Battle: The House War: Book Five (74 page)

“Lucille—”

“Finch,” Jarven said.

She turned toward him. He looked younger, sharper, and infinitely less pleasant than the man she habitually served tea. “Jarven, tell her—”

“I cannot tell her the only thing which would bring her any peace. You can.”

Lucille snorted.

But Finch knew, then. She knew what Lucille needed to hear. And she understood, with sudden clarity, that she could not do it. Could she lie? Yes. As Hectore had surmised, Finch was far better at the art of dissembling than her den leader. But she respected Lucille too much for that. “Lucille.”

Something in Finch’s tone served as warning; the older woman stiffened and dragged her gaze away from Jarven. Her face was pale.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know if you’ve understood from Jarven’s demeanor that the intended victim of the poisoning was me. Jarven believes it; I’m not entirely certain I do. But if it was me, I don’t think it will be the last attempt.”

“Finch,
why
? We
have
a Terafin. The succession was decided the day of The Terafin’s funeral. You aren’t—you can’t intend to take Jarven’s place here.”

“No. I don’t.”

“I fail to see why not,” Jarven replied.

“You’ll leave the Authority office when you die, and I’m not in a hurry to bury you,” Finch replied. “I don’t have your connections, and had I, I don’t have the confidence to deal with them as you do. If I had been a House Council member for as long as The Terafin, I might be considered an appropriate choice—but I haven’t. No, Lucille, I don’t intend to take Jarven’s place.”

“Then why, Finch?” She was shaking; it pained Finch to see.

“Because I think this
is
about the succession. I can’t explain much more than that, not yet. Maybe not ever. Jewel
is
The Terafin, but—” here she stopped.

Jarven came to her rescue, in a manner of speaking. “But The Terafin is at odds with the Kings, and at odds with the Order of Knowledge. I believe Duvari would have her disposed of if the Kings allowed it. Even if he does not, it is clear to many that she is now in command of a power that she neither controls nor fully understands. If The Terafin exceeds her authority—and let me say I do not believe she will do so consciously—someone will step in to take her place.

“I do not believe that anyone on the House Council has any intention of hurrying her demise. If the demons cannot do it, they will have little luck. But if she somehow manages to do so herself—ah, then, the field is open. The landscape has shifted, Lucille—but in reality, not by so much.” Jarven frowned. “We are to lunch at the Placid Sea. If you wish to join us, Lucille, please ready yourself.”

* * *

Lucille did not choose to join them. She said nothing until Finch took her hands; they were cold. “It’s not the fight I would choose,” Finch said, voice low. Her own hands were shaking very slightly. “But I’m not sure I can face it without you. I won’t be hounded from this office—”

“You most certainly will not be,” was the stern reply. Lucille’s hands tightened, crushing Finch’s. “You don’t know how deadly things can become—”

“I worked here every day of the Henden of 410,” Finch replied. “During which I would have gladly taken poison on several occasions. I don’t intend to allow myself to be the first victim in an undeclared war. It would kill Jay to lose me, too.”

“I’ll stay,” Lucille said.

“Will you forgive Jarven? He didn’t attempt to kill me. He may well be responsible, in the end, for keeping me alive.”

Lucille snorted. She released Finch’s hands, glared at Jarven, and made her retreat.

When the door closed on her back, Jarven heaved a theatrical sigh. “She will never forgive me if any harm comes to you,” he said, offering her his arm.

Finch took it once again. “No,” she said. “And it won’t even be your fault.”

Jarven chuckled. “You fail to understand the esteem in which Lucille holds me, Finch. In her mind, even the attempt can be attributed to my carelessness.” Before Finch could reply, he added, “And she is not wrong.”

* * *

The Placid Sea was quiet, as it often was at this time of year. Jarven ATerafin was a man of enough import that even had it been packed, a table would have been found; nor would it be a simple table wedged between the others in unseemly haste.

