Skirmish: The House War: Book Four
Page 40
“What? It’s what everyone says.”
“It’s what everyone who isn’t being trailed by Astari says.”
Adam’s frown eased into a smile. “Levec doesn’t like him, but he trusts him.”
“Yeah, well. Not even Duvari could kill Levec. The rest of us aren’t so lucky.”
The tails were good. Angel gestured, glancing at Carver; Carver gestured back. No. Three. Adam watched their brief, wordless interchange in silence.
After the bridge, Angel said; Carver nodded. They lengthened their stride because Adam—unlike Finch—could match it. But they did nothing fancy, nothing difficult, not yet. Angel assumed that their tails were Astari, but he couldn’t be certain they were only Astari. He thought about two things as he walked: the first, that Adam was valuable to, and valued by, the Kings, and the second, that Alowan had died. There was no chance at all that the Kings, directly or indirectly, had ordered that death. The killer had been established as demonic. The demon might have gotten into the House—and the healerie—on his own; there was an outside possibility that the demon acted against the entire House, and not on behalf of one of its members.
They’d argued about this in the kitchen for hours, because either was believable. The Terafin’s death was far less of a certainty if she happened to have a talent-born healer living in her house; taking out the healer meant a clearer shot at The Terafin.
But no one was certain. No one could be. They did what they could to shore up the argument because they wanted to believe it. Angel grimaced. They wanted. He wasn’t as invested in the future of the House, and he had argued against it. To his surprise, so had Jester, his expression so grave it was almost shocking. They’d reached no easy conclusion, but they’d reached no difficult one either.
Carver glanced at Angel and shrugged. In the end, it didn’t matter. If the tails were human, they presented a possible danger. If not? They were armed. They were armed with clunky, pretty daggers that made better letter openers than weapons against anything but the demonic.
The bridge came into view.
Adam still found the city difficult. It was larger than any city in the South; larger by far than the Tor Leonne. He’d grown accustomed to the smells of the city, but he hadn’t yet grown accustomed to the crowds, the tightly packed buildings, the proliferation of carriages, wagons, and sounds. He had difficulty navigating the complicated social structures that governed both the House and the people who came to visit it. He had no difficulty at all hiding his gift, however. It was not considered much of a gift in the South.
He liked Carver. He approved of Angel, but Angel, with his strangely wired hair and his frequent silence, seemed above, or at least beyond, like or dislike. Perhaps it was because he spoke no Torra, but Adam doubted it; Angel had been very strange since Jewel ATerafin had returned.
Jewel herself was difficult. She was Margret’s age, or close, but she cringed every time he afforded her the respect she was due. Worse, she denied it. She denied that she was Matriarch, here. She denied that her word was law. He could have accepted that, but while she denied her authority, she didn’t deny her power; he saw, clearly that she was blessed with the power that his own sister had failed to show. She could see.
His mother, the previous Matriarch of Arkosa, had told him once that sometimes in the strongly gifted their gaze was focused so far away they couldn’t see the people around them. Was that you, Mother? He shook his head, sliding to one side of a large, angry man. People in the streets were frequently angry.
His mother did not, and could not, answer him. If the winds that scoured the South reached this far North, the dead that rode them were silent. But his mother? She had seen far. She had seen, and accepted, her own death. What did Jewel see?
Carver tapped his shoulder and he let the thought go. Now, Carver gestured. Follow. Watch us.
Very few men—or women—chose to follow the Voyani the way they now followed Adam, Carver, and Angel. Adam would have said that Carver and Angel were being too cautious, because he saw no one when he looked, or rather, saw so many people it was impossible to tell who among them might be on their trail.
But Carver and Angel seemed to see past the crowds, as if they were a thin, fine curtain, and if the three were invisible to Adam’s eye, they were clear to the two older men. So he said nothing. If Jewel was unwilling to be called Matriarch, these were nonetheless her closest family, her most trusted kin, and she had placed Adam’s life in their hands. They took the charge seriously.
He therefore didn’t attempt to tell them they were going in the wrong direction—although they were—when they moved; he followed. That, he could do.
“Working together?” Carver asked Angel, when they ducked into a small shop at the outskirts of the Common.
“Two, I think. Not the third.”
“He’ll have to avoid them. Astari?”
Angel hesitated, glancing out the doorway. “I’d say the single is Astari. I’m not sure about the two.”
Carver cursed in Torra, and then glanced at Adam. “Sorry,” he muttered.
“I’ve heard worse,” Adam told him. “From my sister.”
“I bet. Ready?”
Adam nodded.
“Good. We’re running. Keep an eye on me. Don’t keep looking over your shoulder.”
Adam saw a lot of the Common in the next twenty minutes. Five of those were at a sprint, or as much of a sprint as the crowded streets allowed.
“Got ’em?” Carver asked.
Angel nodded.
“Still three?”
“I think we’ve lost one.”
Carver cursed again. Adam guessed from this that it was the wrong one. He must have looked confused, because Carver said, “The Astari knows where we’re going. It’s not him we have to get rid of. Come on.”
