Skirmish: The House War: Book Four

by Michelle West

  She hoped it happened before she ran out of space, because the space was so damn confined. She could hear the Chosen ordering people to leave the room now, and she wondered if her putative assassin would be one of them. Given the press of bodies, she was willing to see him escape.

  She opened her mouth to say as much, but what came out was something entirely different. “Duvari! Avandar! Get Gabriel now!” And then she ducked and rolled.

  Duvari didn’t even hesitate. The domicis did. Sigurne watched their backs disappear into the office as people in the various uniforms of House Terafin surged out. She stood her ground, and they passed around her in a babbling stream. One of the House Guard—Chosen, she thought, by insignia, raced down the hall; the other three entered Gabriel’s office in the wake of Duvari and Avandar.

  Sigurne cast a warding spell without lifting a hand or speaking a word. But she also cast a very different type of protection, and that did require speech; it was an old, old spell, and it had been taught to her by the most unreliable of teachers. She had no notes, and very little opportunity to practice—and if she could do one thing to right the world before her death, she would change that very little to exactly none.

  But the world was what it was, and Jewel ATerafin had leaped clear across a desk in mid-sentence. Yet she hadn’t shouted for help; she had directed two men—one of them in no way hers to command—toward the regent’s office instead.

  Sigurne stepped into the room. Not all of the men and women waiting upon Gabriel’s decision had yet deserted the office, but it was visibly far less crowded. The House Guard had raced toward the regent’s office—all save one man, who had drawn his sword and was now heading toward the desk. There, to the right, and toward its drawer side, paced a young man in the uniform of the Terafin gardeners. By the far walls, the men and women in the room had gathered and Sigurne recognized two of them instantly: one was Rymark ATerafin, a member of her Order, and a man she did not trust. The other, to her surprise, was Brialle, another member of the Order of Knowledge; she stood closest to Rymark, and she wore civilian clothing, not the robes of the guild.

  I will kill them myself if they interfere with me, she thought, and meant it; she was viscerally disturbed by their presence. Neither seemed inclined to interfere at all at the moment; they were watching the assassin as he paced toward Jewel, knife in hand.

  The Chosen reached him. He offered no warning at all; he simply drew the sword back and swung it.

  And he was dead before he hit the ground, the stranger in gardener’s clothing moved so quickly.

  Jewel, you wanted me here, Sigurne thought, as if it were a prayer. She did not cast a spell at the moving man, who had replaced the dagger that was now buried to the hilt in the left eye of the House Guard, not yet; she knew she would have one chance and only one. If she missed, if she used the wrong spell, he would turn the dagger he carried on her just as efficiently as he had upon the House Guard. If the daggers were somehow enchanted, or if her shields did not hold, she would be as dead as the Terafin Chosen, now fallen.

  But it was hard, because Jewel couldn’t move as quickly as the lone figure that pursued her. He leaped to grab her—and the distance he cleared increased Sigurne’s suspicion; Jewel had already moved—barely—out of his path. She survived because she moved just before he did, every time. This, Sigurne thought, was the gift of the seer-born writ small.

  How much did Sigurne trust it? How much could she trust it?

  She heard the crack of something—lightning, she thought; it was followed by the sound of shattering wood. Shards flew from the direction of the regent’s office. Sigurne’s hands flew as well. She spoke three sharp, harsh words; the air blurred before her, and the light in the room changed in color and texture.

  The assassin wheeled to face her, his eyes widening, his movements significantly slowed.

  The air warmed; the light that had seemed so harsh and gray in the context of Jewel’s uncertainty turned golden. A warm wind swept through the room; she could feel it, and she could almost hear the sound of leaves rustling high overhead. She reached down, pulled up the hem of her much detested skirt, and withdrew a single dagger from its uncomfortable sheath.

  But the assassin was no longer hunting her; he’d turned. He’d turned, slowly, toward the woman who now stood in the doorway, her wrinkled, pale hands lifted. They were golden. She was golden, in Jewel’s vision.

