Skirmish: A House War Novel

by West, Michelle

Angel’s fingers moved in a mute it’s good, but he didn’t break the domicis’ icy silence.

  That silence carried Jewel like a wave to Devon’s closed door. The halls weren’t empty; they were crowded with various merchants and their attendants. One of those merchants almost bowled Jewel over, but he could be forgiven—he was carrying a flower arrangement that was taller than she was, and it made her hard to spot.

  No one stopped her; no one called to her. She passed House Guards on duty and House Guards escorting visitors of import; she passed the very occasional servant who was being used as a guide. Once she’d cleared the main gallery and the halls, she expected the traffic to taper off. It did, but not entirely. She was not the only House member in desperate need of new attire on very short notice.

  But eventually she came to Devon’s rooms.

  She hesitated in front of his door, and as she did, Avandar lifted the delicate brass knocker and rapped it loudly. After a few minutes, the door opened.

  Devon, in burgundy bathrobes, stood in the frame. His hair was dark and wet, and his brows lifted as he saw who his visitors were.

  Jewel reddened. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled. “We’ve come at a bad time. We’ll come back later.” She turned quickly from both Devon and his door.

  “Jewel.” Two voices. Devon’s and Avandar’s. Jewel froze, forced her expression into something she hoped was businesslike, and turned again. Devon glanced at Avandar; Avandar merely waited.

  “Please. There will be no good time before the end of the funeral services, and if you are not discomfited, I will not be.” He pushed the door open and stepped back, leaving a small trail of water in his wake. “Give me but a moment, and I will change into something more appropriate for entertaining guests.”

  He disappeared, leaving said guests stranded in a sitting room that was much more modest in both size and furnishing than the den’s sitting room. Jewel took a seat. Angel and Avandar didn’t. It made her feel distinctly uncomfortable, so she rose; she couldn’t manage to stand as still as either of her companions, however. There was a fireplace here; there were two paintings on either side of the mantel, and nothing above its center. One painting was of the Twin Kings, and the other, of The Terafin. It was the painting of The Terafin that Jewel approached.

  It was a good likeness, but it was almost a decade old—or older. Time unraveled slowly as she traced the static and familiar lines of Amarais’ jaw, her slight smile, her grave eyes. She wore blues; the dress itself was dark, the sleeves lined in lighter colors; she wore, as well, the Terafin Sword, although it was sheathed. Her hair was bound in a net that sparkled only where it caught light, transfixing it. Her gaze traveled to the left of Jewel’s, fixed on some point that only the painter would fully understand.

  She hadn’t expected to see this here, and she was immobile, for a moment, at the unexpected bite of memory. Amarais was dead. She was gone. She would never frown or stare or nod or smile again. She would never invite Jewel into the privacy of her smallest rooms, to share wine, to share memories, to ask advice, to demand—everything. Jewel had never once told this woman of the depth of her endless respect for her; she’d never once spoken of the complicated love that grows out of near-worship, dipping and rising with the passage of years and the gaining of experience.

  Is this what you wanted? she all but demanded. Is this what you saw, for me? For your House? Did you know that it was demons that would kill you?

  But it had to be demons, Jewel thought, lowering her chin. It had to be. It was demons, after all, that had driven her den to House Terafin so many years past. Wasn’t it fitting, in the end, that those very demons find a way to destroy the unexpected safety that she’d found here?

  No.

  No. That was too personal, and Jewel had rarely benefitted from making disaster a personal affair. Her nails were scoring her flesh; her hands had become fists, her knuckles whitened by their tightness, when she hadn’t been paying attention.

  “Jewel.”

  And of course Devon would pick this exact minute to return to this room. What Angel saw didn’t hurt her; what Avandar saw, he would see no matter what pains she took to hide it. But Devon was not one of hers, and it pained her to be exposed to him, even momentarily. She forced her hands to open, forced her face to stiffen, before she turned away from the painting.

  Caught beneath it, the lower edge of its frame disappearing behind her shoulders, the woman who had been The Terafin and the woman who intended to fulfill her promise to become the next one faced Devon ATerafin squarely.

  Devon, in a dark shirt, dark pants, his hair combed back from his face, looked at them both, words deserting him for a moment. Jewel’s expression was stiff, but her hands were shaking and her eyes—her eyes were not entirely dry. Amarais, he thought. He nodded to her; he did not bow. He was aware of both Angel and the domicis; only one of them could fade successfully into the background. He was aware, as well, that neither of them would interrupt or interfere; they were here for Jewel.

  “ATerafin.”

  Jewel nodded.

  “In truth, I had expected to hear from you before today; you are late.” His lips curved in a brief, hard smile.

  “Your legs are broken?” she asked, her words as hard as his smile, but infinitely less refined.

  “Pardon?”

