Skirmish: A House War Novel (15 page)

He smiled. It was an unusual smile; it was almost predatory. She had seen Jarven for over a decade. She had been sent to his office with tea on a daily basis: rain, shine, or crisis notwithstanding. On receiving each of her three promotions, it had been made clear by Lucille that this giving of tea was still one of her primary duties, regardless of the increase in her workload.

During all of those days, months, and years, Jarven had rarely shown her the smile he offered now.

“I will,” he said quietly, “offer support to none of the current contenders. I have made my impartiality in that regard quite clear. It is why there are now four new employees under my watchful eye.”

“It’s a small wonder Lucille hasn’t strangled you. Or,” she added balefully, glancing at the teapot, “poisoned you, at any rate.”

He chuckled again. “It’s a large wonder, in my opinion. They will watch the office now. They’ll listen. They’re probably cursing,” he added, with a genial smile that was almost smug, “at the length of our little discussion.”

“Which won’t do me any favors.”

“Not entirely, no. Not at the moment. You understand that most of the House is not yet divided? The Terafin’s death was unexpected; the manner of her death was horrifying. Members of the House Council have not yet made their decision; members of the merchant fleet, while pressured, are doing their own investigations.”

“Is that a delicate way of saying entertaining offers?”

“Finch, you wound me. Of course it is. At the moment, the four new employees are passing on those offers as quickly as their little mouths can move. They are also, as they can, expediting the paperwork of the merchants whose association would be deemed the most advantageous. Are you doing anything similar?” After a moment of silence, he shook his head. “That will not do, Finch. You’ve been with me for almost two decades—”

“Fifteen years.”

“Sixteen, which is closer to twenty than ten. Don’t be a pedant. As I was saying, you’ve been with me for almost two decades. You have a much better understanding of the minutiae of this office; you certainly understand which of the various merchants and merchant houses will prove most valuable. Not all of the assumptions are gained by a mere week’s work; not even careful perusal of the filed paperwork can grant that kind of knowledge in so short a span of time.

“The four new employees will also be watching each other with more care. They’ve spoken with Lucille, inasmuch as they deem it wise; they’ve no doubt approached you as well.”

“They haven’t.”

“Ah. That shows more wisdom than haste generally allows. Tell me, Finch, why do you think they have been more or less silent around you?”

“Lucille would kill them?”

He laughed. “Well, there is that. It’s not the acceptable answer, and I’ll trouble you to give me one before you leave.”

Finch sighed. “I’m a member of the House Council. Even if I’m newly appointed. No one can withdraw that from me—and I don’t think Gabriel would try—without diminishing the value of the Council within the House. Any offers made to me will be made by the leaders of their factions.”

“And those?”

“The other House Council members.”

“Good. I will let you leave now; I believe I have some dreary appointments of my own. The office will, of course, be closed for the three days of the funeral.”

As she rose and placed everything on the tray, he said, “I hear you’ve employed Haval as your dressmaker?”

Her arms stiffened. “We have. Jay always employs Haval, when she’s given any choice in the matter.”

“Always?”

“Always.”

1st of Henden, 427 A.A.
Terafin Manse, Averalaan Aramarelas

Haval’s return to the Terafin manse was through the trade entrance, as befit his station. The trade entrance, in the manse, was quite congested; the House Guards were out in force, and the presence of clothing in various states of repair did nothing to stem their obvious suspicion of any outsider. He would have accepted this without irritation had their questions and observations not been so
rote
. He could have cheerfully and carefully carried poison in every pocket of his smock and they wouldn’t have blinked.

But he understood why they were being so officious a few meters past the door itself; there, he saw the tabards of the Kings’ Swords in prominent display. The gray complemented the varying blues of the Terafin colors, but its presence clashed with them in other ways. Neither set of guards were comfortable.

His understanding deepened when he saw the severe and unadorned robes of the Order of Knowledge in the open halls nearest the manse’s
great kitchen. He didn’t recognize the members of the Order; most of them were younger than Haval. Nor was he ultimately troubled; the worst of the magi, excepting only the exceptional and formidable Sigurne Mellifas, were in the Dominion of Annagar, waging war alongside the Kings’ armies. Now was not the time that the Empire wished to see any demonic activity, if there was ever such a time.

