Battle: The House War: Book Five (73 page)

“I would not,” he replied, his lips retaining the framework of a smile, “were it not for the fact that Jarven does.”

“He can’t possibly believe that. I am a minor official in the Merchant Authority.”

“A minor official who serves as a full member of the House Council, and a minor official who has a permanent residence within the Terafin manse upon the Isle. Foolish of me to consider either important.” His smile did not touch his eyes. “Andrei?”

“I am not entirely certain that my interference will be either welcome or acceptable, Hectore,” his servant replied, the mild reproach an obvious indicator of the esteem in which Patris Araven held him.

Hectore’s smile froze, and after a long, immobile moment, Andrei approached the doors Jarven had closed.

Finch held her breath as he reached for the handle and opened the door. She exhaled when the only result of the attempt
was
the open door. It closed again as he left.

“I confess a galling ignorance when it comes to ancient trees that grow—overnight—in the grounds of a manse upon the Isle. My ignorance when it comes to giant, winged cats is less galling. I am not talent-born. I felt no pressing need to learn the mysteries of the gods—any god—and I very much doubt any temple would have me, although they’re all prepared to take my money.

“But I have had some experience with people, ATerafin. Not all of those experiences were pleasant, nor would I expect my life in future to be devoid of unpleasantness. It is, in part, the cost of power—but only in part. I understand that you knew The Terafin when she living in the old holdings.”

Finch inclined her head.

“Then you, of course, understand that unpleasantness also proceeds from lack of power. There is no man, woman, or child—except perhaps for babes in arms—who has not experienced pain. The world scars us. Life scars us. But our ability to take scars is the cost, or perhaps the proof, that we do live.

“I claim no greater understanding of The Terafin than Jarven might; I claim a vastly smaller understanding than yours. She is new to her rank, new to the seat. She is, at this moment, at her most vulnerable. This is simple truth. It would be—and will be—true of any ruler of The Ten, in both past and future. Gaining power and retaining it are two very different struggles—and she does not, perhaps, have a background in which old alliances and former family ties will be of use.

“What she has, ATerafin, is you. She has the current right-kin, a man who has otherwise failed to distinguish himself outside of the bounds of the House. Her oathguard—her Chosen, in Terafin nomenclature—are few, in comparison to their strength while Amarais lived.

“She has managed a few clever coups; she is being watched with not a little interest in several quarters. The bards appear content to spread her fame throughout the streets of the city, where they can find any audience willing to listen; no less a mage than Meralonne APhaniel serves House Terafin exclusively. It is rumored that he has chosen to do so for free.

“While the Kings are rumored to have strong reason to fear her—and I have seen some proof of that in my recent visits to the Royal Trade Commission—they will not interfere in Terafin business. There is every reason to believe, given no less than five assassination attempts in a paltry two months that they will not have reason for long.

“But she
remains
alive. Given the nature of the fifth assassin, her survival is an act of sorcery or luck—it is entirely beyond my ken. The nature of some of the other assassins, however, is not.” He glanced pointedly at the shards of cup beneath their chairs. “I assumed—and it appears it was a rash assumption—that the more visceral elements of a succession war had already been dispensed with. I assumed—and I feel this is
less
rash—that The Terafin’s enemies were, in large part, outside of Terafin—and outside of the patriciate that otherwise rules this city.

“But you are not your Lord. You have not—that I am aware of—evinced any surprising or bewildering talents; you are merely a normal mortal—as am I.” He frowned. “I admit that my first instinct would be to assume Jarven is the target. Jarven, however, has been famously apolitical for most of his tenure here. Even aligned, he has never been easily controlled.”

“Patris Araven—”

“The Terafin asked me to speak with you; she wished you to impart details about the four attacks I did not personally witness—and perhaps about the conclusion of the one I did. Was she aware of the danger to you?”

“No. And Patris Araven—”

“Hectore.”

“
Patris
Araven. If you wish my aid in any way, you will not inform her.”

One brow rose as he considered her. “She will discover the facts—”

“I am not at all certain she will,” Finch replied. “If I were to guess, Jarven is beyond these doors complaining bitterly to Lucille about your arrogance—with a certain arrogance of his own, of course. It is unfortunate that you sent your servant to join him; otherwise, he might be seen to capitulate to your demands for the appointment you desired—with me.” She rose, her legs uncomfortably damp, and reached for the document Jarven had all but discarded. “I will return this to you, Patris Araven.”

“And I will leave with it, in an obvious fashion.”

“And return on the morrow with a different document, yes.”

His gaze assessed her. Her skirts were an unfortunate shade of brown. But she had stood in far grimmer circumstances in far poorer garb; she met his gaze and held it.

“And Jarven?”

“Leave Jarven to me.”

Both brows rose. After a gap of silent seconds, Hectore laughed out loud. “My dear,” he said, rising once again, “you look like a slip of a girl; you look almost meek. Even now, were you standing in a crowded room, I might not notice you. If nothing else can be said of The Terafin, she commands attention.”

“Attention, where we grew up, wasn’t always desirable.” She smiled. “But where it could not be avoided, we were forced to make other plans.” She continued to hold out the document; Hectore took it.

“Do you know who might want you dead?”

“Not yet.” Finch exhaled. “I could name perhaps half a dozen.”

“And this does not disturb you?”

“No. It is not, after all, personal.”

His smile deepened. “Not personal?”

“As you’ve said, there are always unpleasant acts of factionalism when the succession for a House is contested. But I, as you, had been under the impression that such factionalism was a thing of the past. Foolish, really. I think it best you retire for the day.” She glanced at her skirts. “I will not see you out. If Jarven means to affect ignorance of this day’s events, it’s likely he’s already sent someone to the manse with the urgent and extremely tactful request for a change of clothing—or three.”

