Sharon Shinn - The Twelve Houses 2 - The Thirteenth House

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The Thirteenth House

By

Sharon Shinn

Contents

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 37

CHAPTER 38

CHAPTER 39

CHAPTER 40

CHAPTER 41

The Thirteenth House

Other Ace Books by Sharon Shinn

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the alleluia files

angelica

angel-seeker

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the shape-changer's wife

heart of gold

summers at castle auburn

jenna starborn

Viking / Firebird Books by Sharon Shinn

THE SAFE-KEEPER's SECRET

THE TRUTH-TELLER'S TALE

THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

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This book is an original publication of The Berkley Publishing Group.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's

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First edition: March 2006

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Shinn, Sharon.

The thirteenth house / Sharon Shinn. — 1st ed.

p. cm.

ISBN 0-441-01368-6 I. Title.

PS3569.H499T55 2006 813't54—dc22

2005026951

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

For Debbie, who knows the rest of the story

CHAPTER 1

THE three men sat in the mansion's elegantly appointed study and discussed their options. They had

drawn their chairs close to the fire, because the room was huge and the spring night was chilled and

drearily wet. The only true circle of comfort was within the warm glow of the leaping flames. They were

all drinking port and relishing the well-being that came from the consumption of an excellent meal and the

accomplishment of a difficult task.

"We could kill him outright," said the oldest of the men. He was tall, silver-haired, and dressed in very

fine clothes. It was not his house, but his proprietary air would make an outsider think so. "That sends a

strong message to the king."

"I am not so fond of looking a man in the eyes and stabbing him in the heart," one of the others grumbled.

He was short, dark-haired, less fashionable, and a little fretful in his manner. He was the sort of man who

would point out all the risks in any enterprise, even the ones least likely to bring the whole project down.

"I say we hold on to him for a while."

"There are ways to kill a man that do not involve violence," said the elder. "Merely forgetting to feed him.

Merely neglecting to give him a fire on a night such as this."

"But those methods take time, which we have very little of," objected the third one. He was balding and

heavyset, even pudgy, the kind of man who would normally appear genial. But tonight there was a

calculating expression on his face. Even by friendly firelight, a certain ruthlessness molded his features.

"By now, his men will be back in Ghosenhall, telling tales of outlaws on the high road. Surely even such a

casual king as Baryn will guess that his regent did not fall afoul of simple highwaymen."

The elder turned his silver head to give the portly man a considering look. "Then you want him dead more

immediately and with more intent?"

"If we kill him, no matter how, there will be consequences," said the fretful one. "I know you say the

servants here are handpicked, but many a servant has betrayed his lord before this."

"I vouch for the servants," said the first man coldly. "There are only four in the whole place, all loyal to

me."

"Have they seen you commit murder before?" the other asked skeptically. "If not, I do not think you can

be so sure of them."

The elder man looked annoyed. "We must make a decision. The man is in our hands. The king will want

him back. Do we trade him in return for some concessions ? And thereby bring attention to ourselves and

show for certain where our alliances lie? Or do we kill him and let his body be found and therefore send

a different message to the king? 'We are readying ourselves for war. We distrust you, and your royal

house, and the paltry counselors you have installed to guide your daughter. You cannot mollify us by any

measures.'"

The other two murmured approval at this stirring speech, and the elder man leaned back in his chair to

sip from his glass. "Yes, but what if the king doesn't interpret our message just how we wish?" asked the

short man after thinking it over. "What if he sees treason, not an honest cry for change? For we play a

tricky game here. We are still very early in the game. Anything could go awry—and here we are in Tilt

lands, on Tilt property. Marlord Gregory will be blamed for any cold body found lying about in Tilt

fields."

"Marlord Gregory has been gracious enough to lend us his estate," said the heavy man in a purring voice.

"Surely he cannot cavil at the uses to which we put his house?"

The short man was shaking his head. Someone who was looking closely might have noticed, even in the

dark room, that he was wearing an aquamarine stud on the lapel of his jacket. A Tilt man, wearing the

Tilt colors. "Gregory is very clever. He does not see how the wind blows, not yet, and he has not

showed even his most loyal vassals what cards he holds. He dislikes the king—yes, and this ridiculous

regent set up to rule over us if something happens to Baryn—but he is not so sure he wants to usher in

the age of Gisseltess rule, either."

The silver-haired man gave a growl of annoyance. "Trust Tilt to merely want to stir the pot without

wanting to taste the stew," he said in a voice holding some contempt. "Gregory cannot have it both ways.

Either he works for revolution, or he does not. And revolution, my friend, is dressed in the garb of

Gisseltess and wears the falcon clipped to its cloak." Someone looking closely at him would have

noticed that very same falcon embroidered on his vest. A man of Gisseltess.