  “You know where I live, and I’m pretty much always there.”

  “Ah.” His smile softened around the edges. “The South has not changed you much, has it?” He was surprised when her glance slid away from his.

  “Yes,” she said, the single word almost inaudible. “I wasn’t here.”

  If he felt any anger or any bitterness at her absence—and he had—he almost repented. Almost. “No.” He turned, crossed the room, opened a cabinet, its glass doors reflecting diffuse magelight. As he opened it, he retrieved a small, square glass bottle. He also touched a small stone and spoke a single, low word.

  Her eyes were as good as they’d always been. “Silence?” she asked.

  “Yes. It is possible, even probable, that someone will attempt to listen in on our conversation; they will know that we—or that I—am cautious. It is not a sophisticated stone.” He lifted the bottle; she shook her head. Neither of them drank when working unless the work itself demanded it.

  “Duvari?”

  “Oh, almost certainly Duvari, but I am entirely accustomed to that.” He indicated a chair; she took it, and he took the chair directly opposite. “The House Council convenes on the seventh of Henden.”

  Jewel nodded.

  “Will you announce your intentions there?”

  She glanced at her domicis; Devon waited. When she looked back to him, she said, “Actually, that’s not why I’m here.” Which wasn’t an answer.

  “You will have to answer that question soon.”

  “I won’t have to answer it definitively until the seventh, if then,” was her curt reply.

  “Now I am curious. Why are you here?”

  “For advice.”

  “I am not perhaps the man of whom advice should be asked; my advice is likely to be somewhat compromised.”

  “Maybe.”

  “What do you wish to know?”

  She looked at Avandar again, which was both expected and unacceptable. “Jewel,” Devon said sharply. “The advice you receive from your domicis cannot be requested in so public a fashion; people will assume it is the domicis, and not the master, who controls the situation.”

  She stiffened and then, to his surprise, she smiled. It was both rueful and vastly more relaxed. “That’s advice I’ve also received—from my domicis. I’m sorry. I don’t quite know how to ask the question, now that I’m here.”

  “Ask. If your delivery is unwise or lacking, I will inform you.”

  “No doubt. I want to hire someone.” Before Devon could ask who, or for what, she continued. “I’m not entirely certain how he’ll do what he does—not in the specifics. To be honest, Devon, I’m not entirely certain exa
ctly what he does.”

  Devon raised a brow; he couldn’t prevent it.

  “But he suggested I speak to you about—about appropriate compensation for his services.”

  “I fail to see why. He’s a merchant?”

  “No.”

  Devon nodded slowly. “What, exactly, do you think he’ll do for you?”

  “Ferret out information, mostly. Give me advice when I need it.”

  “That’s all?”

  She hesitated and then nodded.

  He grimaced. “Jewel.”

  “It’s not information that just anyone has, or can easily obtain. He’s spent a small lifetime listening to gossip, and he knows which gossip is reliably true, and which is not. I don’t know who he talks to. I don’t know who’d talk to him—but people do.”

  “May I ask who your prospective employee is?”

  “No.”

  “Very well. You wish him to spy for you?”

  She looked surprised. He found it mildly annoying. But she didn’t disagree. After too long a pause, she said, “Maybe. I’ve never asked him how he knows what he knows.”

  “In general, when one buys information, one pays for the information one receives.”

  “How am I supposed to put a value on that?”

  “You aren’t; the person who has the information generally defines its worth.”

  She took a deeper breath and then said, “What do the Astari pay you?”

  Avandar’s audible breath made perfectly clear that it was entirely the wrong question to ask, but it came a little late. If it hadn’t, the quality of Devon’s resulting silence had the same effect; it was as cold as winter steel, and it lasted for what seemed a very long while.

  She waited, feeling her shoulders begin a slow gather toward her spine. Devon had long had that effect on her when his anger was cold and silent. “Why,” he finally said, in a voice that matched his changed demeanor, “do you think that question is relevant?”

  She wanted to leave, but compromised and squirmed her way out of the chair instead.

  “Do you even understand what the Astari do?”

  “They protect the Kings.”

  “Yes. But not in the way the Kings’ Swords do. In discreet terms, the Astari are proactive, not reactive. Not every decision made by the Lord of the Compact is granted the Kings’ dispensation. There is a balance maintained between the Kings and the Lord of the Compact; were there not, the Astari would be functionally illegal.”

  “You’re implying that anyone who wants something similar to the Astari for their own use would be illegal, period, given they’re unlikely to seek the Kings’ dispensation.”

  “I would say, rather, that you’re inferring that. Jewel, would you please sit down. Watching you pace like a caged beast is not conducive to complex discussion, at least not on my part.”

  She sat heavily.

  “What,” he said, the minute the chair had finished creaking, “do you think the Astari actually do?”

