City of Night

by Michelle West

  The Terafin stepped forward and held out a hand. “Now,” she said quietly, “you will deliver your message without further delay.”

  The girl nodded firmly, and opened her mouth as if to speak. She snapped it shut again, showing more judgment, and far more control, than she had in her wild and desperate attempt to somehow save the boy’s life.

  And who, The Terafin thought wryly, am I to judge? It had worked, after all. Whatever it was that Torvan had seen in this slight and silently angry girl that had caused him to speak for her, and further, to carry the dying down the length of the long halls that led to The Terafin’s day office, The Terafin could not entirely discern.

  But she could not dismiss it; she saw something in the girl herself.

  Perhaps, in the end, she saw Ararath. It did not occur to her to doubt that Jewel Markess spoke truth: that she knew Ararath, and he knew her. Ararath would guess that he might send Jewel to House Terafin, at least once. What she might buy here, with her presence, he could never be certain. But that he had been willing to send her at all?

  Her hands closed upon the letter; it ran several pages. She glanced, briefly, at the shape of the writing, at its orderly, neat lines, its cramped and entirely recognizable style. After all these years, his hand had not changed so very much.

  She stilled a moment, seeing in the shape of words, and the choice of them, one other thing that had not changed. It surprised her. The language of Handernesse, one of their chief delights in their early years, was here. She turned from Jewel, and spoke to her guard.

  “Tell the secretary to continue without me for the moment; I can be found in my chambers if matters of import arise.”

  To Jewel, granting her only the sight of profile, she added, “Please wait for me in the antechamber.”

  She kept Jewel Markess waiting.

  It did not take her long to read the letter, but she read it more than once, in the presence of Morretz, her domicis, and no one else. She had repaired to her rooms, and the much larger office they contained, not because she required the space—although the letter was laid out, sheet by sheet, against the perfect sheen of her desk—but because she desired privacy.

  In rooms that were easily accessible to the public, privacy was never guaranteed. She seldom needed it.

  Morretz was, of course, utterly silent. He was not still, but even his movements failed to create a sense of noise, or destroy the questionable peace in this room. Here, her history lay, hidden to those who had not also experienced it. She knew the stories told about her rise to power in House Terafin, because she had helped to spread them, in her fashion. She did not stoop to lie, of course; a lie was not effective, and it was easily revealed.

  And only those who felt threatened, only those who felt their position was untenable, resorted to that tactic. No, instead, she selected a few truths from among all of her truths, and she allowed those few to travel unimpeded.

  She did not, of course, choose to speak of Handernesse directly. On those occasions when she did, she spoke with modulated respect for the House of her birth, and with guarded affection for her grandfather, whose distant words and dismissive anger had placed her squarely upon the path that she had traveled.

  In happier times, before the shadow of Terafin loomed, she had adored him. She adored little, now. It wasn’t safe.

  She glanced again at the letter. She had loved Ararath. Ararath, the child, Ararath the frustrating and taunting boy, Ararath the feckless and slightly idealistic youth. But she had left him, to Handernesse.

  She drew breath; it was sharp.

  We think he’s dead.

  She had accepted his anger. She had even understood that she would face it, although its breadth and depth had astonished her. This was where worship led, for he had worshiped her. Perhaps, had she waited a few years, perhaps had she made clear the ways in which she had stumbled in her slow walk toward House Terafin, he might have ceased to worship her at all; he had not quite begun his own road to understanding, and his own idealism had blinded him.

  She had been perfect, to him.

  The perfect future. The perfect older sister. He had been so proud of her.

  But he had also shown a more bitter pride, in his fashion. He had left Handernesse, in his fury, and he had never again returned. She knew, of course. She knew, as well, that Hectore of Araven still heard from Ararath on occasion. More than that, she did not trouble to discover—but it had been difficult.

  Still, if she had been a woman to give way easily to impulse, she would not now be The Terafin.

  So she returned, again, to a letter whose authenticity was beyond doubt.

  Jewel Markess was seer-born. Ararath was certain of it. He did not detail how; the language of their youthful devising was not a complicated language. But more was here, between those words, and all of it—if true, and if she indeed remembered what the code was—was grim.

  Reading between the lines—the ones he had written for Jewel’s eyes, and the ones he had written for Amarais, his lost sister—she understood that he not only valued Jewel, but loved her. He did not, of course, reveal this; no more did he reveal his regret or his apology for the past.

  To do either was to expose some part of himself to the sister who had hurt him so badly, and Ararath had never been a boy to forgive and forget. But neither had be been a boy who was easily charmed or addled by youth or beauty. What he valued in Jewel Markess, she could guess at: her concern for Arann, the dying boy. The way she held her den. Her sense of duty to those she had made her responsibility.

  What surprised Amarais, as she sat, considering the information, was that he had allowed this one girl—and by extension all of the others—into his life at all. Yet clearly, he had, and just as clearly, he now attempted to take responsibility for her future.

  We think he’s dead.

  But this was, of course, his way. To accept and surrender when facing death. And only then. He had placed Jewel Markess, seer-born, and therefore of incalculable value to the House, in her hands. And he had stepped back. How far back, she could not yet be certain.

