House War 03 - House Name

by Michelle West

  Ellerson was beside the bed, lamp in hand; he turned as they entered. If they expected anger or disapproval—and they did—he offered neither. Instead, his eyes lined with dark circles, he nodded curtly and stepped aside, the lamplight swaying against the wall and the curtains as if it were drunk.

  Jay was sitting up, and her eyes were wide and vacant; they were also bloodshot. Her knees were bunched together against her chest, and her hands were full of bedclothing; they were also shaking.

  Dream? Finch signed.

  Teller signed back, Not sure. But he approached the bed as Finch slipped away. “Jay.”

  She stared ahead, seeing darkness and whatever it contained. She spoke, but the words were so garbled that they made no sense. Teller could speak both street Torra and Weston, and the words weren’t in either language. It troubled him more than he wanted to admit because he knew Jay didn’t speak any other languages, either. Not when she was awake.

  “Jay,” he said again, keeping his voice even. She answered him the fourth time he tried, and after each attempt, he spent minutes in patient silence. It was hard.

  Harder, in some ways, than the letters that were crowding Barston’s desk—and Gabriel’s as well. There he had Barston to guide—and correct—him. Any mistake he made was bound to be caught. Here? Just Jay, her words bleeding, at last, into silence.

  “Teller.”

  He nodded. Was surprised when she reached out, with no warning, and threw her arms around his neck. For a moment he went rigid and stiff, the way she would have. Then he relaxed. Forced himself to relax.

  “I don’t want to go back,” she told him. He could barely hear her words. But he understood what she meant.

  You couldn’t offer Jay comfort if the only way to do it was to lie. And he knew—as well as she did—that she couldn’t avoid the Cordufar manse. If The Terafin ordered her there, it was where she would go. Devon would come for her at dawn. She would follow.

  Although he would have bet any money he earned that it would have been impossible, Teller missed the mage—and the morning screaming matches between him and Jay—because with Devon, Jay was almost unnaturally silent.

  She knew, and she didn’t repeat her words. Neither did he. Nor would he. He glanced at Ellerson, but there was no warning in the look he gave the domicis; they all knew that nothing that could hurt Jay would leave his lips.

  “Kitchen?” he asked after she had relaxed her death grip slightly.

  She looked at him and then away. “No,” she whispered, hopelessly. “It was just a nightmare.”

  He looked at her face, made golden by orange light and hollow by night. Had it been day, he would have argued; he almost argued now. But he didn’t because in the end, it was her call.

  Finch came back, carrying bedding and pillows. She gestured at the floor, and Teller nodded. “We’ll stay,” he told Ellerson.

  “Master Barston is unlikely to appreciate the work you do when exhausted.”

  “No. But he often doesn’t appreciate the work I do when I’m not; he probably won’t be able to tell the difference.”

  Finch added, “And the Merchant Authority is quiet as a grave at this time of year.” She didn’t add that it was a damn noisy grave, because it was meant to be reassuring. Ellerson’s raised brow was most of his reply; he was also tired. He waited for just a moment and then nodded.

  Teller caught his eye before he turned to the door. Wait outside.

  Ellerson lifted a brow, and then smiled. He did not lift his hand to sign acceptance; he was domicis, not den, and it was not his language. But Teller had been certain for weeks now that Ellerson could understand what they said to each other when they were word-shy.

  “How many nights running has she woken like this?” Teller asked, keeping his voice low.

  Ellerson was silent for long enough that Teller wondered if answering the question was somehow considered a domicis breach of etiquette. Etiquette, which had never been a part of the den’s life, had become one of the most valuable lessons House Terafin had to impart—if you intended to remain in the House. In the streets of the twenty-fifth, Teller doubted it would be of much value. But they weren’t in the twenty-fifth. They might get there, but not tonight.

  “I have lost count,” was the formal and stiff reply. Teller understood two things: Ellerson knew exactly how many nights, and he chose not to divulge the number, but he intended to clearly state that they were many.