  The assassin spoke; his voice was like thunder in the small room. Jewel smiled. She’d had almost no time to actually look at him while dodging; he just moved too damn fast and she’d had to let instinct take over her body in order to survive him. Now she could clearly see his profile, and she could just as clearly see his eyes. He looked human; she thought he must have been human once, but his eyes were all wrong.

  He raised an arm; she saw the dagger in his hand. He even managed to throw it as Jewel approached; it bounced off the air six inches from Sigurne’s face. He didn’t draw another; instead, he roared and bent to spring.

  Sigurne saw him tense and bend into his knees; she knew what was coming, but held her ground, and held him. The power she used was both hers and foreign to her; it was not, and had never been, a comfortable magic to cast. He roared again, and she heard every word the magic did not allow him to say.

  He turned, struggling, toward where the two mages—and the rest of the suddenly silent room—stood watching. Then one of the two cast. Fire blossomed around the assassin’s heavy gardening boots. Rymark, Sigurne thought. Not Brialle.

  The fire scorched leather, clothing, and even skin; it did not, however, devour the man. He snarled. “The Shining Court will curse you for your—”

  Fire struck again, harsher, and Sigurne shouted Rymark’s name in a tone of voice that only the old and powerful could comfortably use. “Cease at once, or the room will burn!”

  This caused panicked shouts, because Sigurne was still blocking the door; nor could she easily move from it. But she didn’t have to move. Jewel ATerafin now ran at the demon, dagger in hand.

  The man—the burning man—turned to her. “Do not interfere with us, little seer, or we will raze your beloved House and your—”

  She plunged the dagger into his chest, or tried; her thrust had no strength behind it. But the dagger didn’t require that type of strength to wield, and the strength it did require, she had. The man screamed, as blood seeped from the small wound; he roared as light followed it, leaking in spokes that sprayed across the room.

  * * *

  Jewel didn’t even wait to watch. She turned toward Gabriel’s office, and toward the smoking ruins of what had once been his beautiful, double doors. Barston was standing between the desk and the doors of the office in complete silence; he’d reserved exactly one shout for the damaged frame of the painting, and if he wasn’t calm—and he wasn’t—he was once again in control.

  She ran past him, stopped, and said, “Get everyone out of here. Now.” Then she headed toward the gaping, jagged hole in the door; she almost raced through that opening, but stopped inches short, as if something had caught the back of her dress and pulled, hard.

  Instinct. Vision.

  “Member Mellifas, I think I need your help.”

  The guildmaster said, “Another moment, ATerafin, and I will join you.” It was more than one, and Jewel’s hands were balled in fists, but she waited without further comment. Eventually, Sigurne crossed the room and joined her. She looked at the hole in the door.

  “I see your difficulty, ATerafin.”

  “What do you see?” Jewel asked sharply, wishing bitterly that she’d brought Angel with her.

  “What you do. There is a hole in the door; it leads into the office. The office, however, appears to be empty from this vantage.”

  “Empty without any signs of struggle or damage?”

  “Indeed.”

  “I see a bit more than that,” Jewel told her, still staring at the jagged hole—which, given the radius of splinters, had to be real. �
�There’s a violet light surrounding the edges of the door.”

  “The door, not the opening?”

  “Yes.”

  Sigurne said nothing for so long, Jewel actually tore her gaze from the door to look at the guildmaster. Her expression was like carved stone. Once or twice in her young life, Jewel had seen a similar expression on her Oma’s face—and that had been a clear sign that Oma was not to be approached. Sigurne, however, was not her ancient grandmother.

  “Member Mellifas?”

  “Prepare yourself for possible difficulty,” Sigurne replied, in a voice that would have frozen water—and shattered it into a million small shards for good measure.

  Jewel didn’t dare to ask how; to have even half an idea she’d have had to ask what the mage meant by “possible difficulty,” and nothing short of—actually, no, nothing, was going to make her do that. This woman—old, maternal, and fragile—was a little like Haval. Age was her cloak and her shield, and she could disarm others simply by donning and exaggerating its effects. She was not, at the moment, concerned with cloaking her power.

