House War 03 - House Name

by Michelle West

  The farmer, notably, didn’t mention the fact that he’d have nothing to wear, and Jewel decided to retreat before he spoke to his daughter about the party, because she was pretty certain the daughter would speak volumes on the subject.

  Avandar had done her the “ill-advised” favor of allowing her to speak with Farmer Hanson alone; she returned the courtesy. She didn’t try to lose him in the crowd for the rest of the afternoon. She had one invitation that would take her into the twenty-fifth holding itself; it would be her last visit before returning home.

  But it wasn’t the last planned visit; she now headed into the actual storefronts nearer the Merchant Authority. Avandar didn’t stick out quite as much there, or at least not in theory; he did, however, still get much more room on the open street than size or arms—he wasn’t wearing any—should have granted him.

  “Here,” she told him, pointing at the familiar windows of Haval’s legitimate business.

  “This is where you wish to commission clothing?”

  “That too.”

  “Very well. At least it’s not Helen’s.”

  She had considered asking Helen to make her a dress, and she didn’t appreciate Avandar’s tone. But she thought Helen, instead of being proud, would feel inadequate and distressed, and she knew Haval would have no such issues. She also wanted to know what Haval thought of Avandar, and therefore gave neither man any warning, if you didn’t count the bell that sounded every time the front door opened.

  Haval was working, as he usually was, behind the counter closest to both the window and the door; he worked almost entirely in the natural light of the afternoon, and one of his eyes was occupied by the glass he often wore for detail work. In spite of the slowness with which he shed both work and glass, Jewel knew he was aware she was there. She watched his posture with care, attempting for a moment to ignore his expression.

  It was hard, because he was, at the moment, smiling broadly. “Jewel.” He never raised his voice except to call his wife. He set aside the material in a very careful bundle and then stepped out from behind the counter, glancing once—briefly—at Avandar. His expression, however, didn’t shift. At all. Given that Avandar caused most people to move out of the way just by walking, this told Jewel something—but because it was Haval, she wasn’t certain what.

  She realized that she had been standing there in silence for just that little bit too long, and she shook herself. “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “Because?” He lifted a brow. “You are rescuing me from the tedium of my daily work.”

  “Well . . . not exactly.”

  “Not exactly? Hannerle!” He added, lifting his voice. “Jewel has come to pay us a visit, if you aren’t terribly busy.”

  His wife, who was generally busy, nonetheless came out of the back rooms, wiping her hands on her apron as she entered the storefront. She looked, as usual, slightly harried—but she didn’t look at all suspicious until her eyes glanced off Avandar, who was standing by the wall. She did, however, come to greet Jewel and to offer her a hand, which Jewel took. “We’ve not seen you since—”

  “No,” Jewel said, too quickly. “But I’ve been both busy and well, and I’m actually in need of a dress. I wanted Haval to make it.”

  “You see, Hannerle? My time and devotion to the young lady has paid off handsomely. Assuming,” he added, with a broad smile, “that the expense of the dress is to be paid by House Terafin?”

  “It is.”

  “Good, good. Come into the back room for a moment; I can take your measurements again; you look as if you’ve grown slightly and lost weight.”

  Jewel raised a brow. “Is there enough room for me in the back right now?”

  “I’m sure there is,” Hannerle said, before Haval could speak. “As long as you don’t plan to sit on anything.” Instead of retreating as she often did, she began to walk slowly past the various bolts of uncut cloth that the shop contained. “Go on, dear. I’ve a few ideas of what might be appropriate.”

  Hannerle hadn’t exaggerated, but then again, it wasn’t required; Haval’s back room looked like the usual cluttered disaster. He clearly hadn’t been doing much work of his own in the back room, because even his chair was completely invisible. There was, however, a clear patch of floor, which implied that, if he desired it, he could do work there. He did not, however, head to his chair, and since Jewel was following him, she ran into his back when he stopped. She managed not to stumble, because she didn’t trust the floor not to be pin and needle strewn.

