Skirmish: The House War: Book Four Read online

  SKIRMISH

  The Finest in Fantasy from

  MICHELLE WEST:

  The House War:

  THE HIDDEN CITY (Book One)

  CITY OF NIGHT (Book Two)

  HOUSE NAME (Book Three)

  SKIRMISH (Book Four)

  The Sun Sword:

  THE BROKEN CROWN (Book One)

  THE UNCROWNED KING (Book Two)

  THE SHINING COURT (Book Three)

  SEA OF SORROWS (Book Four)

  THE RIVEN SHIELD (Book Five)

  THE SUN SWORD (Book Six)

  The Sacred Hunt:

  HUNTER’S OATH (Book One)

  HUNTER’S DEATH (Book Two)

  SKIRMISH

  A House War Novel

  MICHELLE WEST

  DAW BOOKS, INC.

  DONALD A. WOLLHEIM, FOUNDER

  375 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014

  ELIZABETH R. WOLLHEIM

  SHEILA E. GILBERT

  PUBLISHERS

  www.dawbooks.com

  Copyright © 2012 by Michelle Sagara.

  All Rights Reserved.

  Cover art by Jody Lee.

  DAW Book Collectors No. 1571.

  DAW Books are distributed by Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  Book designed by Elizabeth Glover.

  All characters in this book are fictitious.

  Any resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

  The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal, and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  EISBN: 9781101563106

  First Printing, January 2012

  1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Epilogue

  This is for the readers who’ve waited so patiently for the

  events that follow The Sun Sword.

  Acknowledgments

  Every book is a challenge, and every book is a joy. This has been especially true of Skirmish. I started chapter one more times than I have for any other book (although Hidden City came close). During that process of constant false starts, I was a bear to live with. During revisions, I was just possibly worse.

  Luckily, my home team has developed a sense of humor about my writing process (which is probably why they’re still sane). So, in no particular order, credit is due my sons, Daniel and Ross, my exceptionally patient husband, Thomas, my Australian alpha reader, Terry (and Skype for when we discussed revisions and which elements could be changed, tossed, or enshrined); my mother and father, who manned the fort, and made sure my entire household was not falling down on top of me; my Monday and Friday night extended family.

  My away team is also, at this point, family—and just as tolerant. Sheila Gilbert, my long-suffering editor (and publisher), Debra Euler, my managing editor (well, okay, she’s DAW’s managing editor, but I’m sure on the wrong days if you asked her, she’d say I personally need one of my own), and Joshua Starr who answers phones, emails, and tweets; Marsha Jones, who now gets all the difficult picky questions about who-does-what when it comes to rights and things like e-books. And of course Betsy Wollheim who did not even blink on the very last time I will ever drink wine at a DAW dinner. (I fell asleep. It was survivably embarrassing. I think. I’ll let you know the next time I see her.)

  No book is an island. No author is an island. If it’s true that we learn to write in isolation, if it’s true that the words are ineluctably our own, it’s also true that those words on the page don’t magically become a book on their own.

  And when they do become a book, there are the readers. I have the best readers in the world.

  Author’s Note

  When I started Hunter’s Death, Jewel Markess ambushed me; I had intended her to be a minor character through which the events in the poorest of the city’s streets could be viewed. I knew there were demons, and worse, beneath the city streets; I knew that they were preying on the people who, in theory, no one would miss. I hadn’t counted on Jewel Markess, of course, and by the time I had finished Jewel’s first scene, the shape of the novel shifted.

  I finished Hunter’s Death. By the end of Hunter’s Death, I knew how many of the character arcs would close; I knew what the end of the entire long sequence would be; I knew that Jewel ATerafin had taken the first steps on a path that must lead to a House War for the heart of Terafin. I also knew about the characters that hadn’t appeared yet.

  I began to write the arc that would introduce those characters. Jewel was part of the sixbook series, The Sun Sword. Sixteen years had elapsed between the end of Hunter’s Death and The Broken Crown, and Allasakar had had the time to recover, to summon the Kialli in force, and to plan. And he’d had time to bring a godborn child into the world—while he was on the plane. Jewel’s role in The Sun Sword led her to the brink of a House War—but that wasn’t resolved in The Sun Sword.

  I finished writing The Sun Sword. I started The House War, with the intent of writing a braided narrative—one that could move between the early past of the den and its formation, and the fracturing of the House Council in the quest to determine its next ruler. In fact, I started the first book six times. The only beginning that worked was the one for the book that became Hidden City. But I’d intended to write a braided narrative between the past and the present—and there was no way to make that work, given Rath.

  Readers of The Sun Sword were then left in the present while I followed the beginnings of Jewel and her den.