They were given a quiet booth, tucked away in the back, near where the fire burned. Given the temperature, this was a blessing. Jarven sat, and when the two were alone, he reached into a pocket and set a stone upon the table. It had a polished, black-marbled surface, which seemed to absorb more light than it reflected.

“What are your intentions, Finch?” he asked. His voice, absent the usual humor and gentle wheedling, reminded her of the stone’s surface. It wasn’t pleasant.

“I intend to keep coming in to work.”

“You don’t intend to inform The Terafin of today’s events.”

“No.”

“May I ask why?”

“If you want to waste the time, yes.” This pulled an almost unwilling smile from the corners of his lips. “You already know why, Jarven.”

“Yes, I do. I believe I have said before that I consider your protective instincts in this case to be wasted.”

“I don’t believe that’s how you put it at the time, but, yes, you’ve made yourself clear.” Finch’s smile was entirely unfettered. “I was prepared,” she told him, as the smile faded, “for a House War. I’ve known the Captains of the Chosen since the first day I arrived at the Terafin manse; I’ve spoken with them.

“But even if I hadn’t, I was ATerafin when Alea died. I was ATerafin when Courtne died. I was ATerafin when Captain Alayra was murdered. Those were overtures in a more unpleasant war; we all understood it.” She exhaled. “We understood what we were facing. We were relieved when Jay—Jewel—was acclaimed The Terafin. We’d lived in the shadow of war, and we’d emerged.”

“War casts a long shadow, and it is seldom singular.”

“I know. I was there—I was present—when The Terafin died. I saw what killed her. If you ask what I intend, it hasn’t changed. I intend to do everything in my power to support and strengthen the rule of Jewel Markess ATerafin.”

“And you, of course, risk death to do so.”

“Of course.”

“You mentioned the House Council seat,” he said, after a long pause.

Finch nodded. “I thought it unwise to give you the seat while you retained power in the Merchant Authority.”

“And now?” Had her companion been any other man, Finch might have resented the discussion; it seemed unnecessary. But Jarven often surprised her, and regardless, could not be moved to change his pace once he had set it.

“I will recommend that it be given you.”

His smile was sharp. “I will still retain far more power than The Terafin should be comfortable placing in my hands.”

“Yes. I’m not entirely comfortable with it now.”

“But today’s little fiasco has changed your opinion?”

“It’s shifted it, yes. Jarven—you’ll do what you want, in the end; I think you always have. But you’re angry. Lucille is angry.”

“And you are not.” It wasn’t a question.

“No. I should be. Perhaps, when I am in the safety of my own rooms, I will be.”

“You don’t believe that.”

She didn’t. “I don’t think you will work against The Terafin. I don’t think you would work against me.”

“You are not The Terafin.”

“No.”

“Has it not occurred to you, Finch, that the one certain way I have to preserve your life is to make a deal?”

She stiffened and paled. Finch was seldom angry with Jarven; she was angry now. “Do not make me the excuse for the games you might choose to play. Never, ever do that to me. I am not Lucille.”

“Lucille would accept such a deal.”

“No, Jarven, she wouldn’t.”

“And if I made such a deal to preserve Lucille’s life? Or The Terafin’s?”

“Nothing can kill The Terafin,” she replied, with utter conviction. She did not answer the first question, and he allowed this.

“There are, however, things that can hurt her.”

Finch nodded.

“Very well. I want the House Council seat, as you are well aware. I feel, given the shift in your attitude, that I have lost valuable time while I have played this excessive waiting game. I do not intend to abuse the joint power the seat will give me. What word can I give you, Finch, that you will trust?”

She shook her head. “That’s not how this game will be played, Jarven. We’ve known each other for over half my life. Tell me what
you
want.”

“At this very moment, my precocious little assistant, I want two things. I have agreed that I will accept a junior aide who will report to Lucille and The Terafin.”

Finch nodded.

“I will withdraw that. I will accept, instead, a promotion—for you. You will be my adjutant, and your function in my office will not markedly change—but you will have title and responsibility within these offices that are second to none.”

