“Domicis,” Taverson told his wife.
“I guess that would explain the fancy clothing.” She didn’t say what else it might explain, but that hung, unsaid, between them. She looked back down at the letter. “You’re having a party.”
Jewel nodded, feeling funereal rather than celebratory.
“And you want us to come?” Before Jewel could answer—which would have been a nod, anyway, she turned to her husband. “Did you read this?” she asked, shaking the letter in front of his face.
He nodded and picked up his truncheon, which he carried back to the very quiet bar. His wife snorted the word men under her breath and turned back to Jewel. “You’re certain?” she said, sounding more uncertain than she’d ever sounded.
This is what the name was worth in the twenty-fifth holding.
And what had she expected? If someone from House Terafin had ever approached her, she’d’ve been afraid—of making a fool of herself, of being suddenly unworthy. Funny how daydreams didn’t take any of this into account.
“I’m certain. And if you tell me you have nothing to wear, I’ll either cry or swear. Or both.”
There was a moment of silence, and then a familiar—if weary—smile graced the older woman’s lips and the corners of her eyes. “You’ve been inviting all your old friends, haven’t you? Never mind. The guests—you get to choose them?”
“All of us do. Me, my den. It’s our party, not House Terafin’s. We get to choose.” She turned away. “I just didn’t think—”
Large hands caught her shoulders and turned her around. “You thought well enough. And we’re going. You really want all of us?”
“We’ve got a lot of room. And we’ll have a lot of food. Ummm, I’m not sure we’ll have much to drink, though.”
“Just as well, dear, just as well. We’ll be there.”
23rd of Veral, 411 A. A.
Terafin Manse, Averalaan Aramarelas
The West Wing was not the first set of rooms that guests arriving at the manse encountered, and while the manse boasted several exits and entrances, only one of those was considered appropriate for guests. That, of course, was fronted by the prominent steps, the huge doors, the intimidatingly perfect floors of the newly reconstructed foyer, and the chandelier. The chandelier had suffered some damage when the demons and the Allasakari had attacked, but Meralonne’s intervention had prevented it from being destroyed.
This had, according to Teller’s information, mollified some members of the household who were less than entirely pleased with the destruction of the Terafin’s mantel. Jewel, whose appreciation for what was, after all, a frame for a fireplace, didn’t really understand why it had caused so much fuss, but Teller said Barston had been “upset.” The chandelier, on the other hand, would have been marginally more expensive to replace. Given that the mantel was deemed irreplaceable, this also made no sense.
Jewel, however, had decided that sense would come with experience. Which would, if she survived the evening, come with time.
Guests were to enter by the front doors. They were, she was informed, to be greeted by both the guards and the Majordomo—a title she had not heard before, and wondered about—and from there, they were to be conveyed by the appropriate servants to the appropriate door—hers—having passed through the galleries that were now lit for night viewing.
Thinking of Helen, Jewel fretted. When Jewel fretted, pretty much everyone did; the den was supposed to sit here and play host. Jewel was pretty sure everyone else would be fine because they expected the Terafin manse to be fancy and intimidating; Helen expected it to be terrifying.
“Jay. Jay.”
Jewel looked up; Carver was leaning against the wall, arms folded. The usually invisible servants in the wing were anything but, tonight, and they looked possibly as nervous as most of the den felt. Or worse.
“What?”
“I’ll go keep an eye out for Helen. You’re sure she’s coming?”
Avandar said, before Jewel could, “Yes. She will, however, be with her son. Since her son will be escorting her, I fail to see why she is such a cause for concern, and it is at least an hour before the first guest will arrive in any case.”
“Helen is old,” Jewel replied promptly.
“Yes?”
“She’ll arrive early.”
“Pardon?”
“She’ll be afraid to arrive late, so she’ll arrive early.”
“I . . . see.”