  “Does she always babble the way she did tonight?”

  “No, Master Teller. On most nights she just screams.”

  “This was different, then?”

  “It was not a substantially different waking; I believe that she is almost at the end of her physical endurance. She sleeps very little, and even at her age, some sleep is required. But if you refer to her odd speech, no.”

  Teller said nothing for at least as long as Ellerson had been silent. But in the end he chose to speak. “Jay’s been off since the attack on the manse. I thought Torvan’s release would change things. It did, but not enough. Whatever’s happening in the undercity—Don’t let her think it’s her fault. She will,” he added. “She’s like that. It’s hard to make Jay share anything bad.”

  When Ellerson lifted a brow, he reddened slightly. “Yes, she throws things and shouts a lot. But . . . right now she’s thinking that if she’d moved faster, they’d’ve found the undercity in time.”

  “In time,” Ellerson asked, “for what?”

  “That’s the question. We’re going to get an answer. I think—I think she already has one.”

  “A fair request, Master Teller. I have one of my own in return.”

  Teller nodded.

  “Make her speak. In this, whether you know it or not, she relies upon the den. She tends to isolate herself; do not allow her to do that.”

  Teller lifted both hands to sign his strong and immediate acceptance of terms, and then he blushed and lowered them. “Done,” he said.

  In the morning, Jay was gone before anyone woke. Teller and Finch, on the early morning shift, gazed, bleary-eyed, at each other across the narrow breakfast table. In this case ‘narrow’ meant larger than the only table their entire apartment had once boasted. Arann had already eaten and gone. He had said—as they—very, very little.

  Finch told Teller about Jarven’s offer as they pushed food around their plates, glancing furtively to see if Ellerson was watching them with That Look. “I wanted to ask Jay,” she told him, when she had finished.

  He nodded; he understood why she hadn’t.

  “What do you think I should do? We’re not technically supposed to know anything. If it leaks at all, they’ll assume it’s Jay’s fault.”

  “They’ll assume that anyway.”

  She thought about that for a moment, then grimaced. “Point.”

  He folded bread into smaller and smaller balls. This did earn a loud clearing-of-throat from their domicis, and he stopped. Mostly. “What do you think?” he asked, clearly stalling.

  Finch said, “Take it.”

  Teller lifted a hand, palm down.

  Finch nodded.

  18th of Corvil, 410 A.A.

  Terafin Manse, Averalaan Aramarelas

  Devon ATerafin had arrived at the manse with strong misgivings, and had requested an unusually early briefing with The Terafin. It was not often that such requests were granted before breakfast, but given the nature of current events unfolding within Averalaan, etiquette could be disregarded for the moment.

  She met him, not in the lower offices in which she conducted much of her obvious, daily business, but in the library, which was the quiet pride of her personal rooms. In these chambers, she had one of the Chosen and Morretz; no other guards intruded.

  As if, Devon thought, she knew what he had come to say and wished to limit its circulation. He took a chair at the long, empty table and watched her reflection across the gleaming wood grain as she did likewise.

  “Your work in Cordufar,” she said
quietly, “is cause for some concern?”

  “We have encountered no further magical difficulties.” Frowning, he added, “Or rather, have encountered none that have caused losses.”

  “Jewel’s intervention?”

  He nodded. “The magi, fractious as they are, are more intimidated by Meralonne APhaniel than by the possible loss of dignity in granting the requests of an undereducated girl. Her . . . instincts . . . are solid.

  “We have already discussed the voices that were heard yesterday.”

  She nodded. She was distant; she intended to give him no aid.

  And where no aid was forthcoming, finesse and subtlety were not possible. “I have strong misgivings,” he told her, coming to the point, “about Jewel Markess’ continued presence at the site.”

  “She is unstable?”

  “No.”

  “She is causing the House some political difficulty as its representative?”

