, no look, no hand signal, that might have accomplished this.

  She
heard growling and looked up in surprise. She must be damn nervous, she thought. There were dogs lying against the far wall, massive triangular heads resting against their forepaws, and she’d missed them. She’d never seen anything larger than a cat—well, nothing alive at any rate—inside the manse before. Two of these dogs had lifted their heads; they hadn’t gained their feet, but the growling was the steady, low thrum of noise that made barking seem safe.

  They didn’t appear to like Devon ATerafin.

  For his part, Devon ATerafin was aware of this at once, but he didn’t seem particularly bothered—or surprised—by it. He glanced at the dogs briefly and then turned a pleasant smile upon the visitors.

  “Isn’t it unusual for Hunter Lords to travel?” he asked.

  Hunter Lord. Hunter Lord. Jewel froze a moment as the words sunk in.

  “It is very unusual,” the man The Terafin had introduced as Stephen replied. “And we must not tarry; by the first of Veral, we must be in Breodanir, in the King’s city.”

  “Or?” Devon asked. He knew the answer, Jewel thought. She wasn’t sure why she thought it, but she didn’t doubt the certainty.

  “There is no or,” Stephen said gravely. “We are Hunters, and we abide by the Hunter’s Oath. If we cannot achieve our goal—or yours, Terafin—by that date, we must set aside the goal until the passing of the Sacred Hunt.”

  Devon nodded as if the response was entirely the one he expected.

  Silence now descended upon the room; it wasn’t a comfortable silence. Rather, it was the silence of strangers with too many duties and too little time to accomplish any of them. Jewel knew the silence well; it was partly her own.

  But it wasn’t her job—thank the gods—to alleviate it.

  “Devon,” said the woman whose job it was, “I must ask you one question. Do you know who holds the seventeenth, the thirty-second, and the thirty-fifth?”

  His face lost its friendly, easy smile as he raised a brow. “Pardon?” It clearly wasn’t the question he’d been expecting. Fair enough; Jewel found it confusing as well. Before The Terafin could repeat the question, he lifted a hand. “My apologies, Terafin. I heard the question.”

  “And?”

  “I must confess that I leave that for the record keepers and the treasury. It’s easy enough to find the three names if you require them.”

  “It’s not necessary,” she replied. “Meralonne?”

  The mage didn’t have a pipe in his hands. The expression on his face made clear that this lack was onerous. “They are not three names; they are one. Those holdings, as well as the seventh and the fifty-ninth, are in the care of Lord Cordufar.”

  “Two of the richest and three of the poorest,” Devon said, lifting his hand to his chin a moment and staring into the space above the tabletop.

  “The two richest and the three poorest,” The Terafin replied.

  “That is . . . unusual.”

  Jewel was at sea in the discussion. She had just managed to understand that the numbers referred to five of the hundred holdings. She didn’t know the latter two, but knew the former three quite well. It had never occurred to her to think of them as lands held or owned by the patriciate ; the patriciate, with their fabled mansions and their obvious wealth, seemed to have nothing in common with her old life.

  They certainly wouldn’t be caught dead crossing any of the streets.

  Devon said what Jewel was thinking but would never have dared to say. “Why is this of significance to this problem?” He gestured briefly around the room.

  Since Jewel was entirely uncertain how any of the others, with the exception of the mage, had anything to do with the problem, she listened carefully.

  “We believe that the magisterial courts have been corrupted within those holdings.”

  Devon’s brows rose again; this time they rose higher and were slower to descend. If the abrupt turn in the conversation had given him pause, The Terafin’s last statement had been a figurative slap in the face. She knew the expression, even if he mastered it far better than any of her den would.

  “Oh? By whom?”

  She didn’t even pause, this woman who ruled the House. “Either by Patris Cordufar, who heads one of the richest of the noble families in the Empire, or by those who have managed to take advantage of him. Devon, you’ve met Cordufar.”

  He nodded. He was on his guard, even though he bore her House Name and in doing so, the implied duty to serve her. “I realize that you would never make such a statement without proof, but I must nevertheless ask why you’ve reached that conclusion.”

  “Of course,” she replied, as if the almost-question was expected. She leaned over to the corner of the desk and lifted a small pile of papers from it. “These are the names of people who have been reported as missing throughout the holdings in the last decade.” She set those down and picked up another document. “These are a list of people who have gone missing within the three poorer holdings that Cordufar holds during that same time.”