Jewel nodded, and Carver pushed himself off the wall and headed into the back of the wing. This left Jewel with Finch, Teller, and her anxiety; Jester, Angel, and Arann were off somewhere else. Possibly, she thought uncharitably, hiding. Teller was calm; Finch, however, was as settled and cheery as Jewel. She’d invited both Jarven and the formidable Lucille ATerafin to the party; given Lucille’s frequently dim views on those who lived in the manse—anyone associated with the Merchant Authority offices, of course, excluded—Finch hadn’t expected Lucille to actually accept. But she had.
Jarven, of course, had accepted, but Finch wasn’t nearly as nervous about him; for one, he knew the manse as well as Carver did; she wouldn’t have been surprised if he was just as familiar with the servants’ halls as Carver. He wasn’t likely to get lost unless he wanted to.
They would have both busied themselves tidying, but the servants were already doing that, and they’d made it clear—in their polite and utterly silent way—that help was not required. And not really helpful, either. Even the kitchen was entirely off-limits, because it was being used—and being used by people who could, by Terafin standards, actually cook.
Which left them with . . . nothing to do. They paced. And fiddled with their skirts. The only small consolation afforded them by any of these activities was the way they annoyed Avandar, who seemed to feel they should be able to treat the entire evening as something normal.
Helen was, as Jewel predicted, the first guest to arrive, and she arrived half an hour early. She was, as Avandar had predicted, accompanied by her son, who in spite of his obvious desire to be notable enough to be a guest at the Terafin manse, was clearly nervous. Carver, who had found Helen, was walking to her left while she made herself comfortable—inasmuch as she could—by talking his ear off. He was relieved of this duty when Helen finally laid eyes on both Jewel and Finch, who were loitering by the door in an attempt to stay out of everyone else’s way. Jewel, remembering the days when her parents—and Oma—had hosted their gatherings, found it almost traumatizing to be allowed to do so little.
Helen, however, relaxed once she entered the wing. She had a lot to say—about the carpets, the curtains, the paintings, the size of the tables, the weight of the chairs—and she paused beside every bit of hanging cloth to actually look at its weave or guess at the dyes used to make it. It was, in her words, far too fancy for her little stall to afford—but she nonetheless viewed it all with a critical eye.
She had been forbidden her pipe, she told Jewel, casting a sideways glance at her son, who was not—since there were no other guests—far from her side. Jewel, remembering her Oma, grimaced. “Later,” she told Helen.
Helen was then led on a tour of the den’s various rooms, since the rooms, no matter who occupied them, were all tidy and clean. The farther away she got from her memory of the front entrance of the manse, the more at home she felt. Jewel and Finch showed her more drapes and opened their closets for her inspection; they also, after a hurried discussion, opened Teller’s to the same. While they were thus busy, the next guests began to arrive, and noise slowly filled the cavernous rooms and halls of the West Wing, making them seem—for the first time since they’d been opened for the den’s use—like a home and not another part of the intimidating and fancy mansion.
Home, for Jewel, would always be that noisy place that was full of people she loved—even if she sometimes wanted to smack them. She left Finch with Helen and headed back to the larger, more public rooms. There, she met Farmer Hanson, his daughter, his four sons, and his wife. Tell
er and Carver were already with them, and Jewel paused to send Avandar in search of Angel, Jester, and Arann before she tapped the farmer on the shoulder and hugged him tightly.
Even his daughter, whose name Jewel didn’t actually know, looked far less forbidding—and therefore far more unnatural—when she wasn’t on the lookout for thieves or, worse, idiots who mishandled her produce. The farmer’s wife looked as nervous as Helen. But Jewel rescued a tray of drinks from a servant—where in this case rescue looked a lot like pleading and scuffling—and with care, passed them around the large room, and if the glasses were thinner and finer than the farmer and his family were accustomed to using, it didn’t take them long to relax. Servants did insist on carrying the food, but that was fine, although one of the sons looked at the small wrapped pieces of ham and something-else very suspiciously before his mother kicked him, more or less quietly.
