Skirmish: A House War Novel (14 page)

“The rumors?”

“That Duvari—present at the time—ordered the assassination attempt.”

“It would not be entirely beyond credibility,” Gabriel replied after a long pause. “Haerrad would not be a Lord to Duvari’s liking.”

“No.”

“You don’t lend credence to the rumor.”

“I’m undecided,” Teller replied. It was safest. “The rumors won’t harm Haerrad. Any laws he’s broken in the past have always been internal affairs. The House believes—especially at this time—that someone who can stand against the Kings’ demands is necessary.”

“You’ve heard, then.”

Teller met Gabriel’s gaze and held it. The room was dense with uncomfortable silence; it was Teller who chose to break it first. “Yes. But some Royal Intervention was expected, surely? The Terafin didn’t die by normal means. Even if the House wished to claim her death a simple assassination, it’s impossible. The Kings themselves were present. They arrived too late—but they saw the demon that killed her. Sigurne Mellifas came, and she declared it no simple act of magery, no illusion. We will be under the eyes of the Kings—and the Order of Knowledge—for some little while yet.

“This buys the regent time.”

“And if the regent doesn’t desire that time?”

“He’ll serve it, anyway.”

“You speak with such confidence, Teller.”

“Barston would kill me if I dissembled.”

Gabriel laughed. He had barely smiled at all in the past few weeks;
Teller heard the warmth and affection in the older man’s voice and was surprised at how deeply it pained him.

“Barston would, indeed. If the gaining of stature within the House has not yet changed you, it is because Barston has not yet had enough time. He has always taken these things quite seriously. But where Barston would not allow you to dissemble, Teller, I can do no less. You’ve spoken of three contenders. Tell me, now, of the fourth.”

The desire to point out the passing of time came and went as Teller met the eyes of the man who had been, in all ways, his benefactor for over fifteen years. There were very few men—or women—that Teller held in such high esteem, and he knew that laughter would not be the result of anything he chose to say about Rymark ATerafin. Rymark was Gabriel’s blood son.

Teller inhaled. How much did he trust Gabriel? With his life? With Jay’s? Gabriel had steadfastly refused to support any contender; he held himself above suspicion. But Rymark was his
son
.

“Teller.”

“I can’t tell you anything that you don’t already know,” Teller replied.

“Tell me what I know, then. Let me take your measure.”

“Why?”

Gabriel offered no answer but silence. His silences were always textured; they were like the emotions that lay beneath words, unspoken, unvented. This one was no different.

The quietest and most scholarly of Jay’s den now chose to speak two words, watching Gabriel’s expression with a care that would have delighted Haval. “Rymark lied.”

The silence deepened, and it chilled. Teller waited for questions or denials, but Gabriel offered neither. Teller had chosen risk; he had chosen honesty. He hadn’t dressed it in formal words or speech; he hadn’t veiled it. Perhaps he should have. Perhaps, in the future of this office, he would come to regret it.

He drew breath and began again. “Rymark ATerafin is one of the senior members of the House Council. He is less economically independent than the other three; he owns no lands directly, although he does control some of the lesser leaseholds in the hundred. He has some merchant interests, but again, they’re minor, and much of his efforts have gone into the import and export of exotica. He has some contacts within the Merchant
Authority, and a very strong base of support within the Order of Knowledge; that support does not fully extend to the Council of the Magi. He is a Second Circle mage, and the only mage-born man to sit upon the House Council.

“He has, however, cultivated many of the merchant houses, and he has connections—strong political connections—among them which he has already begun to bring to bear. None of the other contenders have his breadth of knowledge. There isn’t a language with which he’s not familiar; nor are there many laws, in any country. He has support among the House Guard; it doesn’t rival Haerrad’s, but no one else does, either. He has friends in
Avantari
, and more than a passing acquaintance with the Princes. If his personal finances are the weakest of the four, he nonetheless has access to funding that can put him on level ground.” Teller stopped. He had faint hope that that would be enough; Gabriel dashed it quickly. In truth, they had little time.

“And in the event that one of the other four seemed most likely to take the seat?”

