House War 03 - House Name

by Michelle West

  “Oh, any number of years too long to count,” was the pleasant reply.

  “Indeed. I myself have sometimes felt that about my current career; there was more freedom in youth, if less wealth.”

  Finch looked between these two polite, friendly older men and then glanced at Lucille. Lucille’s expression was now carved in stone, which meant something was up.

  Lifting her hand in den-sign, she asked Jay what it was.

  Jewel’s hand flew quicky—and briefly—in response; she had no idea either. But she was worried. The two men didn’t seem angry or hostile; she wasn’t concerned about an incident, as it was sometimes called by the more genteel. “Jarven,” she said, “do you know Haval?”

  It was, from the silence that eddied between the two men, the wrong question. The right question, however, had failed to materialize.

  “That is an interesting question, because I would swear that I’ve never met a clothier named Haval before in my life. Yet he does seem familiar, for all that.”

  “I often remind people of other people they know; it’s a fault of a lack of distinctive features,” was the bland and somewhat apologetic reply. “I assure you that I would have remembered any first meeting with the man in charge of the entire Terafin merchant operations, saving only those that involve Royal Charters.”

  “And speaking of Royal Charters,” Jarven said, with a smile, “I believe that there are rumors that one of the attending guests will be a man who works very closely with Patris Larkasir in the Trade Commission office in Avantari.”

  “I have very little familiarity with trade in either form,” Haval replied. “And surely such an illustrious guest, or guests, including yourself, will have far more valuable things to do at a gathering of this nature than spend time speaking with a humble clothier who cannot even approach the High Market.”

  “Nonsense, nonsense. If Jewel’s experience and presence here teaches us nothing else, my dear Haval, it is that we are indeed far too inflexible. Look at the people gathered here; this is not, in any way, the usual politically motivated social gathering. Here, we might consider ourselves among friends.”

  “Friends, is it?” Haval’s smile was cool and utterly neutral.

  Jewel was almost transfixed. “Haval?”

  He raised a brow and then grimaced mildly at her expression.

  Jarven, standing not five feet from him, glanced at Jewel and did likewise.

  A whole series of lectures was implied in those grimaces, which meant that silence should have been valued. It wasn’t; it was long enough, and awkward enough, that lectures would have been better. But neither Lucille nor Hannerle seemed interested in running interference, and, in fact, they glanced at each other and then drew closer to the fire, where they spoke in low voices. Lucille very pointedly took Finch with her.

  Which left Jewel with Haval and Jarven. And silence.

  She folded her arms tightly across her chest. “So,” she said, in a tone of voice she might have used on Carver when he was being particularly stubborn, “I’m guessing you two do know each other?”

  Haval opened his mouth, and Jewel lifted a hand. “Yes, you can deny it, and yes, I’ll believe almost anything you say—but not when he’s standing right there denying all of it.”

  “I have not uttered a single word of either accusation or denial,” Jarven said, in a mildly hurt tone.

  She looked at him and raised a brow. Or both of them.

  “Nor have I indicated that I am familiar with the clothier, although I must say his work is not shoddy.”

  The eyes narrowed.

  Jarven actually laughed, shaking his head as the sound—which attracted attention—died into a chuckle. “You know, my dear, Finch has often said that Lucille reminds her of you, and I can now see why.”

  Haval, casting a brief glance at his wife, looked at Jewel rather sourly. “The young ATerafin has some studying to do,” he told Jarven. “She was under the impression that no people of significance or power—other than The Terafin—were to be present this eve.”

  “And so you thought it safe to venture into the patriciate’s heartland?”

  “I wished the advantage of clothing both she and Finch ATerafin, as The Terafin herself would be present,” was the clipped reply. “I in no way assumed that one of the unillustrious guests would be Jarven ATerafin, a man known for his—”

  “Agile mind, at this age,” was the serene reply.

  “And I suppose she thinks that you dodder around your office drinking tea and playing chess badly?”

  “I have given up on the bad chess,” Jarven replied. “It is hard not to become involved in the outcome, and I win rather more than most people would like. It makes them too cautious.”