  But the girl was not a gift to Terafin.

  She was, Amarais thought, a plea, and delivered in the only way that Ararath was capable of; disguised as something other, something that might be tempting to a woman of power. She could have told him, absent as he was, that she owed him nothing.

  But lies were a tool of the weak. She made her decision, and she looked up at her domicis.

  “Among the domicis, Terafin retains the service of three.”

  Morretz was the fourth, but he served her personally; his contract was not with the House. Of the four, Morretz was therefore the most valuable to The Terafin. She watched him, aware at this moment of all the changes in her life from its beginning to the present—and aware, as well, that he had not seen the girl she had been when Ararath had been of Handernesse.

  Lines had been etched around Morretz’s eyes and the corners of his lips with the passage of time, although they were not in evidence at the moment; it was rare that he either smiled or frowned. Consummate care in his chosen profession forbade either. And yet, of the men and women whose service she had taken, he understood her perhaps better than any.

  Ironic, that the two men who best did had not chosen to take the House Name. Morretz, because he was of the Guild of the Domicis, and until he chose to leave it, could not take another title or rank, and Alowan, for his own reasons, some of which she understood, and some of which she did not.

  She waited for Morretz to speak, but he merely nodded at her simple statement of a fact they both knew well.

  “If you were to place an untried and ill-mannered young woman with one of those three, whom would you choose?”

  And there it was: a momentary frown. It was seldom that she could coax that much expression out of his watchful face. “Is the young woman to remain here under your permanent protection?”

  Yes, he knew her well—and this was as close as he could come to aski
ng her openly what she intended. “Perhaps.” She watched him. If he knew her, she also understood his measure, and it was pleasing, and even soothing, to know that in the silence of thought, his calculations and his eventual reply would tally so closely with her own. Nor did he disappoint her, for when he lifted his head, he simply shook it. None.

  “It is as I thought as well.” She glanced, again, at the vellum that lay, like her palms, across the surface of her desk.

  “To whom,” he asked softly, although by now he knew the answer, “do you wish a domicis assigned?”

  “The street child and her kin.”

  She had succeeded in nudging a frown from his lips, be it brief, and now succeeded further: he raised a bronze brow. It, like his hair, had weathered the passage of years ungrayed. But although his eyes were the same brown, the same warm dark, they had changed much in the intervening years—inevitable, given what they had seen.

  “I do not think there is one among the whole of the guild who would willingly take such a lord.”

  “If I guess correctly, Morretz, she will be a lord whose origins belie her import to this House.”

  “And your guess would be worth much. But I still cannot think of one—”

  She waited, patient now. He had never failed in any task she assigned him, and while this was in part because she did not assign tasks to those who were incapable of carrying them out, it was also in part the nature of the man.

  “Ellerson.”

  She raised a brow in reply.

  “Not a name you would know, Terafin. Not a man who has served, in any capacity, for many years. But I believe that he might be persuaded to take this service, at least on a contract basis.”

  It piqued her curiosity, this stranger with his unfamiliar name. But she had always been, as her grandfather had said in his early affectionate indulgence, a curious child. It was clear that Morretz thought highly of this Ellerson, whoever he was.

  “When can you have an answer?”

  “When the offer is tendered. I will speak with the guildmaster immediately.” He hesitated for a fraction of a moment, and then said, “You realize that word of this is bound to travel?”

  “I have considered it, yes.”

  “You realize that the House Council members do not retain the services of a domicis at Terafin’s expense?”

  “I know what it will mean, Morretz.” She rose. “But in this case, the risk is justified. Do not question me.”

  “Terafin.”

  Ellerson of the Guild of the Domicis was not a young man.

  Neither, in common parlance, was Morretz—but Morretz was in his prime. Ellerson approached the Terafin manse at the side of the younger domicis.

  “I am not entirely certain,” he told Morretz, “why I let you talk me into this.”

  Morretz offered Ellerson an unfettered smile, which robbed his face of years and the gravitas required of a man who served such a powerful lord. “It is my belief,” he replied gravely, “that you were bored.”

  “Teaching is seldom boring. Frustrating beyond all possible measure, yes. You might recall,” Ellerson added, “as you were one of those frustrations in your time.”

  “And look where it’s taken me. House Terafin, and The Terafin.”

  Ellerson nodded. “You’ve done well here. Not beyond expectation, but well. She is an acceptable lord?” He had the pleasure of seeing Morretz look slightly affronted, but the affront was buried quickly.

  “She is. She is more than that. I admire her, and her service is what I might have aspired to in idealistic ignorance when I first came to the guild.”

  “I admit my curiosity. It’s seldom that a woman of The Terafin’s power sends her personal domicis to the guild to negotiate for the services required to bring a handful of street urchins into line with Terafin itself.”

  The quality of Morretz’s silence told him much.

  “How much do you know of these urchins, as you call them?”

