Skirmish: A House War Novel (41 page)

“You knew very little when you arrived here, and you have—by dint of effort and will—become a success in their eyes. They wanted to believe you could achieve success because they—like anyone—want to believe in stories. You are a story, to them.

“But your chief role in that story has always been to be more human than they are; to come from meaner circumstances and to succeed because, in some unquantifiable way, you are worthy of success. You are still, in their eyes, some part of a story.”

She understood then. “And even if the things that happen to me now are more storylike and far less real, it’s the wrong story.”

“That is my concern.”

“Do you understand that I don’t feel any different?”

“None of us do. I am regent; I do not feel significantly wiser or more competent than I did when I first applied for the privilege of bearing the House Name. What we appear to be to others is never what we look like to ourselves, and you would do best to remember this.” He paused as they reached her door. He hadn’t finished, but took his time gathering the rest of his words. “You are living in a story of a very different type.

“It may be, Jewel ATerafin, that the trappings of this story will garner you…not fear but approval in some quarters. But if that is the case, it makes you far more of a threat to those who wish to succeed Amarais; they cannot be served by someone who outshines them, even if only by accident.

“You will have six days.” He turned, and then turned back and offered her a perfect bow. It silenced her because it was so wrong.

She was still silent when she entered the doors of the wing; Ellerson, not Avandar, was waiting. He lifted a silver brow as the cats had a brief struggle to see who would walk through the doors first. “I see Avandar did not exaggerate,” he told Jewel quietly. “I have taken the liberty of having refreshments prepared. Teller and Finch are currently occupying Haval, but he is waiting for your arrival.”

“Patiently?”

Ellerson did not reply. “ATerafin.”

“I have no idea where they’re going to stay,” she replied. “I know we have a few rooms left—do you think we could open one and see if they destroy too much of it? Before you ask, no, I have no idea if they’re housebroken.”

The white cat hissed, clearly unamused.

“They’re almost never quiet, on the other hand—so maybe the room farthest from any other occupied room?”

“Very well.” He glanced at the cats. “Gentlemen, if you will follow me?”

“We’re
hungry
,” the black cat said.

When Jewel opened the door of the room that was being used for Haval’s fitting, silence ensued. It was a silence underscored by widening eyes—Teller’s and Finch’s—and by narrowing ones. Haval insisted on light for his work, and the room, given the time of day, was astonishingly well lit. It was also unforgiving. The smudges on her coat couldn’t be hidden; they were sadly all much more alarmingly dark then they’d looked when Jewel had faced the Exalted.

“Jewel,” Haval said curtly. “So kind of you to join us.” He glared at the scorch marks on her outer jacket, which she quickly began to remove. “I would appreciate it if you would keep the damage to your
necessary
clothing to a minimum; I have no time, even absent very theoretical sleep, to undertake another commission.”

Finch, however, said, “What happened, Jay?”

“We had a bit of a problem with a tree.”

“So you torched it?”

“Not exactly.” Jewel handed the coat to Finch, who took it and examined it more critically. “It’s all superficial. I’m sure it can be cleaned up.”

Haval stiffened. If the harsh light was no kindness to Jewel’s clothing, it was even less of one to Haval; he looked exhausted. “The rest of the clothing as well. I want to insist that you bathe before you put on what I’ve finished so far, but I feel the chance that you fall asleep while doing so is high.”

“Is Hannerle—”

“She is
quite
awake, thank you.”

“—Angry?”

“And quite angry, as you surmise.” He stalked over to the table
across which lay a dress that was obviously black and white. This he picked up and carried to Jewel. “How did your discussion with Devon ATerafin go?”

In the events that had followed that discussion, Jewel had almost forgotten its content. “It went.”

Haval raised a steel brow.

She relented. “It went well enough that he’s willing to undertake any negotiations for compensation directly. With you.”

“…I see.”

“I think I understand what’s causing the plague, though.”

He stiffened, which was very, very unusual for Haval; he
must
be tired. Either that, or he wanted to show surprise, which, given it was Haval, was vastly more likely.

“Before you ask,” she told him, words momentarily muffled as she pulled a piece of very fine silk over her face, “I should warn you that we have guests.”

“Guests?”

She nodded as her hair sprung free. Some of it lodged just in front of her eyes, but she didn’t dare push it aside. Instead, she held out her arms as he approached and began to examine his work and its fitting. “You’ll recognize at least one of them.”

“Jewel, I am in far too much of a hurry to play games. Who are these guests?”

“Sigurne Mellifas and Matteos Corvel.”

“I see. You may lower your right arm. No, your
right
arm.” He began to pin some folds of cloth. “And they are not currently in residence?”

“No. I think Sigurne’s still speaking with the Exalted.”

“…the Exalted.”

“Yes. And the regent.” She hesitated, and then glanced at Teller. “You still like cats, right?”

“…Yes. Why?”

“We have some.”

“
You
brought cats home?”

“Not exactly. They followed me. I had Ellerson—with any luck—put them in a room as far away from any other room as he could find.”

Teller frowned.

“They’re not
exactly
cats. They’re—” she searched for an appropriate word; most of the ones that came immediately to mind were street Torra.
“They’re the size of large ponies, they have wings, and they talk. They talk a lot.”

“So, not cats at all?”

“Wait until you meet them.”

Haval, however, was done, at least with sleeves. He knelt to fiddle with hem. “Jewel, why exactly do you have winged cats in your personal residence?”

“Because I don’t trust them anywhere else?”

He nudged her into a better posture. “Very well. I would like you to return to your supposition about the cause of the plague.”