  “And we can’t have that.”

  “Well, caution is to be generally encouraged, especially in the young, but it is not always advantageous to a man of my standing. Said standing,” he added, “comes with a burden of notoriety of exactly the wrong type.”

  “It is seldom that a man of your station confuses notoriety with respect,” Haval replied.

  “Ah. And a man of your station, Haval the dressmaker?”

  “A man of my station typically has neither and aspires to neither.”

  “Truly?”

  “Truly. I am interested, ATerafin, in the making of fine dresses for ladies—and the odd gentleman—of worth.”

  “Ah. Because custom of worth would fail to make the mistake of assuming I’m a nonentity?”

  “Among other things.” Haval walked across the room to the painting that hung on the wall opposite the fire; it was closest to the very fine windows, which were curtained against the darkness of the season. He moved from the painting, which he regarded with no expression whatsoever to the drapery, which he regarded with an expression that gave the advantage to neutrality.

  “Haval,” Jarven said, for both he and Jewel had followed.

  Without turning, Haval said, “There are games, ATerafin, that a man of my stature has no interest whatever in playing.”

  “A man of your stature. I see. Yet you strike me as a man against whom one might play chess, and with whom one might drink tea, were the moment right.”

  “I drink tea,” Haval replied. “I no longer play chess.”

  “Ah.”

  “But perhaps Jewel might find a chessboard at which we might sit. It is, indeed, an unusual gathering, and such activities might even be encouraged here.”

  They both turned to look at Jewel, and Haval said, “Jewel please. You are destroying the fall of the fabric.”

  She unbunched her hands from folds of cloth and ran off to find a chessboard; she had no idea if there was one in the wing, since none of the den played.

  Avandar found both a chessboard and a room in which the two older men might play. He set the board up and pulled out both chairs. As he did, he glanced at Jewel. Three men with faces this impassive shouldn’t have been allowed to inhabit the same room. Or the same life, if it happened to be Jewel’s. None of them spoke until it came to choosing sides; Avandar palmed a black and a white queen, and after some dextrous movement, he asked Jarven—not Haval—to choose a hand. He drew the black queen.

  The two men then sat. They discarded the drinks in their hands—which is to say, they set them down carelessly and without further thought to imbibing. Avandar then withdrew, but only as far as the door.

  “ATerafin,” he said, when Jewel failed to move with him.

  She glanced back.

  “I do not believe your guests require an audience for this match.”

  This was probably true; Jewel, however, wanted to be the audience, regardless. She had never seen Haval’s very superior exposure crack before; Jarven was, as Finch had suggested, more open—but not by much. Whatever lay in the past between these two, Jarven owned. Haval? Not so much.

  “You realize,” Haval said, contemplating the board with apparent care, “that my wife is unlikely to be pleased at my absence.”
r />   “Ah, well, wives.”

  Haval glance pointedly at Jarven. “Spoken like a man who has never acquired one.”

  “Indeed, indeed. For some reason, I have failed entirely to appeal to anyone sensible enough to want as a wife. The closest I have managed to come is Lucille, who runs the Terafin offices in the Merchant Authority. You did meet Lucille?” Jarven added. “She is definitely and obviously ill pleased; there is no ‘unlikely’ about the state of her happiness.”

  “And she is capable of ruining the overall state of your own happiness?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think, at the moment, our stakes in this venture our similar.” Haval turned to Jewel. “ATerafin, if you will excuse us?”

  Jewel blinked, and Jarven chuckled. “You are the premiere host at this gathering, ATerafin. It would be both unseemly and inconvenient for you to remain in this room, keeping the company of two old men such as we.”

  She snorted. Loudly.

  “Speaking of unseemly,” Haval added, his gaze now firmly fixed upon a board on which neither man had yet moved a piece. “You needn’t worry, Jewel. It is unlikely that a man as illustrious and well known as Jarven ATerafin would disgrace himself by causing difficulty at such a gathering.”

  “Perhaps it is not my behavior that concerns her, Haval.”

  “Perhaps she has not had a long enough acquaintance.”

  “Nonsense. I am exactly as I appear.”