  “Very little. They have been observed—discreetly—for at most a handful of hours. But the leader of this den is unusual. And their arrival, unusual as well.” He hesitated; Ellerson marked it. “One of the den was dying when they arrived. I believe he now resides in Alowan’s healerie; you might meet with him if you choose.”

  Ellerson shook his head. “I understand the way responsibilities for a House are carved up. Show me to my wing, and introduce me to the man or woman in charge of the servants there. The boy will come to my domain in his own time.” But he paused, then. “Alowan?”

  Morretz nodded.

  “He is healer-born?”

  Another nod.

  “Then she was generous beyond measure, your lord.”

  “She is seldom generous without cause.”

  “She could not be, and be The Terafin. I believe you are right,” he added, as they made their way past the gates and the House guards. “I have been perhaps a little wearied by the constant routine. I believe I shall find the challenge you have set me of interest, Morretz.”

  The den arrived—if such a hesitant and suspicious state could be called arrival—in Ellerson’s domain in the presence of no less than six of the House Guards. No less, Ellerson thought, than six of The Terafin’s personal guards—her Chosen. That was interesting. He watched from the relative obscurity of an antechamber as the doors to the wing opened.

  He had been some hours within, closeted with the head of the household staff, a grim and dour woman who clearly had some opinions about these new guests which she was well enough trained to keep—barely—to herself. Regardless, they had discussed the needs of the young men and women, as well as the probability of their relative knowledge, before the rooms had been set in something resembling order.

  There were, to Ellerson’s knowledge, seven. Seven occupants: two young women and five young men. The wing itself was easily large enough to house them all; seven of the bedrooms had been opened, and linens and towels had been brought, as well as sheets, and clothing of the loose and draping style chosen when one is not entirely familiar with exact size.

  Some inquiry into the state of their clothing—and the expense of its replacement—had been made; clearly, their clothing was as much an affront to the head of the household staff as their possible origins. The dining rooms had been cleared, one for breakfast and the lunch hours, and the more formal room for the dinner hours; the kitchen itself had been scrupulously cleaned, and the head of the household staff, who by this point had graciously acknowledged that her name was Margaret Emile ATerafin, had suggested a budget from which a cook, and his various assistants, might be hired.

  This, in Ellerson’s opinion, was putting the cart before the horse, but he wisely refrained from any argument or dissent.

  Nor did he inquire about their personal requirements when it came to the style of their lodgings. At this point, Ellerson understood the unspoken burden placed upon his tenure: they were to adapt to Terafin; Terafin was not to adapt to them. In Ellerson’s experience, such a one-way interchange was seldom the rule, but his experience also made clear that argument with the head of the household on this particular score would be fruitless, at best.

  He inquired of Margaret about the availability of tutors, and the suitability of the same, and at this, she shrugged slightly. “That,” she told him firmly, “is the least of my problems. It is not, in fact, my problem at all.”

  “May I then assume it is mine?”

  “You’re the domicis,” she replied curtly.

  “Very well.” It was not something he could arrange on short notice, and as he was aware that this group of unruly almost-children were probably closeted in a room with guards and their own anxieties, he judged the facilities in a state of suitable readiness for his new masters.

  Word was sent, and Margaret vacated the wing, along with the men and women who had come to carry out her commands in the most scrupulous, tidy, and speedy way possible. Ellerson was, for the moment, alone.

  But not for long. His ar
ms ached slightly; the damp had been bitter, and he felt the sting of it in his bones. He had not lied to Morretz; he was not a young man.

  But Morretz had made clear the unusual nature of the position, and after some careful thought, Ellerson could come up with no likely candidate within the guild itself. He had therefore approached the guildmaster and requested a leave of absence from his teaching duties, not to exceed two years, while he settled these strangers into their possible long-term routine within House Terafin.

  Nor was the guildmaster happy to see him go, but she did accede.

  He watched in silence as the den was ushered into the sitting rooms, and the rooms in which visitors would customarily be greeted.

  Two young women. He was surprised at just how young they both looked. They could be as old as eighteen; they could be, in his opinion, as young as twelve. The one girl, with her auburn hair and her tense and watchful face, was no doubt the leader of whom Morretz had spoken. He saw this not so much by her own stance or words, but rather by the furtive glances that the other five cast in her direction.

  The other girl was the shortest and slimmest of the bunch, and she kept her hands by her sides or clasped behind her back; her gaze wandered across the whole of the single room as if she were in either shock or awe, and could not quite decide whether to be delighted or terrified.

  One of the Chosen now bowed to the leader.

  “I am Arrendas ATerafin,” he said gravely, offering her his name. The girl did not seem to understand that this was significant. “We leave you now, but if you feel the need for guards while you are under The Terafin’s protection, don’t hesitate to request them.”

  “Uh, right,” the girl replied. Ellerson winced, but did not otherwise speak or move.

  The guard lifted his hand in an open palm salute that was meant to convey respect, rather than obedience. It was clear to Ellerson that the girl wasn’t aware of what it meant either. Nor did the Terafin Chosen seem to be offended by her. But when he turned to leave, she shouted, “Wait!”

  He stopped instantly, and turned to face her. “Yes?”