Skirmish: The House War: Book Four

by Michelle West

  “And you—”

  “Yes. It’s mine.”

  “I…see.” He glanced pointedly at the heights of the tree above her head. “And if you can accomplish this—which a host of gardeners going back centuries of Averalaan history could not with all of their combined skill and knowledge—what else can you accomplish, ATerafin?”

  “I can keep demons from gaining entrance to Terafin using that particular back door,” was her grim reply.

  Jewel, Avandar said. He was very aware of how little she liked this silent form of communication, and only used it when he deemed it necessary. Do not antagonize Duvari unless you plan to do so.

  Which wasn’t something she needed to be told, on most days. Clearly she needed to be told that tonight.

  “Lord of the Compact,” the Exalted of Cormaris said, “I believe it is late, and the young ATerafin requires some sleep and some time to gather her thoughts. She has already made clear that she acts on instinct.”

  “Instinct is not—”

  “—And for the moment, until we have the chance to confer with our parents—which I assure you we will be doing before the dawn—I do not believe there is further information to be gained. There is, of course, hostility—but while that suits your particular style, it does not suit hers. There is no need to back her into a corner.”

  “The Kings, the Queens, and the Exalted will be in attendance for the first day of The Terafin’s funeral rites,” was the clipped and very cold reply.

  “We are aware of that. So, too, will all of The Ten, saving only Terafin, for whom a successor has not yet been chosen, all of the guildmasters, and all of the Sacred of the rest of the churches within the city. I understand that they are not your responsibility, but they serve a necessary function within the domain of the Kings that are.”

  “What Terafin successor will now be willing to countenance the existence of a woman who can literally manipulate reality in their own backyard?”

  “That is, as you are well aware, an internal matter; it is not for any of us to decide what the next Terafin can—or cannot—countenance. We judge that the Kings and the Queens will be safe from this particular threat; the Kings themselves would not ask for more.”

  “And you will give reassurances—”

  “Lord of the Compact, I already have; if you fail to find them reassuring, may I suggest you reconsider?”

  Duvari fell silent. Jewel recognized the silence; it was one she herself employed when it was absolutely necessary not to offend the person who was busy offending her. She enjoyed it a lot more when Duvari was forced to use it.

  And that much petty was almost too much. “Lord of the Compact, I understand your concern. If I could answer your questions, I would. But I can barely put two coherent words together. As Member Mellifas is currently a guest in my wing of the manse, any further conversation on our part will delay her much-needed rest.”

  “Very well. Regent,” he said, turning abruptly to face the very silent Gabriel ATerafin, “I request an appointment to speak with you on the morrow. I also request that Jewel ATerafin be in attendance.”

  Gabriel nodded. “It will not be first thing in the morning; given the difficulties encountered both this afternoon and this eve, some juggling of the schedule will have to be done. Understand that we are aware of the gravity of the situation; we are also aware of the dangers should any harm befall the royal family. The Chosen are already in motion as we speak.”

  Duvari nodded. “And the Astari?”

  “The Astari are necessary for the protection of the Kings. Any action that they take while in House Terafin, however, must go through the Chosen. No reasonable request will be refused.”

  “And you are the arbiter that defines what is reasonable?”

  “It is House Terafin, Lord of the Compact,” the Exalted of Reymaris now said. He had not spoken a word so far this eve—or rather, not a word meant for any ears other than the god-born’s.

  Jewel, however, was looking at the shade of indigo the sky had become. She turned to her domicis with a pleading expression. “Can you go and see if Haval’s waiting?”

  Avandar nodded. Turning, he left the grounds—and he could; he wasn’t, as a servant, required to interact with the rest of the people gathered near the base of the tree. He was supposed to be invisible, lucky bastard.

  Duvari frowned. “Haval? The dressmaker?”

  “Yes. I know it seems insignificant to you, and it probably is—but three members of the House Council will have nothing to wear for the first day rites if he doesn’t finish his work; he had very short notice, and—”

  Duvari lifted a hand. “Guildmaster,” he said, to Sigurne. “Regent. I have much to consider and much to arrange, and I will leave you to your…own tasks.”

  The Winter King vanished before Jewel left the grounds, but she didn’t really mark it, because when she left, Gabriel left, and they were obviously going to the same place. Sigurne, however, did not; although she had allowed the meeting to be called to an end because she was in theory exhausted, she remained with the magi and the Exalted.

  Arann stayed by Jewel’s side; Torvan sent the other two Chosen away, but likewise accompanied her. She decided she didn’t care for his work face; it was grim and impenetrable, and it did a whole lot of looking past wherever it was she happened to be standing.

  Sadly, the cats found it amusing, and she couldn’t ditch the damn things. She tried. They mocked her. They bit each other. They attracted the attention of the night shift. The guards would have gaped, but Torvan was present, and it wasn’t worth their jobs.

  “Jewel,” Gabriel said, when they were well away from the grounds, “do you understand the significance of this day’s events?”

  It wasn’t the question she wanted him to open with; it was, however, the one she’d more or less expected. “To be honest, no.”

