Free Skirmish: A House War Novel by Michelle West Page B

five minutes and the store failed to come to life.

    “Jay,” Teller began. He stopped. Through the window with its precisely lettered sign, he saw movement from the back of the store. The shadow resolved itself into a familiar figure, his face completely free of any expression at all.

    Jewel stepped away from the door as he approached it. She glanced once at the sign, and once at her nerveless hand, still wrapped around the bell pull. The hand, she removed. Haval opened the door.

    In the morning light, she thought he looked pale, his skin stretched and delicate with wrinkles. Certainly his eyes were ringed with dark circles. But he was Haval; the momentary expression of age or fragility cracked and shattered as he smiled. He even bowed, standing in the doorway. “Jewel,” he said.

    It was bad. She knew it was bad. He usually remembered to call her Jay except when he was offering subtle—or not so subtle—advice. But Haval was one of nature’s natural liars. After five minutes in his presence—even if he was circumspect and near-silent—anyone would believe anything he chose. Anything at all.

    She’d never learned enough about Haval to know, clearly, when he was lying; the only time she could catch him was when her own gift, her own “natural” talent, emerged. Avandar was better at reading the inscrutable dressmaker. But Avandar was silent and near-invisible, as he always was in Haval’s presence.

    “Are you—are you really closed for business?” Jewel managed to ask, when Haval rose from his deep and embarrassingly perfect bow.

    “I am, at the moment, very busy—but I am not entirely adverse to commissions from valuable customers.” He stepped away from the door. “Please, come in.” He didn’t remove the sign, however. “I would like to speak in the back room. If we are seen in the front, people will question the veracity of my carefully scribed sign.”

    “You…heard that I was back,” Jewel said, following where he led.

    “Yes. If knowledge of your return concerns you, take comfort in the fact that it is buried beneath much larger news.” He paused, turned, and said, “Ah, forgive my lack of tact, ATerafin. I’ve slept very little these past two days, and I am not at my best.”

    She nodded, and took the opening he’d offered. “Actually, we’re here because of the larger news.”

    “We?” He glanced at Teller and Finch. His gaze—as always—slid past Avandar.

    “Finch, Teller, and I. The funeral begins on the fourth, and we need clothing appropriate to our station within the House—for however long we actually manage to
keep
said station.” She could now feel Avandar’s chilly glare boring a hole through the back of her head, and ignored it.

    She expected some sign of outrage, because while Haval was perfectly willing to work on tight deadlines, he detested them, and made it known—usually by charging vastly more than he otherwise would. He said nothing; instead he turned and continued his slower than usual march into the back room.

    Jewel stopped in the doorframe. Teller walked into her back. The room was almost spotless. There were a total of five chairs, two tables, and a solid, respectable desk. Bolts of cloth rested against the wall opposite the door, admittedly in several high piles; boxes and jars held beads of various colors. There were even small tables of the type that were easily moved, and upon which tea was usually set in a pinch.

    “Ah, you’ve noticed,” Haval said, as she snapped her jaw shut.

    Of all the things she’d heard or witnessed since her return, this—small, trivial, politically unimportant—shocked her the most. In all of her years of coming to Haval’s shop, she had never, ever seen the back room so tidy. It was almost as if…Haval didn’t live here anymore.

    But Haval was standing there, breathing and speaking, his hands by hissides. She raised her eyes to meet his gaze, and her own hands tightened into fists. “Haval,” she