But such wishes counted for little in the face of reality. Demonic activity had been detected, and the most powerful House in the Empire was now without a leader at that very moment.

Haval no longer, to his lasting regret, required great effort to feign the effects of age; he required rather more to hide them. Today, it was not required. He fretted only because time, until the funeral itself, was so short, and he had been forced to give up even the hope of a good night’s sleep. It deepened the circles beneath his eyes.

It took almost an hour to run the full gauntlet of guard, guard, and mage. Given the funeral services—and it was a full funeral of no less than three days—Haval was not the only clothier to grace the endless line. Nor was he, by any stretch, the only merchant; he was one of the more forbearing. The Terafin galleries, however, were almost empty in comparison, and he traversed these quickly, with the aid of a servant whose sole occupation seemed to consist of escorting visitors. Against his better judgment, he allowed the servant to help him carry his wares.

But he noticed, as he walked, that there were flowers strewn across the gallery floors, nestled mostly in the corner made of walls and floor. Among the flowers there were letters and other small mementos—paintings, drawings, unlit candles. Some—not all—of the hanging paintings had been covered in black and white; some of the draping cloth was edged in gold. The House mourned, in its fashion.

“She was greatly loved,” Haval said to his guide.

The man nodded gravely; it was a gravity at odds with his age. He didn’t speak, which left Haval no opening to continue, and perhaps that was best. The doors to the West Wing—guarded by four men in House colors—came into view.

“If you require assistance when you’re ready to leave, please let the guard know; someone will return for you.”

Haval thanked the servant. He also turned and answered the same set of questions posed by the very first guards he’d laid eyes on. The questions were, however, perfunctory; he was expected.

Haval entered the sitting room. Ellerson was waiting for him. Haval didn’t pretend to understand why there were two domicis in such a small space; he understood that Jewel was not entirely comfortable with the older one, and understood, as well, that the discomfort was personal. He would have asked this domicis to lead him to the rooms in which the fittings would take place, but was interrupted in this perfectly reasonable request by the sound of raised voices.

He recognized one of them quite well.

Both men turned in the direction of the shouting, and when they turned back, they exchanged a brief and almost rueful half smile.

“I must extend my apologies,” Ellerson said, offering a perfect bow. “Jewel ATerafin was expecting you, but I believe her…meeting…has gone on longer than she intended.”

Haval nodded. “From the sounds of it, it will be some time; might I trouble you for tea?”

“Of course. I will inform her that you have arrived.”

Haval took a seat. The chairs were large and comfortable, and a fire was burning in the expansive fireplace not far from the chairs. There was a small, dark table to one side of the chair, and it was to this table that Ellerson brought the requested tea. The shouting, in this room, was muted.

“Jewel wishes me to inform you that she will join you as soon as she is able,” the domicis said.

“Are they all in this meeting?”

The domicis hesitated; it was a brief silence, one a less observant man might have missed. “They are. Finch and Teller are with Jewel now, and their fittings must be seen to first, as they are expected in their respective offices with minimal delay. I have therefore taken the liberty of placing your clothing and your tools in one of the guest rooms.”

“Thank you. I took much longer to gain entrance than I anticipated, and I am unexpectedly weary. I did not think to be questioned by the Kings’ own Swords; I certainly did not expect to be inspected by the magi.”

Ellerson’s head bobbed in something too formal to be a nod. “You will encounter both again on any visit in the near future.”

“I see.” Haval knew better than to ask the domicis why. He also knew that the domicis could answer. It was always slightly frustrating to have
so much information so close at hand without being able to touch it. But slight frustrations had never deterred Haval. Information that was easily available was almost without value.

Teller joined Haval within the half hour. Haval had always approved of Teller; today was no exception. He was calm, even diffident; his confidence was quiet, not loud. He could stand in a room without attracting attention, but if he required attention, he could carefully grab it. But his expression was never neutral; it was never forced.

