Battle: The House War: Book Five (61 page)

Merry hesitated as Jewel released her hand. “I’m not trained as a manservant,” she finally said. “And I’ve no experience with your type of hair.”

“My domicis can see to my hair, for the moment.”

“The Master of the Household Staff—”

“I am aware of her opinions, but at the moment, I am without Ellerson, and the woman she elected to serve in his place was not expecting my early return.” This didn’t mean that the woman would not, like magic, appear; Jewel had no doubt whatsoever that the entire serving staff of any seniority was aware that she had returned.

“That would be Miriam,” Merry said quietly. Her tone was completely neutral. “She’ll be here soon. I’m surprised—” She stopped, remembering to whom she was speaking. “She’ll be here.”

Jewel did not want to wait. She almost said as much. But the sudden and inexplicable changes to the third-floor rooms of the manse had already thrown the upper echelons of the Household Staff into turmoil; she couldn’t afford, at this juncture, to offer any further offense to the woman who ruled them all.

“How angry is the Master of the Household Staff?”

Merry hesitated. “Very.”

“Will she resign?”

The shocked look the question engendered was more of a comfort than any words would have been—which was good; Merry didn’t offer them.

They fell silent as Avandar approached the closet. The doors had been removed entirely—given they were mostly broken wood and jagged splinters, this was to be expected. Jewel watched his back as he began, with deliberation, the choosing of an appropriate dress.

“What happened?” Merry asked, while Jewel watched. Her voice was low; it was not hesitant.

“Ellerson was responsible for my attire; the Master of the Household Staff was willing to allow me his attendance, over a servant of her own choosing. I regret it,” she added. “I regret depriving the West Wing of his guidance. He came to these rooms, through that library, without blinking; he set his irons and his damnable brushes and combs on the dresser, and he entered the closet to choose a dress.

“He did not emerge. Carver followed him.”

Merry walked toward the doorless closet, where Avandar was still visible.

“It is a closet,” Jewel continued, her voice almost flat with the effort to keep it steady. “It was, for a few hours, a passage. When we realized what had happened, we entered that passage in search of them; the hall that awaited us was long, tall, a thing of stone and emptiness. There was no sign of either Ellerson or Carver.”

Merry stepped aside as Avandar withdrew, dress over his left arm. It was a slate blue, with highlights of a darker, richer color; Jewel noticed nothing else about it. As Merry approached the closet, she drew closer as well, and before the servant could enter it, she held out a hand.

It was not in denial. Merry hesitated, and then slid her right hand into Jewel’s left.

“Terafin, I do not consider this wise,” Meralonne said.

Merry froze.

“Why?” Jewel asked him, without looking back. “Will the passage that severed me from my kin once again swallow us?”

“The wisest among us could not answer that question, Terafin. In this place, at this time, it is unwise to make the wilderness aware of your desire.”

“Is it remotely possible,” Jewel asked softly, “that that desire might remain unknown?” She approached the doorless entrance of the closet.

“Yes. Not only is it possible, Terafin, it is imperative. What the servant wants is of no consequence.”

Jewel’s grip tightened briefly; Merry did not react at all. “APhaniel.”

He had armed himself with his pipe. Nor did he set it aside at her command; instead, he frowned and made his way to the open closet. “You will want a door here,” he told her curtly. He entered first, and Jewel allowed it. She could see the rustle of hanging cloth that spoke of his passage through her expensive garments.

“You don’t know where he is,” Merry said, voice low.

Jewel shook her head. “I intend to find him. To find them both. Snow and Night are searching for him; the Winter King is on the road—the white stag,” she added. “So, too, is Lord Celleriant. They have been searching for Carver and Ellerson since their disappearance.”

“They haven’t found them.”

“. . . No.” She turned to face Merry. “And until the matter of Kings and The Ten is settled, I cannot join them. But I give you my word, upon the House crest, that I will.”

“Will you call me, when you leave?”

Jewel stiffened. She withdrew the hand she had offered in comfort, or in need of it. “I would not risk you, Merry. The Master of the Household Staff is angry enough. You are ATerafin; you have been for half your life.”

“You are The Terafin.”

“Yes. The responsibility for the House—and its losses—are mine.” She paused. “I can’t with certainty say the cats and Lord Celleriant will survive their search, but they search the lands that birthed them.”

“You think I’ll be a liability. You don’t think I can help.”

Jewel nodded. “Believe that I understand the need to act; I feel it now, and I am, instead, to attend The Wayelyn and the Bardmaster of Senniel College. I am to travel to the Houses of Healing.”

Meralonne emerged from the closet. ‘The way is closed,” he said.

Something in his tone had her lips in a frown before she could smooth it away. “Can you open it, APhaniel?”

In reply, he lit his pipe.

“If I receive any word—for good or ill—I will summon you to the West Wing,” she told Merry.

“The West Wing?”

“Yes. Because if I have any word, it is to the West Wing I will carry it. The den are my kin; they are Carver’s kin. If he has any other living, he has never mentioned them.”

Merry swallowed and nodded. She had an expressive face, but attempted to mute the expression that now crushed it. It was an act of kindness.

“Avandar, please escort—”

“No,” Merry said quickly. “I require no escort.”

“The library—”

“And if I accept one, I’ll lose my job. I might keep the House Name,” she added, just as quickly, “but it won’t matter. I won’t be able to do the only work I’ve been trained to do.”

* * *

Miriam arrived some ten minutes after Merry left. She abjured all of the things Merry did not, chief among them openness or friendliness. Dour and stiff as the Master of the Household Staff, she offered Jewel a very formal, very precise bow. Jewel ignored it. Miriam was not Merry; nor was she one of the servants who tended and—in subtle ways—guided the den through the politics of the patriciate. She was one of the elite within the Household Staff, and she set boundaries that only the blind or willful breached. Jewel did not have the energy to be either at this moment.