  “At my age,” Haval said, from somewhere above her head, “that posture would cause serious injury.”

  She snorted and straightened up. “Aren’t I supposed to at least choose the cloth or the possible cut before you need measurements?”

  “That is the theory, yes,” he replied. His face had lost all trace of satisfaction—or greed—and was as smooth as a mask.

  Jewel held up a hand before he could speak. “Let me guess. You don’t like my domicis.”

  He raised one brow, and he raised it slowly enough to indicate that he’d chosen to be surprised by her words. Or chosen to reveal his surprise. With Haval, it was impossible to tell. “Your domicis?”

  “Yes. The man who accompanied me into your store. The one you failed to look at or greet.”

  At that, he smiled; it was slight in both form and duration. “Very good, Jewel. I failed to acknowledge his presence because I understood that he was there to serve you; a servant of any worth expects to remain unacknowledged until and unless his master does so.”

  “But?”

  The brow rose again. “I see you expected me to have reservations. Forcing me to enact them in this fashion seems slightly dishonest, Jewel. I believe I am almost proud of you.”

  “Thanks. I think. If it makes you feel any better, I don’t like him much.”

  “No?”

  “No. But he comes with the House Name.”

  Haval nodded. “ATerafin,” he added, with a bow.

  “You already knew.”

  “You needn’t take that accusatory tone, Jewel. I should think you would expect word of your good fortune to have traveled by this late date.”

  “You’ve known for a while.”

  He smiled at that.

  “You know about the domicis.”

  “I knew that you had one. I did not, however, foresee the difficulty the one you now have represents.”

  “Difficulty? What do you know about him?”

  “Very little.”

  “Honestly?”

  “Oh, tush, Jewel. That’s beneath you.” He reached into a pile on his desk and came up with a tape measure. “If you would lift your arms?”

  “I will. But don’t come near me with pins.”

  “When is the event?”

  “In two weeks.”

  “Two weeks?” For the first time in her life, Jewel thought Haval was genuinely shocked.

  “That’s not enough?”

  “Is it a significant event?”

  “To us, yes.”

  “Who is ‘us?’ ”

  “My den. We’re having a party,” she added, and before he could actually wrap the tape measure around her, she dropped her arms and fished an invitation out of her satchel. “Here. Oh, no, wait—that’s the wrong one. This one is yours.”

  Haval took it with care, examined the seal, and broke it; the wax fell on one of the clear parts of the floor. He read the letter with care. “So, you intend not only to ask me to attire you in a fashion appropriate to your newly acquired station but also to attire myself and my wife in a similar fashion as well, within a paltry two weeks?”

  “Something like that. I don’t need anything fancy. In fact, I’d be grateful if you made something simple and comfortable.”

  “And my reputation is to benefit from that how?” He shook his head. “This is vastly more alarming than the man you walked into the store with, I’ll have you know. Lift your arms, Jewel. No, do not gesture unless you can
do it with your exposed armpits.”

  “Can we get back to the man?”

  “Perhaps. What do you wish to know?”

  “I want your impression of him.”

  “Surely you can infer some of that while I work?”

  She snorted.

  “Very well. I am not entirely familiar with him. His name?”

  “The name he goes by is Avandar Gallais.”

  “I see. You don’t feel it is a genuine name?”

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Very well. You are certain that he is what he claims he is?”

  “A domicis? He came from the guildhall, and The Terafin’s domicis certainly recognized him.”

  “He is, in my considered opinion, dangerous.”

  “To me or in general?”

  “At the moment? They are not disparate.” He frowned as Jewel sucked in air. “You might as well ask the question, Jewel; I would hate to see you suffocate.”

  “Do you know much about the Terafin House Council?”

  “What an odd question for so junior a member of the House to ask. I am not ATerafin, why should I know?”

  She made a face but otherwise stood still while he measured.

  “I hope that your facial expressions are better contained while you are in the House. Very well. Arms down and turn around please.”