  Instead of glancing at Avandar, she looked at the backs of her hands, which were now in her lap.

  “Do you perhaps believe that they are an elevated variety of assassin?”

  Since it was one of the activities the Astari were commonly understood to engage in, she was silent.

  “I see. And you now feel that such services are necessary?”

  “Devon—”

  “Answer my question.”

  She looked up. “Yes. If not for me, then for someone. You know the four contenders. There is no way that either Haerrad or Rymark will concede victory to anyone else—anyone—if they’re still alive.”

  “And you intend to assassinate them.”

  “…no.” Breathing hurt. “But one or both of them will be dead by the end of this. Both, if one of them is not The Terafin at that time. Tell me you think I’m wrong. Tell me, and I’ll leave. I’ll leave gratefully, Devon. I’ll be happy.”

  He was silent, but still; the ice of his anger had thawed.

  “But if you can’t tell me that, understand me. If I sit back and wait for someone else to kill them, knowing that it’ll happen, and praying for it like a vulture, how am I any better? Yes, I’m not the murderer, but I’m not innocent either. I’m just waiting on the sidelines and praying that someone else will do the dirty work so that I don’t have to.”

  “That is an exaggeration, Jewel.”

  “And I’m aware that sending someone who can kill is pretty much the same as going myself, except that I’m not confident of my ability to be successful.”

  “So you are saying that you intend to utilize assassination as a tool?”

  She rose. She couldn’t stop herself. This was the discussion that she desperately did not wish to have with Devon. Or with anyone.

  Devon didn’t press her, which was a small mercy; it was also brief. “Let me return to your hypothesis. Your reasons for naming Haerrad and Rymark so openly seem sound on the surface, and in the political context of a House War, there will be deaths. I am unconvinced, however, that your acceptance of the necessity in these two cases is not personal.

  “If I remember correctly, Teller was injured by Haerrad; it was meant to serve as a warning.”

  She said nothing at all.

  “But Rymark has caused your den much less…distress. Why Rymark, Jewel? Answer carefully, and do not attempt to lie; I will merely find it insulting, rather than convincing.”

  The fear left her. Anger was all that remained, and it wasn’t any weaker than Devon’s. “Rymark,” she said, in a cool, even voice, “killed The Terafin. If I do nothing else in this miserable war, I’ll see him dead. I don’t care how. I don’t care when.”

  She watched his expression freeze in place. “What did you just say?”

  “You heard me.”

  “I was not present at the moment of The Terafin’s death, but from any intelligence gathered, neither were you.”

  Of all the things he had said so far in this small and suffocating room, this was the worst. But she couldn’t flinch from truth just because it hurt her; she had to be stronger than that. “I didn’t see the blow that killed her. I was there when she died.”

  “And yet you make your statement with complete conviction.”

  “I do.”

  Devon rose; he was inches away from her before she thought to move. The thought, she crushed. If she stepped back, she’d damn well do it by choice, not reflex. “I know what happened during the Dark Days, Jewel. If you seek to play games, no matter how costly, you will not play games with demons.”

  “I’m not the one playing them.”

  “If you have information of this kind, and you withhold it, you are. Why do you say that Rymark was responsible for The Terafin’s death?”

  “Because he was.”

  Jewel, Avandar said. Have a care.

  I am. Don’t interfere.

  “Finch and Teller were there.”

  “And?”

  “They saw Rymark. They saw the rest of the Council, but they were watching Rymark.”

  “Why Rymark?”

  “Haerrad wasn’t present.”

  He opened his mouth to speak, snapped it shut, and nodded. It was a fair answer, and even in anger, he was willing to acknowledge it.

  “Rymark didn’t appear to be surprised. And unlike anyone else in the Council Hall, he wasn’t afraid of the demon at all. Finch thought he knew it would come.”

  “That is not proof,” Devon said, his voice still sharp and cold, his words much less intense.

  “If we play games of assassination, proof isn’t required.”

  “I don’t suggest you play those games.”

  “I wasn’t aware that I needed your approval.”

  Devon took a step back and then returned to his chair, motioning stiffly for Jewel to do likewise; she demurred.

  “After her death, after the death of the demon, Rymark announced that he had in his possession the legal writ declaring him as heir to the Terafin Seat.�
��

  “Again, that is not proof.”

  “No. But he lied, and we both know it. He would have had to have the time to prepare a well-forged writ. Alowan was assassinated prior to the attempt—by days—in order that The Terafin be without her healer.”

  Devon nodded.

  “And an attempt on Haerrad’s life was made at the same time as the attempt on The Terafin’s.” Jewel’s voice made clear which attempt she wished had succeeded. “If you’re accusing me of being emotional, I am. I’m even being irrational. But in this case, irrationality and rationality coincide.