He raised one brow. “Light.”
“That’s not what you said.”
“It is; your lack of comprehension is the issue, and no, I feel no need to educate you in that regard.”
Steam rose from the two bowls between them. Jewel, who liked the roof of her mouth, reached for the bread as Avandar inspected the contents of his mug. She waited for some comment about the quality of the food, but none was forthcoming. His expression shifted, softening into a totally unfamiliar smile; his gaze was distant enough that she knew she had nothing to do with it.
Not for the first time, she wondered where he’d come from and what he’d done to become a domicis, because in spite of his position, she couldn’t imagine that he’d ever served anyone. But . . . he ate. He drank. He seemed, for the half hour, to be comfortable in this loud and slightly run-down room. He didn’t speak much, but then again, neither did Jewel; she waited until the stew was cool enough to eat—which meant it was just on the edge of painful.
But it was good. It was tangy and warm; there was less meat in it than she was now used to eating at most dinners, and more potato. The bread was as good as anything she got at home, though. Home. Taverson’s wife came and went as the bar grew more crowded, not because she was waiting at tables—she wasn’t—but because she was in theory overseeing the kitchen. The ghosts of memory here were kinder than they had been on the walk.
Even the memory of Carver burning his mouth that first night made her smile.
She looked up; Avandar was watching her; the light made his eyes seem paler, somehow. “Who is Rath?” he asked. She hadn’t expected the question.
“A friend.”
“A friend?”
She nodded stiffly and looked away. Then she looked back, almost defiantly. “Everything I have now, I have because of him.”
Avandar lifted a hand. “I require no confession.” His voice was cool, clipped. “Will he be at your gathering?”
“Only in spirit. Knowing Rath, probably not even then.” Restless, she pushed herself out of her chair and almost ran into Marla, who was not, after all, in the kitchen. Her arms were folded, and she looked worried. Worried was generally followed by angry, which was generally followed by violent, although that violence had never been fatal.
“No, I’m fine,” Jewel said quickly, raising both hands to fend off the suspicious words that were about to be spoken. “He’s here to—” she stopped, realizing that Taverson’s wife was not, in fact, looking directly at her. She was looking into the tavern itself, at one particular table. She glanced at Jewel, offered a perfunctory smile, and then once again looked past her.
Jewel turned as well; she could hear the voices of men who had already had too much to drink. In and of itself, this wasn’t a problem. But drinking peeled away different layers of skin depending on the drinker; in some cases, it peeled away the parts that were sane and cautious.
“Stay here,” Marla said firmly. “Stay with your friend.” She walked toward the bar, and Jewel, watching, saw that she approached her husband. Taverson was looking the table as well, and his expression—never the friendliest—had frozen in place. He wasn’t angry—anger was normal, because stupidity was, in his words, everywhere, and he didn’t much care for stupid. He was grim. He set aside everything and fished about under the bar, coming up with a truncheon.
Jewel returned to the table, since she wasn’t that far from it, but she couldn’t bring herself to sit. This was the point at which anyone with half a brain would be slinking out the front doors—and her den would have been among them.
But the problem that had drawn the tavern owner’s wife became clear as Jewel watched; it wasn’t that the men were drunk or belligerent; it was their target: one of the barmaids. She was still trying to be friendly, but in a tight-lipped way, and it was not going well; the whole situation was now balancing on an edge that was getting sharper and thinner as the sentences continued.
“Jewel.”
She jumped when Avandar touched her shoulder. The bar was loud and noisy, and looming disaster had always been compelling and unsettling, but she hadn’t been aware that he’d left his seat and had come to stand behind her. She expected him to tell her that it was time to leave; she even expected him to say something enraging about the tavern itself.
He did neither. He did shake his head in a very familiar and resigned way, but that was all. Taverson waved at Lorry, who had already left off any pretense of work; he, like Taverson, was not a small man—and like Taverson, not drunk.