  She did as bid. There wasn’t much lost because even staring at Haval’s expression didn’t give her much information.

  “It happens that I am familiar with some—not all—of the House Council. Please tell me that you will not be in a position to interact with them in the very near future.”

  “If you promise not to lecture me about my ability to lie.”

  “Your inability. And as I am incapable of making that promise at the moment, I will take your condition as the answer to my question. Let me then ask you to tell me that you will not be on the House Council at your age and with your obvious lack of experience.”

  “Same condition applies.”

  “And you give me two weeks.”

  “Haval—we’re only inviting our old friends. Not that we had a lot of them, but we did have them. Farmer Hanson will be there. Helen, if her son can actually push her into and out of the carriage. You. A few others, some of whom I’ve never met. It’s not a party for the patriciate.”

  “Ah. And you feel that your gathering will, in fact, play host to no people of any significance, politically speaking?”

  Jewel’s brows gathered as she frowned. It was her thinking expression.

  “Let me hazard a guess. You are uncertain as to the political import—or acumen—of all of your guests.”

  “I think you’d call most of them insignificant,” she finally said.

  “Ah. And the rest?”

  “I invited Meralonne APhaniel. I don’t know if he’ll come, but I doubt it. The Terafin may come for a bit, though—she’s not insignificant.”

  “I . . . see. The depth of your understatement almost robs me of the ability to speak sensible words. Two weeks,” he added. “Very well. We will head back to the store to see what Hannerle has chosen as suitable; she may well revise her opinion when she hears of at least the last of the guests you mentioned.”

  There was one more stop, and this took Jewel to the twenty-fifth holding. Speaking with Farmer Hanson had reminded her of the beginnings of her den; it had been Farmer Hanson who had sent her to Arann. And Lefty, she thought, gazing at the river as she slowed for a moment. Lefty, with his missing finger, his constant jumpiness, and his unexpected sarcasm. All she wanted for him now was that he be at peace, waiting no doubt in the shadows cast by the pillars of Mandaros’ great hall, for Arann to finally join him. Arann had said—to Finch, not to Jewel, although Finch had mentioned it quietly afterward—that he’d seen Lefty when he’d almost crossed the bridge that divided the living, however tenuously life clung, from the dead.

  He hadn’t mentioned Lander or Fisher, but then neither had ever relied on him as completely as Lefty had.

  “Jewel?”

  She shook herself, retreating from thoughts of the dead. It was harder here. The tavern came into view, and with it, the ghostly image of a much younger Finch running down the street, a demon in pursuit. And it had been a demon; they hadn’t understood that then. In restrospect she thought Rath might have.

  But Finch, they’d saved. She’d found Carver the very night she’d come, seeking the slender girl whose flight had haunted her dreams. Here.

  She paused in the recessed doorway and placed a palm against the door itself.

  “Jewel.” Avandar again, his unwelcome voice an intrusion that reminded her that the past was gone, closed, untouchable. She hated to expose herself to his arrogant condescension, and if she had to endure one more lecture, she was going to stab him. Somehow. She squared her shoulders and raised her chin, then pushed the door open.

  It was now late enough in the afternoon that the tavern was dotted with people who were eating an early dinner. She glanced at the bar, and behind it, in his familiar and dirty apron, was Taverson. He glanced up, a cleaning rag in one hand, a large mug in the other. The air wasn’t yet hazy with smoke, although that would come; fire was burning in the fireplace farther into the tavern.

  He frowned as he saw her.

  She wanted to sit down and eat dinner, to be served the stew that seared the mouth if you didn’t wait for the damn thing to cool, to eat his wife’s bread while around the table people got louder and louder. She had felt safe here, in spite of the press of bodies and the very real danger drunk men presented.

  But she didn’t want her only companion to be Avandar. The first several times she’d come here, she’d come with Rath. Rath had been, in his own way, as intimidating as Avandar—but only when he wanted to be. She couldn’t imagine that she could ever love Avandar; she could barely tolerate him now.