Her brows rose.

“Yes,” he said, as wine and bread were brought to rescue them from their lack of any refreshments. “We will share a title, within the Authority.”

“That is hardly likely to make me
less
of a target.”

“Nothing will make you less of a target, my dear. But The Terafin trusts you; she has no doubt of your loyalty at all. I will offer her that. In fact,” he added, his smile becoming the smile with which she was so familiar. “I believe I will insist on it.”

C
hapter Twenty-three

F
INCH RETURNED two hours later than usual from the Merchant Authority, in time—barely—to catch the tail end of the late dinner hour. She entered the West Wing holding her breath, and exhaled when Ellerson failed to materialize. A brief check of Carver’s room confirmed what she already knew: it was empty.

Angel was pacing; Jester was in the great room with Arann, who was off-duty. Teller had not yet returned from the right-kin’s office. He was the only member of the den whose day started earlier, and often ended later, than Finch’s.

“Where’s Daine?”

“In the healerie. No, there was no emergency,” Jester added quickly. “But he’s been interviewing people for positions as assistants. He’s enjoying it about as much as you’d expect.”

Given Daine’s age, her expectations in that regard were quite low. She spent some time chatting with Angel, who was clearly restless; Arann was his usual silent self. Jester, since Carver’s inexplicable disappearance, had become almost as silent; everyone marked it more.

But it was Teller to whom Finch wanted to speak. She considered the events at the Merchant Authority dispassionately, and decided to set them aside for now. They were the subject for a kitchen council. Finch had called council before, but never when Jay was in the manse—and she was, if the environs that now constituted The Terafin’s personal chambers could be considered part of the manse.

Besides, she was worried about Teller. The only person who worried in public was Jay. Everyone else’s worries were more focused, more personal. She retired for the evening, but as she made her way to her own bed, she heard the doors open, and saw Teller walk into the hall. He glanced at the doors to the great room; his shoulders stiffened. Instead of entering those doors, he retreated into Finch.

That had been a tactical mistake on his part. Finch saw it in his expression, but she was willing to take advantage of it. She lifted her hands in quick den-sign, and he answered, after a significant pause, the same way. They retreated to his rooms.

“You’ve eaten?” she asked softly, when the door was closed.

He nodded. “Barston brought food. He doesn’t approve of eating in the office,” he added, with a grimace, “but forces himself to make exceptions.” He sat heavily in the chair in front of his writing desk—a desk that had once been tidy, but was now cluttered with papers and ledgers.

He was pale, the lower half of his eyes accented by dark semicircles. Finch did not attempt to fill the silence that followed his last words; it descended around them both. When it had become thick enough to be uncomfortable—a rare occurrence between two of the quieter members of the den, she chose her words with care.

“You’ve barely spoken a word,” she said softly, “since you returned from
Avantari
.”

“I’ve spoken several thousand,” he replied, with a rueful grin.

“Not to us. Not to any of us.”

She waited, watching his carefully guarded expression. She had known Teller for over half her life; she could catalog the fleeting glimpses of the emotions her question invoked: fear, anger, weariness. Resignation. It was the last that held his face, and the last that held her attention.

“Teller.”

He said nothing.

“I heard you, last night.”

The nothing was sharper; he turned away, glancing at the papers beneath his right elbow.

“Have you slept at all?”

“Some.” It was a grudging answer to an invasive question. Finch knew she should leave it alone, but knew, as well, that she couldn’t.

“Teller, you haven’t had nightmares like these for longer than I can remember.”

He stood. She thought, for a moment, that he would ask her to leave; she wasn’t sure if she would respect the request. He saved her from making that decision. “No.” His voice was hollow. “I’ve never had nightmares like these. Not after my mother died. Not in the Henden of 410. Not even after The Terafin’s death.” He ran both hands through limp hair as he bowed his head.

He glanced, once again, at the papers on his desk, and Finch frowned.