“I’m sorry,” the younger man said, as if to reinforce this point. “Jay’ll be with you soon, but I’m in a bit of hurry.” He waited for Haval to rise and then led him—quickly—to his rooms. There he shed the outer clothing he’d been wearing, and donned what Haval had brought with him instead. Haval took his measurements, frowning and pinning as he worked. Teller, like Jewel, didn’t care for pins or needles; unlike Jewel, he didn’t flinch or hold his breath when they were being added.

“How is Hannerle?”

Haval glanced up from his work. He reminded himself that he liked Teller and that it was an entirely reasonable question, and therefore refrained from accidentally jabbing him with the wrong end of a pin. “She is,” he said, pins held in his mouth somewhat blunting the edge of his voice, if not the words, “in a very,
very
unfortunate mood.”

“That’s bad?”

“It was bad enough that I considered it unwise to bring her with me—and I could have used her help.” Given the levels of unexpected interrogation, it had been more than wise to leave her at the store, proof that Kalliaris did smile, on occasion. He finished his pinning. “You are not to gain much weight in the next day, is that understood?”

“Given work and sleep, I should ask how much I’m allowed to lose instead.”

Haval managed to dredge some sympathy out of somewhere; he didn’t inspect the source too carefully. “Believe that I have seldom dreaded the respectability of a funeral so intensely.”

Teller slid—carefully—out of the jacket, and Haval equally carefully laid it flat between two thinning sheets, which were currently draped across the bed; Teller’s rooms were very sparsely furnished, and the table—the single table—was already in use.

“Will Finch and Jewel be much longer?”

“Gods know. There’s something going on in the Authority,” Teller added. Haval noticed only the slightest of pauses between the first phrase and the minimal information of the second one. If hearing could be sharpened, Haval would have been holding a whetstone.

“Does that something happen to involve Jarven ATerafin?”

“Sooner or later, it has to.”

“Oh?”

“Anything interesting in the Merchant Authority almost always seems to involve Jarven; if it doesn’t, he sulks. According to Finch,” Teller added with wry haste. “Lucille only gets involved in important, practical matters and again, according to Finch, she doesn’t
start
trouble.”

“And Finch now feels that Jarven is starting trouble?”

“Not in so many words, no, but she’s feeling less than fully confident.” The door opened. Teller’s mouth closed.

“Ah, Finch. Just the person I wanted.” Haval, pins more or less in hand, gestured her toward the small footstep on which Teller had been standing. “I’m informed speed is of the essence,” he added.

Teller, in the background, was already changing into the attire he wore when in the office.

“Yes,” she said. “I’m sorry. We had a message from Haerrad. It couldn’t be easily refused as it was personally delivered, although Ellerson
did
try. How’s Hannerle?”

“She is in fine fettle.”

“That’s bad?”

He chuckled; it was genuine. “Indeed. A less intelligent man might think she was trying to make him regret the lack of sleep and silence.” At the small round “O” of shock she made, he relented. “She is confused and she is frightened. Finch, please—stand
still
. And straighten your shoulders. Thank you.”

Jewel made her entrance as Finch attempted to follow his instructions. Haval took a brief break to do something about Finch’s hair, which had not yet been bound in any way and now threatened the careful placement of his pins. It was long and fine, although its color was almost entirely nondescript.

“Good morning, Jewel. Before you ask, Hannerle is still awake.”

Jewel grinned; it was a very tired expression. But where Finch and Teller were willing to listen more or less politely, Jewel was not. “Has she said anything?”

“Rather a lot.”

This earned a chuckle. “Anything repeatable?”

“In this wing, yes; outside of it, no. Since I feel that a certain type of language devalues truly cutting wit, I will not repeat most of it.”

“We probably said worse in the kitchen.”

“No doubt. I did hear some of it—from the sitting room.”

The den leader winced. “Sorry. We had a couple of minor emergencies, and talking people out of dealing with them in the wrong way took time. Speaking of which,” she added, “I’d like to introduce you to someone.”