Teller exhaled. “I’m sorry, Gabriel,” he said, lowering his head a moment. “If Rymark is standing, he will never acknowledge superior force. Like Haerrad, he will fight until there are no others.” He looked up. Gabriel’s dark eyes, unblinking, caught his gaze and held it.

He rose. “Thank you, ATerafin.”

Teller caught his arm. “I’ve answered your questions, Gabriel. Can you answer at least one of mine?”

“I can try. Let us hope for both our sakes it is a brief question and a brief answer; Barston is soon to be fending off requests on our behalf, and they are likely to be increasingly uncivil requests.”

“You won’t break your word. You won’t support any of the four. You don’t think that all four will be left standing. What do you think will happen, now?”

“In truth? I do not know. The presence of the Kings’ agents will cripple the early fighting; it will make the struggle more subtle. This may save lives; it may not. If I were one of the four, I would consider Elonne and Marrick to be the lesser threats. Even were I Elonne or Marrick, I would be maneuvering around the other two, in the hope that they both perish. A long succession struggle will harm the House; there is no question. Perhaps the Kings are aware of it, and they seek to hamper Terafin, long the first among equals.” He inclined his head. “We have work to do.”

He made it to the door, touched the handle, and stopped, his back toward his younger colleague. “Yes,” he said, voice soft enough it wouldn’t have carried over any other sound. “He lied. And there is only one way you could say that with certainty.”

“Haerrad accused him of lying.”

“Haerrad would accuse The Terafin herself of lying, had she appointed an heir before her death,” was the grim reply. “Elonne and Marrick have been more circumspect in their response.”

“They weren’t bleeding.”

“As you say.” He still didn’t turn from the door. “You are not Haerrad, Teller. You will never be Haerrad. Or Elonne, or Marrick, for that matter. When you speak of Rymark ATerafin’s lie with such conviction, the source of that conviction is not ambition. You have spoken briefly—but well—about the situation that I, as regent, now face. But you have failed, perhaps, to mention the possibility of a fifth contender.”

Teller froze.

Gabriel didn’t see it. He didn’t wait for a response; instead, he opened the door and left Teller alone in his small office. Teller made his way to the chair he normally occupied, and he sat, elbows against the desk’s surface, hands against his face. What he hadn’t said—what he hadn’t the courage to say—was what he himself had seen when the demon had appeared in its deadly, terrifying glory: Rymark’s expression. Rymark, of the four, had shown no surprise and no horror.

He wondered if Gabriel had seen his son’s expression. Wondered, but was afraid to ask. He had no desire to hurt Gabriel. But the question
needed
to be asked. The person who posed the question needed to be able to survive asking it. Because if Rymark’s expression meant exactly what it appeared to mean, this wasn’t just another succession war. It was larger, darker; its outcome threatened to shadow an Empire, not just its most powerful House.

1st of Henden, 427 A.A.
Merchant Authority, Averalaan

Finch had discovered, with the passage of time, that death didn’t stop the wheels of commerce. It might stop some of the cogs in those wheels, but that was a matter of misfortune for the cogs.

“That is not entirely true,” Jarven told her, sitting back in his chair and
surveying the steam of his most excellent tea as it swirled in the air above the cup. “If the Kings die, commerce stops almost entirely. It is one of the reasons The Ten—and the Merchants’ Guild—pray for Royal Safety.”

“I’m seldom privy to the prayers of the powerful,” was Finch’s pert reply.

Jarven raised a brow. He almost raised two.

“I’m sorry. It’s—it’s been a long week, and it’s not going to get any easier for a while.”

“Ah. No, Finch, it is not.” He lifted the cup. His hands in this light looked delicate and aged. “How are the new additions to the office coming along?”

“I think you should ask Lucille.”

“Lucille is
quite
busy, Finch.”

And I’m not
? Finch had graduated from her position as undersecretary to the busy and vociferous Lucille ATerafin; she now worked in her own small office, overseeing the more standard trade deals—most notably the renewal of grants. Anything difficult or flashy was passed, as a matter of course, to Jarven’s office. Finch—and Lucille, of course—still
saw
most of the particulars of those contracts and proposals; Jarven insisted. She lifted her own cup of tea. Over the years, she’d become used to Jarven and his tea. It wasn’t exactly ceremonial, but it contained the elements of familiar ritual, and he insisted on it.

