Skirmish: A House War Novel (73 page)

“This garden, and these grounds, have overnight become that: these trees are famed throughout the Empire for one reason and one alone: it is only in Averalaan that they grow—and only in the Common. Men and women have tried, often at great expense, to cultivate cuttings and even seeds—all have withered young. Here, however?” He raised his face again. “Here, House Terafin now has them in full growth, and in full bloom, and one doesn’t have to enter the Common to appreciate them.” His smile was sharp and anticipatory. Turning to Rymark, he added, “Surely you must agree?”

Rymark very smoothly replied, “Of course,” which surprised Jewel.

“It is a promising start,” Jarven added. “Come, Finch, if I may presume upon your time?” He bowed to her and when he rose, offered her his arm again.

“We’ll need her back before the guests arrive,” Jewel told him. “The House Council in full is expected to be gathered to greet the guests.”

“I
S IT TRUE,” Jarven asked, “that Jewel caused the trees to grow?”

Finch grimaced. “Now is not the time to ask that, Jarven.”

“It is exactly the time to ask,” was his quiet—and serious—reply. “She is bold today. She is dressed in a manner that might befit Queens, should Queens have access to such material and such artistry. Let me assure you, in case you are in any doubt,” he added, in a lower voice, “our Monarchs don’t. There is no one, no matter how rich or notable, who will compare with the young ATerafin. I admit to being somewhat surprised; I did not think she had it in her.” His smile returned, changing the creases in his face; he was at an age where they were always present in one form or another.

“Look at the House Council; they are discomfited. Elonne takes stock; Marrick is being far too jovial. Haerrad approaches her as if she is the foremost of his rivals.”

“And Rymark?”

“Rymark concerns me,” Jarven replied. “He is ill-pleased, but he does not seem concerned.”

“Should he? He’s always been arrogant.”

“He has; he has never, however, been a fool. To ignore the significance of her presence in that dress, beneath those trees, and at the side of that creature is the act of a fool.” He glanced at her, as if waiting.

“You don’t think he’s being a fool now.”

“How perceptive. I should really stop, you know; Lucille will almost certainly be annoyed if I continue.”

Finch felt a moment of relief; it was very short-lived. “…But she won’t be annoyed at me if I do.”

His smile was warm, friendly, and just the slightest bit self-satisfied. “She will be annoyed at me if you do, but I am accustomed to that. She’ll probably make bad tea for at least a month. Do continue.”

“You don’t think he’s being a fool now, which is why you’re concerned; you think he knows something we don’t know.”

“He most certainly knows things that neither of us knows, yes—but he has made clear that at least one of them involves the neutralization of the young ATerafin, and possibly in a way that would meet with general disapproval.”

Finch hesitated. “You know there was an assassination attempt yesterday?”

He smiled brightly at one of the young men who sometimes worked in the Trade Commission office, exchanging a brief and pleasant—if slightly addled—greeting. “I had heard, yes. I’d imagine anyone with half an ear to House business has, although to be fair, the preparations for the funeral rites have occupied almost every echelon of the manse itself, from the regent down to the newest of the servants. I was very disappointed.”

Her brows rose, and he rolled his eyes. “Not because of the lack of success, Finch; please, try to be less easily shocked. I was disappointed because it cannot have escaped the notice of any of the contenders that the Lord of the Compact has all but been in residence in the manse in preparation for the presence of the Kings and Queens at the funeral. An assassination that occurs in his lap might still fit the criteria of House Law—but Duvari could nonetheless make life very, very difficult for a House that is so poorly controlled that it cannot prevent itself from such extremes beneath his nose.”

Finch said nothing. Jay had made clear that she thought something outside of the House was involved—and something outside of the House wasn’t likely to care all that much about whether or not House Terafin came under political fire.

“Ah, Finch, I think our guests are beginning to arrive.”

She froze. “The Kings?”

“No. Nor the Exalted; not yet. If it had been either, you would know, have no fear. Unfortunately, I do recognize some of the guests, and I believe I am now expected to make my presence known.” He smiled, and offered her an arm. “You will, no doubt, recognize them as well.”

* * *

Gabriel made his way to Jewel’s side, taking time to speak a word or two to the members of the House over which he now ruled as reluctant regent. He therefore didn’t beat the arrival of the first few guests. Jewel watched them at a distance; they were, for the most part, notable members of the merchant houses on the Isle. With Gabriel came Teller and Barston, although only Barston was likely to remain at Gabriel’s side. Jewel offered Gabriel what she hadn’t offered any of the Council members: a full bow. She held it as gracefully as she could. Even when Night hissed.

“You are well, ATerafin?” Gabriel asked, when she rose.

“I am well. You are not yet weary of your companion?”

Gabriel’s smile froze in place; Jewel wanted to laugh, but managed to keep silent. “It is as you said; he does not appear to require sleep, and if he requires food, our food is apparently beneath him.”

She did laugh then.

“It has
plants
in it,” Night complained.

“He’s good practice,” Jewel said quietly. She felt, rather than saw, Avandar’s extreme disapproval, and ducked her chin until she could lose the expression. She also failed to say the rest of the words.

“ATerafin,” Gabriel said quietly, when she straightened. “That is an unusual ring. May I see it?”

Without visible hesitation, she lifted her normally ringless hand; he caught it—gently—in his own. “Where did you get this?” he finally asked, when he released her.

“It was left for me by The Terafin,” she replied, evading the actual question. “It was a personal possession, and of little significance to the House.”

“You were not wearing it yesterday.”

“Not during the day, no.”

“I see. Do you recognize it for what it is?”

“It’s the signet of House Handernesse.”