“When we went to
Avantari,
we were taken to a room in the basement of the palace.”

“Dungeons?” she asked, half grinning.

“Not when we arrived. I think—I think in the end dungeons would be preferable.” He glanced up again. “The rooms in question either did not exist before the first day of The Terafin’s funeral, or existed in an entirely different form. Jay hasn’t talked much about this.”

“And you didn’t feel you could.”

“I can talk about the rooms,” he replied. “Although I shouldn’t talk about them here.”

“The room isn’t secure enough.”

He raised a brow, an expression he’d borrowed, over the past decade, from Barston. “This room is secure enough, now. Barston’s been pushing me—gently—toward the suite normally occupied by the right-kin.”

“You don’t want to move.”

“No. I’m not The Terafin; I have the luxury of refusal.” Jay had refused for two months. “You’ve been in the library.”

It sounded like a change of subject. “Yes.”

It wasn’t. “The room in the basement reminded me of the library. It wasn’t open; there was no sky. But in every other way it felt ancient, wild. It felt like the work of Artisans; nothing about it was sane.” He smiled; it aged him. “I felt like I’d stepped out of my world.” He shook his head. “That’s not what I mean. When we first arrived at the doorstep of the manse, I
had
stepped outside of our world. It was intimidating. But—it was only a part of our world I hadn’t learned yet.

“The room, the library, the grounds—they’re not part of my world. The only part of them I understand is Jay.”

Finch exhaled and closed her eyes, listening to the cadence of Teller’s voice.

“And they’re part of her now. I’m
trying
to understand them because they’re part of her.”

She opened her eyes when he fell silent.

“Do you see it differently?”
Tell me I’m wrong
.

She couldn’t. She didn’t even try. “We’ve managed to accept anything we’ve had to accept,” she said. “We can manage this.”

He shook his head. “The Oracle paid us a visit while we were there.”

“The Oracle?”

“The Oracle. Firstborn. Ancient. She was part of the carvings along the wall—until she wasn’t. She stepped out of it, made of stone. And she held a seer’s crystal in her hands.” He swallowed. Finch waited. “She offered a glimpse of the future to Jay—and Jay refused it. I don’t think she trusts the Oracle.”

“Did you?”

“I don’t think my trust matters one way or the other. What Jay wouldn’t accept, she offered the Kings. The Kings agreed to look.”

“They didn’t speak of what they saw.” It wasn’t a question.

“No.” He raised his chin, his lips almost white. “But I asked. I asked her to show me what the Kings had seen.”

Finch whispered his name, her hands signing in silence.

“I saw a god,” he whispered. “I saw the
Kialli
. I saw creatures I’ve never seen. I was standing in the streets of a city—but it wasn’t this one. Not as it is now. I could see walls in the distance.” He closed his eyes. “I could see the dead in the streets; the dead and the dying. I could see Jay,” he whispered. “She was bleeding, injured; her eyes were wild.” He fell silent again.

“She was alone?”

He laughed. “No. No, she wasn’t alone.”

She’d asked the wrong question. In silence she rose and came to stand before Teller; after a brief hesitation, she put her arms around his neck and shoulders. “Were we with her?”

She felt him shake his head. “No. We were at a distance, and we were holding—between us—the banner of House Terafin. The Chosen were set to guard it, not her.”

“Were
any
of us with her?”

“Only one. Only one of us. But—”

“But?”

“His hair. His hair was down.” He tightened his grip briefly. “If these are Jay’s dreams, I don’t want them. I’ll be grateful for their lack for the rest of my life.”

“They seem clearer than Jay’s dreams, to me.”

“There was more.”

“It doesn’t matter. You understand what at least part of the vision must mean.” She pulled away. “I need to talk to you about Jarven ATerafin.”

“Finch—”

“And I need to tell you about my day in the Merchant Authority. It’s not the stuff of dream or nightmare—not the ones you’ve been having. But it’s not going to make you happy.”

