Michelle West - Sun Sword 04 - Sea of Sorrows (20 page)

"They're
all
asking us to juggle big, sharp knives. I think Haerrad is the most obvious, and therefore the least dangerous, of the four."

"But he could have killed you!"

"Finch," he said quietly—as quietly as he ever spoke to Jay, and more gravely, "they could all kill me. Or you. Or Carver. Or Angel. Jester. Arann."

"What are you suggesting?"

His shrug was, like everything else about him, economical. "They've spoken with me. With you. With Arann."

"They haven't talked to us," Carver said.

"Gosh," Finch replied brightly, thinking about the grave they'd be digging—well, the survivors, anyway—if sarcasm could actually kill, "I guess it's because you've both been so
busy
."

Angel's face was set in ivory, but Carver had the grace to flush. Which was too damn bad, because she would bet every crown she had—and she was a spender—that Angel was the cause of most of the expensive conflicts.

They'd built a lot here, with Jay. She looked at the Financial Grievance, tallied the numbers that she'd so painstakingly learned to deal with, the archaic, funny squiggles that had a significance and a power that rivaled magic. Jay would kill them if they lost it all.

And they'd never been as close as this. God, the years were melting. They were young and in older bodies, and more was expected of them because the rough edges had been shined to a' careful polish. By Jay.

They were afraid.

They could not afford to be afraid.. What had she said?
I need you here
.

"You know what?" Finch said quietly.

"What?"

"We need help."

"The last time you said that, we ended up with curtains the head of Household nearly used as shrouds. For us."

The wince was genuine. He was right. But Finch had A Plan. And the plan pleased her and worried her.

"I have to talk with Morretz," she said quietly.

"Morretz? Why?"

Morretz could not be easily pried from the woman whose service was his life. He could, however, occasionally be distracted when the opportunity arose. When, for instance, the Terafin was surrounded by her Chosen and he could become a shadow in the background. Or when The Terafin chose, as she did often of late, to visit the Terafin Shrine. He did not approve of these outings inasmuch as she insisted he remain at a distance, but the habit had had years to form.

Finch could see this clearly only because she had overheard so many arguments between Jay and Avandar on exactly the same subject, and seen their subsequent outcome. She was not comfortable around Avandar; there was something about him that made her want to keep her back to a wall, and, conversely, something that on a deeper level made her realize that, surveillance or no, if he wanted her dead, she
was
dead, no chance of escape.

But Jay, who could see clearer, farther,
truer
, than anyone, ever, could argue with him and win.

She
had
to be alive. Had to.

Wrong thing to think about, and she knew it. Think about something else.

The one thing they all knew how to do was blend in with the servants and watch. The dirt from the streets clung to them, and in many ways the servants were far more refined than the den, but they were indulgent in their fashion because the den had become over the years not so much outsiders—whom everyone often disdains—but black sheep, the ragged bunch of kids-made-good that so many of them secretly cheered for.

Word came in from Carver: The Chosen had assembled and had escorted The Terafin to the grounds on which the shrines sat. Finch left immediately, traversing the great hall with care to avoid being seen. Unless one were looking for her, it was easy; she dressed more like a servant than a member of the merchant services.

It was easier than asking for money to spend on clothing. Easier to stand behind Jay, and let Jay absorb the harsh glare of light and the intense scrutiny that came with it. Jay.

Think. Shrines. Morretz.

She could see him as she stepped carefully along the path that any House member was allowed to follow, and that so few did. The unspoken conventions were at least as strong as the spoken laws; one flouted them only when one had good reason. And she'd talked herself into believing that she did.

Morretz was waiting. Not for her, although he was aware of her as. she approached; but for his Lord. The Lord, Finch thought, that one way or the other they all served.

Yet he nodded when she did reach his side.

"The Terafin will be a while yet, ATerafin," he said, choosing the formal tone as if it were the only tone he could adopt. It probably was.

Finch shoved her hands in pockets that were deep and comfortably empty. "Well, good."

At that, he raised a brow that moonlight had muted—or perhaps aged; hard to say. "Good?"

"It's you I want to talk to."

"Me?" His expression didn't change at all, but his tone shifted over the length of the single syllable.

She swallowed slightly, remembering that Jay liked this humorless man, this perfect servant. She couldn't imagine why. In the moonlight of the garden, with the carved hedges turned to ebony statues and the lamps muted so that the path was a gold-tinged gray, he looked as if he were a statue, some tribute carved in fleshlike stone by Maker hands to guard the way to the heart of Terafin: The Terafin Shrine.

"I want to know what it would cost us to hire a domicis."

He raised a brow. He was a bit like Teller in that he didn't speak a lot. A lot less like Teller in that his expression didn't offer much either. "Us?"

"The den."

He turned his gaze back to the temple in the distance. Finch squinted; the lamps at the temple were either low or guttered, save for one. She could not clearly see The Terafin there, although there was no doubt she was; Morretz would stand guard at the foot of that path for no other reason.

For a moment Finch wondered what it would be like to be that woman, to be served by this man. By any man, really. Then she took a breath and smiled ruefully; the darkness would hide the expression, and besides, he wasn't looking.

She thought she would have to repeat the question, but found that the silence seemed to demand the tribute of silence in return.

"I don't know," the domicis said at last. "Your situation is not Jewel ATerafin's situation, and it is only in such a situation, and with a person of such obvious value to the House—and possible danger to a rival House—that such expense would be condoned by the House."

"I know. That's why I'm asking what it would cost
us
."

He turned to face her fully, the ruler of the House momentarily consigned to the shrine that was her refuge. "More than you want to pay," he replied softly. "But I understand what you are asking, ATerafin, and my answer is yes."

"Yes?"

"I will plead your case."