  The guildmaster was reputed to be a First Circle mage. Jewel, whose knowledge of the inner workings of the Order of Knowledge was dim at best, nonetheless understood that First Circle implied the highest level of power that the mage-born within the Order could achieve. Sigurne Mellifas was the guildmaster, so it followed that Sigurne Mellifas was powerful. It wasn’t hard to put these facts together.

  Jewel had never done it before, or if she had, she’d buried it so far in memory nothing surfaced now. She stood extremely still and kept her hands by her sides as Sigurne Mellifas stared at the door.

  That’s all she did; she stared. Jewel frowned as she turned her full attention to the wreckage of the door within its frame. The violet light wasn’t dimming—which was what she’d expected; it was brightening. It was also, she realized, changing slowly. Strands of light the color of bright emerald began to wrap themselves around the violet glow—as if either were solid. The strands entwined and thickened as Jewel watched.

  But when a third strand entered the mix she frowned; it was gray. Gray. She kept her eyes fastened to the door and kept her frown intent and focused, although she wanted desperately to look at the mage; she knew that Sigurne’s object was not the door itself, or not the door in isolation.

  She did jump and turn when someone at the far side of the office suddenly cried out in pain and stumbled to the ground clutching the sides of her head. Jewel started toward the stricken woman, but Sigurne reached out and caught her arm. “I believe you will find what you seek now.”

  “But—”

  “Now.”

  Jewel swallowed and turned back to the door as the sounds of combat rolled into the room.

  She almost stopped breathing as she looked for any sign of Gabriel. She could see Duvari, and to her great surprise, the Lord of the Compact was wielding a sword. He hadn’t been, when he’d entered the office; you couldn’t conceal a sword that size. He was fighting one of the House Guards. The Chosen who had entered the office were fighting a different House Guard. Jewel tried to curse; nothing came out. Gabriel’s personal office was large enough that two such fights could take place within its walls.

  She couldn’t see Avandar—and the opening he’d created was large enough that she should have. It was large enough that she could run into the room to check—but not safe enough, in the end. She thought that the men dressed as guards were human; they didn’t set her teeth on edge or fill her with that winter chill that spoke of death.

  What there was of the fight wouldn’t last long. The fight ranged over desks; papers had been scattered, letter trays almost bisected; books had fallen into awkward heaps, facedown on the floor. Duvari had no armor, and the room was tight and small; he could dodge. The Chosen, however, fought two on one—it should have been over quickly.

  But it wasn’t, and one of the Chosen was injured. Jewel didn’t recognize the House Guard; it didn’t matter. She couldn’t see Gabriel, and she couldn’t see Avandar. Turning, she stuck her head out of the large hole bisecting the doors. “Sigurne!”

  It was not, however, Sigurne who answered the urgent call, and she should have been surprised at who did: Celleriant. He wore chain that caught light in a cascade of muted, metallic color, and he carried his sword. She cursed. He smiled.

  It was not his wild, sharp smile. “Lord,” he said.

  She wasn’t up to the task of reprimanding him for the use of an honorific she disdained. “Help Duvari and the Chosen. Do not kill if you can avoid it; we want them alive.” She leaped out of the office to make way for Celleriant, and ran behind Barston’s desk to Teller’s office.

  The door was already open, and Teller stood in its frame. “Jay?”

  She lifted her hand, gesturing quickly and wildly. His brows rose and he moved past her to where Barston now stood. “ATerafin,” the secretary said. “Jewel.”

  “He’s not in his office. Was he?”

  “He was.”

  “Was he with anyone?”

  “He was.” Barston was pale, but the pale was grim; his hands had clenched in fists by his sides.

  “Who? Who, Barston?”

  Barston gestured at the appointment book; Teller slid around him and flipped it open. He read Barston’s meticulous writing and shut the book again.

  “Teller?”

  Not now. The gesture was sharp, short; it looked like a fidget. “Jay?”

  She was thinking. Thinking, in this room, was difficult. She looked for Sigurne and saw the guildmaster; to her surprise, Matteos had somehow materialized while she’d been in the chaos of Gabriel’s office. They were both standing over the prone form of the woman who had cried out and fallen, clutching her head. Rymark ATerafin, however, was nowhere to be seen.