“It is. Do you know when she—”

“Yes. I know how it arrived in the manse. I know who wore it last.” Frowning, she added, “Why is it significant to you, Regent?”

He shook his head, but his expression was now careworn. “She asked me to watch for it,” he finally said. “I don’t think she was certain I would ever see it, but she asked.” He hesitated again, which was unusual for Gabriel. “But she asked it after receiving a visit from an outsider, a woman I have seen only once in my tenure as her right-kin.”

“Evayne.” Jewel said. It wasn’t a question.

“Indeed.” He straightened, his face once again adopting a benign and distant smile. “Your dress is very lovely,” he told her.

She managed to say thank you.

The bardic colleges were represented by master bards. Morniel and Attariel had sent two; Brekenhurst and Linden, one each. But Senniel College, alone of the five, was situated upon the Isle; Senniel, therefore, sent all of its master bards, or rather, all of the bards still in residence in the city. Even the bardmaster, of the five, the only one who had been born without the bardic gift for which bards were famed, was in attendance. Solran Marten was tired, and it showed; the War in the South had taken some half dozen of her bards from her halls, and she wasn’t certain that it would return them all; war seldom did.

But in the absence necessitated by war, The Terafin had fallen in her own manse, and if rumor was to be believed, in her own Council Hall. Thus, the bards gathered. The regent, Gabriel ATerafin, was a man with whom the bardmaster was familiar; Senniel’s bards frequently adorned the Terafin grounds during the height of the season, as they were invited to perform at weddings and festive occasions. They were seldom invited to the more somber funerals—but in the case of a woman of The Terafin’s significance, they were necessary.

I am old for this,
Solran thought, watching her master bards disperse among the guests. She listened, as she habitually did, for the tone and current of the crowd; although she had no talent-born gift, she knew people as well as any who relied on their wits could. She was therefore drawn, by gossip tinged with both awe and envy, toward one of the younger members of the House Council: Jewel Markess ATerafin.

Lays had been written about this girl, and at the quiet but firm request of The Terafin—now dead—they had been closeted within Senniel itself. It wasn’t legally required; the request had been made of Solran’s predecessor. But Solran had heard the songs: a seer-born girl, born to poverty in the harsh streets of the poorest holdings, had come to The Terafin with a message of both doom and hope: the Lord of the Hells was traveling toward Averalaan. During the darkest Henden of any living memory—and Solran would never forget that Henden, although she had tried many times—Jewel Markess ATerafin had used her gift to guide The Terafin to the Kings. The Kings had ridden, like Moorelas himself, into the darkness
that lay in wait beneath the city, and when they emerged, the shadows were gone.

The lay had only been played for the bards within Senniel; that much, Siobhan could not prevent. The Terafin felt the young woman’s life would be in danger were the song widely sung—and Solran did privately agree with this assessment.
Amarais,
she thought, pausing a moment to gather herself.
You will be much missed.

The moment passed, and Solran once again began to walk. She turned a carefully cultivated corner and the first thing she saw—which stopped her in her tracks—were the trees. Many of the guests, finely attired patricians all, had likewise stopped a moment, in wonder; they discussed those trees, and House Terafin, in the hush of near awe. In some cases, the awe was begrudged, and in one particularly loud one, the speaker determined that these were a tasteless illusion put on by hired mages.

Solran knew they were real.

She walked down the path toward the closest of the trees, and stopped again: Jewel Markess ATerafin was standing beneath it. Solran had had cause to meet the young House Council member, but in truth not often. She had never seen her like this. Jewel ATerafin wore a dress that only song could capture, because it seemed to exist as a feeling, an emotion; it implied gossamer, but at the same time, heavy silk, something luxuriant and full. The sleeves draped in a way that made them part of the dress’ fall, blending with the gather of train as if they were liquid, but they rustled. The rustle reminded Solran of the movement of leaves, and she glanced at the branches above the Terafin Council member; they were in full bloom.

Nor was that all—although that would have been enough, in Solran’s opinion, to keep the Courts in gossip for at least a half month. Jewel wore a pendant that seemed to harness sunlight’s more gentle glow around her neck; on her hand was the ring of the Terafin House Council—and one other, worn on the thumb. There was a story there.

But by her side—by her side was a man who was tall, fair, and cold; he was also beautiful in the way things unattainable are. His eyes were the color of steel in the morning light, and they suited the cast of his face; his hair was pale, and it fell down his shoulders in a way that reminded the bardmaster of Jewel’s dress. He drew the eye, but everything about him discouraged speech or even gestures of greeting.

Standing by his side, Jewel should have looked dowdy, short, plain.

She did not. It was hard to look away from him—but at the same
time, hard to look
at
him. She wondered what his voice would sound like to her bards, and made a note to ask, although she wasn’t certain he would speak at all; he had that look of silence about him. She managed to look from this armed stranger to the woman he was clearly guarding; it was easier.

But as she approached, she saw the third strange thing: there was a large cat—a maneless lion—standing by Jewel ATerafin’s side; it was white—and winged.

Winged.

She drew one sharp breath and submerged the whole of her complicated reaction, donning an easy, friendly smile. She unslung her harp, and set it against her hip. She did not play, or rather, did not sing, but her fingers couldn’t hover above strings for long without coaxing something from them. She was not surprised when she realized what she was playing, but she wasn’t embarrassed either. Only the bards here would recognize the song, and once they’d laid eyes on Jewel ATerafin, they wouldn’t question it; were it not a funeral, they might bring it out into the open at last.

This woman was no callow child, nor one who required shelter or protection from her gift. She had stepped into the heart of a battlefield no less complex than the fields in the South over which the Kings’ armies were, even now, waging their very necessary war against the forces that served the god Solran she didn’t care to name. She stood like a young Queen surveying her subjects.