Skirmish: A House War Novel (79 page)

Duvari, however, had no difficulty separating himself from either Jewel or the Winter King. He stepped past them quickly, coming up behind Teller in a way that immediately stemmed the icy flow of Lady Sarcen’s unfortunate harangue.

“Lady Sarcen,” Jewel heard Duvari say, in a voice at least as unfriendly as hers had been, “
Where
is Lord Sarcen now?”

Teller retreated immediately to Jewel’s side.

“Trouble?” he asked her, glancing at her face. His eyes stayed there; the
momentary—and trivial—annoyance at Lady Sarcen, her husband, and the patriciate’s selfish demands in general slowly drained from his face as Jewel watched. “Jay?” He lifted his hands, sketching the question in rapid den-sign. She knew what he saw; was torn between comfort and irritation.

She answered the same way, her hands dancing briefly above the shimmering fabric that covered her lap.

Where
?

They had no den-sign for what she said next. “
Avantari
. Avandar, Celleriant, and Devon have gone.” She swallowed, shook herself, and shifted her shoulders, bringing them down her back to change her posture into something more suitable for the dress she wore and the creature she rode. “Come, Teller. We’re expected, and we’ve little time before the third chimes start.”

Duvari, however, lifted a hand. He didn’t actually look back; he was still in conversation with Lady Sarcen. Jewel grimaced. To Teller she signed,
Go sit. Take Jester. I’ll follow when I can
.

Teller hesitated, and she repeated the gestures more emphatically.
You’re exhausted
.

Yes
. She smiled as she gestured; he winced. But this yes carried an unspoken corollary with it: too tired to have this argument. All of the den understood it; only Angel generally pressed her otherwise. Angel, she thought, and then—for no reason at all—Duster. Duster had been the girl who could never, ever just say yes. Not unless half of the Hells was riding down their backsides and any other syllable meant probable death. Even then, she wouldn’t actually say the word—but she’d obey.

Teller grabbed Jester, and then signed a single word:
Angel?

She hesitated a moment before she signed
Leave him
. Arann was with the Chosen; he would stay until she was allowed to finally join the House Council in their seats. Jewel had no idea where Carver was, but Carver was now Teller’s problem; he was in theory to sit with Teller as a member of Teller’s retinue for the duration of the first day rites.

She had a suspicion that even today, Carver was sneaking private time with a very harried Merry; the Master of the Household Staff would probably spit him if she caught him. Jewel might not be that far behind, all things considered. Her arms and legs were aching, her throat was dry, and the sky above the gathering had folded clouds into such a dense brew it looked like night; she felt—impatient. Fearful.

Lightning split the sky as she watched, its sustained white flash
illuminating the grounds and leaching all color from its inhabitants—flower beds, grass, fabric, faces—thunder followed, drowning out speech, although speech had, for a moment paused. People rose as rain began to fall but resumed their seats once they realized it wouldn’t reach them; the barrier erected by the mage-born did its work.

Teller grabbed Jester—almost literally, and in a way that would have made Ellerson wince had he been present. Frowning, Teller scanned the crowd—Ellerson not technically a member of the House, was nonetheless domicis; at some point, he’d be here. Given the way the day had been going to this point, he was probably watching, with that slightly starched frown on his otherwise impeccable face. Teller released Jester’s arm, but did some rapid signing, and Jester rolled his eyes, but ducked his head to follow. It was slow; he was glancing back at Jay every half step or so.

“She’s with Duvari,” Teller said, voice low. “Inasmuch as there’s a threat here, it can’t be worse than that—but Duvari’s selfish; he doesn’t share. If he’s not going to be the one to bring her down, hard, no one else is going to do it while she’s standing under his nose.”

That made Jester chuckle, and the sound filtered up through his expression, easing his tension. “Your point,” he told Teller, and then added, “And yes, today I’m keeping score. What was with Lady Sarcen anyway?”