  The book you hold in your hands is the first book that takes place in the present time line—but it takes place after the events of The Sun Sword. In fact, it starts the day after the last appearance of Jewel Markess ATerafin in that series.

  To understand the events in Skirmish, the best thing to do is to read The Sun Sword before you start this book. I realize, however, that not everyone will want to do this, because the series doesn’t just follow Jewel.

  Between now and the publication of Skirmish, I will work on a “story so far” which will encapsulate the key events that occur in The Sun Sword, with regard to Jewel and her den. I’ll put this up on my web site (http://msagarawest.wordpress.com). It will, of necessity, be very spoiler heavy, but for readers who have only been following The House War series it will be essential; many things will make little sense otherwise.

  Prologue

  27th of Corvil, 427 A.A.

  The Common, Averalaan Aramarelas

  HANNERLE LOVED WINDOWS. She loved, especially, the long, low bay or bow windows that were so expensive to have built. She didn’t like full panes of flat glass; those, she had said, with decided lines etched a moment in both corners of her lips, reminded her too much of the storefront. It wasn’t that she disliked the s
tore; the store had been built, and its custom grown, by the dint of her organization and will. If Haval was, in his own modest opinion, the genius who created the dresses by which they earned a comfortable living, Hannerle was the foundation that allowed that genius to flourish. The store had been her idea. But the windows that girded either side of the doors were meant to display and to sell; to offer a pleasing and enticing view to the men and women on the outside.

  So it was in their bedroom that the most glorious of the windows above the shop resided. The bed, which sat, headboard to the wall, in the center of the room, couldn’t be seen from the street; nor could someone sitting or lying in that bed see those streets. They could see the sun; they could see the tops of buildings that sat opposite them; they could see the azure of sky on a clear day.

  Hannerle was not a woman who understood what the word “relaxation” meant. She was up at dawn, in the kitchen or the store tidying, cleaning, cooking—and, if Haval were being honest, complaining; complaints were, in the opinion of his wife, the luxury one earned by doing the work. Although she professed to love windows and light, she seldom took the time to look at either.

  Her husband entered the bedroom and walked directly to the windows. He paused to examine the curtains; they were older now, their color faded. They would have to be replaced. He opened them with fastidious care, anchored them by the tassels that hung concealed by their fall for just this purpose, and let the light in. The sky was an astonishing shade of blue, which wasn’t unusual at this time of year. The air was cool, but the glass shut it out. Unlike his wife, who disliked the view of the streets, Haval looked down; the streets at this time of day were full. People in various shades of color and in differing cuts of cloth walked past the window heading toward their destinations, heads often bent slightly into the wind. They carried baskets or bags, most of which had yet to be filled judging by the easy way they moved.

  He expected no custom today. A sign now hung in both windows and across the closed—and locked—doors of the store apologizing for his unexpected and unannounced absence. He bowed his head a moment. He had no need to school his expression; his reflection made clear that he had none. His face was a mask. His posture was neither slumped nor upright as he turned, at last, toward the room’s other occupant: Hannerle.

  She lay beneath sheet, blanket, and comforter; the counterpane had been neatly folded and lay across only her feet above the footboard. She slept.

  She had done nothing but sleep for three days now. He had tried, several times, to rouse her; nothing worked: No sound, no movement, no amount of shaking or pleading. She could, with effort, be moved into an upright position, and she swallowed liquid if it was dribbled slowly and evenly into her mouth. But she did not wake.

  Doctors—for Haval had money—had come and gone in slowly dwindling succession. Healers, however, had not; the healer-born were beseiged at the moment and the Houses of Healing closed to all who did not come bearing a writ from Avantari, the Kings’ Palace. It mattered little; the doctors had been clear. His beloved, curmudgeonly wife was suffering from the sleeping sickness. They had no official name for it, yet, not that the naming of things much concerned Haval; some in the streets called it the dreaming plague.

  “Is it contagious?” Haval had asked, in a very subdued voice appropriate to a man of his age.

  “Clearly,” the oldest of the doctors had said. “But we aren’t certain how. Proximity to the affected doesn’t seem to matter.”

  “And I am, therefore, unlikely to catch it from her?”

  “You’re as likely to catch it from someone in the Port Authority,” was the crisp reply. “But it’s best, if you’ve sons or daughters, to have them check in on you every day, or at least every other day. You’re caring for your wife; if you fall prey to the illness...”

  “Understood.” Haval had no sons or daughters. “When will she wake?” he had asked, although he knew the answer.

  The doctor hesitated for just a moment, and then said, “I’m sorry. I don’t know if she will.”

