Skirmish: A House War Novel

by West, Michelle

  Teller took his seat beside Finch. Technically that was Carver’s chair, but as Carver wasn’t here, no one would raise a fuss. Finch and Teller were both so new to the Council they were expected to take some time to assemble a truly worthy retinue; lack of a counselor or two would be almost expected. Or so Teller hoped. Neither he nor Finch had distinguished themselves to the House by their broad and obvious ambition; nor had they done so by their political acumen, their ability to navigate the jackals that waited within the halls of the Merchant Authority or Avantari.

  They had been elevated to the House Council by the whim and command of The Terafin and she had left them no option to decline what would otherwise be considered a great honor. She had offered them the House Council rings—figuratively, at the time—and had made clear that they would accept them, or divest themselves entirely of the House Name. Teller wasn’t entirely certain she would have done this with Jay away—but he knew, by the threat, how very serious she’d been.

  And he even knew why. She had seen her own death—but not its manner—and she had chosen her heir: it was Jay. Jewel Markess ATerafin. Without support on the House Council, the erstwhile youngest member would have no hope of taking the House. Teller glanced at her now, in her dress, the Winter King beneath her, and Snow by her side.

  There were things that even the powerful couldn’t anticipate, things that couldn’t be planned for.

  Finch touched his wrist, her hands dancing briefly and elegantly in her lap. Her gestures were slight; they could be attributed to nerves by most witnesses. Not, sadly, by the man who sat on her other side: Jarven ATerafin. He looked mildly interested in his surroundings; he also looked somewhat tired and fragile. Given what Finch said of Jarven, the man was as fragile as Barston on a tear; he was just a lot subtler about it.

  Teller signed back; they both glanced at Jewel.

  Or at the place where she was no longer standing. Teller frowned; he couldn’t help it. Lady Sarcen and Duvari were also absent.

  Trouble? Finch asked.

  Trouble, Teller replied, after a hesitation. Angel?

  Not there.

  Trouble.

  Lady Sarcen was not pleased. She was ill-pleased enough at her treatment that she made a point of complaining to the only House member present, which was, sadly, Jewel. Jewel, however, had enough experience in dealing with the outraged that she could endure with a polite smile and an equally polite apology. Given that the inconvenience was caused in its entirety by Duvari, and given that they were both well aware of it, the demand for an apology was just posturing. Jewel could afford to give in to it, or so she felt—but in truth, she was biting her tongue. Lord Sarcen had been informed—all of the patriciate had—of the very strict security demands laid out by the Lord of the Compact, and had Lord Sarcen not chosen to navigate around those rules, neither woman would now be following in the wake of the Lord of the Compact.

  It would have helped if Duvari had been angry. Jewel assumed he was, but he didn’t show it; his eyes narrowed, his voice dropped, his syllables came more slowly, and with exquisite clarity. He led them away from Sarcen’s seating, and he forbid the two servants who had run interference to follow in any way; to ensure that they didn’t leave, he summoned two men clad in the grays of the Kings’ Swords—but not in the uniform—to attend them.

  This had been the first time Lady Sarcen had balked. But it hadn’t lasted; there was something about Duvari at this moment—although to be fair, he was always intimidating—that did not allow for more than the facade of angry words. Actual defiance was beyond her. Beyond them both, Jewel thought.

  But when he paused to give a set of instructions to a woman in obvious House Terafin servants’ uniform, and those instructions resulted—in minutes—in the appearance of Sigurne Mellifas, Jewel felt something inside of her freeze. She gripped the tines of the Winter King, and held tight, pressing her thumbs into their points as if the pain would brace her, wake her, draw her out of the political drudgery that was also political drama.

  Sigurne, at Duvari’s side, was not an aged scion of fractious scholars; she was grim and pale, and there was no compassion in her. She turned to Lady Sarcen and offered a very brief, very curt bow. “Lady Sarcen,” she said.

  “Guildmaster,” Lady Sarcen replied, bowing as well, but more fully. The fight had left her face by the time she’d risen; she looked—for the first time—frightened. Looks could be deceiving; she turned to Duvari. “Why have you summoned the guildmaster?” she demanded.

  “If you do not know, it should not concern you,” was his cool reply. “You will lead me to your Lord.”

  But she had had enough. She relented, at last, glancing at Sigurne AMellifas. “I will tell you where he is to be found,” she said.

  “Alas, no, Lady Sarcen. You will lead me to him; if he is not present, you will find him. I cannot afford to lose time to any delaying tactic you might choose to employ.”

  “I was not invited here as your servant—” she began, although her voice was quieter. She looked to Jewel for help, but Jewel wasn’t feeling that generous.

  “It is precisely to deal with those who were not invited that you are here and they came at the behest of your Lord.” Duvari would not be moved.

  Sigurne said, “Lady Sarcen, this is not a game. You will tell the Lord of the Compact where you feel your Lord is to be found; do so, and you may walk between Jewel ATerafin and me. If, however, he is not to be found at the location you name, you will lead—and I cannot guarantee your safety from that position.”