  “She is not there—as you are well aware—in an official capacity as a representative of House Terafin; that has been my privilege and I assure you that I am not a sixteen-year-old street urchin in that regard.”

  The Terafin’s smile was shallow but genuine. “No, indeed.” The smile slipped away. “She was notably silent at yesterday’s meeting; it was, however, brief. How will the investigation cause difficulty for her?”

  “At the end of yesterday, the constant stream of voices emanating from beneath the remains of the Cordufar manse had all but stifled hers. I understand that she has not lived a remarkably cozened or sheltered life, but her particular inclinations make the existence of those voices difficult. Were she a different person, she would be more easily protected from the effects, but . . . she understands that what she hears is both magical in nature and entirely real at the same time.

  “She knows that people are dying, and they are dying in terror just at the edge of our reach. We cannot stifle the sound of those voices without also causing temporary deafness in those who might otherwise hear; the magi are working on it, but they are not always known for their subtle solutions to delicate problems.”

  “How widely has information about this difficulty spread?”

  “Not widely. Not yet.”

  The Terafin nodded. “Devon,” she said quietly, “are you asking me not to send Jewel Markess with you?”

  He could not—not quite—bring himself to say that. Instead, he said, “I think it unwise.”

  The Terafin nodded. “I understand,” she replied.

  “And will you send her?”

  “I will. I have misgivings, but they cannot be allowed to hold sway.”

  “She will—”

  “Be marked by this? So, in the end, will we all. She is not a child; she cannot, for the sake of pity or squeamishness, be spared. She has a role to play; how is she to play it if we choose to hide her from events?”

  Devon nodded stiffly and rose. He made it almost to the doors before he turned. “What future do you see for her, Terafin, that you are willing to drive her so harshly?”

  “I see no future for her at all if she cannot, in the end, be so driven.”

  18th of Corvil, 410 A. A.

  Cordufar Manse, Averalaan

  As Devon had suspected, the grounds of the Cordufar manse had not miraculously grown silent over the passage of one evening. As he had half feared, the noise had grown substantially in volume, enough so that voices—screams dying into the sounds that men make when they’ve gone beyond the edge of sanity—could be heard in the streets that surrounded the gated grounds.

  Those streets were now empty; not even the magisterial guards that had been summoned by the residents because of the sounds of tortured screaming stayed in them for long. They were good enough that they did attempt to gain entry to the grounds, but not so professional that relief at encountering the Kings’ Swords and the magi could not be seen clearly in their expressions.

  Jewel’s shoulders had begun a subtle inward gathering as they approached the gatehouse, and the tension did not subside. But she greeted both Meralonne and Sigurne with quiet diffidence before inquiring of them where they wished her to be deployed.

  Devon had attempted to confine Jewel to the highest reaches of the excavation. Over the passage of a handful of days, the excavation had yielded many things beneath the manse’s grounds, among them whole rooms that the magi identified as laboratories. The scorch-marked stone of both floor and walls seemed to uphold this designation; for this reason, the magi worked through these rooms quickly. Because there were more than two mages in a space of less than a hundred yards, they did not work quietly, and arguments broke out, like the hissing spats between territorial cats, at regular intervals. Given the reaction of the guildmaster, these were neither unexpected nor a matter for concern; they were however, judging by her pinched expression, very irritating.

  Jewel did not seem to notice. She answered few questions, and after the first hour and a half of exploration, Devon realized that whatever safety her presence offered the men and woman who were now involved in the bulk of this work had become almost entirely theoretical. Whatever inner voice she heard was subtle and quiet, and it was entirely swamped by the voices that now rose without pause from the ground beneath their feet.

  Those voices affected everyone who worked in the bowels of the earth and stone beneath the once fine manse; those who labored in the labs of the mage they had now identified as Davash AMarkham, and those who labored, with a quieter and fiercer desperation, at the shield beyond which no digging could take place.