The portly man gave a light laugh. "Revolution wears more motley colors than that," he said. "The maroon

of Rappengrass, the scarlet of Danalustrous—you can find them all, if you look hard enough." Though he

himself wore no such identifying marks; it would have been hard to guess which House he

represented—or plotted against. He continued, "All of us want the same things—the recognition and

prestige that are due to us, which have not come our way under this king."

"And who's to say it will come under Halchon Gisseltess?" demanded the Tilt man. "Eh? If he steals the

throne from under Baryn's nose? Who's to say he will turn over any land or power to the lords of the

Thirteenth House?"

"So he will call together the nobles of the Thirteenth House," the portly man said in a mocking voice. "He

will say, 'Too long you have been regarded as the "lesser lords." Too long have you been vassals to the

mar-lords of the Twelve Houses who consider themselves your superiors in every way! Let us

redistribute the property and give you a higher place in society.'"

"He swears he will reward us all with lands and titles of our own," said the Gisseltess man. "If we help

him win the throne."

"I have been promised many things by marlords in the past," said the Tilt man in a bitter voice. "Many of

those promises have been forgotten."

"And many have been remembered," the older man said sharply. "Halchon has honor."

"As do all men who depose their king," replied the heavy fellow in a sardonic tone.

The older man spread his hands. "Late to be having doubts now that Romar Brendyn is locked in the

attic of this house!" he exclaimed. "Whether we kill him now or we trade him back to his king, we have

committed ourselves to civil dissent. And I tell you plainly, if we do not kill him, we have less room to

maneuver, for we will have shown our hands. We will have stated in the clearest possible fashion that we

are in opposition to our king. Whereas if he is dead… well, who knows whose hand may have done him

in? We might be entirely guiltless. No one will be able to point at us and say, 'You did this thing.' We

might change our minds altogether about which side we choose in this war, and no one will be the wiser."

"You want to kill him then," said the Tilt man. "You see no choice."

"I see many choices," said the Gisseltess man, "but I admit that I would like to see him dead."

They both looked at the heavyset man, the one who had been so very cagey up till now, careful what he

committed himself to either in writing or in words. Yet he had been the one to supply the funds and the

manpower; he was in it up to his neck, no matter what the outcome. He was silent a long moment, as if

debating, as if considering for the very first time which of the possible outcomes he preferred and what

consequences they might set in motion. At last, his shoulders seeming both bulky and weightless in the

shadows thrown by the firelight, he gave a shrug.

"Well, I don't suppose—" he began, but his voice was interrupted by a furious pounding that seemed to

come from the front of the house.

The three of them looked at each other with wide-eyed dismay. "Was that the door?" said the Gisseltess

man in disbelief. "Has someone come calling—at this place, at this time, on such a night?" They had

chosen the mansion to conduct their business for a variety of reasons, one of them being its remote

inaccessibility. Only someone familiar with the rocky northern stretches of Tilt would have any idea where

the house lay, or know which of marlord Gregory's many vassals was its landlord.

"Perhaps it was only thunder, rattling the casements," offered the heavyset man.

The Gisseltess man stalked to the window and threw back the heavy curtain. Nothing could be seen but

a liquid blackness, midnight washed clean by heavy rain. "I can tell nothing from here."

"Perhaps—"

But there it was again, a hailstorm of blows on wood, and now the sound of upraised voices crying out

for admittance. "Will the servants answer?" the Tilt man asked in a voice barely above a whisper, as if

those standing outside below could hear him if he spoke aloud.

There was more rough knocking on the door. "They will have to," the Gisseltess man said with some

grimness. "Or I fear our callers will bring the house down."

The three of them were on their feet by now, and they moved silently to their own door, closed firmly on

the rest of the house, and held themselves still to listen. Voices in the hall, some calm, some excited—no

doubt the admirable butler greeting these most unwelcome visitors. The three men waited, unmoving,

barely breathing, attempting to catch a word or a sentence that would explain how these travelers had so

disastrously come calling. Within minutes, the voices died down to a murmur and then were gone entirely.

"He's escorted them to some parlor or another," the Gisseltess man said. "He's admitting them to the

house."

"But why—"

"He must have his reasons."

Indeed, a few moments later, they could hear the measured sounds of the butler's footsteps ascending the

stairs. Before he could knock on the door, the older man jerked it open.

"Well?" he demanded. "Who has arrived? Surely you realize this is not a house that can afford to take in

chance-met travelers."

The butler nodded with complete tranquillity. He looked to be quite ancient, his face lined and wrinkled,

his gray hair so thin around his face it was almost only a memory of hair. But his eyes were imperturbable

and hinted at so many secrets known that he could not begin to recount them all. "These were not the

sorts of people who could be turned out into the weather," he said—adding, after a pause so long it might

almost be considered insolent, "my lord."

