Battle: The House War: Book Five (86 page)

Teller opened his mouth and shut it again, because Haval lifted his hand and signed. It was den-sign. It was
wrong.
It was a language that did not belong in the hands of men who had not lived—and lost—in the streets of holdings so poor life was often a matter of staving off death for as long as one possibly could.

Ellerson, Jewel knew, could read den-sign. But his great dignity and his pride in his role as servant had prevented him from speaking in the silent tongue.

Haval seldom angered Jewel. He made her uneasy, he made her feel stupid, he made her feel insignificant and sometimes incompetent. But anger? No. She was surprised, then, to feel angry now.

But she said—and did—nothing, although the desire to lift her own hands and pointedly offer her opinion in den-sign was searing, it was so strong.

“That will, of course, be acceptable,” Teller was saying. “I am less sanguine about the fate of my books, and I require some explanation before I will part with them.”

“You are aware—perhaps more so than any other member of your House—of the enchantments that can be placed on books.”

Teller nodded.

“Three of the volumes upon your somewhat cluttered and untidy shelves—”

“You will forgive him,” Haval interjected. “He has always been an overly fastidious man.”

“—are enchanted. They are not enchanted in a similar fashion to the books in the right-kin’s office.” Before Teller could speak, he added, “You have three volumes of your own that
are
similar. You have two bookends at the height of your writing desk that could have come from the right-kin’s office; I assume, in fact, that they did.

“The three that I speak of are not those.”

“Can you—can you neutralize the enchantments without destroying or removing the books?” Teller asked.

“Not with any certainty of safety, no.”

Jewel glanced at Teller. He loved his books. It was his one expensive indulgence. Many of the volumes in his possession had been gifts from Gabriel; two had come from Barston. Some, he had chosen for himself. “May we accompany you?” she asked Andrei.

“Of course. It would be instructive to know how these volumes were acquired. There is one other difficulty,” he added.

Jewel tensed.

“The servants’ halls are, of course, threaded throughout the manse. It is not optimal, in my opinion, but it is certainly expected. One entry—or exit—requires somewhat more extensive attention.”

“Is the room occupied?”

“Yes. I have not taken the liberty of examining the unoccupied rooms yet.”

* * *

Teller’s rooms were large compared to the rooms in which the den had lived for the first few years of its existence. They were large compared to some of the smaller quarters in the manse, although they were quite modest in comparison with the rooms that were his by right of his position on the House Council. They felt crowded, now. Hectore did not insist on remaining in the great room, and Haval did not insist upon retreating; both men, along with Jewel, Teller, and two of the Chosen, now entered his rooms behind Avandar and Andrei.

Andrei indicated three books. Two of them had titles that all but guaranteed sleep, in Jewel’s silent opinion: one was a treatise about textiles and their history, the other about . . . plants. The third, however, was not written in modern Weston. She frowned as she looked at the faded, creased spine.

“Teller—where did you get this book?” She lifted a hand to reach for it; Avandar caught her wrist. His movement was so swift, so sudden, and so unexpected that she hadn’t seen its start. Its finish, however, would leave bruises.

“You see it,” Andrei said softly.

“ATerafin,” Avandar said, ignoring the Araven servant, “it would be best if you could answer that question.”

Teller frowned. “It came into my hands through a contact in the Common. Several of the older volumes came into my hands through the same contact; I believe he deals in antiquities.”

“His name?”

“Avram. Of
Avram’s Society of Averalaan Historians
.”

Andrei pinched the bridge of his nose. It was a gesture of frustration so similar to the one Haval usually used, Jewel wanted to laugh. “His name is not Avram. He offered this to you?”

“Yes. He said he had offered it to the magi in the Order of Knowledge, but they were unwilling to meet his price. I assumed that the magi considered it pointless or inaccurate.”

“That is not,” Avandar said, “a safe assumption.” To Andrei, he added, “I am not familiar with the name.”

“Of the man or the establishment?”

“Either.”

“The establishment is a storefront in the Common. It houses antiques for those with more pretension than knowledge. On very rare occasions, its proprietor has something of worth cross his counter—but it is, I assure you, accidental on his part.”

“And this volume?”

“I will pay a visit to him on the morrow.”

“Is it Old Weston?” Jewel asked.
Avandar, let go of my wrist. You are embarrassing me in public.

As you say.

Teller’s handled this book, and he is obviously alive and unharmed.

From which we may assume that he is singularly fortunate.

Avandar, what do you sense? What do you think this book is meant to do?

He didn’t answer. “Andrei, how old do you think this book is? I have never been much of a scholar, and books—even those considered forbidden—were not a threat in my youth.”

“Not even in your youth?” the Araven servant asked.

Jewel felt Avandar stiffen. “No.”

“It is my suspicion that you will recognize some part of this enchantment. The Order of Knowledge could not, combined, create such a book as this.”

Hectore was watching his servant with narrowed eyes. The look was frank and assessing; it was not accompanied by words.

“Is it sentient?” Avandar asked.

“Were it, I think its effects would now be known—but I cannot be certain. ATerafin, when did this particular volume come into your possession?”

“Six weeks ago. I have handled it,” he continued. “I have even taken some notes about the use of language. I am, at best, an indifferent scholar; I have the curiosity, but not the leisure to devote to ancient tongues.”

“And yet this book was offered to you.”

“It was offered, yes. The proprietor of Avram’s is aware only of my interest in books; many of his clients who profess such an interest don’t quibble about simple things like language.”