“She knows where Lord Sarcen is, and she knows Duvari,” Teller replied, although he also felt uneasy. “She’s making a clear point to the Lord of the Compact: she’s not afraid of him.”

“If she has to make that point—”

“It’s probably not true?”

Jester nodded.

“Well, she doesn’t look like a fool.”

“I was thinking more witch.”

Teller did laugh at that, and then grimaced, because if Ellerson would frown, Barston would practically explode. “She’s a significant Lady of, as they put it, society.”

“So was The Terafin.”

“No. The Terafin was a power. Terrifying, absolute, and, in her fashion, just.” Amusement drained from Teller’s face. “And we know what killed her.”

“But not why,” was Jester’s surprisingly serious—for Jester—reply. “No one’s really asked why; it’s like, if she’s powerful, that’s reason
enough.” He glanced once again over his shoulder. “For Duvari, it probably was.”

“Duvari didn’t kill her.”

“No. I’d say he wouldn’t have been upset—but given the alternatives are all bad to him, he’s probably content to live with the least bad.” This time his gaze traveled to the Council seats.

“Do
not
impersonate Harraed here. He’ll find out, and we’ll all suffer.”

Jester said nothing; he didn’t, however, deny that he’d intended to do just that. Jester could mock with affection, but not often. His critical faculties for appropriate mockery, however, would only be considered acceptable in the bardic colleges; in a House of any power, it was both suicidal and rude.

Teller took his seat beside Finch. Technically that was Carver’s chair, but as Carver wasn’t here, no one would raise a fuss. Finch and Teller were both so new to the Council they were expected to take some time to assemble a truly worthy retinue; lack of a counselor or two would be almost expected. Or so Teller hoped. Neither he nor Finch had distinguished themselves to the House by their broad and obvious ambition; nor had they done so by their political acumen, their ability to navigate the jackals that waited within the halls of the Merchant Authority or
Avantari
.

They had been elevated to the House Council by the whim and command of The Terafin and she had left them no option to decline what would otherwise be considered a great honor. She had offered them the House Council rings—figuratively, at the time—and had made clear that they would accept them, or divest themselves entirely of the House Name. Teller wasn’t entirely certain she would have done this with Jay away—but he knew, by the threat, how very serious she’d been.

And he even knew why. She had seen her own death—but not its manner—and she had chosen her heir: it was Jay. Jewel Markess ATerafin. Without support on the House Council, the erstwhile youngest member would have no hope of taking the House. Teller glanced at her now, in her dress, the Winter King beneath her, and Snow by her side.

There were things that even the powerful couldn’t anticipate, things that couldn’t be planned for.

Finch touched his wrist, her hands dancing briefly and elegantly in her lap. Her gestures were slight; they could be attributed to nerves by most witnesses. Not, sadly, by the man who sat on her other side: Jarven ATerafin. He looked mildly interested in his surroundings; he also looked
somewhat tired and fragile. Given what Finch said of Jarven, the man was as fragile as Barston on a tear; he was just a lot subtler about it.

Teller signed back; they both glanced at Jewel.

Or at the place where she was no longer standing. Teller frowned; he couldn’t help it. Lady Sarcen and Duvari were also absent.

Trouble
? Finch asked.

Trouble
, Teller replied, after a hesitation.
Angel?

Not there.

Trouble.

Lady Sarcen was not pleased. She was ill-pleased enough at her treatment that she made a point of complaining to the only House member present, which was, sadly, Jewel. Jewel, however, had enough experience in dealing with the outraged that she could endure with a polite smile and an equally polite apology. Given that the inconvenience was caused in its entirety by Duvari, and given that they were both well aware of it, the demand for an apology was just posturing. Jewel could afford to give in to it, or so she felt—but in truth, she was biting her tongue. Lord Sarcen had been informed—all of the patriciate had—of the very strict security demands laid out by the Lord of the Compact, and had Lord Sarcen not chosen to navigate around those rules, neither woman would now be following in the wake of the Lord of the Compact.