The fretful Tilt man hissed out a long-held breath. "Who, then? Who are they?"

The butler addressed the older man as if the other had not spoken. "One is a servant girl, two are guards.

But the head of their party is a woman who is clearly highborn. Twelfth House. Serramarra, I believe.

She has fallen ill on the road and looks to be in a high fever, which is why they have sought shelter here."

The Gisseltess man regarded the butler steadily. "Did you recognize her or are you just guessing?"

The butler chose not to answer directly. "She has long golden hair and exceptionally fine features," he

said. "Her clothes were quite expensive. I saw the crest of Danalustrous on her cloak and on her

servant's luggage."

Another hiss from the short, anxious man. "Kirra Danalustrous," he said bitterly. "Malcolm's shiftling

daughter."

The butler nodded. "So I believe. My lord."

There was a moment's silence while the Gisseltess man clearly tried to decide what to do next. "What

have you done with her? And her retinue?"

"At the moment they are in the small parlor. My lord. I have asked the housekeeper to make up a room

for them on the second floor. In the other wing. Her servant girl is quite affected and refuses to leave her

side for even a moment. Her guards are—"

"We cannot have fighting men in this house," the Gisseltess man interrupted. "They must be placed

elsewhere. In the stables, perhaps."

"We cannot put them in the stables," the Tilt man countered. "Romar's horse is there. It bears the

Merrenstow brand. Anyone familiar with the aristocracy—"

"The kitchens, then! Bed them somewhere else!"

"As to that," the butler interrupted, his voice still calm, "they seemed most interested in staying at their

mistress's side. I think they would— quarrel—if asked to leave her. I doubt they have plans to roam the

hallways, looking for trouble. No doubt they want to do what they can to help the maidservant nurse the

serramarra."

The Tilt man looked up at that. "What's wrong with her? High fever, you say? Will she be bringing

infection into the house? There's a complication we didn't think of!"

"It might solve one of our problems, though, don't you think?" asked the heavyset man. "Depending on

who came down with the illness."

The Tilt man grunted. The older man turned back to the servant. "Did they ask for food?"

"They requested merely a bed for the night and shelter from the rain. It is a most wet and miserable

evening," the butler added, as if he did not trust the lords to glance out the window and draw this

conclusion on their own. "I must presume they have travel rations with them."

The Gisseltess man turned away, pacing toward the hearth. "Very well, then! A bed for the night. Two

nights, if she is really as ill as they think. And a fire. Water. But tell them there is almost no one in the

house. Tell them the lord has shut the place up for the season and there is only a skeleton staff on hand.

We will stay out of sight until they're gone."

"Very well, my lord."

The man turned to give the servant a hard stare. "And make sure they don't go wandering through the

corridors once we're all abed. Post someone at the stairwell to the upper story. At all times. If one of

them goes investigating—well. We will have some time later to think up a reason for why we overreacted

to their presence."

"Indeed, my lord. Very good. I will give you a report tomorrow. We will hope that the fever lifts and the

weather breaks and they are gone by morning."

He bowed and went out. The three men clustered before their fire, two of them gulping their port and the

third one holding his hand out to the flames. "Kirra Danalustrous!" the heavyset one said as he bent over

the fire. It was as if the very sound of her name made him cold. "Why couldn't it have been anyone else?"

CHAPTER 2

KIRRA lay on the bed, motionless, listening to the sounds of people bustling around her. The

housekeeper's voice was soft, sympathetic, as she apologized for the dustiness of the room and promised

the butler would bring up water soon. She herself seemed to be kneeling before the grate, building a fire,

a chore a chambermaid would ordinarily do. "But there's only the few of us here, what with the house

shut up just now," she said in a contrite voice. "This is the best we can offer."

"It is most adequate," Justin answered in a clipped voice. If Kirra hadn't known better, she would have

thought he was genuinely worried about her, taken ill so unexpectedly on the road. "We appreciate

everything you have done for us—for the serramarra."

Small hands brushed across Kirra's forehead, pushing the golden hair out of her eyes, checking again for

fever. Donnal sitting by her side, having shape-shifted himself into the very picture of womanly servitude.

"Cammon. Do you think you could make some broth?" Donnal asked, pitching his voice in a feminine

key. "I think she might swallow some of that. She hasn't eaten for more than a day."

A rustle of skirts, no doubt the sound of the housekeeper rising to her feet and brushing cinders from her

dress. "We've got a few apples in the kitchen if you'd like me to bring them to you," she said. "You could

mash them up and see if she'd eat something like that. Brandy, too, if you think it would help."

"We have our own supplies," Justin answered curtly. "Thank you. Again. But I think it might be best if

you—if none of you—returned to this room more than you can help. Whatever this fever is—" Kirra

guessed he paused to shake his head. "I pray to the Silver Lady that we don't bring illness down upon

this house."