Six weeks. Six weeks, Jewel thought. “After I took the House.”

“After your acclamation as Terafin, yes. You understand the significance.”

She nodded. “Avandar, why do you feel the book is of significance? Andrei wished to have Teller’s desk removed, and you didn’t blink an eye.”

“The nature of the magic makes it suspect. The possible age of the volume. Books such as these were created for the use of the powerful; they were seldom created to be repositories of knowledge for future generations. What words you might find therein were not meant merely to enlighten, although any number of harmless words might be added after the fact.

“There were two known incidents of diaries being thus enchanted. They were meant to exert influence, and, Terafin, they did. If the reader was not careful, the life lived in those pages, the handwriting read, might grow to become as visceral as the reader’s own memories; the reader might forget the events of his own life, and become embroiled, instead, in the life of the scribe—as if the reader were actually living them.

“It was seldom that such volumes were given to mortals.”

“Mortals being easily rendered powerless in other ways?”

“Indeed.” Avandar fell silent.

“They were not easily created. Among other things,” Andrei continued, not taking his eyes off the book’s unremarkable spine, “they required the hides of a variety of creatures to be effective. The hides were cured, dried, flattened, and bound into the book as pages—while their donors still lived. It was a requirement of the magics involved. Enchantments can, as you are aware, be laid upon the inanimate. They can less trivially be laid upon the living. But when they are laid upon the living, they are at their most potent when there is cooperation between the being and the enchanter.

“Where there is no cooperation, the enchantments are of a different nature. But even then, they are more potent where there is life. Thus, books such as this.”

“Avandar—can you see what, about this book, made Andrei so certain it’s—whatever he thinks it is?”

“I would not, to my chagrin, have noticed were it not for his attention; I would not have thought
to
notice. Guildmaster Mellifas might notice, if she brought the whole of her attention to bear.”

“Meralonne?”

“Yes. I think he would. Shall I fetch him?”

Jewel closed her eyes. “I don’t think that will be necessary,” she said softly. “He is in the heart of my forest, near the tree of fire.”

“You can see him?”

She couldn’t. But she didn’t doubt the peculiar sense of certainty. Nor did she doubt, as she concentrated on the mercurial House Mage, that he would answer a summons that no one else—not even she—could hear.

* * *

Teller signed. Jewel hesitated, and then signed in response. She turned to the Chosen to ask them to leave with the right-kin. They agreed, but made clear that they would be back—with reinforcements. “We do not need reinforcements,” she told them. “Patris Araven?”

“I will accompany the right-kin; if he does not wish to be in his own rooms for the duration of this procedure, I do not feel it is my place to insist upon remaining. Terafin?”

“I’m staying. Allow me to see you back to the great room.”

* * *

Torvan and Arrendas arrived with Gordon and Marave. She considered demoting them both. “Avandar and Andrei will be in the room; Avandar will not allow Hectore’s
servant
to do anything that will be dangerous in any way to either me or my House. Teller and Hectore will be in the great room; I would like you to remain
with them
.”

“Are you going to be in the great room, Terafin?” Torvan said, stepping forward as if to draw the brunt of her growing ire down upon only his own head.

“I will not.”

“Then we will not remain in the great room. If you wish to demote us, we will, of course, obey as House Guards—but we are
your
Chosen. What you risk, we will risk.”

“I am
not
at risk, Torvan!”

“Then we will likewise not be at risk. We are going to be there, or you are not.”

Jewel could not remember Amarais ever dealing with this level of insubordination in her reign—from anyone.

“Avandar will be there.”

“Avandar is not Chosen.”

She turned to Arrendas. Arrendas was, unfortunately, standing at attention. It was deliberate, of course. On most days, Jewel hated the cats. She now reconsidered this. The cats, she could leave behind. As she opened her mouth to attempt to give orders that could not be ignored, the doors opened.

Meralonne APhaniel stood in their frame. His hair was unfettered; it fell across his shoulders and down his back, but strands were caught in a cross-breeze that no one else in this hall felt.

“Terafin,” he said. He dropped to one knee, and that drove the ability
to
argue out of her grasp. When she failed to reply, he lifted his head. “You summoned me.”

He did not offer her sword or fealty; she
knew
he would offer neither while he lived. But the depth of the respect he now publicly showed was very, very discomforting. “I did. A book has been discovered in Teller’s room, and the man who discovered it—in a routine security sweep—did not, and does not, feel it could be safely moved.”

“And Viandaran?”

“He is in the right-kin’s personal rooms. He feels that you will have more knowledge of the esoteric enchantments than he does. If you feel that removal of the enchantment—or the book itself—will cause material damage to the rest of the room, give us warning and I will have the rest of the right-kin’s possessions relocated.”

The mage rose, frowning. “Very well. I admit a certain curiosity.” He reached into his robes, and Jewel lifted a hand.

“I do not think,” she told him, “that you will require your pipe.”

* * *

When Meralonne entered Teller’s rooms, he preceded the Chosen. Jewel, however, was sandwiched between them. She had surrendered to Torvan and Arrendas because she did not wish to continue the argument in the presence of the House Mage. She did not therefore see Meralonne’s reaction to Andrei—if he even had one.

“Viandaran?” he asked.

“I am uncertain.”

“Very well. I will have you stand back.”

When Andrei failed to move, Meralonne coughed once. Loudly. The Araven servant swiveled to meet the mage’s gaze. He held it for a long moment before inclining his head. He did not, however, retreat to the far wall; he stepped back until he was perhaps a yard away from the space now occupied by the mage.