Skirmish: A House War Novel

by West, Michelle

  “Is that all you perceive?”

  He grimaced. “I like the girl,” he finally said.

  “She is hardly a girl anymore.”

  “I see her seldom, but among the patriciate, she is one of the few I do not dread on sight.”

  “And you are, therefore, unwilling to see the threat she poses.”

  “I cannot imagine that she would willingly pose a threat to us.” He spoke with more heat than was his wont, and then seemed to realize it; he reddened. “What is it, Sigurne? What did you see?”

  “Lord Celleriant,” she replied. “I know what he is, Matteos.”

  Matteos waited.

  “He is sworn. To her. Matteos—the names she used. The words she spoke. Did you hear them and remain unmoved?”

  “No,” he finally replied. “I saw her. What will you do, Sigurne?”

  “I will attend a funeral. I will attend a funeral, and I will do my best, at this juncture, to see not the girl, but the shadow she casts.”

  “And if it is dark? If it is the wrong shadow?”

  She failed to answer; she drank tea and thought of the ice and the snow and Meralonne APhaniel in her youth.

  Jewel woke when Finch called her name. She couldn’t immediately see Finch, because Shadow lay between them, and his wings were in the way. But she woke in silence, to silence, her breath and heartbeat calmer than they had been all day. “What time is it?”

  “It’s just off lunch, early lunch,” was the quiet reply. The curtains had been drawn, but light leaked through them, gray and yet bright. Jewel rose.

  To her surprise, Adam was standing near the door. His hands were behind his back, and his chin low.

  “Adam?” She reached for clothing—not the stiff cage of an expensive dress she’d been tied into all morning—and cursed Shadow as she did. Shrugging herself into a dress that didn’t require at least two other people’s help just to put on “properly,” she turned toward him. Shadow stretched and yawned.

  “Where is the ugly one? Is he gone again?”

  She cursed the cat under her breath.

  “Matriarch,” Adam said in Torra.

  “Adam, no. Whatever else you want to call me, I’m not that.” He nodded, and she gave up. “What’s wrong? Why are you here?”

  “I am called to Levec’s side.”

  “By who?” she asked, more sharply.

  “By Levec.”

  Her brow felt as if it would be caught in a permanent crease. “Why?”

  “He is to meet with the healers from the palace.”

  She almost smacked the side of her head. “Is Levec here?”

  “He sent a message. Teller rerouted it.”

  Jewel looked up at Finch. “This is about the sleeping sickness?”

  “Yes.”

  “How long ago did he send for you?”

  Finch said “He’s already over an hour late. He’s been going to meet them at least once a week since it started, but—that was before The Terafin’s death.”

  “So this is a planned meeting?”

  Finch cringed, but nodded.

  Kalliaris’ frown.

  “He didn’t want to leave until he’d seen you; you told him to stay in his room.”

  Well, yes. She had. “I owe you an apology, if something that pathetic will do—Levec’s probably knocking down walls by now. With his teeth.” That description, at least, made Adam smile. It was a quiet smile, and it reminded Jewel inexplicably of Lander’s smile, although the two had nothing else in common besides gender.

  “He won’t be angry at me,” Adam told her, as she opened the door.

  “No, of course not. It’s just the rest of us who’ll be forbidden the Houses of Healing for the rest of our natural lives.”

  Angel and Carver came into the kitchen a full ten minutes after she’d asked Ellerson to get them there. Carver looked wary; Angel—he looked tired. She turned a palm, three fingers folded, in his direction, and he straightened out. Didn’t look any less exhausted, though.

  “Adam’s needed at the Houses of Healing. Can you get him there in one piece with no detours?”

  Adam added, “I told her I could travel there quickly on my own.”

  Carver snorted. “Might as well’ve told her you could fly. Do you need to take anything with you?”

  “No.”

  “How careful do you want us to be?” It was Angel who asked.

  “I’m sending you, aren’t I?”

  A little of the tired look lifted off his face when he smiled.

  Adam was always more comfortable with women than with men; it was something Angel had noticed from the beginning. He’d initially assumed that Adam was comfortable with Finch because it was impossible to be uncomfortable around her. But in the time between, he’d come to understand that it wasn’t Finch; it was her gender. That and her ability to speak Torra, an ability Angel lacked.

  Adam was tall. He was scrawny, the way tall fourteen year olds were. He was also quiet. The quiet didn’t bother Angel much, because Angel was capable of the same type of silence. But to Angel, Adam looked like a kid. The fact that he was the age that Angel had been when he’d first set foot in the city, carrying, in a backpack, everything he owned, should have made it easier not to think of him as helpless; it didn’t.

  “Your Matriarch,” Adam said in his strangely accented Weston. “She is angry.” The last word rose, making a question of the statement.

  Carver said something in Torra, because Carver could speak it. Adam, however, had been the recipient of some of Carver’s teasing, and looked hesitant. He answered in Weston. “Matriarchs always worry. Worry is normal.”

  Angel laughed. He wasn’t certain why Adam referred to Jay as a Matriarch, but no one had been able to break him of the habit. “What?” he asked, at Carver’s frown. “It’s true. She breathes less than she worries.”

  But Carver shook his head. “Start worrying more,” he told Angel, lifting one hand and twisting it, rapidly, in a downward direction.

  Angel’s hands fell instantly to his sides. They’d almost reached the front doors.

  “Next time,” Carver said, under his breath, “we take the trade entrance.” It was too late, now; they were almost upon the half dozen House Guards near the front doors. The House Guards weren’t in a particular formation; they weren’t on duty. Or rather, not House duty.