  He stood, walked to the desk, and retrieved both of the items she’d referenced so crisply. He read them both, and if he read quickly, he read carefully; Jewel could see his eyes moving as they scanned names. He frowned. He lifted the second document, the one that referred specifically to the three poor holdings.

  “If these were not reported, how do you know they’ve gone missing?”

  Jewel was frustrated; she wanted to read what he’d read.

  “We have reason to believe that they were reported, at least initially. You’ll want, of course, to read this as well.” She added a third report to the two that still remained in his hands.

  He took it and read it as well. Jewel sat on her hands. Literally.

  “You suspect,” he said, his voice quieter, “that whoever has been suppressing these reports is also involved with the disappearances.” The words were flat, more of a statement than a question.

  Everyone else in the room, even the foreigners, seemed to follow his logic. Jewel struggled to keep up.

  “Why?” Lord Elseth asked. He turned to glare at his companion and fell silent.

  “Because,” Meralonne replied, “It’s perfectly clear that whoever has been suppressing this information knows which disappearances he, she, or they are responsible for and which are random acts of violence.”

  Devon ATerafin put all three of the reports back on the desk. He did not, however, return to his seat. Instead, he faced The Terafin as if she were the only other person in the room.

  “Terafin, I do not believe that this is House business alone. To imply that a lord of the patriciate has somehow managed to subvert the magisterial courts is a grave accusation, and possibly worse. A matter of this nature should be reported at once to the appropriate—”

  “Be seated, Devon.”

  He sat.

  “There is more, and I trust that you will understand why I say what I say when you have heard it.”

  “Terafin, please. I—”

  “You will stand down! And,” she added, her voice losing the sudden raw edge of power, “you will listen.” She stood, then, and abandoned the separation provided by her desk.

  “Have you heard stories of the demon-kin?”

  Devon’s expression was quiet, shorn of smile. He nodded, his eyes never leaving her face.

  “Good. Because we believe that the people responsible for the destruction of the unreported missing persons are either demons or those in league with them. Meralonne can attest to the fact that many of the kin feel a need to . . . feed. If a mage—or more likely a House—has a collection of these creatures, it is quite likely that they will require some physical sacrifice.”

  “The Terafin is correct,” Meralonne said quietly. He spoke without apparent concern, and although he glanced at Devon, his gaze shifted to the foreigners.

  “Further,” The Terafin continued, when Devon asked no questions, “we know for a fact that some of the demon-kin can assume not only the shape of a man, but also much of his identity
and much of his memory. This is, of course, at the cost of the life of the one so imitated.” She paused as if for breath, her voice cool and even.

  Jewel flinched for both of them, but she didn’t speak. She wanted to, though. Rath deserved better from her. From both of them.

  “This is no illusion, Devon. Such an assumption is not magical in nature, and when looked for, no magic will be found.”

  Devon ATerafin, the man whose job was with the Trade Commission, paled. He had become completely still as the words faded into silence. “Reymaris’ Sword,” he whispered.

  The Terafin did not appear to hear him. Given how she could fail to hear Meralonne at his loudest, Jewel knew it was deliberate.

  “We do not know at which level the ranks of the Cordufar family have been infiltrated—but we know that upon the staff of the magisterial truthseekers, there was one who was no longer seeking truth.” Her glance strayed, briefly, to Lord Elseth and his companion. She did not, to Jewel’s regret, elaborate.

  “Then we must find the summoner of these creatures,” Devon said.

  “Yes, we must. And we must do so with care and caution. I have already sent word, through all the channels that I have access to, that an assassination attempt was carried out, by magical means, against me. I have made it clear that there was a summoning of some sort, and I have offered the usual reward for information about the mage who accepted the job.”

  “In other words, you’ve done everything you can to appear as ignorant as possible.”

  “Yes. But I’m not at all sure that it will work.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the man they killed and replaced—the man whose partial memories they own—was once my brother. We did not love each other overmuch in our later years, but we knew each other well.”

  “Ararath,” Devon said softly.

  The Terafin’s bitter smile cut Jewel. She looked at Devon again, and this time, she looked closely. He knew who Rath was. No one else in the House seemed to have really heard of him before, but Devon knew.

  Who was he?

  “Meralonne APhaniel is one of a suspected half dozen of the mage-born who can easily detect these creatures for what they are. But he must be looking for it. Needless to say, most people will not.