But the table was crowded with men who were also not small, and they weren’t yet drunk enough, in Jewel’s opinion, to be pushovers. She drew a sharp breath as one of them—finally—grabbed the barmaid. This happened a lot, but usually the barmaids had practice in disengaging without taking—or causing—offense. Jewel knew that this wasn’t going to be one of those times.
Avandar said, “This is not the work I envisioned when I accepted the position. Take the woman’s advice: Stay here. Do not attempt to interfere.” He even pushed her, firmly, back into her chair, and then he headed, more quickly than either Taverson or Lorry, toward the table in the back of the room.
“Gentlemen,” he said. The word sounded quiet. Soft-spoken. But Jewel could hear it clearly over all the rest of the conversation in the tavern. That conversation began to dry up as people turned to look. At Avandar. At her domicis. Of all of the things she had expected from him, this wasn’t even on the list.
“Avandar!” she shouted.
Her voice, unlike his, wasn’t pitched to carry. But because the room had gotten quieter in the wake of his, it did. He didn’t turn.
“We don’t have a writ!”
He said, in the same quiet voice, “A writ will not be required. Gentlemen .” There was something in the way he spoke the last word that pierced drunken malice and ugly self-indulgence. At least some of it. The barmaid’s wrist and elbow were still wedged between two pairs of hands, and the tray she had been balancing had already been removed by a third pair.
Even the barmaid looked up at the sound of Avandar’s voice.
Taverson had stopped about five feet from Avandar’s back because Avandar was, frankly, in the way; he occupied the small set of steps that led into the larger back area, and he clearly had no intention of moving to allow them to pass. Taverson didn’t try to push clear, either; he just waited for Avandar to move.
“Let the girl go,” the domicis said, in the same even tone.
The two men whose backs were toward the stairs now turned in their chairs. They weren’t young men, but they were, she thought, slightly younger than Avandar. They were more scarred, and they’d clearly seen their share of labor or fighting. If his voice had drawn their attention, his clothing dispelled the part of it that might have been based in fear.
“Girl wants to stay and visit,” one of the two said. He wasn’t, on the other hand, one of the two who was holding her. He rose, shoving his chair out of the way by kicking it over. It clattered, but it didn’t break; the chairs here were damn heavy.
“Your lack of perception is stupendous,” Avandar replied. “And, gentlemen, it was not a request.”
One of the two men actually sniggered.
One of the two men that were holding the barmaid’s arm let go; the other did not. Avandar shook his head and then walked down the stairs. His pace was measured and slow; Taverson and Lorry followed, but at a distance.
Knives appeared around the table. Long knives, at least three. Probably more. They were joined by derisive laughter, a couple of pointless insults that only people who’d drunk enough could think were clever. But something about Avandar made the men cautious enough to fan out between the barmaid and the domicis, knives in hand.
Avandar didn’t appear to care, and Jewel found herself holding her breath. He didn’t intend to stop either. He kept walking until he was within striking distance of the man in the center. And then he continued to walk. Jewel shouted his name, but Avandar now demo
nstrated that he had the same selective deafness that she often used on him.
The man with the knife backed up half a step and then snarled something that didn’t travel the distance. It didn’t have to—she could see the flash of his knife as he drove it home.
It snapped.
It snapped, and the blade bounced and fell, skittering across the floor in a much less boisterous room. The four men who were split to either side of Avandar froze for a second as the event pierced the haze of alcohol. It didn’t appear to make them any smarter, though. Two more blades snapped as Avandar reached out and caught the first man, whose lower jaw looked unhinged as it hung there, by the throat.
He lifted the man with an ease that even Torvan couldn’t have mastered and then tossed him carelessly into two of his friends, clearing a path for himself. He’d slowed—not stopped—to get rid of the obstacle, and he now faced the man who was still holding the girl. That man had drawn a knife as well, and it wavered in the air between Avandar and the barmaid before it flew to the underside of her jaw, its threat clear.