  Haval lifted a pawn and plunked it down, heavily, on the board.

  “Jewel,” Avandar said. “Come. Your guests will be waiting.”

  She pulled herself, reluctantly, from the open door. Haval was generally a test of patience, a curiosity, and though she instinctively trusted him, she did not know much about him. This was the first thing he had done that had completely surprised her.

  But Avandar’s expression was smooth and cool, and it was clear that he intended to stare her into appropriate behavior. She left.

  It was more crowded when Jewel returned to the main rooms in which guests now chatted. Food seemed in endless supply, as did wine, but so far no one had gotten so drunk that the latter was a problem. Barston ATerafin was in one corner, chatting with Teller, and Devon ATerafin had arrived. To Jewel’s surprise, he appeared to be in very serious discussion with Lucille, enough so that discussion formed an invisible wall between the two and the rest of the gathering.

  Torvan ATerafin arrived beside Arrendas and apologized for his tardiness, blaming it on work; he carried, of all things, flowers, which in this season were expensive. He gave them to Jewel as Arann intercepted them both. Arann’s friend from the House Guard had also arrived, and if he’d been a little overawed at the splendor of Arann’s situation on first arrival, drink and food had mellowed him considerably. Given the company he was about to keep, Jewel hoped for his sake that “considerably” wasn’t too damn much.

  And Carver’s friends arrived as well: Merry and Mira. Carver didn’t exactly bowl Jewel over to reach them, but it was close enough that Avandar aimed a distinctly chilly frown between Carver’s shoulder blades as he passed them. Jewel hadn’t met Merry before, and she waited for Carver to introduce them. When waiting failed to produce the introduction, she grimaced and introduced herself.

  She’d seen Merry a handful of times, but always at a distance. Merry clearly knew who Jewel was; she also clearly knew who everyone else in the wing was. Jewel decided, then and there, that she wanted to stay on the right side of the servants.

  Only Jester had failed to invite anyone of his “own” to the gathering. Jewel glanced across the room, but there were now enough standing bodies that it wasn’t easy to find most of her den. She did, though. She saw Jester speaking with the Farmer Hanson’s daughter; the farmer’s severe daughter was actually laughing, which meant her face didn’t crack when she smiled.

  Her brothers had moved away from their parents—mostly following the winding path the food was taking—and they didn’t seem self-conscious when talking to anyone, although they didn’t immediately figure out what the difference between the servants and the guests was. Their father was, after the first few moments of uncertainty, chatting with Haval’s wife and, to Jewel’s surprise, with Devon.

  But his wife and daughter had taken a seat together; they’d been silent and still, exchanging words with each other and falling silent when the servants offered them anything, as if afraid to touch. They weren’t afraid of Jester, though. He knew.

  His face was flushed; the color clashed with his hair. His hands flew, and a glimpse of his expression told her he was impersonating someone; she hoped for his sake—and hers—that that someone wasn’t present.

  As she approached them, he stopped. With a reckless smile, he said, “I hate rich people.”

  The farmer’s wife chuckled. “You’ll be hating yourself, then?”

  His smile was a bitter, bitter one. “Looks like.”

  The farmer’s wife now frowned. “Don’t,” she said, curtly. She didn’t catch his hand, which had tightened, although she did start to reach for it. “You’ve got a place here; doesn’t mean you have to be rich.”

  The daughter’s frown was different, and it was aimed at her mother. “If he’s to stay here,” she finally said, “he’ll have to fit in.”

  But Jewel shook her head. “He only has to fit in with us, same as always.”

  The daughter, whose name Jewel didn’t recall ever knowing, raised a brow. She’d never been friendly, but if she hadn’t been kind, she hadn’t been cruel. “Same as always?” she said, in cool mimicry. “That’s why we never see you anymore?”

  It was true, and Jewel had learned from her Oma that only fools and whiny idiots argued with truth, no matter how much they hated it. The farmer’s wife, on the other hand gave her daughter a look that made clear who the daughter favored.

