Skirmish: A House War Novel

by West, Michelle

  Duvari did not disappoint him. But he surprised Haval; he bowed. It was not cursory, and it was not insulting; it lasted just long enough to be awkward. Haval approached the doors—but he made his approach without ever taking his eyes off Duvari. Respect or no, Duvari was not above using such a gesture as a feint, and an opening, if he felt it necessary.

  Haval did not begrudge him this artifice; after all, he had had some hand in shaping it.

  He reached the door; Duvari rose. “I am proud of what you have achieved, Duvari, although I have little right to say it. If I do not die in bed at a ripe old age, I can think of no other to whom I would rather lose what remains of my life.”

  “If it were necessary, I cannot guarantee that it would be my hand that ended your life.”

  “Ah.” Haval opened the door. “If it were not your hand, you could not guarantee my death at all, necessary or no.”

  Ellerson was waiting to one side of the door—at a distance that implied he had made no attempt to eavesdrop. He had, by his side, standing at a tilt against the wall, Haval’s meticulously rolled bolts; by his feet were the baskets in which thread, needles, and other small tools had been carefully packed.

  “My apologies,” Haval now said to the domicis, “but I must waste even more of my time—and yours. If Jewel is still awake?”

  “She is.”

  * * *

  Jewel leaped for the door when the knock came. Finch and Teller, however, remained in the chairs they’d pulled up. They’d learned to sit, even during the worst of crises; it was a trick Jewel had yet to manage. She yanked the door open and relaxed when she saw Ellerson standing in its frame.

  “Is Haval—”

  “They are finished,” he replied, with just enough of an edge to the words that she knew at least one of the two was in the hall behind him. She hoped it was Haval, and was reminded that luck was entirely Kalliaris’ whim; she could smile and frown at the same damn time. Haval was not in a good mood.

  Finch and Teller now rose and ducked around Haval and Ellerson in a rush to desert the room; Jewel couldn’t blame them. She could resent the cowardice, but was aware that in their position, she’d’ve done the same thing.

  Haval gestured to the vacated chairs. “Sit, please,” he told her. To Ellerson, he added, “We would like a few moments in private.”

  Ellerson glanced at Jewel, who nodded.

  “That was not an entirely pleasant way to spend a fraction of an evening—especially not this one.” He sat, the lines of his shoulders slumping.

  Jewel watched him in silence.

  “I am sure you have questions,” Haval said. “I am afraid most of them will have to wait; I consider my own questions of more import.”

  “He knew you.”

  Haval said nothing.

  “He recognized you. He was waiting for you.”

  “If you feel that you can get around my questions by positing statements in place of yours, you are sadly mistaken. I will, however, give you some partial credit for the attempt.” He ran a hand through what very little remained of his hair. “Yes. I did not intend to speak with Duvari at all; apparently I was overly optimistic. He was, as you may surmise, not entirely pleased to see me.”

  “He’s never pleased to see anyone.”

  “True. Duvari is not a man who likes people, either in theory or practice.” Haval raised a brow. “He is, however, a capable man, and there is no better for the position he currently holds. How many attempts do you think have been made against his life?”

  It wasn’t the question she’d been expecting, although given the rest of the events of the day itself, she was about done with expectations. “I don’t know. I wouldn’t dare.”

  “A good answer. I will not be more specific in my reply than ‘many.’ Duvari, however, is still alive. Were he not capable, Jewel, he would not be able to openly antagonize so many of the patriciate. He draws their fire because he can.”

  “And his business with you?”

  “Oh, that.” Haval waved the question away almost artlessly. Haval, however, was never artless. Jewel’s eyes narrowed.

  Haval noticed it, of course; he noticed everything. “I believe I said I would not answer your questions this eve, and I will now return to that intent and hold fast. You will now tell me everything that occurred since you left my side this afternoon. Leave out nothing.”

  Jewel, however, folded her arms across her chest and sat stiff-backed against the chair. “You haven’t decided whether or not you’re going to work for me.”

  He raised a brow again. It was comforting because it was familiar, even though familiarity from Haval meant little, in the end, and she knew it.

  “Did I?”

  “Yes. There was a question about compensation.”

  “Ah, I remember now.”

  “I wish I had a memory as convenient as yours.”

  “Yes, you do. I believe it will be necessary to cultivate it in the days and weeks to come.” His face lost the look of tired irritation that had graced it from the moment he’d entered the room. Expression bled out of the lines that surrounded his eyes and lips, leaving nothing in its wake. “I have very little time this evening. At my age, sleep is required, and Hannerle—who has been sleeping for far too long—will be waiting in my workroom for my return. She will not be happy,” he added, allowing himself a brief grimace.

