Teller and Finch exchanged a glance; Jewel caught it because she was watching them. They’d clearly learned to rely on each other a lot in her absence; she wondered if either of them was aware of how much.
“What should we do?” Finch finally asked—this time of Jewel.
Jewel winced. The idea that the shop would be closed on the sixth day of the week hadn’t even occurred to her.
“There are other shops,” Teller offered. It was tentative. “We could choose one of them.”
Not choosing one was not an option. As House Council members, no matter how junior—and although Jewel was young, she was not so junior as all that—they had no choice but to dress “appropriately” for singular and important occasions. Jewel often minded the fuss and the expense, which she considered a colossal waste, given how many starving people that money could be used to feed, but not this time.
This time, she needed funereal clothing for The Terafin, and it was the last such display of respect she could give the woman who had saved, and changed, all of their lives.
For years now, Haval had made—had insisted on making—all of the significant clothing in Jewel’s life. He traded gossip as it pleased him for the custom of House Terafin, as he liked to call it, and she traded the same, probably more recklessly. Haval was slippery, canny, and shrewd. He also disliked emergency work, and as all three of them needed suitable attire before the fourth day of Henden, this was an emergency. It was a costly one, or would be, by the time he was done.
If he accepted the commission at all.
Jewel stared at the sign for a long moment, and then she reached up for the bell pull and began to yank at it as if it were a lifeline and she were drowning. She pulled for five minutes and the store failed to come to life.
“Jay,” Teller began. He stopped. Through the window with its precisely lettered sign, he saw movement from the back of the store. The shadow resolved itself into a familiar figure, his face completely free of any expression at all.
Jewel stepped away from the door as he approached it. She glanced once at the sign, and once at her nerveless hand, still wrapped around the bell pull. The hand, she removed. Haval opened the door.
In the morning light, she thought he looked pale, his skin stretched and delicate with wrinkles. Certainly his eyes were ringed with dark circles. But he was Haval; the momentary expression of age or fragility cracked and shattered as he smiled. He even bowed, standing in the doorway. “Jewel,” he said.
It was bad. She knew it was bad. He usually remembered to call her Jay except when he was offering subtle—or not so subtle—advice. But Haval was one of nature’s natural liars. After five minutes in his presence—even if he was circumspect and near-silent—anyone would believe anything he chose. Anything at all.
She’d never learned enough about Haval to know, clearly, when he was lying; the only time she could catch him was when her own gift, her own “natural” talent, emerged. Avandar was better at reading the inscrutable dressmaker. But Avandar was silent and near-invisible, as he always was in Haval’s presence.
“Are you—are you really closed for business?” Jewel managed to ask, when Haval rose from his deep and embarrassingly perfect bow.
“I am, at the moment, very busy—but I am not entirely adverse to commissions from valuable customers.” He stepped away from the door. “Please, come in.” He didn’t remove the sign, however. “I would like to speak in the back room. If we are seen in the front, people will question the veracity of my carefully scribed sign.”
“You…heard that I was back,” Jewel said, following where he led.
“Yes. If knowledge of your return concerns you, take comfort in the fact that it is buried beneath much larger news.” He paused, turned, and said, “Ah, forgive my lack of tact, ATerafin. I’ve slept very little these past two days, and I am not at my best.”
She nodded, and took the opening he’d offered. “Actually, we’re here because of the larger news.”
“We?” He glanced at Teller and Finch. His gaze—as always—slid past Avandar.
“Finch, Teller, and I. The funeral begins on the fourth, and we need clothing appropriate to our station within the House—for however long we actually manage to keep said station.” She could now feel Avandar’s chilly glare boring a hole through the back of her head, and ignored it.
She expected some sign of outrage, because while Haval was perfectly willing to work on tight deadlines, he detested them, and made it known—usually by charging vastly more than he otherwise would. He said nothing; instead he turned and continued his slower than usual march into the back room.
Jewel stopped in the doorframe. Teller walked into her back. The room was almost spotless. There were a total of five chairs, two tables, and a solid, respectable desk. Bolts of cloth rested against the wall opposite the door, admittedly in several high piles; boxes and jars held beads of various colors. There were even small tables of the type that were easily moved, and upon which tea was usually set in a pinch.
“Ah, you’ve noticed,” Haval said, as she snapped her jaw shut.
Of all the things she’d heard or witnessed since her return, this—small, trivial, politically unimportant—shocked her the most. In all of her years of coming to Haval’s shop, she had never, ever seen the back room so tidy. It was almost as if…Haval didn’t live here anymore.
But Haval was standing there, breathing and speaking, his hands by his sides. She raised her eyes to meet his gaze, and her own hands tightened into fists. “Haval,” she said quietly, “where’s Hannerle?”
“She is currently indisposed. Please, take a seat.”
“No.”
“ATerafin?”
“No. Where is she? How is she indisposed?”