It would have helped if Duvari had been angry. Jewel assumed he was, but he didn’t show it; his eyes narrowed, his voice dropped, his syllables came more slowly, and with exquisite clarity. He led them away from Sarcen’s seating, and he forbid the two servants who had run interference to follow in any way; to ensure that they didn’t leave, he summoned two men clad in the grays of the Kings’ Swords—but not in the uniform—to attend them.

This had been the first time Lady Sarcen had balked. But it hadn’t lasted; there was something about Duvari at this moment—although to be fair, he was always intimidating—that did not allow for more than the facade of angry words. Actual defiance was beyond her. Beyond them both, Jewel thought.

But when he paused to give a set of instructions to a woman in obvious House Terafin servants’ uniform, and those instructions resulted—in minutes—in the appearance of Sigurne Mellifas, Jewel felt something inside of her freeze. She gripped the tines of the Winter King, and held
tight, pressing her thumbs into their points as if the pain would brace her, wake her, draw her out of the political drudgery that was also political drama.

Sigurne, at Duvari’s side, was not an aged scion of fractious scholars; she was grim and pale, and there was no compassion in her. She turned to Lady Sarcen and offered a very brief, very curt bow. “Lady Sarcen,” she said.

“Guildmaster,” Lady Sarcen replied, bowing as well, but more fully. The fight had left her face by the time she’d risen; she looked—for the first time—frightened. Looks could be deceiving; she turned to Duvari. “Why have you summoned the guildmaster?” she demanded.

“If you do not know, it should not concern you,” was his cool reply. “You will lead me to your Lord.”

But she had had enough. She relented, at last, glancing at Sigurne AMellifas. “I will tell you where he is to be found,” she said.

“Alas, no, Lady Sarcen. You will lead me to him; if he is not present, you will find him. I cannot afford to lose time to any delaying tactic you might choose to employ.”

“I was not invited here as your servant—” she began, although her voice was quieter. She looked to Jewel for help, but Jewel wasn’t feeling that generous.

“It is precisely to deal with those who were not invited that you are here and they came at the behest of your Lord.” Duvari would not be moved.

Sigurne said, “Lady Sarcen, this is not a game. You will tell the Lord of the Compact where you feel your Lord is to be found; do so, and you may walk between Jewel ATerafin and me. If, however, he is not to be found at the location you name, you will lead—and I cannot guarantee your safety from that position.”

Jewel was genuinely surprised; it sounded—to her ears—very much like a threat, and threats were not something she usually heard Sigurne utter. Well, no, that wasn’t true; when the magi were beginning their endless bickering, she could often be heard musing about their unfortunate deaths by strangulation—hers—but Jewel didn’t count those, since she used them so often herself. There was no affection at all in the words spoken to Lady Sarcen, but Jewel couldn’t imagine feeling affection for her.

She also couldn’t imagine threatening her, if it came to that.

ATerafin
, the Winter King said,
be wary now.

Of what?

Can you not sense it? The air is wild and the shadows where you now tread do not conform to sunlight.

She frowned, gazing at the moving ground beneath his hooves; he was right. It was subtle, certainly subtle enough to be missed in the presence of Duvari, Sigurne, and Lady Sarcen. It was therefore to Angel that she turned. “The shadows,” she whispered, bending to bring herself in reach of his ears.

He passed the message—quickly—to Arann; what Arann heard, Torvan and Arrendas also heard. They were, she noted, finely attired, and as they moved, she heard the sound she’d dreaded—for entirely different reasons—since waking this morning: the third chimes had started.

“N
OT YET,” SIGURNE TOLD HER, divining instantly the reason for her sudden panic. “The god-born will come only after the chimes sound for a third time.”

“I’m not worried about their arrival,” was the terse reply. “They’re here and we have no idea where Sarcen is—or what he’s with.” She turned to Duvari. “Take us to the Kings,” she said.