He bowed. “You are an interesting woman, Finch. I almost understand why The Terafin sent me to you.”

“Don’t misconstrue her motives,” Finch replied, walking toward the doors.

“I have not made clear what I believe those motives to be.”

“Which will save us both embarrassment. I look forward to our future dealings.”

* * *

Jarven entered the room over an hour later; he found Finch in an unusual position: behind his desk. Her hands were clasped loosely in her lap, and she appeared to be examining her slightly blurred reflection on the surface of his pristine desk.

He cleared his throat, and she looked up. She did not, however, stand.

“So I am now displaced, am I?” he asked, smiling. “It
has
been a rather vexing afternoon, Finch, and I am in want of the comfort of my desk.”

“And your tea?”

“And my tea, but at the moment, I believe I can do without. I trust you had a friendly chat with the Patris?”

“I did.”

“And?” He looked, pointedly, at the chairs on the visitor side of the desk, and after a moment, moved one so it sat to the desk’s right side.

“Why were you so certain that the intended victim of the probable poisoning was me?”

“Was I? How very odd. Come, Finch. My chair.”

She rose. “I wouldn’t have noticed,” she replied evenly. “But it appears Patris Araven did.”

At that, Jarven grimaced. He sat—heavily—in his accustomed chair while Finch occupied, with more grace, the chair he had moved for her benefit. “We will not be able to keep knowledge of this within the office for long.”

She nodded, glancing at her skirts. “I thought you might have sent for clothing.”

“I considered it, and did one better. You will borrow a cloak when you leave, and you will find, upon your arrival at the manse, that I have sent three or four very practical bolts of cloth to your rooms. I suggest you speak with your tailor and have him make a few dresses, at least one of which will remain on the premises against future need. I am afraid I was rather cross when speaking with Lucille, and she will, no doubt, knock on these doors within the half hour to ascertain that you are still alive.”

“She thinks you’re angry at
me
?”

“Given the preposterous show Hectore made of his departure? Yes. I imagine the entire office now entertains that opinion.” There was an unpleasant edge to his familiar smile; it looked almost predatory.

Or perhaps it was just the contrast of lips to eyes; like Hectore, Jarven was capable of smiling in a way that suggested the opposite of warmth or amusement. “I wish you to tell me, in detail, about The Terafin’s past week.”

Finch said nothing.

“Finch, I am to be without tea, and without sustenance, for at least this afternoon; I am not in the mood to deal with any obstruction.”

“Would it be considered obstruction if I accepted your offer of a cloak and took you to lunch at the Placid Sea?”

“It would rather spoil the appearance of displeasure I have been at pains to convey.”

“No,” she said softly, “it wouldn’t. Lucille knows how angry you are. I know it.”

“I wish the others to believe I am angry with you.”

“Yes. But I wish them to believe it while I’m not hungry.” She was, in fact, lying; she was not hungry at all. The thought of food—and in particular, tea—was nauseating. But Jarven
was
hungry, he needed to eat, and he had that peculiar brightness in his gaze that meant he would forget something as simple as food, if allowed.

He glared at her. “You are taking this disappointingly well.”

“I can, if you prefer, cry or shiver.”

“It would appeal to my ego,” Jarven said, deserting his chair. “Is it necessary for me to lecture you on the subject of Patris Araven?”

“No. I know he is dangerously perceptive; I know he is canny.”

“You say neither as if you mean them.”

“Nonsense,” she replied, retrieving his walking stick from its position in the corner of the room. “I know you are at least as dangerously perceptive, and I believe you to be more canny; you are certainly more pragmatic.”

“Pragmatic?”

“Patris Araven is, in my opinion, genuinely sentimental.”

“And I am not? You wound me, Finch.”

She collected his coat and found the cloak of which he spoke. It was, in her estimation, too short for Jarven; she wondered whose it had once been and what it was doing in this office. It was a very, very finely textured wool, and the embroidery along every visible edge was neither simple nor inexpensive. The dye was a deep, blue-purple.

“If I am dangerous,” he told her, as he allowed her to help him into his coat, “why am I being badgered into leaving my inner sanctum?”

“At the moment? You are hungry, and you are not actually angry at me.” A fact for which she was, at this moment, grateful. Although Jarven’s voice and mannerisms had not significantly altered, there was an edge to his expression and his posture that reminded Finch—ridiculously, and for no reason she could easily pinpoint—of Duvari. “Come, Jarven. Lunch. I would like to speak to you about the House Council seat, among other things.”

“I will thank you not to bat your eyelashes at me as if I were an ignorant, gangly youth.” He offered her his arm, and she laughed. They almost made it to the door before Lucille knocked—and entered.

She was angry. Her anger was a shout to Jarven’s neutral whisper; her lips were set, her face pale. Before she could speak, Jarven lifted a hand. “If you are about to tell me something I already know, I would ask that you come to my office after we’ve closed up for the day.”

“I’m not here to see you,” was her curt reply. Oh, she was angry. Finch detached herself from Jarven’s arm to close the distance between her and Lucille as quickly as possible. She hugged the older woman tightly.

Lucille’s hug was larger in every possible way.

“I’m unharmed, Lucille,” Finch said softly, as she pulled back.

Lucille said a very cold nothing. She looked down at Finch, and then looked past her shoulder. Finch had seen her this angry only a handful of times.

“Lucille, Jarven had nothing to do with what happened this afternoon.”

Lucille did not reply. Jarven remained uncharacteristically silent. After a long moment, Lucille said, “Jarven may well have had something to do with it.” She still wasn’t looking at Finch. “And I am here to tell him that I will resign in some fury if I ever have to cart corpses out of this office in any number again.” She paused and added, “Terafin corpses.”