Battle: The House War: Book Five (75 page)

Haval’s expression shifted, closing like a snapped fan. What was left was a certain brightness of the eye. “Please, ATerafin, take a seat. That one; you can remove the cloth across the chair without causing any significant damage.”

“I am not certain I would not prefer to remain standing.”

“Very well. Unless your measurements have changed significantly in the last two months, I do not require your cooperation in the mechanics of making such dresses. I require, perhaps, some input into the design.”

“You’ve never required such input before.”

“Have I not?”

“No. You’ve always chosen the designs, with Hannerle’s guidance. You are aware that we are not fully cognizant of the hidden barbs presented by fashion.”

“Cloth such as this is not subject to the simple dictates of fashion,” he replied. “And indeed, there are very, very few tailors who are capable of working with it at all.”

Finch stared at the cloth as Haval’s words sunk in. “And if I ask how Jarven knew you would be one of those few?”

“I have not yet admitted that I am.”

She met, and held, his gaze. “If you do not admit that you are, there is very little point in continuing this conversation. I am expected in the Authority offices this morning, and I cannot afford to be too late.”

“I believe Jarven will expect some delay.”

“It is not Jarven who concerns me. I do not understand your previous relationship, Haval, nor is it required.”

“I wish you to tell me what occurred in the Authority offices yesterday afternoon.”

“You could ask Jarven.”

“I could, but I wish a reasonable answer in a reasonable length of time.”

“I believe he would give you both, given your suspicions about his choice of fabric. He could hardly do otherwise.”

“And you claim to have known Jarven for half your life? He has clearly mellowed.”

She smiled; the expression was a merchant expression that did not reach her eyes. “Tell me about this fabric. You said it was silk?” As she spoke, she reached out to touch a fold of creased cloth. It was not, to touch, remarkable.

“Yes.”

It was a heavier silk, washed and smoothed into a reflective, burgundy sheen. The color was appropriate for her Authority work. She looked up to meet his gaze. Jay trusted this man. Finch had always liked him, but she had been aware that his past was not entirely what one would expect of a tailor. She liked Hannerle without reservation—but Hannerle was not Haval.

And yet, Haval was here, and Jay listened to him. She turned once again to the bolts of cloth. Inspecting them, she said, “As you surmise, the cloth was meant for my use. Jarven must have known the conclusions you would draw upon its receipt; he did not, however, think to give me fair warning.”

“A failing of his, I assure you.” There was a dry humor at the bottom of those words. “He could not have come by this cloth on short notice.”

“It was very short notice,” she replied. The brown silk was dark enough it was striking, not drab. “I assumed it the work of an afternoon—less, in fact. I think he was out of the office for under an hour.”

“And the accident in the Merchant Authority?”

“I did, indeed, spill tea all over my lap, during a significant appointment with a merchant of some import. It was embarrassing.”

“Was it deliberate?”

She exhaled. “No. Had I realized that some part of our regular tea was poisoned, I would have taken care to ensure that the cup in my hand did not shatter.” Sliding her hands behind her back she turned to face him. “Is the cloth proof against stains?”

“It is. It is proof against water, alcohol, and simple dirt. It is
not
for that reason that it is prized, of course; that is merely a beneficial side effect. The cloth cannot be worked with normal thread, normal needles; it cannot be cut with normal shears or scissors.”

“Can it be cut at all?”

“Yes.”

Finch bent, picked up a small pair of scissors, and drew the lower blade swiftly across the brown fabric. It failed to mark the cloth at all. Frowning, she removed the small knife she habitually wore secreted in her skirts; she knew the knife was sharp. Haval said nothing as she attempted to slice through the cloth. She failed.

“Does it prevent stabbing?”

“No. The cloth will not tear, but the blunt damage will occur regardless.”

“Does it provide protection against magic?”

“It does. It does not provide any protection against poison. But it is armor, of a kind, against specific types of attacks. It will not preserve your life for long if you are isolated and you face an expert foe—but many assassinations are achieved in seconds. Jewel is The Terafin, and she does not own one such dress.”

“She’s—”

“Nor did the previous Terafin.”

“Can you be certain of that?”

“Yes.”

“Just how expensive
is
this cloth?”

“It is all but priceless,” Haval replied. “But, as I have said, having the cloth will not guarantee its use. It would not surprise me if these bolts are quite old.”

They did not look particularly old to Finch; if they were, they’d been stored in reasonable environs, not damp ones. She shook her head. Given the properties Haval attributed to this silk, it probably wouldn’t matter.

“You needn’t waste them on me,” she told him politely. “I have survived my years in Terafin—and a few tense years before them—in cloth meant for the merely mortal. Yesterday, I managed to stain my skirts; I took no other lasting or significant damage.”

He did not relax. He watched.

“Haval, if you are concerned about my welfare—”

“I was not, before these arrived. I am now concerned in a multitude of ways. Had Jarven chosen to back Jewel ATerafin’s bid in its entirety—and from the start—I would not have been as surprised to see them. He is prone to extravagant gesture when the mood strikes him. But he did not. Jewel was acclaimed Terafin. You have served her for your entire tenure as ATerafin, and I did not imagine that you would make any move—political or otherwise—against her.”

Finch’s brows rose as the words—and the implication—became clear. Her left hand curled in a fist; the right still held the knife that she had drawn to attempt to cut cloth. She left it by her side, although it was shaking. “If you imagine that I am doing so now,” she finally said, “you do not understand what I want for either The Terafin or her House.” She spoke with a quiet, searing dignity.