“That is more personal than I wish to be at the moment, and frankly, if I accept your commission, we will have no time for trivial details.” He walked to his desk, opened a drawer, and fished out a measure.
“How long has she been indisposed?”
“Jewel,” Avandar said, before Haval could sidestep the question for a second time. “The question is inappropriate; Master Haval has given the whole of the reply he wishes to give at the present time.”
Jewel nodded and took a seat. Avandar, however, wasn’t fooled. He came to stand by her side, and he placed one hand on her shoulder. Haval gestured Teller into the center of the room, and Teller, in a silence tinged with compassion, lifted his arms and turned obligingly in whichever direction Haval indicated. Finch did likewise, first shedding one layer of clothing at Haval’s request.
But when it was Jewel’s turn, although she stood as requested, she failed to keep silent. “Is she sleeping, Haval?”
He heard the question, she’d said it so close to his ear. But there was no change at all in his breathing, no shift of muscles to alter his expression. He took the measurements, writing each down with fastidious care. He didn’t even fail to meet her eyes—he did, several times. But there was nothing to acknowledge the question, no indication that she’d either hit or missed.
His hand was steady as he wrote down the numbers that reduced her to a size with which he could work.
“Haval.”
“I have what I need at the moment; if you wish to choose appropriate cloth, please do.”
“We’ll leave it up to you. You’re still better at it.” She turned toward the door as he set aside all of his measurements. “Haval—”
He lifted a hand. “I think it advisable to refuse your commission, but against my better judgment, I will accept it. Do not make me regret my generosity.”
“How much will your generosity cost?”
A shadow of a smile touched his lips. “Not more than three times what the work would have cost had you the time to plan ahead. I will have to visit House Terafin when I have something to actually fit.”
“We can come here,” she began.
“I think, in this case, it would be less difficult for me to attend you there.”
“There’ll be more people listening there.”
“Yes. But I will say nothing that will not bore the listeners, and you will be forced to do the same.”
“But I need—”
He raised a hand. “Jewel. Jay. I am not what I was. We each have our responsibilities in our respective homes for at least a little while longer.”
She knew that had never stopped him before. She even opened her mouth to say as much, but it was pointless; Haval could be impenetrable when it suited him. She glanced once at her silent, stiff domicis, and once at Teller and Finch, both of whom had let her do what little talking there was.
“If we could wake Hannerle, what would it be worth to you?”
His silence was profound because it encompassed everything about him for just a few seconds: all motion, all breath, all expression. He didn’t answer.
Because he didn’t, she continued. “We can’t keep her awake. Whatever this sickness is, we don’t have that in us.”
“How can you wake her at all?”
“Answer the first question first.” Her voice was colder and harder than it should have been; that much, she’d learned from Avandar in her time.
“There is very little in my possession with which I would not part. If I thought it would satisfy, I would offer the robes in exchange. I will not insult you by doing so,” he added. “But I will not, in turn, be insulted; I will not take on faith that you have the power to do so.”
“Fair enough. Pretend that we can, for the moment.”
“If you cannot keep her awake, there is less value in the waking.”
Jewel nodded. Avandar drew breath, and she raised her hand in curt den-sign before he could use it. “I believe that we can continue to wake her, if she falls asleep and can’t wake on her own. It’s not a cure. It’s as close as anyone can come, at the moment.”
“And you would continue to wake her?”
“It depends on you.”
“What do you want, ATerafn?”
“I want your ears. I want your eyes. I want your gossip and your ability to penetrate other people’s gossip.”
“And that is all?”
“…no.”
His smile was chilly; it contained no hint of surprise. “It’s been decades, ATerafin, since I have worked in any official capacity.”
“I don’t give a rat’s ass about official.”
“You should,” he told her softly, his voice as cool as his smile had been before it deserted his face. “You intend to take the House Seat, do you not?”
Silence.
I told you this was unwise, Jewel. Avandar spoke in the distinctly uncomfortable internal voice. Jewel, still silent, did the same. Haval is not a fool. Almost as if he grudged it, the domicis added, he is, and has always been, dangerously perceptive. He is, and has always been, dangerously deceptive. He must be handled with care.
I think we need him. Her reply was not much different than a spoken reply would have been. It wasn’t, in fact, different than the spoken reply had been on the carriage ride to Haval’s shop.
I did not press this point, Avandar replied. But I will press it now. What do you mean “I think?”
I need him.
You have come this far without anything but the clothing he crafts. I wish you to be clear on your reasons for this unwise approach.
Not a single member of her den would have continued to argue with her after she’d made such a definitive statement.
No, they would not. But I am not your den; I am not looking to you for either leadership or guidance.
The worst thing about this type of speech—a gift from the mark he had left on her arm—was these arguments. Avandar of old—Avandar before the sojourn in the South—would have stifled all urge to argue when in the presence of witnesses; now that the witnesses couldn’t hear him, he didn’t stop.