  They fanned out, not so subtly discouraging a quick exit. No weapons were drawn, but hands rested on sword hilts as a man emerged from their midst. He wore very fine robes, in the varying shades of blue that passed as House Terafin colors when the clothing was fashionable. His hair, at the moment, was dark auburn, which had been highly regarded in the past; it sometimes showed gray. Not today. Not for the four days to follow.

  “Councillor Rymark,” Carver said, tendering Rymark ATerafin a very grudging bow.

  “ATerafin,” Rymark replied coolly. His eyes narrowed as he caught sight of Adam, and Angel stiffened. Stiffened, but kept his breathing regular and even. “I do not believe I recognize your companion. A new addition to your den?”

  “Sir,” Carver replied.

  Rymark ATerafin raised a brow. His expression was severe and unfriendly—no surprise there. His eyes, however, were ringed with dark circles; he was either hungover or exhausted. “I would like a moment of your time,” he told them both.

  Jay had made perfectly clear how little time they had; they’d already apparently wasted an hour and a half of Levec’s patience. Explaining this to Rymark ATerafin was out of the question. Angel glanced at Carver; Carver’s gaze was fixed on Rymark.

  “I’m afraid we must refuse,” Carver replied. “We are on an errand for Councillor Jewel ATerafin.”

  “And the nature of that errand?”

  Carver didn’t answer. Rymark looked neither surprised nor pleased; the latter was more of a problem.

  “You are not House Guards, and neither of you are servants or pages. You, Carver, are a full member of the House.” Angel di
dn’t point out that many of the guards and servants were also full members of the House, but it was tempting. “I am surprised that the Councillor sends named members of the House on insignificant errands.”

  Carver was an old hand; he didn’t bite. He kept a respectful posture—and a respectful distance.

  “Very well. You, boy. Come here.”

  Angel lifted a hand in a brief motion: danger. Don’t move. Finch had taught Adam some of the basic den-sign, and Angel prayed that basic encompassed his message. Adam failed to obey the Councillor’s command. Rymark repeated it in a chillier voice.

  Adam remained slightly behind—and between—Carver and Angel.

  But when Rymark spoke a third time, he spoke in perfect Torra. Carver didn’t curse—with words—but his single gesture more than covered what he could have said. Adam couldn’t feign ignorance. They both knew it was important that Adam’s power remain hidden; mention of Levec or Dantallon—while it would get them through the unwanted and informal checkpoint—would seriously jeopardize any hope of anonymity.

  Rymark repeated his command and Angel lifted an arm as Adam took a step forward.

  “Councillor Rymark.”

  Everyone froze at the sound of the voice. Adam. The House Guard. Even the Councillor, whose expression stiffened into one of extreme dislike.

  Carver gestured; Angel nodded. The Lord of the Compact stepped between the House Guards as if they were frivolous decorations. Angel knew Jay disliked Duvari. He privately doubted that anyone who’d met him felt anything but dislike—in the best case. He didn’t relax.

  “Lord of the Compact,” Rymark replied—without turning, without bowing, and without otherwise acknowledging Duvari, a fact that was not lost on Duvari.

  “My apologies for interrupting your…meeting, Councillor.”

  “No apologies are necessary.” The House Guards moved to the sides to make way for Duvari at Rymark’s silent nod. If this was meant as a hint, it failed.

  “Good. I would like to ask you a few questions.”

  “Please do.” Rymark still hadn’t moved.

  “There appear to be some irregularities in our filed reports.”

  “Surely that is not a House concern?”

  “No, indeed, as was made clear to me—by the regent.”

  Rymark surrendered with very poor grace; he wheeled, his hands curving. Angel admired the way they failed to become fists, because controlled or not, his anger was clear. “Which filed reports, Lord of the Compact?”

  “Yours.”

  “I? I have filed no reports with you.”

  “Indeed. You have, however, made provisions with the House for your entourage at the opening of the funeral rites on the morrow.”

  “What of it?”

  “The regent’s report clearly stated that you will have twelve guests, six guards, and two attendants.”

  “I fail to see the significance.”

  “Reports indicate that you have, in fact, issued fourteen invitations.” Duvari stopped speaking. He glanced at Carver and Angel, in much the same way he’d glanced at the assembled House Guard. “Leave,” he told them curtly.

  Carver bowed instantly. Angel was slower to bend back, but he did; he almost saluted. Duvari, however, had no sense of humor, and now was not the time to prove it. A quick gesture caused Adam to do the same. Strictly speaking, none of the three bows were necessary; with someone like Duvari—or Rymark, on most days—obsequious gestures never hurt.

  * * *

  “Trade entrance and servants’ halls on the way back,” Carver said, when they were well out of sight of the manse. “Damn lucky Duvari was looking for him. And too damn bad we couldn’t stay to hear the rest of the discussion.”

  Angel shook his head. “That wasn’t luck.” Adam was watching them both, his lips compressed as if he feared to interrupt them.

  “You don’t think he just happened to be wandering by either.”

  “No.”

  “Watching us?”

  “Watching Jay—which means watching us.” Angel frowned. “I’d say he was having us watched. Someone must have alerted him; he moved damn fast.”

  They both glanced at Adam, and then back at each other. Adam, however, shook his head. “I do not think he was watching for me, but I have met him before.”

  “He knows you?” Carver’s visible brow rose into his hairline.

  Adam nodded.

  “He knows what you can do?”

  “He knows I am a healer, yes. Levec doesn’t like him.”

  “No one likes him.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he’s the Kings’ spymaster and the Kings’ assassin.”

  Angel punched Carver’s shoulder, hard. “Don’t ever say that again, idiot.”

  “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?