  “He misses you, it’s true,” she said, in a quieter voice. “But not the way he misses some of his other orphans. He knows what happened to you; he knows where you are. This,” she added, looking around the obvious finery of the House on display, “wasn’t even in his dreams for you. It’s hard; he worries. Always has. It’s one less thing to worry about.” She raised a brow and added, “And some unidentified person has been sending him money.

  “He doesn’t hold with charity,” she added severely.

  “He should, he’s given so much—”

  She held up a hand. “He gives to those as needs. He doesn’t want to be one of them.”

  Jewel laughed, remembering her prickly, proud Oma. “It’s not for him, and he knows it; it’s for us. The us that we were. The other kids like us that he’ll find. For winter shirts, for boots—things he might want to give but can’t afford for strangers.”

  The farmer’s wife said, “So it was you!”

  Jewel had the grace to redden. It hadn’t honestly occurred to her that he’d think that money with those instructions would come from anyone else. “Yes,” she told the farmer’s daughter, “we’re rich. And we aim to stay that way. But what’s the point of being rich if we can’t share a bit?”

  “Not starving,” was the pointed reply.

  Jewel couldn’t argue with that and didn’t try. “I miss the Common. I know there are some who wouldn’t believe it—but I miss it. I miss the morning runs. I miss my farmer. I miss Helen. I don’t want to change.”

  Jester was watching her. She was aware that in silence, in a total lack of mockery, he’d joined the conversation that she’d never intended to have at a party. Meeting his gaze squarely, hands sliding down to her hips in a way her Oma would have recognized, she said, “Have I?”

  He was trying to decide on an answer, but she wanted a serious one, not a joke, and made it clear in emphatic den-sign.

  He shrugged. “I’m ATerafin.”

  “That’s you, not me.”

  “If you’d changed much, I wouldn’t be. Maybe Finch, maybe Teller—they’re bright and they don’t hate much. Maybe Arann, becaus
e he’s always been big. But not me, Jay. Not me, not Carver. Not Angel. Well, he isn’t anyway, but that’s his choice.” He turned to look out the nearest window. “She’d’ve taken ’em all: Duster, Fisher. Even Lander, who hated to talk, and Lefty with his crippled hand.” He grimaced. “I don’t know how long she’d’ve kept Duster; Duster would have hated this.”

  It was true. “Duster hated everything.”

  Jester laughed. “Almost everything,” he agreed. “You could count yourself lucky if she hated you less than most things, but she’d’ve worked her way through them to you sooner or later.”

  Jewel laughed. Was surprised she could. The laugh broke for both of them at almost the same time.

  Jester said, “We ran.”

  Jewel said, “She hated us enough to die for us.”

  Jester’s laugh was raw; it was a testament to Duster. “For us? Jay—” He shook his head. “Only thing she didn’t hate most of the time was you. You weren’t afraid of her.”

  “I was—”

  “Nah. You were afraid of what she might do, but it’s not the same; you weren’t afraid of what she’d do to you. She’d’ve come here, if she lived. She’d’ve hated this place because she didn’t belong, and she’d be afraid of failing you. That’s it. That’s all.”

  Jewel looked at the window. “Lefty was waiting,” she finally said. It wasn’t, clearly, what Jester had been expecting. “When Arann almost died—Lefty was waiting for him.

  “You think Duster’ll wait?”

  “Duster? I think Duster’ll be at the foot of the bridge because she’ll be afraid of entering the Halls of Mandaros and standing in his judgment. And she’ll never admit it, because it’s fear, and she’s like that. I don’t think she’ll be waiting for us. But she’ll be there, and if no one laughs, she’ll follow.”

  “And you’re not to rush there, yourselves,” the farmer’s wife said, in a voice that managed to be both gentle and severe at the same time. “You’re young. I don’t know all of what happened,” she added, “but if Duster died to save you, she wanted you to live. Outlive us,” she added. “Because if you don’t, it’ll break my husband’s heart.” She glanced at her daughter and sighed. “You’ll change, of course.” Before Jewel could interrupt, she lifted a hand. “We all change, Jay. We change in ways we could never see. I’m not the girl I was when I was your age. I’m not the woman I thought I’d be, either, but I’m good where I am.