  Rath, she had loved. She rubbed her eyes and muttered something about the smoke, in case Avandar had noticed, and then marched up to the bar, standing between two empty stools and lifting herself up onto her toes. “Taverson,” she said, raising her voice. “Do you remember me?”

  The frown deepened. Taverson wasn’t a small man. He’d removed a drunk more than a time or two, often by way of a door he hadn’t bothered to open first. But he’d never thrown her, or any of her kin, out that door, and she didn’t expect he’d try now; the worst she’d get was a curt bark.

  His eyes rounded a bit, and his frown eased; he didn’t generally smile. “You’re Rath’s little girl,” he said. “Old Rath.”

  “Yes,” she said. “I am.”

  “You’re a damn sight more fancy than you were last I set eyes on you.” He lifted his voice, shouted a name, and one of the girls who was waiting tables came out of the small crowd.

  “You bellowed?” she said.

  “Tell my wife that Rath’s Jewel is here.” He looked Jewel up and down again, and his glance shifted completely when he laid eyes on Avandar. “That one a friend of yours?”

  She compromised. “He’s with me.”

  “You’re not with him?” he asked pointedly, knowing the difference.

  She could feel her jaw fall and snapped it back into place. “No.”

  He shook his head. “Worse things happen, Jewel.”

  “Oh, I know. I know.”

  “You here to eat?”

  “I’d love to, but I’m expected back. I just came to—”

  “Jewel!”

  Marla, Taverson’s wife, had come out of the kitchen; she, like her husband, was wiping her hands on her apron. The apron had clearly seen a few days of solid wear. Before Jewel could say anything, strong and slightly sweaty arms enfolded her. She didn’t bother to try to say more than hello because there wouldn’t have been much point; it would have been hard to get more than a single word through the volley from Marla.

  “We heard about Rath,” she finally said, as she pulled Jewel
toward a table. Beside it, limp and slightly discolored, was a plant in a cracked pot. “Come and sit,” she added. “Tell us what you’ve been up to. We’ll feed you,” she added, pointing an unnecessary glare at her husband. “Sit.”

  All of the reasons she’d intended not to eat at the tavern withered; she sat.

  Avandar joined her after Marla had retreated a safe distance—in this case, the kitchen. “You ate here often?”

  “Not often enough.” She glanced around the large room, with its half flight of stairs and its very dirty fireplace. It was cold enough that fire was needed when the tavern was still half-empty; at the end of the night, when it was packed so tight you had to step on people to get them to move out of the way, air was more of a problem. The doors were often pegged open at that point, and the sounds of the tavern would blend with the quiet rush of river and the silence of night streets.

  He looked dubious, but Jewel expected that. “It was . . . safe?”

  “I was with Rath. Or my den. But yeah, it was safe. If things got ugly, Taverson or his help would interfere. His wife once dropped a chair on someone’s head.”

  “I doubt it was only a one-time occurrence.” But he surprised her; he smiled slightly as he said it. “This is not a place I would have assumed you could find a comfort.”

  “Place?” She glanced at the low, rough beams of a ceiling that wasn’t all that impressive and from there to what could be seen of the scuffed and slightly warped wooden floors. “Oh.”

  Taverson’s wife returned, and with her came two steaming bowls of stew, a large basket of bread, and one—only one—mug. She put the mug down squarely in front of Avandar, and ale spilled over its lip. “You’ll have water,” she told Jewel firmly. Jewel almost laughed. It was only Marla who insisted on that, but no one argued with her much; if you wanted to drink, you waited until she’d gone for the night.

  Cutlery was also placed on the table, but almost as an afterthought; the warning that the stew was hot certainly was.

  Avandar lifted the dented spoon and examined it in the candlelight. Shaking his head, he pulled a magestone out of his robes and set it on the table, then spoke one curt word to brighten it. The word was not in a language Jewel understood. She frowned. “What did you say?”