Lucille insisted on showing Jarven the respect that she felt was his due, which was probably the real reason it was tolerated in an otherwise frenetically busy environment.

“They seem friendly enough,” was her cautious reply.

“Do they indeed? How friendly?”

Finch smiled. “Not too friendly, but not too ingratiating.”

“Ah.” The old man sounded disappointed. “Do you recognize them?”

She did. They were all ATerafin, and most of them were her age; Paule was perhaps two years younger, although it was hard to tell.

“And can you tell me, young Finch, to whom each owes their current situation?”

“No. Lucille has to accept a new employee, and they’re all here.”

“Lucille has final refusal,” Jarven said, in the tone of voice that implied correction. “She can exercise this refusal as often as she considers wise. While The Terafin lived, wisdom was not at issue; The Terafin didn’t question her decisions.”

No one with half a thought would, in Finch’s opinion. She’d seen grown men reduced to tears of rage by Lucille. Several times. But she understood what Jarven was implying. “If any of the four were people she was likely to refuse, she’s shown no sign.”

“Ah. And Lucille is not capable of subtlety?”

“It’s not exactly her middle name.”

Jarven chuckled and sipped tea. Loudly. “Has Lucille come to any decisions about the rulership of the House?”

Finch almost dropped her tea, which would have been nothing short of disaster, as she liked her skin where it was. “P-pardon?”

Jarven raised a brow. “Finch, please. Gaping like that is beneath you. I merely asked a question that anyone of note in the House is now asking themselves.”

“Themselves, Jarven. Not me.”

“Not you? I’m surprised.”

Finch carefully set the tea back down on the tray. “No one has asked me directly,” she finally said.

“Which has the benefit of being the truth; I must admit that I’m in awe of your ability to dance out of reach of that question. You will not, however, be able to continue such a dance. You are a member of the House Council.” He didn’t bother to set his tea down; he drank it. “Have you opened any discussions with Lucille?” His gaze was sharp and clear. She both loved and hated it.

“We haven’t even had the funeral yet,” was her steady and quiet reply.

“Very well. How is young Jewel?” Jarven asked, eyeing the tea biscuits that Lucille had also laid out. The presence of biscuits or other edible food signaled the high probability of both long tea and tricky discussion; Finch had literally flinched when Lucille had peremptorily handed her the tray.

“She’s now returned to the helm of the mountain mineral concessions,” Finch replied. This was neutral enough; it was information that anyone with half an ear in the office would have.

“And that is all? I have heard the most astonishing rumors about her return.”

Finch was tired of games. Jarven would tire of them only after he tired of breathing. “She’s exhausted, Jarven.”

He nodded. “The rumors?”

“Which ones? I admit that some of the servants’ rumors have our hair
standing on end; Carver’s putting them out, one at a time, but it’s taking real work.”

“She rode a stag into the House Council Hall?”

“Oh.”

“That was not rumor.”

“No, sadly. That was true.”

“She numbers, among her personal guard—and not her House Guard, which has at least doubled—someone who might not be human.”

“That one’s true as well.”

“The Chosen have offered her their support.”

“That’s false.”

“Ah. A pity.”

“Not for Jay.”

“Have the Chosen simply failed to petition her directly?”

Damn it. “She’s not accepting visitors at the moment, no. She loved The Terafin, Jarven. Whatever else you hear, that much is true. She took the death very hard; she didn’t even arrive in time to see her alive.”

“Of her den, she is the most senior of the House Council. Rumor has it,” he added, and Finch had
never
loathed rumor so viscerally, “that that is not the only reason she is of extreme value to the House, and to whomever rules it. You should try the almond biscuits, Finch. They’re very good. What does Jewel intend?”

“Jarven—”

“You know that any discussion held in
this
office cannot be heard. There is no magestone; it is not required. All of the offers and negotiations are considered delicate enough the protections are built into the walls.”

“Yes, but you’ll know.”

He chuckled. “Indeed.”

Finch had had enough. “Who,” she said, picking up her cup again, as if it were a shield and not a hazard, “will you support?”