“APhaniel,” she said, as Miriam began to work on the unruly mass of curls which was her hair, “You did not answer my question.”

“No, Terafin, I did not. I considered it unwise at the time.”

“And now?”

“I consider it unwise, but I will accept the terms of my employment if you demand an answer.”

“I do. Can the way that was closed be opened?”

“Yes.”

“By me?”

“By you, certainly, although your lack of knowledge poses a very real threat to the security of your House.”

“By you, then.”

“Possibly.” He paused to blow rings of smoke into the still air. “Is it your desire that I make the attempt immediately?”

“No,” she replied, voice low; it felt like a yes. “What I desire, for the moment, is your expertise. I wish to know if there are other, similar, passages open to lands beyond my control within the lands that are.

“There is one other that I am aware of,” she continued, when he failed to speak. “You will not touch it; you will not explore it; you will not cast magic upon it in
any
way.”

She could see the lift of a brow in the mirror. It was followed by concentric circles of pale, translucent smoke. “Where is this passage of yours?”

“Beyond the small meeting room.”

“I admit my curiosity is piqued.”

“Do not attempt to satisfy it except in my presence.” She glanced at Torvan in the mirror; he nodded. It was a slight dip of motion, and she almost regretted the command; he didn’t need a fractious, temperamental mage dropped on his head. Sadly, she did.

Miriam worked quickly; Ellerson might have done the same, had she not felt the need to converse—or complain—while he worked. She was the perfect master to Miriam’s stiff and proper servant; she allowed the older woman to be a competent, prominent shadow. When her hair was considered thoroughly presentable, Jewel dressed; she allowed Miriam to fuss with the dress, its laces, its buttons, and the fall of its hem. She exchanged one pair of boots for shoes that were only slightly more comfortable, and allowed a change of jewelry. Jewelry was the one thing she frequently failed to take into consideration.

It was a deliberate failure, and this, too, she set aside.

When Miriam was done—and she made this clear by a curt nod and a visible, physical retreat from The Terafin’s presence—Jewel made her way back through the small hall and wide doors and into the library proper. Meralonne accompanied her, pausing beneath the open sky as Shadow made his way down, in a wide, lazy spiral, to join her.

He landed on Torvan’s foot and shouldered the mage out of the way, but did so without insulting either man. For Shadow, this was an act of enormous self-restraint; Jewel therefore placed a hand
gently
on the top of his head. He hissed anyway.

Avandar walked behind her, as he usually did within the manse; Meralonne, eyes a flash of silver, chose to ignore the cat’s insulting behavior and walked to Jewel’s right. He gazed up at the sky, his expression carefully neutral.

“I believe I am annoyed,” he told her.

“By?”

“The Wayelyn, of course. You will not put him off or have him sent to his own unremarkable manse, and you will not give me the tour I seek until his business is done.”

“No. If it is any consolation, it is not The Wayelyn that I fear to offend; it is Solran Marten. She has the ears of the Kings and the Queens, and the loyalty of the only master bard who can sing to the wind and hear its answer.”

“You speak of Kallandras.”

“Do I?” She smiled. “Yes. I wish you had brought him with you from the South.”

“Why?”

“Because he has some part to play in what is to come.”

“Of that,” the mage agreed, “I have no doubt whatsoever. Many, however, have some part—large or small—to play.”

“He’ll survive it.”

Meralonne raised a brow.

“Solran has often said that nothing can kill Kallandras; she’s certain she could send him alone and unarmed into the midst of a fully mobilized army, and he’d pass through the other side without injury.”

“She thinks highly of him.”

“She does. You do, as well.”

“Do I, now? Have I become so transparent?”

“No, APhaniel. Never that. Attend me,” she added, as a page approached her. “The Wayelyn and the bardmaster are now within the manse.”

* * *

The Wayelyn had not retired to his own manse to change; nor, apparently, had the bardmaster. Jewel found them in the rooms she had asked be prepared for the purpose of entertaining them, and refreshments had been served. Teller sat beside Solran, and the two appeared to be engrossed in the type of conversation that bored the titular head of Wayelyn; he brightened when he saw The Terafin standing between the open doors.

“My apologies,” she told them, nodding as she entered the room. “I was delayed. I hope you have not been kept waiting long.”

“We have,” The Wayelyn said, amusement filling the spaces in his lovely, low voice. “But the right-kin has opened the wine cellars of Terafin in recompense for our time, and, I must say, you do not husband your vintages with any great care; the wine is excellent.”

Solran’s glass, full, had not been touched; Teller’s had, but only in sufficient quantity to assure that The Wayelyn was not left to drink on his own. The bardmaster glanced at Shadow as he padded across carpet, taking very little care not to damage it. It was one of the ways in which the cats were expensive. He sniffed the glass on the table, his nose wrinkling. He then sneezed into it. Jewel inhaled sharply, but the bardmaster merely raised a brow.

“Do you sing?” she asked the great cat.

Shadow hissed.

“Shadow.”

He glanced over his shoulder at Jewel.

“It was not a challenge,” she told him. “Nor was it meant as an insult.”

“Then why did she
ask
?”

“She sings. She teaches the greatest minstrels of the Empire, and they answer—when they answer at all—to her.”

“I don’t answer to
anyone
.”

“Believe that we are aware of this,” she replied, with some exasperation. He had, in common with the felines kept as pets across the hundred, an ego that was at once ferocious and delicate. Crossing the room, she took a chair; Meralonne did likewise, pausing to tender both The Wayelyn and the bardmaster a bow. It was not an obeisance, but for a member of the Order, it was respectful.