“It’s deliberate. Someone derives power from mortal dreaming, and whoever he—or she—is, they needed power. I don’t know how it works, but I think he—or she—caused the sleeping sickness as a way of building that power base.”

“And will the sleepers now naturally wake?”

“I don’t think so. We didn’t exactly catch the person involved, and I’m not sure—yet—how to stop him.”

Haval stood, and gestured again; she obligingly turned her back to him, aware of the pins in his hand. “How, exactly, did you arrive at your conclusion?”

“The tree. In the grounds. In the back.” She sighed and he poked her.

“I will assume that something occurred that involved that tree.”

“It did. The tree had been enchanted. No, that’s not the right word—it’ll have to do for now. It was partially rooted in the dreaming of the people who haven’t woken yet, and partially rooted in something entirely different.”

“To what end?”

“Given it was the central element of the grounds at which the opening of the funeral rites were to occur?”

“You failed to mention that. Continue.”

“The tree attacked Celleriant; Celleriant survived. He wasn’t happy.”

“Very little could make that man happy, and if it did, it would certainly not please you. I assume he survived?”

“He did. But he understood how he had been attacked, and why the attack almost succeeded, and he explained that much to me. Whoever warped or twisted the tree is almost certainly responsible for the sleeping sickness.”

“He said that?”

“No.”

“Your intuition?”

“Yes.”

“Can you stop him?”

“
Yes
.” She stiffened as the word left her mouth.

“Will the current sleepers survive?”

No ready answer followed.

Fifteen minutes later, Haval allowed Jewel to step down from the stool and change. He also examined the coat Finch still held. “I will be back tomorrow,” he told her, as he began to pack up his various implements. “I would appreciate it greatly if you would hold off on any political crises until then.”

“What do you want me to do about Devon?”

“I will arrange to speak with Devon ATerafin.” He began to insert needles and long pins into one flat, thick fold of pockets, laid out in a row. When he was done, he would roll them into a bundle; it was usually the last thing he did. “Why did you offer to house Sigurne Mellifas?”

“I didn’t offer. I agreed to her request.”

Haval nodded and continued his work. “Why, then, did she make the request?”

“Haval—I’m not you. I don’t know. I think she wanted two things: to be on the grounds on the off chance that her presence was necessary, and to be able to speak with Celleriant, should he condescend to allow it.”

“Celleriant?”

“She seemed fascinated by him. No, that’s not the right word. But I think she knows something of the history of his people.”

He snorted. “Mages.”

“Sigurne’s not like most of the magi.”

“No; she’s almost sane. Clearly, however, some of that sanity is superficial. Very well. You mentioned cats?”

“You’ll hate them.”

“No doubt. I do not like anything you’ve mentioned this eve. This…difficulty…with the tree is the reason for Sigurne’s presence?”

“Technically? No. I think Duvari is the reason for her presence.”

“Ah. Of course; the Kings and the Queens will be present for the opening rites. Let me then return to the tree. How visible was the difficulty you’ve mentioned?”

She flinched.

“Never mind. How many witnesses were there?”

“The first time? Only a handful.”

“…the first time.”

“The second time, the Exalted were present. Duvari was either present or well-informed.”

“And your…winged cats the size of large ponies?”

“They came the second time.”

“With you.”

“…yes.”

“Jewel, do you even understand what the word subtlety means?”

She was silent.

Haval would not have been, but as he opened his mouth, there was a knock at the door.

Ellerson opened it at Jewel’s quiet word; he was alone. He bowed very formally to both Jewel and Haval. “Forgive the interruption, ATerafin,” he said quietly.

“Sigurne’s back?”

“Ah. The guildmaster has indeed returned, but it is not the guildmaster who requests a moment of your time.”

“Who, then?”

“Council member Haerrad.”

“I’m not interested in speaking with Haerrad.”

“No, indeed. It has been a very long, and very eventful day. I did attempt to make this clear; the Council member in question is not known for his ability to accept denial.”

Jewel frowned. “It doesn’t matter whether or not he accepts it. Does it?”

“Perhaps not. I merely felt you would wish to be informed; he is in the waiting room with four of the House Guard and he is unwilling to leave.”

She grimaced.

“Avandar, however, is now encouraging his departure.”

Her eyes rounded. “I’ll go,” she told Ellerson.

He nodded.

J
EWEL COULD HEAR NOTHING as she approached the closed door at the end of the hall: nothing but the sharp sound of her own breath. Of the House Council members, there was no one—past or present—that she hated the way she hated Haerrad. If Haerrad were revealed as a demon from the Hells, it wouldn’t materially change her feelings.

Even the fact that she was almost certain Rymark had arranged The Terafin’s death did not unseat him from his most-hated position, although it did give him some company in the inner circle.

Haerrad was the only one who had gone out of his way to injure—not kill—one of her own just to prove a point. Teller had spent weeks recovering from his broken limb; Jewel had never recovered.

She paused a few yards from the closed door and stared at it, hard. If Avandar killed the bastard, things would get ugly. But would they be uglier, in the end, if he didn’t? Standing in the hall, waiting, she heard someone cough. It was the type of polite and wordless command that only one man could utter, and she glanced over her shoulder to meet Ellerson’s steady gaze.

“He had Teller’s arm broken,” she told the domicis quietly. “Because he wanted to encourage my support.”

“And you are wondering how much more he will do in the near future?”

She nodded grimly.

“Avandar is not a member of the House,” was his quiet reply.

It was all he needed to say. If Haerrad died at Avandar’s hand, it wasn’t, and couldn’t be, an internal affair. Not with Duvari—and his Astari—skulking around the House grounds.

“If I go out there, he gets what he wants.”