13th of Fabril, 428 A.A. Terafin Manse, Averalaan Aramarelas

Finch woke and dressed early, with the help of a maid. She missed Ellerson. They all missed Ellerson. But the domicis had not returned. Nor had the two cats and the Winter King. While they were absent, there was hope—but hope was a special kind of pain.

She left her rooms and entered the breakfast nook; to her surprise it was empty of all save one man: Haval. He was seated along the bench against the wall. He had not, from the look of the table, come to eat.

“ATerafin,” he said, rising as she entered the room. He bowed.

“Haval?” She glanced around for a glimpse of Jay; the room was otherwise empty.

“I have come to speak with you, if you have a few moments.”

She frowned as breakfast arrived. “Do you mind if I eat while we speak?”

“I do not wish to deprive you of your meal,” he replied, “but the conversation is of a more personal nature.”

This deepened Finch’s frown. Haval was Jay’s adviser, but in all other ways he chose to be near invisible while within the West Wing.

“How is Hannerle?” she asked.

“She is sleeping.” He said it in exactly the wrong tone of voice.

Finch, never particularly hungry in the mornings, felt the desire for food desert her completely. “It was my understanding,” she said, choosing her words with care, “that the sleepers had all awakened.”

“That was my understanding as well. It is true of the sleepers who convalesced within the Houses of Healing.”

“Is Adam present?”

“He is, to the best of my knowledge, asleep.” Haval lifted a hand. “And it is not my intent to wake him to demand answers. The questions to which I now require answers, I will ask of The Terafin directly.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

“Eat. Eat, and then come to the fitting rooms, where we are less likely to suffer interruption.”

* * *

Breakfast was a quick affair, and Finch left the table feeling every bite as a weight in her stomach. It had not occurred to her that Hannerle might not waken; the others had. Haval did not seem unduly angry, but that told Finch nothing. She liked the tailor, but on occasion he made her uneasy.

This morning was to be no exception. She knocked at the door, and was given leave to enter; the room was, as were most spaces in which Haval worked, a mess in progress. She could see both floor and carpet, but it was broken in many places by the various tools and materials of his trade.

“Late yesterday afternoon, bolts of fabric were delivered to the West Wing; the men who delivered them claimed that I had ordered them. I admit that I am not a man in the prime of youth, but I cannot for the life of me remember placing such an order. They are against the wall,” he added. It was necessary; they were not the only bolts of cloth present.

She considered her next words with care. “Jarven ATerafin sent them.”

One gray brow rose. “Indeed. I am to assume that he meant them for your clothing?”

“Yes, I’m sorry. We had a bit of an accident in the office yesterday, and as I don’t generally sleep in the Merchant Authority, I was forced to wear a tea-stained dress for the duration of the day.”

Haval nodded, as if tea stains were a daily—and trivial—event. “Jarven, one assumes, chose the cloth.”

She eyed the cloth with a great deal more suspicion. “Yes. My apologies, Haval. I am not a clothier of any great note, and while textiles are of course part of Terafin’s trade, they are not under my direct supervision. What is significant about these bolts of cloth? They do not seem exceptional in color; the dyes seem bright, but otherwise ordinary, at least in this light.”

“Jarven did not inform you.”

“No.”

“Then I should not. But I will say this: there is no other cloth that would have a fraction of the worth of the cloth he did choose. I quibble only at his source—a source of which you remain in ignorance.”

She approached the bolts, her brow furrowed. They were not, at first glance, a rough cloth, or even a practical one; they were not, for instance, the fine linen out of which so much of her clothing had been made. “They are silk,” she said.

“They are silk. They are of a composition found only within the Royal Courts, and even then, only on strict social occasions.”

“I don’t understand.”

“No, ATerafin. What did Jarven tell you?”

“He said simply that he was sending bolts of cloth to me. I was to inform my tailor of a need for new dresses, at least one of which would remain within the Merchant Authority offices against future accidents.”