“If I see blood,” Avandar said, in the same detached voice, “you are dead.”
The two men he hadn’t bowled over had backed away from the table, shaking their heads; one still carried a knife. Unfortunately—for them—they backed into Taverson and Lorry, neither of whom was feeling all that charitable.
The table was now deserted; only one man remained. His knife, however, meant that things were not yet over, and Jewel found herself whispering a prayer to Kalliaris. Smile, Lady. Smile. The barmaid was still; she didn’t struggle, and she didn’t speak. She looked at Avandar.
Avandar’s back was to Jewel; she couldn’t see his expression. She wasn’t even sure she wanted to see it now. It wasn’t that his voice was cool—she’d heard that before. But she knew he’d kill the man without a second thought—without even a first one. Maybe he even deserved it. But the barmaid didn’t.
“Avandar!” she shouted, cupping her hands to either side of her mouth to gain volume.
He paused and turned to look at the young woman who was, in theory, his master. She understood, then, the difference between theory and fact. But understanding it or no, she walked toward him, shrugging off someone’s hand to do so.
“I believe I told you to remain seated.”
“You did.”
“Return to the table. I will deal with this.”
“I do not want her hurt.”
He raised a brow, but his face was otherwise impassive.
“I mean it, Avandar. I don’t want her hurt. I don’t care what you do to him.”
The brow rose slightly higher, and then his eyes narrowed. “Very well.” He turned, lifted a hand, and gestured; the dagger fell, still attached to the man’s hand.
The man’s hand, however, was no longer attached to his arm. The barmaid turned a shade of white that reminded Jewel of milk; the floor and a large part of the man’s shirt turned a shade of red that reminded her of death. He screamed; the barmaid, pale or no, pulled herself out of reach and ran toward Marla. The older woman’s arms closed around her instantly, like a shield wall made of care and flesh and ferocity.
Avandar then turned back to Jewel, his lips thinned in something that had the shape of a smile, but none of its warmth. “Are we finished here?” he asked softly.
She wanted to slap him; she had never wanted to slap someone so badly in her life. But her hands stayed by her sides, and she looked to Taverson’s wife, just as the barmaid had done but without the running. Marla was pale, the set of her mouth grim, and the look she gave Avandar was a mixture of grateful and frightened. But fear didn’t last long. Then again, neither did gratitude.
Jewel understood two things as she watched the slow transformation of this familiar and comforting woman’s face: that Avandar would be allowed across the threshold again, but he’d never be welcome; and that Jewel, tied to him in ways she was only beginning to understand, would likewise be less and less welcome. This isn’t my world, anymore, she thought. She would never have said it; not here, not now.
But she walked to Taverson’s wife, and said, in a quiet voice, “I’m sorry.”
Marla, arms still around the barmaid’s now invisible shoulders, looked down at Jewel, and her expression eased, although Jewel wasn’t certain what she saw there. “Don’t be. It would’ve gotten ugly. Uglier,” she added with a grimace.
“How?” Jewel glanced at the man, who was cradling his wrist against his chest and keening in shock and pain.
“Six men, knives. We can usually talk them down, but when we can’t, everyone gets hurt some. At least it wasn’t one of mine.” But she, too, looked at the man, and she shuddered once. “Don’t worry about dinner. It’s on us.”
Jewel had forgotten about the dinner entirely. Avandar approached them, handed Jewel something, and then said, “It would be best if I remain outside.”
No one argued.
“Where did you meet him?” Taverson asked, once the door had stopped swinging at Avandar’s back.
Jewel looked at the tavern owner; he looked . . . tired. Just tired. Lorry had already gone to help their erstwhile customer up and out of the bar. Jewel had a suspicion that this was entirely pragmatic; most people had lost all appetite for food or drink, and they weren’t likely to get it back while he was sitting at the otherwise empty table, bleeding on himself and the floor.