He watched for a full minute, during which she met and held his gaze. “I believe,” he said, voice soft, “that I will have to speak with Jarven after all. If you do not mind arriving at the Merchant Authority on the late side, I will join you there. I have some tools to retrieve from my sadly neglected storefront.” He tendered her a brief bow.

Finch, still angry, did not offer a similar courtesy in response.

“I meant no disrespect,” he said, as he rose.

“I fail to see how you could mean anything else.”

“Then you are still far too naive to be put into play in this unexpected fashion.”

* * *

Finch arrived at the Merchant Authority on time and unescorted. Lucille was behind her desk as Finch opened the door; her eyes instantly narrowed. Finch glanced over her shoulder to see who might be following her into the office; the hall was, aside from the two House Guards who stood to either side of the doors, empty.

She approached the desk, and Lucille handed her a small stack of papers, on top of which was a sealed letter. The seal was of House Araven. It was also unbroken.

“Is Jarven in?”

“He is. He was here before I arrived.”

That was unusual. Jarven often worked late, but did not particularly care for mornings, especially the ones that started early.

“He was expecting you half an hour ago,” Lucille added.

“I suppose you pointed out that this
is
the time I’m normally expected?”

“I did.”

Finch sighed. “I’m sorry—that was a rather dense question. Does he have an appointment now?”

“No.”

She made her way to Jarven’s closed doors immediately, and knocked before she entered. Lucille was not the only person in the office who knocked to give warning, rather than to ask permission. Jarven was seated behind his desk.

She immediately joined him, taking the chair to the right of the desk. “I didn’t realize you would be here this early.”

“Clearly. You were otherwise occupied?”

“With breakfast and an extremely suspicious tailor.”

At that, he smiled. “Ah. I see you spoke with Haval.”

“It may have escaped your attention, but he maintains an unofficial residence in the West Wing. And he feels that the bolts of cloth you so cavalierly sent were a sign of . . .”

“Yes?”

“I will let him explain it himself.”

“Finch, please.”

“He had business to attend to at his store, but said he would come here after. If you wish to avoid him, you will probably have to either tell Lucille to send him on his way, or leave for an urgent appointment.”

“I would,” Jarven said, “but the cloth is rather pointless without his aid. Was he difficult?”

“He felt that gifting the cloth to me implied a desire on my part to replace The Terafin.”

Jarven laughed. He was genuinely amused—and genuinely delighted. Finch felt the urge to strangle him, and allowed it to pass. This was not the first time Jarven would frustrate her; nor was it likely to be the last. “You do not seem pleased by the ridiculousness of it all.”

“I was—and am—not. I found it insulting.”

“It is so very seldom that Haval missteps, my dear; you must learn to appreciate it when it happens. He does not take kindly to reminders of his fallibility, and you will be able to rub his nose in it at your pleasure.”

Her lips thinned as he laughed again. “Honestly, Jarven.”

“He is fond of the girl.”

“He is fond of
The Terafin
.”

“Yes, yes. It amuses me, Finch. Surely you don’t begrudge that? I have had a miserable week.”

“Prior to yesterday.”

“Indeed, indeed.”

“You could try to be a little more circumspect, Jarven. Lucille is not pleased.”

“Ah. She is no doubt ill-pleased because you arrived at the office without House Guards in tow.”

“Pardon?”

“It will come as no surprise to you that Lucille takes the events of yesterday very poorly. There is some threat to your life; anyone rational who had access to House Guards—and you do, as a House Council member—would
of course
avail herself of their protection.”

Finch folded arms across her chest. “That didn’t save The Terafin.”

“No, my dear, it did not; I was at pains to point this out to my worthy secretary; she was not amused.” Jarven clearly was.

“You are capable of acting somber and serious when it suits you, Jarven. Could you not try, for Lucille’s sake?”

“No.” His smile faded. “It gives her a safe outlet for the fury she is otherwise feeling. Our Lucille does not like to feel helpless. In that, I believe she is very much like your Jewel.”

“The Terafin.” She exhaled. “Tell me where you acquired the cloth you sent to Haval.”

Jarven opened a ledger and began to flip through its pages, pausing once or twice to make notations.

Finch cleared her throat, and he looked up. “Yes?”

“You wanted to speak with me.”

“I did. But as you have set Haval on me, I will wait until he arrives; anything of relevance to you will no doubt be subject to his scrutiny, and I do not wish to expire of the boredom of repetition. You can make that face if you like, Finch; it is clearly much easier for you to alleviate your own boredom. I, however, am considered old and of little interest; I wield some power, but in the eyes of the patriciate, it is a
fading
power, soon to be removed by the expedience of my death—from a boring, fretful old age, no less.

“I am in want of tea,” he added.

Finch nodded stiffly and went to fetch it. She had no doubt, at this point, that tea was safe. Doubt or no, when she made up the tray, she used the finer dishes. Without Lucille’s aid, she returned to the office quickly.

She found Haval in the outer office. He rose as she emerged from the long back room, tray in hand, and he tendered her a perfect bow. He was dressed, head to toe, as a merchant of some standing, his jacket a blue of fine velvet, his shirt cuffs edged in tasteful frills. It was a far cry from the practical apron and somewhat dingier clothing in which he normally worked.

Lucille did not seem overjoyed to see him, but she clearly didn’t consider him a threat; she took no pains to contain her pinched expression. Haval crossed the room as Finch approached Jarven’s closed doors.

“If I may?” he asked.

Finch nodded. Haval opened the doors. They stood framed by them as Jarven looked up from his desk. His version of work, at the moment, was a careful study of his hands; there were no longer any open books or ledgers anywhere.