  No digging, Devon thought with a grimace, and no fire, no lightning, no magical force known to the First Circle. Nothing at all could breach it. Nothing, he thought grimly, but sound.

  By midday, they found the remains of what appeared to be Davash AMarkham. Those remains were nestled between links of heavy gold, in what appeared to be a necklace. How they had found them, Devon didn’t know and didn’t ask; nor did he ask if they were certain. He understood the abilities of the magi, and he understood, as well, that questioning the conclusions they had drawn was in fact their own job. He merely had to listen to them bicker to derive all the answers he required. The Astari expected some report of their activities.

  As did The Terafin.

  But it was neither the Astari nor The Terafin he thought of now; it was Jewel. He spoke, briefly, with Sigurne, and less briefly with Meralonne, before he led Jewel away from the manse itself.

  “Wait here,” he told her quietly. “I have some work that must be attended to, but I do not think it will require much time.”

  “It will,” she told him, looking at the grass beneath her boots as if she could see through it.

  He nodded. “It often does,” he told her quietly. He glanced at the manse. The voices were loud, even here. And the victims of the torture that took place, heard but entirely unseen, were many and varied.

  Two hours passed before he could tear himself away from the councils of the magi, and those hours were difficult, even for Devon, a man who had been trained to ignore both the pain he caused and the pain he might one day endure. Training, he thought, was theoretical. It was never the actual event.

  The magi had drifted away from the shield in ones and twos; Sigurne sent them away. She herself did not leave. Nor, Devon noted, did Meralonne APhaniel. That member of the Order would have made Duvari proud had he been one of Duvari’s students, for he was the only man present who seemed to be untouched by the screams of pain and primal terror that broke conversation, over and over, like acid waves against a bitter shore.

  Here they had cleared enough of the fallen ruins of the mansion away that the sun’s bleak rays could be seen; dust motes traveled through the beams that broke shadow in wide spokes. But the sun was cold at this time of the year, and the light brought little comfort.

  “I must see to my—to Jewel,” Devon finally said. He was not certain if she were an excuse to leave the area where the voices were clearest; if she was, it was a failure.
Above ground, hundreds of yards from the shield itself, the voices were now just as loud, and sharp enough to cut.

  He knew it before he caught sight of Jewel, and he walked quickly toward her—coming, as he did, toward the gate, and the periphery of the sealed grounds.

  She didn’t see him. She couldn’t hear him. He could barely hear the fall of his own steps, no matter how heavy his tread. But in her case? Her hands were cupped over her ears; she was both bent and rigid, her pale face surrounded by flyaway strands of curled hair. She did not—as she so often did—attempt to push that hair out of her eyes; her eyes were closed, and closed tightly.

  Before he reached her, she stiffened, straightened, her eyes opening and widening, her hands falling away from the sides of her face as if thrown. She spun on her heel, looking frantically for something, for anything—he recognized the look—and she fell upon a shovel. It was not an excavator’s tool but a gardener’s. Here, all things had been found and used.

  She fell to the ground and began to dig.

  And while she did, he heard, clearly, the whimpering of a child’s voice. Above it, the sound of a woman’s voice—the mother’s voice—as she attempted to keep hysteria and fear from her words. For his sake. For all the good it would do.

  Dirt flew as Jewel dug; it flew wildly, in a spray of green and brown. He could almost see the whites of her eyes, could see the rise and fall of her chest as she took in air and spit it out again. She did not scream. She did not cry. She dug.

  “Put it down, Jewel.”

  And dug. He came to her side, then, but she didn’t acknowledge him. Wasn’t aware of his presence at all. Her hands were shaking. The small furrow just before her bent knees was growing.

  “Put it down, Jewel!”

  She looked up, then. Her hands, still shaking, had stilled—and she looked at them in confusion.

  “Put it down,” he said. He could not speak softly and be heard, but he gentled his voice as much as he could.