It was forty-five minutes before Angel judged it safe to leave the Common. Adam was lost. Angel wasn’t. He led them to the House of Healing’s front gates, watching the streets in a tense silence. The guards at the gate appeared to be waiting for at least one envoy from House Terafin, because they weren’t left in the streets. They were ushered hurriedly into the main hall and told to wait.
Levec entered the hall only a few minutes later, his brows joined above the bridge of his nose, his large hands balled in fists. Those fists relaxed as Adam sprang to his feet.
“I’m sorry, Levec,” he said, in the slowest Torra he could manage. Levec’s spoken Torra was not very good, but Adam was nervous enough that his Weston would have been worse. “I didn’t understand Jewel’s orders, and I—”
“Never mind,” Levec replied, in brusque, accented Torra. “You two.” This was said in Weston.
Angel stepped forward; Carver lounged against the wall, his arms folded across his chest. Angel bowed.
“Yes, yes. Enough. What happened?”
“There was an incident at the manse.”
Levec actually paled.
“No—nothing happened to Adam; nothing’s happened to Daine.”
For some reason, Levec didn’t relax. “Adam’s services were required?”
Angel shook his head. “The incident had nothing to do with Adam; Adam’s off all healing duty anywhere in the manse but our private rooms. But it was large enough and unusual enough that the House Guards were mobilized; things have been chaotic.”
“It?”
“You’ll have to ask the regent. Or Duvari, if you prefer.” The mention of Duvari’s name had predictable, common results no matter where it was uttered among the patriciate. Although Levec was not technically one of them, he commanded enough power through his stewardship of the healers that he was considered an honorary member in the eyes of the Astari. “Jewel said to tell you she takes full responsibility for the lateness of Adam’s arrival. She also asked that you accompany him home if it’s at all possible.”
“I would prefer to keep him.”
Adam hesitated, and Levec marked it instantly. He lowered his voice, which didn’t
make it all that much quieter, as he turned to Adam. “It’s safer for you here.” The words were flat, the syllables pressed together like blocks of stone; not a lot of room to move around them.
Angel waited for a moment, but Adam was still hesitant. “Healer Levec.”
Levec looked up.
“I won’t argue with the general case; it is safer for Adam in the Houses of Healing. But for the next four days at least, there probably won’t be a safer place in the Empire than House Terafin. Duvari’s practically living under its roof.”
“Somehow that fails to comfort me,” the healer replied, straightening. He was willing to leave the decision in Adam’s hands. He wasn’t, however, willing to leave the discussion in the halls. “Dantallon’s waiting, as are Commander Sivari and the Princess Royale. There are,” he continued, as he began to move, “two members of the Order of Knowledge. They’ve promised they will observe without interfering. They did not, however, promise to observe quietly, and I’ve a mind to strangle them both.”
“Has something changed, Levec?” Adam asked, as he followed.
Levec didn’t miss a step; neither did he answer.
Angel and Carver pulled up the rear, which did cause the healer to miss a step. “Gentlemen,” he said, in a voice that was more growl than words. “Have you suddenly evinced a meaningful talent in the past few weeks?”
When Carver frowned, Levec added, “If I am to return Adam to House Terafin, I can assure you your services are no longer required.”
* * *
“You think they followed us?”
Angel shook his head. “I think we’ll find the Astari tail on our way out.” He headed toward the door.
Carver followed, pushing his hair briefly out of his eyes. It was a much more graceful gesture than Jay’s, probably because it was a lot less common; Carver’s hair always obscured at least one.
Levec’s guards were polite; they weren’t friendly. They made sure that Carver and Angel exited the halls without taking any unwarranted detours.
Without Adam, however, they were less constrained. Angel gestured as they walked; Carver nodded. The Astari tail was, in fact, not far from the Houses of Healing, but he wasn’t exactly hanging off their impressive and dangerous fences. Angel gestured again.
“I don’t think it’s us he was following. You think he’s a danger?”
“Not to Adam. Not right now.”
The afternoon had started in the streets of the city. If those streets were less crowded directly in front of the Houses of Healing, they were distinctly more packed two blocks away; Angel and Carver could disappear with ease into the crowd that surged around them. But it didn’t seem necessary at the moment. They walked toward the footbridge.
“Angel.”
Angel nodded.
“Worried?”
“No. The streets are clear.”
“I wasn’t talking about that.”
“What, then?”
“Jay.”
“Why worry about Jay? She’s got Avandar and Celleriant.” He shoved hands into wide pockets; had there been more loose stone in the streets, he might have kicked them. “And Torvan.”
“So…that would be yes.”
“That would be no.”
“Fine. Worried about yourself?”
“I’m not a kid anymore. She’s not going to leave again until the House is settled one way or the other. If she has the House, we’re part of it.”
“We are. You’re not.” Carver could hold a small grudge for a long damn time. So could Angel.
“Fine. She takes the House, you’re all part of it. Better?”