  “I do not, therefore, have the time to play games—and, in a fashion, I regret it. This is the first time that you have attempted to sink your teeth into what I would consider a game of note. You could, in fact, win this round with ease; I cannot, however, allow that. Although it is very, very, poor form on my part, I will assume that your offer will be neither insulting nor unacceptable. I will negotiate in—what are the words—ah, good faith. I know that you will do the same.”

  “I won’t be the one negotiating,” she told him quietly.

  “That is more of a problem, but it is not insurmountable; any truly sublime negotiating tactics on my part cannot be used against you. They can, however, be used with no guilt or troubled conscience on my part whatsoever against someone who in theory has experience and knows better. I suggest you get Jarven to intercede on your behalf.” At the mention of the name, Haval’s mask slipped again; it was brief, but stronger.

  She said, “Jarven knew who you were.”

  “Jarven is an unfortunately canny man; we have far too much in common if one scratches beneath the surface. I would also take great delight in attempting to defraud him, because while it would be very, very difficult to succeed, it would be enormously satisfying to try. It would also, however, take time, which is not in large supply at the moment.”

  She rose.

  “Jewel—”

  “Come with me.”

  “To where?”

  “Oh, just down to one of the guest rooms.”

  “Very well.”

  “How do you feel about cats?” she asked Haval before she’d walked halfway down the hall.

  He raised a brow. “Is the question germaine?”

  “I think so.”

  “They’re cats. I neither dislike them nor like them in any significant way; I won’t step on them should they get underfoot, and it’s possible I might feed one were it starving. Will that do?”

  “It’s not a test. I’m not the one who’s constantly testing.”

  “No, you are not. Jewel, strong concerns about the events of the day were heavily intimated. I cannot imagine that you have run afoul of Sigurne Mellifas; I can imagine that you could run afoul of the Exalted, or at least their various attendants. The priesthood’s public face is not known for its excessive good humor or tolerance, with reason.”

  She took a deep breath, straightened her shoulders, and headed the rest of the way down the hall. Putting her hand on the door, she said, “Let me do the talking?”

  He raised a brow again. “Very well. I was not aware that this room was in use.”

  “I wasn’t aware that you w
ere aware which rooms were in use.”

  He shrugged. “I am observant; some consider it a failing. It is not, however, a characteristic which is easily turned off.”

  “Or on?”

  “Lamentably not.” He frowned. “Are you going to stand here for much longer? If so, I will fetch your dress and work on it while I wait.”

  She opened the door.

  The cats were lounging across the bed. They weren’t lounging quietly, and the white and the black seemed to have decided that they wanted the same spot. She wondered if they always wanted the same spot, regardless of location. They hadn’t descended to spitting or clawing, but their insults were growing in volume.

  It was, therefore, the gray cat that lifted his head and gazed at the open door.

  “There you are,” he said. He glanced at his paws and then pushed himself, slowly, to his feet, leaping off the bed, but stepping on folded wings—not his own, of course—in the process. “We’ve been very good.”

  Jewel stepped into the room; Haval, silent, followed her. She closed the door very carefully behind them both, as if a simple door could actually stop the cats from escaping if they were of the mind to do it.

  “Who is this?”

  “This,” Jewel told the approaching gray, “is Haval. He is very important to me. I need him in one piece.”

  Haval coughed politely. “And you are?” he said to the cat. As if, Jewel thought, talking winged cats the size of large ponies were an everyday occurrence in his life.

  The cat’s eyes widened. “You don’t know who I am?”

  “No. I would, however, like to be introduced.”

  The cat looked pointedly at Jewel.

  “What? You’ve never told me your names.”

  This got the black and white cats to stop insulting each other, which made Jewel’s shoulders sink; she had a fair idea of who they’d start insulting next.

  “What did she say?” the black cat hissed.

  “She said she doesn’t know our names,” the white cat replied.

  “I wasn’t asking you.”

  Turning to Haval, Jewel said, “I’m sorry. This is what they’re like.” Haval, however, was watching the cats; her apology made no difference at all to his expression. She was certain he’d heard it; he heard everything.

  “I think,” Haval told her, without once looking in her direction, “that it would be advisable to name them. Now.”

  She stared at the side of his face. “They probably already have names.”

  “I don’t think the names they did possess are as consequential to their sense of identity as you might believe. I feel, however, that it would be most prudent.”

  “Haval,” she shot back, with more than a little frustration, “do you ever find anything surprising?”

  “Frequently. Why do you ask?”