Taverson and his wife, Lorry and his wife, and Taverson’s three daughters arrived next, and standing behind them, a tall, reserved man Jewel had never seen before. She said to Marla, “I lied; apparently we can’t have a party and not have wine. It’s against the House rules,” and wine arrived as the guests’ outer clothing was carefully removed and conveyed to gods only knew where.
The stranger entered shortly after the bottleneck in the door had cleared, and he turned to Jewel. “You are Jewel ATerafin?”
She nodded.
“My manners,” he said. “I am Terrick Dumarr.” He bowed.
No one else had bowed upon entry, which was good; Jewel thought she would die if any of her old friends bowed upon seeing her. She held out a hand and waited until he rose, which took some time. But he did at least shake her hand, and when he did, he smiled. It made his face seem less severe, but not by much.
“You’re Angel’s friend?” she asked.
He nodded. “You have not yet had a gathering of significance—in a political sense—in your home, have you?”
“No. And with luck, I’ll never have to.”
He chuckled. “Some people would ask luck to turn the other edge.” He glanced past her shoulder—well, over her head, really—and into the large room at their backs. “Angel is not present?”
“He’s probably hiding in his room. I sent Avandar to find him and dig him out.”
“And, of course, my master’s wishes are instantly obeyed,” the domicis said. He stood behind Jester, Arann, and Angel. Only Angel had the grace to look embarrassed, because Angel instantly recognized the man who stood in front of his den leader.
Terrick lifted a broad hand. “I’ve been chatting with Jewel ATerafin,” he told Angel.
Angel looked ill at ease. “Hopefully not embarrassing me while you’re doing it.”
“Not yet,” the man said with a grin. “Although I meant to ask after The Terafin’s finances, as it appears the House manages to keep up with the expense of feeding you.” He laughed as Angel winced, and his laugh was a good sound; it bounced off the ceiling and the walls, shattering his reserve. Since he was a friend of Angel’s, Jewel was predisposed to like him, but she felt, watching him with Angel, that she would have liked him regardless.
Angel led him to the far corner of the large room, in the obvious hope of failing to be further mocked.
Finch returned with Helen in time to meet Jarven and Lucille, who arrived at the wing together. Lucille was fussing in pretty much exactly the way Finch described, and Jarven weathered it with the affectionate patience she had also described. Lucille did hug Finch, but only after setting her at arm’s length—which involved hands on her shoulders—to look at what she was wearing. She then turned to Jewel, as Finch said, “Lucille, this is Jay.”
Jarven helpfully added, “She is referred to as Jewel by The Terafin.”
Lucille reminded Jewel of her Oma, although she was younger, her build was wrong, and she wasn’t cupping a pipe. Nothing about her coloring suggested a Southern heritage, either, but she held out a hand almost instantly. Jewel took it and found—no surprise—that Lucille’s grip was strong. It was also warm.
“I hear you’ve joined the House proper,” the older woman said, as she relinquished Jewel’s hand. “Do you know what your duties will be?”
“Not yet. I think I’m eventually to learn about the merchant arm.”
“Arm? Arm? There’s more than one, my dear. And at least two of those so-called arms are run by the—”
“What she means to say,” Jarven interjected, “is that they are run by members of standing—quite high standing—in the patriciate.”
Jewel wasn’t interested in what Jarven meant Lucille to say; she was, however, quite interested in what Lucille had intended to say before the interruption. She therefore led Lucille away from Jarven, on the pretext of finding her something to drink.
Jarven shook his head as they left. “That girl,” he told Finch, with a small frown, “will need to develop some subtlety if she’s to serve in any branch of the merchant arm.”
“You can add it to the list of things she already has to learn,” Finch replied diffidently. “But when you do, please keep in mind that the rest of us are going to have to take the same lessons.”
“My dear, you wound me. Have I ever accused you of a lack of subtlety?”
Finch took a moment to think. “Not that I recall,” she replied, which was safest.
He smiled and rescued a passing glass of wine from a servant who seemed to be able to navigate any crowd, no matter how densely packed it was. “I see the House cellars have been opened for your use this eve. You have quite an assortment of friends,” he added, glancing around the room. “But I am not as young as I used to be.”