She drew a slow breath, exhaled, and then looked at what she now held in her hand: the invitation. Avandar had placed it there without a word. “At House Terafin,” she told Taverson.
He frowned. “You’ll have to speak up, Jay. What did you say?”
Raising her voice, which now trembled slightly, she repeated the words.
He stared at her, shook his head, and asked her to repeat the words again, because he clearly didn’t think he’d heard them right the second time, either.
“He’s a—one of the things he’s supposed to be is a—a really fancy guard.” She took a deeper breath and added, “I’m Jewel ATerafin now.”
Taverson’s eyes rounded, and he stared at her as if she, and not the men in the back of the bar, had had far too much to drink.
But she met and held his gaze, and as she did, she held out the envelope. He took it slowly, setting the truncheon down on the nearest table. The table had been, until about two minutes ago, occupied, and the truncheon nestled between bowls and mugs like an afterthought. He then looked down at the envelope. Unlike Farmer Hanson, his brows didn’t fold into immediate suspicion; she thought he was examining the admittedly clumsy seal.
He didn’t open the envelope; instead he looked at her, everything about his expression different. He looked at her clothing, at her hands—which weren’t yet adorned by rings—at her boots; he looked at her hair. Her hair hadn’t changed. Then, quietly, he looked down at the envelope again. “What’s this, then?”
She didn’t know how to begin. She looked at the bloody floor and the silent, shocked—and much emptier—tavern, and then she looked down at the envelope, thinking of the den’s anticipation and joy. It had been hers as well. She was angry at herself for feeling the weight of this guilt. But it didn’t matter; she couldn’t shrug it off.
“It’s an—” It was nothing to be embarrassed about. She forced herself to remember that. “It’s an invitation. To a party,” she added quickly.
One of his brows rose, and his expression became less guarded; he still looked damn tired. “A party, is it? And will your guard be there?” His smile was slight, but it was genuine.
She cringed. “I’m sorry,” she said. “But—yes. He’s also a servant.”
“A . . . guard. And a servant. What is he, girl?”
“A domicis.”
To her surprise, Taverson recognized the word. “You have a domicis? Or is he contracted to the House?” He glanced at the seal again, as if reminding himself that this was a real conversation, not an alcohol-induced illusion.
“He’s mine. Until
he dies. Or until I do.”
“And you’re thinking your death is the more likely, are you?”
“Not at the moment,” she replied, with more of her normal heat and one venomous glance at the closed door.
The tavern owner chuckled, and the line of his shoulders also relaxed. “So you’re having a party, then. Where?”
“Ummm.”
One brow rose. Taverson turned to his wife, opened his mouth, and shut it again; she was still speaking softly to the barmaid. Jewel was almost certain that it was the method of her salvation that had caused the shock, not the need for rescue in the first place.
“Ummm?”
“It’s at the Terafin manse. On the Isle.”
At this, Taverson’s brows did finally recede up and into his hairline, and he broke the seal, tearing the envelope open and pulling the letter out. He didn’t accuse her of lying but he needed to see the letter because he’d just wandered so far out of his daily routine he was no longer sure of his bearings.
She waited.
“On the Isle,” he whispered, shaking his head. “And you’re ATerafin and you live in the manse.”
She swallowed and nodded.
“Girl, I’m going to wake up tomorrow and if there’s no blood on that floor, I’ll think I was dreaming. I think I’m dreaming now.” He raised his voice and called his wife. She frowned, but he waved her over anyway. When she opened her mouth, he handed her the letter; she frowned, because she wasn’t used to interruption. Certainly not written interruption.
But she glanced once at Jewel, and then she read the letter itself. Her brows furrowed, and her eyes narrowed in concern. They eventually widened, but this time she really looked at Jewel.
“You’re ATerafin? You’re ATerafin and on the Isle?”
Jewel nodded, trying not to look self-conscious. Because there was no reason that she should be—and she felt as if she should be apologizing.
“And your friend?”
“He’s a—”
House War 03 - House Name Page 74