  Jewel was genuinely surprised; it sounded—to her ears—very much like a threat, and threats were not something she usually heard Sigurne utter. Well, no, that wasn’t true; when the magi were beginning their endless bickering, she could often be heard musing about their unfortunate deaths by strangulation—hers—but Jewel didn’t count those, since she used them so often herself. There was no affection at all in the words spoken to Lady Sarcen, but Jewel couldn’t imagine feeling affection for her.

  She also couldn’t imagine threatening her, if it came to that.

  ATerafin, the Winter King said, be wary now.

  Of what?

  Can you not sense it? The air is wild and the shadows where you now tread do not conform to sunlight.

  She frowned, gazing at the moving ground beneath his hooves; he was right. It was subtle, certainly subtle enough to be missed in the presence of Duvari, Sigurne, and Lady Sarcen. It was therefore to Angel that she turned. “The shadows,” she whispered, bending to bring herself in reach of his ears.

  He passed the message—quickly—to Arann; what Arann heard, Torvan and Arrendas also heard. They were, she noted, finely attired, and as they moved, she heard the sound she’d dreaded—for entirely different reasons—since waking this morning: the third chimes had started.

  Chapter Twenty–two

  “NOT YET,” SIGURNE TOLD HER, divining instantly the reason for her sudden panic. “The god-born will come only after the chimes sound for a third time.”

  “I’m not worried about their arrival,” was the terse reply. “They’re here and we have no idea where Sarcen is—or what he’s with.” She turned to Duvari. “Take us to the Kings,” she said.

  His gaze was sharp enough to cut, and not lightly. But he glanced at Sigurne before he spoke. “It is too much of a risk,” he said, his gaze brushing Lady Sarcen as if she were poison.

  “It is,” Jewel countered. “But the worst possible threat they can pose is there.”

  “Is this vision?”

  “No. Instinct.”

  His smile was, like his gaze, quite sharp. “Very well.” He turned to Lady Sarcen. “Lead us quickly.”

  For something that had sounded like capitulation, it wasn’t impressive. But Lady Sarcen was now a shade of gray that highlighted the powders and colors she’d donned in a very unflattering way. She looked truly afraid, although she was a patrician; she did not deign to give voice to that fear. Jewel wondered, as Lady Sarcen
took the lead, what Duvari’s instinct must be like, for the Lady moved far more quickly—far more certainly—than Jewel would have in her position.

  Even had she been guilty, she would have delayed.

  But Lady Sarcen led them, in quick turns, up the terrace. She didn’t approach the main house; instead she jogged to the left. Toward, Jewel realized, a familiar fountain.

  “I swear to you,” Lady Sarcen finally said, struggling for breath, “that the gentlemen in question only had the desire to see the statuary and the fountain; it is famous among those who study the works of the Makers, and they are not significant enough to garner the invitation to view it, although they have petitioned House Terafin and the Order of Knowledge, both.”

  “They are not here now,” Duvari told her. His voice was cool as he approached the statuary.

  “Duvari, hold,” Jewel said; he froze almost in mid-step, pivoting to meet her gaze. “Don’t touch the water. Sigurne?”

  The guildmaster nodded, lifting her hands. “Be prepared, Lord of the Compact. Lady Sarcen, you may return to your seat. But if you seek not to disgrace yourself, you will do so quickly.” As if to underline her words, the third chime sounded for a second time. Lady Sarcen did not need to be told twice; she retreated, gathering shreds of dignity around her as she went. Jewel had no doubt that when she arrived, she would be—or appear—entirely unruffled.

  “She is correct, Duvari. There is an enchantment upon this water—”

  Duvari turned to Torvan. “Go,” he told the Captain of the Chosen. “Tell Arundel he is to take the Kings on the secondary route.”

  Torvan looked to Jewel; Jewel nodded. Neither gesture was lost upon Duvari, but neither soured his mood; it wouldn’t have been possible.

  “The nature of the enchantment?” he demanded of the mage.

  Sigurne appeared not to hear him, and Jewel thought it no act; the mage was bent in focused concentration, her eyes unblinking, her hands raised but almost immobile. She spoke three words—three words that sounded like thunder encased in syllables. Jewel couldn’t have repeated them, even if she wanted to.

  The water began to rise.

  4th of Henden, 427 A.A.

  Avantari, Averalaan Aramarelas

  Devon, trained to magic, weapon, poison, and subterfuge, was nonetheless not trained for this. The magi who could comfortably travel from one location to another—instantly, and not at a more leisurely pace—were few indeed, and all of them possessed both power and rank. They could not easily be seconded to Duvari, and Duvari made absolutely certain that they could be seconded with ease to no one else. His Astari therefore lacked the benefit of experience with this mode of travel. Devon, who had survived the training the Lord of the Compact considered utterly essential, was now grateful for this one mercy.

  The Terafin manse, with its fine and very crowded grounds, had been beneath his feet; the young woman to whom he intended to pledge his allegiance in the near future had been standing, grim-faced and determined, to his side. Angel, hair rising like a white spire above his otherwise ordinary face, stood to her right, and at her back, shadowing her, Arann, Torvan, and Arrendas—the men who would form the backbone of her Chosen should she survive her attempt to control House Terafin.