The woman's voice sounded a little fainter, as if she had opened the door and spoken from the hallway.

"It won't be the worst thing to come to this house in recent days," she said, her voice oddly sad. "I'll have

the butler bring up more firewood and leave it at the door. We won't trouble you again."

Cammon, Justin, and Donnal murmured their thanks, and Kirra heard the door shut behind the

housekeeper. They all held still, listening with some tension, until Cammon said, "She's gone. Back

downstairs."

Kirra sat straight up in bed and began to laugh. "Well, that was easier than I expected," she said. "I

thought we might be barred out of the house altogether."

Cammon smiled over at her. Even three months of study in the royal city hadn't been long enough to

make him look halfway respectable. Though recently cut, his light brown hair was shaggy; his clothes,

newly purchased, still managed to look like something he'd sorted from the beggar's bag. "It was the

Danalustrous crest on your cloak," he said. "That old butler couldn't turn away someone from the Twelve

Houses."

Justin was stalking around the room, investigating what hazards it might hold, though Kirra thought its

plain walls and spare furniture were unlikely to conceal any menace. Justin was dressed in red-and-gold

Danalustrous livery and carried himself like the most elite member of a marlord's escort. She thought his

scowling presence might have been another reason the butler admitted them so readily.

"If he respects the Twelve Houses so much, why is he here helping to plot against them?" Justin said with

a snort. He peered behind the threadbare velvet curtain hanging over the room's single window. No one

leapt out at him ready to do battle. Kirra thought he might be disappointed.

"They're plotting against the king, not the aristocracy," Kirra pointed out. "And, anyway, the servants

might not know exactly what's being planned here. I don't imagine their masters confide everything to

them."

Justin made that sound again. "Well, they must suspect that something is a bit irregular. Look at this

place! As far from civilization as you could possibly hope! It was practically built for intrigue. It must have

been the cradle of conspiracy since the day the walls first went up."

Donnal smiled. In this female shape, with a shy, beardless face that held a conciliatory expression, he was

completely unfamiliar to Kirra. She had seen him countless times in wolf or bear form and not found him

as strange to her as she did right now. Until he smiled; that was a look she recognized. "Justin's right, you

know," he said, his soft voice even softer in the feminine register. "A good servant knows whatever's

going on in his master's house—even if he hasn't been told. Those few working here are aware that

something devious is afoot."

"Well, I can only hope they don't get in our way," Kirra said. "Caramon, can you tell how many we have

to contend with?"

"Give me a minute," he said, and settled onto the floor right before the fire. He frowned in concentration.

"And while you're at it, can you tell us if Romar Brendyn is actually in the house?" Justin asked. "And

where he might be? Didn't look like there were dungeons, not when we rode up, but these old places can

hide all sorts of secret stairwells."

"Dungeons at Danalustrous, though you wouldn't think it," said the woman sitting in Donnal's place.

"There are not!" Kirra exclaimed. "There are—well—rooms that are not so pleasant that are under the

main part of the house, but they haven't been used for centuries, and they're not dungeons. They're

just— rooms."

"I wouldn't want to pass much time there," Donnal said.

"Could you be quiet?" Cammon asked. "I can't get a read on the people here with all of you arguing."

Immediately, the rest of them grew entirely still. Donnal, of course, had a predator's instinct for absolute

motionlessness; he could go hours without drawing attention to himself at all. But Justin became just as

quiet, just as watchful. He was so annoying and could be so loud that Kirra always forgot how good he

was at stealth, at the sinister skills that defined the career warrior. At everything, really. He stood with his

hands resting lightly on his blade hilts, his sandy hair undisturbed by the slightest motion of his head. Like

the others, he watched Cammon.

"I count six people in the house, in addition to us, and two in the stables," Cammon said finally, his face

still furrowed in concentration. "Three of them are together, in a room in the other wing."

"Those would be our rebels," Justin said.

"Two are downstairs. I think we've met them—the housekeeper and the butler," Cammon continued.

"And one of the men in the stables must be the groom who took our horses," Donnal said.

"I doubt he's a groom," Justin drawled. "He wasn't wearing a sword, but I'd bet he's a soldier. No doubt

the other one is, too."

Kirra nodded. "That was my guess as well. And the eighth person? What can you tell about him?"

"He's upstairs, I think. Not in this wing of the house."

"But he's alive? Conscious?"

Cammon gave her an uncertain smile. "Alive, certainly. And I am picking up a strong sense of rage. So

I'd guess he's conscious. But that might be pain he's sending. Sometimes the two are hard to distinguish."

"Where is he exactly? Can you tell me?"

Sharon Shinn - The Twelve Houses 2 - The Thirteenth House

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