You know as well as I that this is different. I’m at a disadvantage from the beginning—
A disadvantage that you wouldn’t have if you had accepted The Terafin’s desire early enough to plan.
She didn’t argue that point because she couldn’t. Instead she said, I need him. I need him at my side until this is over.
I do not materially disagree with this statement; I wish you to understand what the cost of his indenture may be. Do you think he will surive in your service?
I…don’t know.
Jewel, your friends are your weakness. The fewer you involve, the less difficult this will be in the end.
My friends are my weakness?
Yes. You fear to lose them.
It was true. But the other truth was as undeniable: Her friends were also her strength. She’d missed that, in the South.
She looked directly up at Haval. “Yes,” she said quietly. “I intend to take the House Seat.”
“May I ask why?”
“I promised The Terafin.”
“There are some promises it is unwise to make.”
“I wasn’t her first choice. But all of her other choices died before she did. I’m what’s left, Haval. I’m all that’s left.”
“And your claim?”
“I have the writ designating me heir.”
“Which isn’t worth the paper it was written on.”
Jewel winced, but nodded; it was true.
“I think you fail to understand what—and who—you are up against. This will not be a minor scuffle; in my opinion, fully half of those who are standing now will be buried before this is over. The casualties will not be limited to the House, although it is the House that will suffer the brunt of them.”
“If they kill outside of the House—”
“Who will go crying to the Kings? If you think the laws of exception governing The Ten will keep outsiders—such as myself—safe, you are hopelessly naive.”
“Is that your answer?”
Haval turned to Finch. “You were made House Council members because she intended you to support Jewel’s claim?”
Finch glanced at Jewel, but nodded.
“And she made this explicit?”
“She threatened to revoke the House Name if we didn’t accept the promotion.”
“I see.” He turned back to Jewel, but Finch hadn’t finished.
“We have the sword,” she said quietly.
“Pardon?”
“We have The Terafin Sword. She gave it to—to one of us. As proof of Jay’s claim.”
“Who else is aware of this?”
“No one.”
“And you can swear that?”
Finch nodded.
“Then let me ask you a different question, Finch. Teller, you may also answer if you desire. You understand that your chances, as House Council members, of surviving this war are less than fifty percent in my opinion?”
Finch paled.
Teller, however, said, “If they’re that high, I’ll be surprised.”
“And you are willing to take that risk?”
“We have no choice. It’s not about the promise Jay made. That promise was the only thing that kept The Terafin going at the end, but she’s dead; she won’t care now. And we’re not dead yet; we don’t want to die.”
“There is no guarantee whatsoever that Jewel can save you—”
“It doesn’t matter. She can save the House. She can save what the House is, and what it means. If Marrick or Elonne succeed, the House will be different, and I think we could live with it. But if Haerrad or Rymark succeed—” Teller shook his head. “We can’t just stand back and allow it.”
“Why not throw your support behind either Marrick or Elonne, in that case? Either of the two have resources that are greater than yours.”
Jewel cleared her throat. “We’re not convinced that Marrick and Elonne will survive.”
Haval was still watching Finch and Teller. “And you are convinced that Jewel will?”
Finch said, “Jay will survive.” There was no doubt at all in her words. Before Haval could speak again, she said, “We kn
ow that it’s likely most of us won’t. But even if they kill us all, Jay will survive. She’s hard to kill. They destroyed half of the Common, and they couldn’t kill her.” She bit her lip; she was pale. Jewel saw that, and it hurt. “You don’t understand, Haval.”
“I understand Jewel ATerafin.”
“Yes. But you don’t understand us. The Terafin took all of us, not just Jay. For years now, we’ve survived—and prospered—because of her. We were afraid, when we came to the House, that there’d never be a place for us; we were all orphans, we came from the poor holdings, we had no acceptable clothing, and very poor manners. We knew that Jay was important, that Jay was valuable. We knew that we were suffered because of that.
“But she saw something in us as well. She gave us positions in the House. We learned. She taught us. We love the House in our own way. Maybe it’s not the same way Jay does—maybe we can’t do that because we’re not Jay. It doesn’t matter. We love what the House was, under her command. We don’t want to see it turn into something else. Yes, she’s dead. Yes, betraying the dead isn’t a crime—not on the streets, not where we grew up. But it’s not the dead we’ll betray if we just give up and do nothing.
“It’s the living. It’s everyone else in the House. It’s Lucille and Jarven and the servants and the cooks and the gardeners and the merchants. We’re not children anymore. But some of them are. We don’t plan to walk to our deaths; we don’t plan to sit still in the dark, cowering. But we have a choice that some of them don’t have.
“And we want—we need—your help.”
“A heartfelt speech, ATerafin,” Haval said, in cool, exact tones. “Heartfelt speeches, however, are best visited upon the young and inexperienced or the old and sentimental. In the event that your exposure to Jarven has led you to the mistaken assumption that I am part of the latter category, I must offer correction. I am not.
Skirmish: The House War: Book Four Page 7