“Not much. Why are you—”
Angel turned, the footbridge forgotten. “You didn’t see her, Carver. You didn’t see her on the back of that damn stag. I did. I rode up the side—the side—of a tree into an unholy mess of branches, behind her back, clinging to antlers the entire way up.”
Carver said nothing.
“When the stag stopped, she wanted to get down.”
“No way.” Every member of the den knew how much Jay hated heights. Even in the undercity, when she couldn’t see clear to the ground, she’d had trouble moving.
“Yes. And,” Angel added, hands curling into fists, “I let her. I let her do it.”
Carver exhaled. “You let her do it because you knew she could.”
“How in the hells could I know that?”
“She’s not dead.” He started to move, because they were gathering a small crowd, partly because they were in the middle of the road, and partly because arguments that hadn’t gone violent tended to gather interest the way rotting meat gathered flies.
Angel had the choice of ending an unwanted and unexpected conversation, or of following; he was half a block behind when he made the decision to move. Carver was strolling, not striding; it didn’t take long to catch up. It did take some effort not to grab him by the shoulder and shove him into the nearest wall.
“I couldn’t follow her,” he said, making that effort. “I trust her to know what she’s doing—even when she can’t put it into words. But she was heading into danger, and I couldn’t follow. Avandar could.”
“So he went with her?”
Angel grimaced and shook his head. “Bad example, then. Celleriant could.”
“Celleriant was the reason you ran up the tree at all; he was the one in danger.”
“How do you know that?”
“Eavesdropping. Jay doesn’t make it hard. Did I hear wrong?”
“No.”
“So. Avandar wasn’t there, and Celleriant was the reason you had to run up the side of what was left of our oldest tree on the back of a big, white stag. You couldn’t join her when she dismounted—but money says neither could Avandar. If you’re feeling useless, you’ve got good company, and at least it wasn’t your ass she was trying to save. Come on.”
This time, when Angel slowed, it wasn’t in anger; Carver, knowing, slowed with him. “We weren’t even seeing the same thing.”
“ ‘We’ being you and Jay?”
Angel nodded. “I could only see the drop. The branches. Celleriant was impaled by them, and he wasn’t doing much moving. But whatever she saw—”
“She’s seer-born.”
“She’s always been seer-born.”
“And she’s always seen things we don’t—or can’t—see. Never bothered you before.”
“Carver, she said there was snow. There was; it appeared in her hair as she moved. She walked up the side of the damn tree—and once she was free of the stag’s back, she didn’t have to cling to anything. She couldn’t see the trunk of the tree—she couldn’t bloody see down.”
“And you know that how?”
“Because she told me!”
Carver snorted. “She just happened to tell you that you weren’t seeing what she was seeing.”
“Yes.”
“Because she just knew.”
Angel stared. “I—I told her she couldn’t get down or she’d fall.”
“She didn’t think she’d fall.”
“No.”
“You told her what you saw.”
“Yes—she asked. She couldn’t see it.”
“You told her. Not Celleriant. Not Avandar. Not any of the rest of us.”
Angel nodded slowly; his shoulders fell as he did.
“Look, Angel, I don’t understand what she is to you—never have. When we were offered the House Name, we knew it was because she’d pulled for us. We took it. You didn’t. What we wanted from her—what we needed from her—when she found us, it wasn’t what you wanted or needed. But we didn’t get that until you turned down the Terafin name.”
“What did you want?”
“A roof over our heads. Food in our stomachs. Clothing on our backs. People to watch them.” Carver shrugged. “We wanted safety, or as much safety as we could get in the holdings when we had no other family. We wanted what she wanted for us.”
“And now?”
“I don’t want to push her. I don’t want to pressure—”
Carver caught his arm. “Do it anyway. Because she won’t necessarily take the rest of us if it looks dangerous—and she needs us.”
“She doesn’t need—”
“She does. She’s spent half her life trying to protect what we’ve built so she only sees danger—to us.”
“She’s willing to take that risk.”
Carver nodded, released Angel’s arm, and turned toward the Isle, where the spires of the Triumvirate could clearly be seen, flags flying in the stiff, cold winds at their heights. “Yeah, there’s that.”
Chapter Fourteen
ADAM ENTERED the largest of the infirmary rooms in the House of Healing. Beds were pressed up against the walls; they were also huddled so close together there wasn’t much space between them. Enough for a person with a tray and a small table stand, no more. But more wasn’t needed; here, the patients didn’t speak, didn’t move, didn’t attempt to leave. They slept. More problematic, they didn’t eat. But water could at least be forced through their lips, and they swallowed.
They ran the gamut of ages, from ancient to younger than Adam himself; the illness struck entirely at random. Only in one household had two of the occupants fallen to the sleeping sickness. Neither the rich nor the poor had been spared.
In this case, however, it was the poor who were lodged within the House of Healing, with one or two notable exceptions.
Before Levec entered the infirmary, he turned. “There is a reason the magi were sent for.”
“You didn’t—”
Levec frowned. “Mirialyn did.”
Of course, Adam thought; she was the highest ranking woman present. “What reason, Levec?”
“Yesterday afternoon, every single man, woman, and child in the infirmary awoke.”