  This drew a slender smile from the regent. The smile faded as he walked, hands behind his back in a loose knot. “Be less honest, in future.”

  She stopped walking. She dearly wanted to get home, where she could eat—if Haval hadn’t arrived—and possibly relax for a few minutes. Instead, she turned to Gabriel. “I don’t want to live in a House where I can’t even be honest with you.”

  He raised a brow, and the smile flitted back to the corners of his mouth. “I, too, am weary; I was not perhaps being exact in my advice. Be less honest with outsiders.”

  This, she could accept. “I know the tree was significant. I mean, the dreaming tree. I know what it could have done to most of the significant powers in the Empire just by standing where it stood.”

  “It is not, oddly enough, of that incident that I now speak.”

  “Then what?”

  “You have now placed a tree that the experts know cannot exist in the soil of Terafin. I will attempt to control word of the source of its arrival—but, Jewel, you must know how effective that will be.” He gestured down the hall and began to walk; she fell in beside him. The cats allowed it, but not quietly. He looked down at their heads. “You will keep them?” he finally asked.

  They all turned wide-eyed stares on him.

  “I don’t have much choice, at the moment. Until I understand why in the Hells they’re even here, I don’t think I have any hope of sending them back.”

  “Sadly, I concur. You would do best, within the House, to keep them hidden if it is possible. You would, of course, do best to refrain from riding your stag, as well.”

  She was silent for the length of the gallery. When she reached its corner, she said, “How bad did it look?”

  “Bad is not the correct word, ATerafin.”

  She sighed. “Inappropriate?”

  “A better use of language, but it is not the correct choice in this case. There is no appropriate or inappropriate where matters of magic are involved. But magic, for most of us, is in the realm of gods and the mage-born—and it separates those who are touched or tainted by it. You look like Jewel ATerafin, but in the co
ntext of these creatures, you also look dangerously other. It is not a look you would do well to cultivate.”

  “Gabriel—”

  “The House Council meets after the funeral—if you are fortunate.”

  She opened her mouth and closed it again before words escaped.

  “The day’s events—and the appearance of the Exalted, not to mention the large number of magi—will, of course, be of concern to the House Council. I will do what I can to keep the meeting in its current scheduled time slot, but I cannot guarantee success. Do not, however, be unprepared.”

  “For an earlier meeting?”

  “Of a type. They will be worried, Jewel. It would not surprise me if a series of more personal, and impromptu, meetings occur during the three days of the funeral rites themselves.”

  She failed to curse; it was close. “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Of course.”

  “How do you feel about me, now?”

  His smile was subtle. “You are Jewel ATerafin. Do you understand why the servants have always favored your den in some small part?”

  “Carver.”

  “If you think Carver is the only young man to lurk around the serving girls—”

  She lifted a hand. “Never mind. You obviously understand; tell me.”

  “You came to the House as an urchin; you came with a pack of orphans, all as underfed and poorly dressed as yourself. Yet you saved the life of The Terafin, inarguably the most significant person in the House. You work; they note it. They knew, when she sent you on your earliest missions, the hour of your departure and the hour of your return; they knew how long your days were.

  “Had you complained, they would have known that as well; you bore up under the weight of The Terafin’s expectations. You were given a wing of the manse out of which to operate—a privilege afforded to very, very few—and they accepted it. Some of the more senior members of the Council were less enamored of The Terafin’s decision, but because you had been instrumental in saving her life, they had to swallow the majority of their complaints.

  “You knew very little when you arrived here, and you have—by dint of effort and will—become a success in their eyes. They wanted to believe you could achieve success because they—like anyone—want to believe in stories. You are a story, to them.

  “But your chief role in that story has always been to be more human than they are; to come from meaner circumstances and to succeed because, in some unquantifiable way, you are worthy of success. You are still, in their eyes, some part of a story.”

  She understood then. “And even if the things that happen to me now are more storylike and far less real, it’s the wrong story.”

  “That is my concern.”

  “Do you understand that I don’t feel any different?”

  “None of us do. I am regent; I do not feel significantly wiser or more competent than I did when I first applied for the privilege of bearing the House Name. What we appear to be to others is never what we look like to ourselves, and you would do best to remember this.” He paused as they reached her door. He hadn’t finished, but took his time gathering the rest of his words. “You are living in a story of a very different type.

  “It may be, Jewel ATerafin, that the trappings of this story will garner you…not fear but approval in some quarters. But if that is the case, it makes you far more of a threat to those who wish to succeed Amarais; they cannot be served by someone who outshines them, even if only by accident.

  “You will have six days.” He turned, and then turned back and offered her a perfect bow. It silenced her because it was so wrong.

  She was still silent when she entered the doors of the wing; Ellerson, not Avandar, was waiting. He lifted a silver brow as the cats had a brief struggle to see who would walk through the doors first. “I see Avandar did not exaggerate,” he told Jewel quietly. “I have taken the liberty of having refreshments prepared. Teller and Finch are currently occupying Haval, but he is waiting for your arrival.”

  “Patiently?”

  Ellerson did not reply. “ATerafin.”