  She had given her orders—terse, rough orders—and her domicis, a man Devon had never trusted and would never like, had relented with barely acceptable grace, given his role and station. He had offered hands to Devon and Celleriant, and Devon had instantly clasped what was offered. He understood what was at risk.

  He had had no idea what to expect. But the grounds and the people that occupied them melted away below his feet—literally. The earth gave beneath him, the colors of grass and stone turned, in an instant to something only an insane painter might consider representative of either. He had fallen an arm’s length—and he could measure the arm; it was Avandar Gallais’. The domicis held the whole of Devon’s weight while the sky and the horizon and the manse in the distance blurred into a running stream of almost repulsive color that flowed around him. Around them all.

  Avandar did his dignity the grace of maintaining his steely silence. The moving vortex of color began to shift. Had he been any other man, Devon would have closed his eyes; he was not; he watched. Here and there streams and trails of color, trailing smudges as if they were slugs, began to separate, pulling themselves toward the periphery of Devon’s vision; as they did, the colors began to spin and move. At their center, three men stood; at their edges, spinning faster and faster, color began to adhere.

  It adhered in a totally different shape and tone, and when it was done with its motion and movement, when Devon’s eyes had adjusted to the sudden snap of stillness and solidity, he found himself standing in a familiar hall in Avantari. It was the hall that led to Patris Larkasir’s office—and the offices, therefore, of the Royal Trade Commission.

  “Why here?” Devon asked, frowning as he forced his vision and his legs to be steady.

  “It is the area of the Palace with which I am most familiar. Were Jewel to be where your Princes now are, I would not be similarly constrained; she is not. We had best hope that Sigurne sent word.”

  Celleriant drew his sword. He drew it from air, not sheath, and its edge glowed a deep, a compelling, blue. Devon realized it was a blue that belonged in the maelstrom that they had just traversed. “Viandaran?”

  “I will not expend the effort to arm myself further,” was Avandar’s cool reply. “We have already earned the ire of the Kings’ Swords, whether it concerns you or not.”

  “It does not; is it of concern to my Lord?”

  “It is. Or it will be. The men here will take no orders from you or me; do not seek to give them. Kill them at your peril,” he added softly, as if it were necessary. The pale, long-haired man shrugged; it was all of his reply. If the passage from Terafin to Avantari had disturbed him at all, it didn’t show; Devon suspected it had barely registered.

  He began to jog—quickly—down the hall and away from the familiar environs of his office and its identity. He shrugged himself out of his jacket, which was confining; he also discarded the shirt because of its cuffs and its collar. Avandar Gallais had the singular advantage of the robes of the guildhall; they did not encumber him as he fell into easy stride at Devon’s side. Celleriant wore armor; his armor didn’t change shape or texture. But it caught light that didn’t fall, in a way that no other clothing did.

  At their back, Devon felt a cool, gentle breeze. It lifted Celleriant’s hair, and strands of platinum streamed across his winter-white cheeks. His eyes were glinting like steel caught in light; he was striking, almost beautiful—but cold. Devon shook himself. Although he prided himself on the ability to notice almost everything in any given environs, this skirted the edge of useless information.

  “The wind—” he began.

  “It is not—yet—mine,” Celleriant replied, gazing ahead through the walls as if he already knew who now invoked it. “How far away are your Princes?”

  Too damn far. Devon estimated distance as he began to run. Sigurne must have informed the magi—and the Swords—of the gravity of the situation; they were unhampered, and unquestioned, in their run through the halls, and the only people they glimpsed were the servants who, by duty, were meant to be visible. The Swords had been entirely withdrawn.

  Devon knew where they could be found, and he felt a moment’s relief.

  It was broken almost instantly by the sound of cracking rock; the ground beneath his feet shuddered and stilled.

  “She was not wrong,” Celleriant said in a soft, soft voice. “There is power here.”

  The doors that separated the wing in which the Princes held their modest Court were open; they were still attached to their hinges, but they were no longer guarded. From the open door, the halls could be seen, and in those halls, for the first time, the din of fighting was audible: men’s voices raised in both command and alarm, steel being drawn—but not wielded, Devon thought—not against simil
ar steel.

  He paused briefly—very briefly—by the ornate brass sconce just inside the doors, and he spoke one sharp word. The noise in the hall grew clearer, sharper; the orders were now intelligible. The gold engraving that traced the height of the walls and the trim nearest the floor began to glow, even to Devon’s eyes; they were orange, now. He frowned as he watched the colors shift and change.

  Avandar said, “What color should it be, ATerafin?”

  Devon did not reply, not with words, but he reached into the sash beneath his shirt and he drew two daggers—daggers that were unwieldy, they were so unbalanced. They were ornate and ceremonial—but the ceremonies of the gods had always served many purposes. He offered one to Avandar, who glanced at it and raised a brow; he did not take it.

  “I cannot be held responsible for your fate once we enter that hall.”

  “You cannot be held responsible for it regardless,” was the domicis’ cool reply. His face was shorn of expression; Devon thought he might even be offended. It eased him.