  Was Gabriel injured? She closed her eyes. Avandar was gone; Avandar had blown a hole through the doors to gain entry, and Avandar had definitely entered them. If he was gone—not dead—he’d left voluntarily. Which meant he’d probably taken Gabriel with him.

  There would be two reasons to do that: to take him out of the reach of the assassins—the assassins dressed as cursed House Guards—or to take him into reach of healers. Would he go to Levec? Would he risk that?

  No. No, not here. Not now. That left two: Daine and Adam. She wasn’t even certain which would be worse. Daine had adopted Alowan’s healerie without making a single change; he was as vulnerable there as Alowan himself had been. Adam was in the West Wing, which was as protected—she hoped—as any other place in the manse. But Gabriel didn’t know about Adam, and if he was injured in a way that required healing, he would—

  Unless Levec hadn’t left yet.

  She lifted the hand at her side just beneath Teller’s gaze. Gestured. “Barston,” she said, in a more formal voice, “don’t worry. I’ll find him.”

  To her surprise, Barston nodded. “Take Teller with you.”

  “You don’t—”

  “No. Take him with you—but keep him safe.”

  “Always,” she replied.

  They raced down the hall toward the medium-sized function room that was used for formal dining. Teller kept an eye out, as if they were once again casing the Common. He didn’t speak; neither did Jay. He knew where she was going, and how she intended to get there. The function rooms weren’t locked because they were going to be in use in just two days. They were consequently not empty; servants were out in force, cleaning, polishing, and moving bits and pieces of furniture. The damn ladders were also everywhere.

  She glanced at Teller. Tail?

  No.

  She nodded and headed into the corner of the room farthest from the door. Because it wasn’t empty, she didn’t make it all the way there without being stopped; because Kalliaris was smiling, the Master of the Household Staff was somewhere else, making some other part of the servant corps’ lives miserable hell. And because she knew Carver, who in turn knew every single servant on staff these days, she recog
nized the older man who stopped her brisk walk toward the door that was used by servants, and servants only.

  “ATerafin,” he said, tendering a very proper bow. It wasn’t technically required unless they were both in the presence of outsiders, because he also bore the House Name—and in Jewel’s private opinion did a much better job of it, at least in terms of dignity.

  “Berald,” she replied. She didn’t bow because hers would be inferior.

  He winced, and glanced around. Some of the other servants were close by, but appeared to be engrossed in their assigned tasks. They were; the servants here had no difficulty both working and eavesdropping. They took an inordinate interest in the lives—especially the private lives—of the manse’s many occupants. Given the work, Jewel couldn’t blame them. “You know you are forbidden the use of the back halls,” he said, in a severe voice.

  “Yes. I know. But we’re in a bit of a pinch here. Someone just tried to assassinate me in the right-kin’s office.”

  His iron-gray brows rose into his hairline, and unlike many men his age, he had lots of hair. True, his hair was tightly pulled back off his face at the moment; it wasn’t when he was off duty. “And you’ve come here?”

  “Obviously. I need to get back to my wing, I need to do it now, and I need to do it in a way that’s not easily watched by outsiders. This is the only one I could think of, and I don’t have a lot of time to argue—I’ve just enough to beg. Please, Ber. Please.”

  “You understand that this job is my life?”

  “I do.”

  He closed his eyes and looked, for a moment, as if he were praying for patience. Or wisdom. Ber favored Cormaris. “Go. You’ve ten seconds to get out of my sight.”

  Once they hit the cramped, narrow halls with the much lower ceilings and the total lack of windows in all but the terminal points, they could run. They did. On a normal day, it would have been a hazard; on this one, two day before every single member of the patriciate was to convene to pay their final respects to The Terafin, the servants’ halls were empty. Jewel knew the way to her apartments from here. She didn’t have the servants’ keys, but she didn’t need them; she could pick these locks with a hairpin in a pinch. These were the only doors on which she could practice anymore, although admittedly keeping in practice hadn’t been high on her list of duties in recent years.