  “Have any of the others?” He knew the answer to this question as well. He wasn’t even certain why he’d asked.

  “I’m sorry,” the doctor repeated.

  Haval thanked him for his time. And paid him.

  He took a seat beside the bed in silence, his wife’s right hand caught between both of his. Hers was limp, but warm; she slept. What he now knew about the disease was fragmented but reliably accurate. It had started perhaps three weeks ago, near the beginning of Corvil; it had gone undetected for the first week because its spread was not concentrated in one area, and because it was only in the second week that older children and otherwise healthy adults in their prime had been affected by it. The victims were spread across the economic spectrum; they were also spread across gender. There were no reliable symptoms to indicate that one had caught the disease. There was no accompanying fever, no rash, no coughing—nothing. Prior physical exhaustion wasn’t a requirement either.

  No, people simply went to sleep…and failed to wake.

  Just as Hannerle had failed to wake.

  “Hannerle,” he said quietly, bending his head toward not her ears, but that hand, “I’ve heard word.” He wasn’t particular proud of this fact, because the information he imparted had required no finesse, no investigation, none of the subtle contacts which were his quiet pride. No, this word was impossible for any but the sleeping or the dead to miss; it had spread through the Common and the High Market like fire in the dry season.

  “The Terafin is dead.”

  It was not the first time Hannerle had been ill, of course. It was the first time she had been both ill and utterly silent. Like any man whose wife’s chief luxury was the volume of her complaints, he would have sworn that silent was the preferred state. But over the years, sharp and clever humor had worked its roots deep into the heart of her complaints; they amused him; the silence was bitter and cold.

  He fed her water slowly and with painstaking care; he checked the fire burning in her grate; he changed her clothing. Although it was Hannerle’s job to fill the silence with her frequent chatter, he spoke. He couldn’t be certain that she wasn’t listening, that some part of her wasn’t somehow awake and trapped inside a body that couldn’t respond. He kept her company, and although he could have done so while he worked, she had once made him promise to leave his work behind when he crossed the threshold of what was nominally “their” bedroom. He left his work behind.

  But in the late afternoon he rose, because some idiot had taken to ringing the bell on what was clearly the wrong side of locked doors which prominently told all visitors that he was not here. He was not, therefore, in the best of moods when he made his way down the stairs and into the storefront, where his cloth, his threads, and his various beads lay strewn across the counter. On the other hand, he was perfectly capable of feigning almost obsequious delight on the very slim chance that such delight be, by the social status of the idiot, required. The fact that said idiot clearly failed to heed what was written did not, in fact, imply that they couldn’t read; Haval often found the opposite to be true. But there was nothing that Haval was incapable of feigning, except perhaps youth.

  He understood better why his signs had been ignored when he saw who waited at the door: a young man—young enough that the use of the word man dignified his age—who wore the livery of the Merchant Authority. He carried a letter with the air of the determined and faintly terrified, and it was clear—by his persistent worrying of the bell pull—that he was tasked with making certain that this official document was delivered to its intended victim. Only tax collectors and the very earnest were capable of this level of persistence.

  He therefore opened the locked door.

  The young man bowed. He didn’t introduce himself, but to be fair, Haval didn’t ask; messengers served a function that required different manners.

  “You are the proprietor of the store?” the visitor asked, his voice high enough that Haval pri
vately downgraded “young man” to simply “young.”

  “I am,” Haval replied, holding out one hand.

  “This is for you,” the young man said, although it was already obvious.

  Haval glanced at the back of the envelope and frowned. “I’m not expecting any correspondence,” he began. The slight rounding of the young man’s eyes made him reconsider. “Are you to wait for a response?”

  “No, sir. But I am to obtain a signature of receipt.”

  “I…see. Very well, come in. May I ask who sent the letter?”

  The boy nodded vigorously. His answer explained his anxiety. “Lucille ATerafin.”

  In spite of the solemn silence of the preceding three days, the two words, huddled side by side and spoken in such a fashion, piqued Haval’s curiosity. He signed a statement acknowledging receipt of the letter and let the boy hurry—at a brisk jog—away from his store before he returned to Hannerle’s room. He only broke the seal once he was ensconced in the chair closest to the bedside.

  At one time in his life, such a letter would have constituted the work he had faithfully promised to keep out of the bedroom, but it had been decades since that had been the case. He slid a letter opener into the top upper corner of the closed envelope and cut it cleanly. Then he removed the single piece of paper that had been folded and deposited within. He read it three times before he refolded it and placed it on the bedside table. His wife would have recognized the way he then sat, for fifteen minutes, in silence. She wouldn’t have approved.