It was one of his most frequently used phrases, his polite and particular code for I would like to sit down. Finch dropped quietly into the role that Lucille generally fulfilled and led him to an unoccupied chair. “Oh, neither am I.”
One pale brow rose, but her smile was mild enough that he allowed any possibility of sarcasm to pass unremarked. “You, on the other hand, my dear, have developed a much more refined sense of subtlety. And you appear to be an entirely harmless young girl, in need of the care and the watchful eye of women like Lucille. Or,” he added, inclining his head, “your Jay.”
She took the chair by his side and gave him a look, which caused him to laugh. “I’m not accusing you of lying, dear Finch. But the way in which you choose to present your particular truths are more thoughtful and less . . . explosive.”
She nodded. “You’ll meet Teller,” she said. “You’ll like him. I think.”
“I like almost everyone I meet,” was his diffident reply. Since it was more or less true, she didn’t argue. But she did watch his brows rise an inch before he turned to study the glass in his hand. “Interesting,” he said, in as neutral a tone as he ever used. Interesting, in Jarven’s use, was often bad.
She looked up and noted that two new people had joined the gathering. They were led into the room, and now surveyed it. One was a man who was younger than Jarven and somewhat slimmer; he was with a woman who was about his age and somewhat rounder. She was beaming. He was smiling. They both held glasses—it was impossible to get past the servants without taking something—and they headed toward the fireplace, around which chairs had also been placed.
Jay, dragging Lucille, intercepted them there. She threw her arms around the woman and then disentangled herself, remembering her duties, and introduced her to Lucille.
“Do you know who they are?” Jarven asked quietly, rising.
“Friends of Jay’s. Haval and his wife, Hannerle.”
“Haval?”
“He owns a shop in the Common. He made this dress,” she added. “And the one Jay’s wearing, as well.”
“Did he, indeed?” Jarven paused to examine the dress with more attention to detail. “And Jewel knows him well?”
Finch frowned.
“Oh, tush, Finch. There’s no need to look suspicious.”
“There’s no need to pretend I�
��m hurting your feelings either, but you do it anyway.”
He chuckled. “Very well. I should like to be introduced to these friends.” He added, when she hesitated, “As this gathering is short on the expected protocols and formalities, I’m perfectly willing to commit a social gaffe with regard to manners in this case.”
Bowing to fact, Finch led Jarven to Lucille, Jay, and her two newest guests. Some conversational space was instantly made by Lucille for introductions, but Jay had to be nudged. Finch, therefore, introduced Jarven and Lucille and waited while Jay did the same for Haval and his wife, Hannerle.
Hannerle, of course, examined the cut of both Lucille’s dark dress and Jarven’s suit; she made no attempt to be subtle, but her curiosity was so straightforward only someone who wanted to take offense would have. But Haval seemed content to let his wife do the fussing, and given the fittings Finch had had to endure, it seemed a bit odd.
“Finch, dear, do stop fussing with the skirts,” Haval said, as if he could read her mind.
Since she was, in fact, fussing with the skirt—and why, she didn’t know—she grimaced and stopped. Lucille bristled, but only slightly.
“So, Haval, I’m curious,” Jarven said, leaning slightly against the wall nearest the fireplace. “How did you meet young Jewel?”
Lucille glanced sharply at Jarven and then, more sharply, at Haval himself. Hannerle did the same, but in reverse order.
Haval, however, smiled benignly. “We had a mutual friend who was aware of Jewel’s situation. I am not a High Market merchant, but—and I say this with no little pride—my skill with the needle is not less than one would expect of High Market clothiers. He introduced us.”
“Ah. Well, you may display, as you say, no little pride—but I feel that your assessment in this case is accurate. The dresses are both very fine and also very appropriate to both age and new station.”
“Thank you. I hope your word will carry weight with future clients.” He turned to his wife as Jarven spoke again.
“How long have you been a clothier?”
House War 03 - House Name Page 75