  “I have no idea where they’re going to stay,” she replied. “I know we have a few rooms left—do you think we could open one and see if they destroy too much of it? Before you ask, no, I have no idea if they’re housebroken.”

  The white cat hissed, clearly unamused.

  “They’re almost never quiet, on the other hand—so maybe the room farthest from any other occupied room?”

  “Very well.” He glanced at the cats. “Gentlemen, if you will follow me?”

  “We’re hungry,” the black cat said.

  When Jewel opened the door of the room that was being used for Haval’s fitting, silence ensued. It was a silence underscored by widening eyes—Teller’s and Finch’s—and by narrowing ones. Haval insisted on light for his work, and the room, given the time of day, was astonishingly well lit. It was also unforgiving. The smudges on her coat couldn’t be hidden; they were sadly all much more alarmingly dark then they’d looked when Jewel had faced the Exalted.

  “Jewel,” Haval said curtly. “So kind of you to join us.” He glared at the scorch marks on her outer jacket, which she quickly began to remove. “I would appreciate it if you would keep the damage to your necessary clothing to a minimum; I have no time, even absent very theoretical sleep, to undertake another commission.”

  Finch, however, said, “What happened, Jay?”

  “We had a bit of a problem with a tree.”

  “So you torched it?”

  “Not exactly.” Jewel handed the coat to Finch, who took it and examined it more critically. “It’s all superficial. I’m sure it can be cleaned up.”

  Haval stiffened. If the harsh light was no kindness to Jewel’s clothing, it was even less of one to Haval; he looked exhausted. “The rest of the clothing as well. I want to insist that you bathe before you put on what I’ve finished so far, but I feel the chance that you fall asleep while doing so is high.”

  “Is Hannerle—”

  “She is quite awake, thank you.”

  “—Angry?”

  “And quite angry, as you surmise.” He stalked over to the table across which lay a dress that was obviously black and white. This he picked up and carried to Jewel. “How did your discussion with Devon ATerafin go?”

  In the events that had followed that discussion, Jewel had almost forgotten its content. “It went.”

  Haval raised a steel brow.

  She relented. “It went well enough that he’s willing to undertake any negotiations for compensation directly. With you.”

  “…I see.”

  “I think I understand what’s causing the plague, though.”

  He stiffened, which was very, very unusual for Haval; he must be tired. Either that, or he wanted to show surprise, which, given it was Haval, was vastly more likely.

  “Before you ask,” she told him, words momentarily muffled as she pulled a piece of very fine silk over her face, “I should warn you that we have guests.”

  “Guests?”

  She nodded as her hair sprung free. Some of it lodged just in front of her eyes, but she didn’t dare push it aside. Instead, she held out her arms as he approached and began to examine his work and its fitting. “You’ll recognize at least one of them.”

  “Jewel, I am in far too much of a hurry to play games. Who are these guests?”

  “Sigurne Mellifas and Matteos Corvel.”

  “I see. You may lower your right arm. No, your right arm.” He began to pin some folds of cloth. “And they are not currently in residence?”

  “No. I think Sigurne’s still speaking with the Exalted.”

  “…the Exalted.”

  “Yes. And the regent.” She hesitated, and then glanced at Teller. “You still like cats, right?”

  “…Yes. Why?”

  “We have some.”

  “You brought cats home?”

  “Not exactly. They followed me. I had Ellerson—with an
y luck—put them in a room as far away from any other room as he could find.”

  Teller frowned.

  “They’re not exactly cats. They’re—” she searched for an appropriate word; most of the ones that came immediately to mind were street Torra. “They’re the size of large ponies, they have wings, and they talk. They talk a lot.”

  “So, not cats at all?”

  “Wait until you meet them.”

  Haval, however, was done, at least with sleeves. He knelt to fiddle with hem. “Jewel, why exactly do you have winged cats in your personal residence?”

  “Because I don’t trust them anywhere else?”

  He nudged her into a better posture. “Very well. I would like you to return to your supposition about the cause of the plague.”

  “It’s deliberate. Someone derives power from mortal dreaming, and whoever he—or she—is, they needed power. I don’t know how it works, but I think he—or she—caused the sleeping sickness as a way of building that power base.”

  “And will the sleepers now naturally wake?”

  “I don’t think so. We didn’t exactly catch the person involved, and I’m not sure—yet—how to stop him.”

  Haval stood, and gestured again; she obligingly turned her back to him, aware of the pins in his hand. “How, exactly, did you arrive at your conclusion?”

  “The tree. In the grounds. In the back.” She sighed and he poked her.

  “I will assume that something occurred that involved that tree.”

  “It did. The tree had been enchanted. No, that’s not the right word—it’ll have to do for now. It was partially rooted in the dreaming of the people who haven’t woken yet, and partially rooted in something entirely different.”

  “To what end?”

  “Given it was the central element of the grounds at which the opening of the funeral rites were to occur?”

  “You failed to mention that. Continue.”

  “The tree attacked Celleriant; Celleriant survived. He wasn’t happy.”

  “Very little could make that man happy, and if it did, it would certainly not please you. I assume he survived?”