21st of Scaral 427 AA

Guild of the Domicis

Morretz stood on the wide, flat steps that led to the three doors through which one could enter the Guild of the Domicis. Men and women moved around him like a thin river, winding past him to the right or the left. Very few entered the middle door.

Deliberately forbidding, it was twice the height of the two that flanked it as it reached for the elaborately carved architrave on which impudent birds now preened and slept. Above their rounded bodies, heads recessed into fluff until they looked comfortably old and fat, the words
A Life Of Quiet Service
had been carved in a language that was no longer honored by the simple expedience of speech. Morretz could read and write old Weston; it was one of the few subjects that he had approached with interest and affection while learning at another Order, under a different teacher.

All of his lessons had led here.

But only when he stood before these doors was the whole of his life summed up so neatly; only here were the events of a decade past, of two, of three, as immediate as yesterday. Perhaps more so; they were sharp; they had the power to cut him, although he had long since learned to ruthlessly hide pain.

The first day that he had arrived here, he had come in the robes of an apprentice to a magi in the Order of Knowledge, that being the only clothing he owned. His hair had been braided, rather than cut; his hood adorned his shoulders, the cowl uncomfortably hot in the summer weather. He had had little in the way of possessions, but they came with him, slung over his shoulder, just as they had been a decade prior, when homeless and desperate, he had approached a different manor. This time, he was not fleeing for his life, and he had choice in how little he carried.

He could not say, now, what had drawn him to the Guild of the Domicis. He had discovered that he was unsuited to the life of the magi, and had also discovered that once taught, one was marked forever. The fear of rogue mages was strong.

He was therefore still a member of the Order of Knowledge. That would never change. He was bound by their rules, both arcane and simple, and if he happened to transgress them in a way that drew the attention of the Council of the Magi, he would pay with his life. There was only one justice for a rogue mage; not even the laws of the Kings superseded the responsibility of the magi. If, indeed, one lived in a town that was close enough to the Council that they could intervene
in time
.

In time.

Time was always an enemy.

He was surprised—although he shouldn't have been—at how bitterly he still resented the magi for their terrible failure, although he acknowledged, with the force of a quiet intellect that was still powerless in the face of a young man's rage and sorrow, that his life would have amounted to so much less had they fulfilled their duty
in time
.

He would never have made his way, ragged with both fear and poverty, to this city of cities; would never have crossed the threshold of the Order of Knowledge; would never had discovered that the power he had lacked as a young man would give him no rest from the guilt of surviving when so many had not.

And he would never have met Amarais Handernesse ATerafin, because he would never have come to the Guild of the Domicis.

The door stood out. It had drawn his attention then, although for a different reason; it was so very plain compared to the entrance the magi had designed and paid for. It did not suggest power; it did not suggest grandeur.

But although it was not any of the things he had come to expect from a guild or an order, he paused on the steps. The door had opened as he stared at it doubtfully, hesitating on the flat of the same steps he stood on now. At almost the same distance.

An older man had walked out of that door, pausing to hold it open as he looked Morretz up and down.

"Have you come," he had said, "seeking a domicis?" He was polite. It would be obvious, of course, that Morretz had not ventured to the guild for that reason; he was poorly dressed, and obviously not maintained by a member of the patriciate.

"No, I'm afraid I couldn't afford one."

"Not all of the domicis are interested in gold, although I will admit," the man added, with a small smile, "that it keeps the roof in good repair." He held out a hand, and without hesitation, Morretz offered his own in return. "I am an instructor here."

"Instructor?"

"Yes. You may be accustomed to the term master, as it is the more common appellation among other guilds or orders—but I am an instructor; the men and women who become students of the guild will take a master when it is appropriate."

"I… see."

"If you did not come to request the contract of a domicis, might I ask why you did?"

"Did?"

"Come to these doors?"

"I—I came seeking employment."

The peppered brows that would become familiar as the years progressed rose and then plunged. "You're terribly unaccomplished as a liar; I suggest you refrain from attempting to dissemble until you've gained some polish."

Morretz was too old to blush. He grimaced instead.

"Let me ask a different question," the older man said, after giving the younger man a chance to feel the awkwardness of silence. "Why did you not enter these doors?" His hand rapped the center of the door he had come through as he spoke.

"I—I don't know."

"They are not so fine a set of doors as—if I judge your apparel correctly—you must be accustomed to entering."

"No."

"And vet?"

Morretz frowned. "I don't know," he said with a shrug. "They did not seem the correct doors to enter."

"Astute." The instructor surprised him. "Very astute. There may be some hope for you."

"Hope?"

"If you will follow me, the correct doors to enter by— and to leave by—will be the doors on your right as you face them."

"Correct doors?"

"Yes. To the left are the doors used by those who work for the guild in various positions. In the center, those who seek to contract the service of a domicis. And to the right, those who serve. Those who would serve." The older man turned away, and then turned back; his expression was serious, but there was some play in the lines around his eyes that suggested a smile.

"Not, of course, that we do not excuse newcomers their ignorance. But it is an auspicious sign in a newcomer to be so sensitive to nuance. I will leave you to make your decision."

"My… decision?"

"Yes. You have not yet answered my first question. Not honestly. And perhaps that is because you have no honest answer to give." The old man bowed. "My name, should you enter and have cause to seek me out, is Ellerson."

He had returned to the guild several times as the domicis of Amarais Handernesse ATerafin. He wore finer clothing than he had as a failure of a mage's apprentice; certainly better shoes. He spoke, when he spoke at all, with the guildmaster, Akalia, a woman now so old one's natural instinct was not to breathe in her direction for fear it might knock her over. Her mind, however, was sharp, and her tongue a match for it.

It was not to Akalia that he went now.