  “Have you seen these cats before?”

  “Don’t be absurd.”

  “But you—”

  “Jewel, it has been a very long day, and the addition of Duvari and your very unusual guests has not done anything to reward the hours of work I have already put in. Nor will either do anything to shorten the hours ahead of me. Their names, please.”

  “Fine. You’re Shadow, you’re Night, and you’re Snow.”

  It was the gray cat that now hissed, but the hiss was wordless.

  “Very well. Gentlemen, I am Haval. I am pleased to make your acquaintance. I apologize for the brevity of the introduction, but I am severely overworked by your mistress.”

  “What are you doing?” Shadow asked.

  “I am making a dress for her.”

  Three cats sucked in one breath. Jewel stared at them.

  “You make dresses?”

  “I do. Not one of them, however, would be fine enough for any of you. They are simple creations of cloth, thread, and beads or pearls; they suggest a hint of majesty, but never aspire to more.”

  Night whispered the word aspire to himself with great satisfaction.

  “I will have to leave you now, gentlemen.”

  “But we’re bored.”

  “If any of you feel that you are capable of aiding me in my work, I will, of course, accept the offer with gratitude.”

  “Hannerle won’t,” Jewel whispered, out of the corner of her mouth.

  “Is it a very important dress?” Shadow asked Jewel.

  “To me?” Jewel had very little experience with the profoundly wild or magical; she accepted the question at face value, and answered it in the same way. “Yes. Possibly the most important one I’ve ever worn.”

  “Oh.” He turned and batted Snow’s left ear. “You heard her.”

  “Why do I have to go?”

  “Because you can help.”

  “Haval, I really don’t think this is a good idea.”

  “It is possibly not a wise one, no.” He lifted a hand to his brow; it was theatrical.

  “Do you ever look surprised?”

  “When I am forced by the expectations of my audience to do so, yes. On occasion, the surprise is even genuine—but I do not express surprise often without effort.” He was silent for a very long moment, and then turned to her. “You will make a room available for my use. It will not be cleaned by your servants; it will not be tidied by your domicis—in fact, it will not be entered until I am done.”

  She stared at him.

  “I will require a carriage.”

  “But—”

  “And I will also require a room for Hannerle, if she is willing to either work or speak with me after her arrival. She is not fond of the patriciate; she is merely fond of their custom.”

  “I—I’ll speak with Ellerson.”

  “Good. Snow,” he said, bending slightly to bring his face in line with the cat’s eyes. “I will accept your offer with gratitude. Understand, however, that the dress is my task.”

  “She could make it herself,” the cat grumbled.

  “That,” Haval replied, “is now my fear.”

  Jewel turned to stare at the old man, but he wouldn’t meet her gaze.

  The cats did not stay in their room once Haval had left it, because Jewel didn’t choose to stay in their room either. Shadow stuck a paw in the door before she could close that door on their faces, spreading his wings to expand the space between door and frame. When she looked at him pointedly, he said, “We’re bored.”

  If she never heard that word again in her life, she’d be grateful. On the other hand, the only way that was certain to happen was if she died within the next few seconds, so maybe she had to reevalute.

  “Couldn’t you have chosen a better name? Shadow?”

  “What’s wrong with Shadow?”

  “It’s a kitten name.”

  “And Snow and Night are better?”

  He snorted, nudging her with his head. It was probably meant to be friendly; it nearly knocked her off her feet.

  “Where are we going?” he asked.

  “I don’t know about the three of you, but I’m going to sleep.” She made it three yards and then pivoted. “No, I do know about the three of you. You’re not to leave the wing; you’re not to bother anyone. I don’t even know if you need sleep. Celleriant doesn’t.”

  “Why are you comparing us to him?”

  “I wonder.” She started to head back to her room; the hall was a lot narrower than she remembered it being. The open door didn’t help, much.

  “Jay?”

  Teller, in his dressing gown, stepped into the hall.

  “You’re still awake?” she asked, surprised.

  “I’m debating that right now.” He stared at the cats.

  She shoved her hair out of her eyes and exhaled. “It’s too damn late for the kitchen,” she finally said. “I was going to introduce you all when things were less hectic.”

  “So, next year some time?”

  She almost laughed. “This is Shadow, this is Snow, and this is Night. They’re—”

  “He knows what we are,” Snow said, sho
ving his way past Jewel toward Teller.

  “I really don’t,” Teller told the white cat, who shoved his head deftly under Teller’s hand. Teller started to scratch behind his ear; Snow purred. It was a very loud, rumbling sound. Teller looked at Jewel and said, “They’re cats?”