Oracle: The House War: Book Six (13 page)

“Of course. But I am only ATerafin now; in my youth I was vastly less exalted.”

“Jarven,” Hectore said, as he paused to hand off a princely sum of money to a loitering older man, “your enjoyment of some things is practically obscene.”

“What are the other options? Finding the pleasant in the unpleasant seems the optimal choice, where possible.”

“A certain amount of gravitas is considered an asset for men of your stature.”

“An asset, surely, to be used against me rather than in my favor.”

“I’ve seldom noticed you to be in possession of such assets.” Hectore handed a small purse, prepared for just such emergencies, to a second, older woman. She caught his wrist before she allowed him to pass.

“Marjorie,” he began.

She shook her head. He met her gaze and froze.

“Patris,” she whispered, “what is happening tonight?”

“The guildmaster is addressing all of the membership who’ve chosen to be present. It’s more serious because of the events in the Merchant Authority.”

She glanced at Jarven, but asked him no questions.

“Marjorie, what’s happened? What’s happened in the back halls?”

She bit her lip and glanced down the hall, in the direction of the first man Hectore had so casually bribed. Her answering smile was ghastly, it was so bright and forced. But her hand, still attached to his wrist, trembled. “Take Helen,” she said.

“Helen?” He frowned for a long moment. “Helen, the new girl?”

“Take her, Patris. I can’t leave—I’ll lose my job, and I need it.”

“What is she to you?”

She shook her head. “She’s my niece. My sister’s daughter.”

“Your sister passed away—”

“Two years ago. Deathbed promise that I’d care for her and I’d see her placed.”

“She’ll lose her job.”

“I can cover for her. I can take the blame for sending her off on an errand. I can blame you, and they’ll accept it; you’re important enough, they’ll turn a blind eye.” Her voice was low; her hand shook.

At any other time Hectore might have been insulted, although he accepted the truth in her words. Had he demanded the presence of a new servant who was low enough in the back halls hierarchy, no one would raise voice in that servant’s defense.

But the servant herself might be out of a job, if her masters were feeling uncharitable. “Where is she now?”

“Hectore,” Jarven said, “I sincerely doubt we have the time for this.”

He didn’t argue; he didn’t pause to acknowledge. Instead, he removed a ring and placed it carefully in the servant’s hand. “I do not know what you fear; I am uneasy, but cannot give a reason for it. I trust my instincts. I cannot wait, but send her—with my ring—to the Araven manse.”

“With what instructions?”

“Tell her merely to return it. They will understand when she arrives that she is to be treated well. You might come with her yourself.”

Marjorie shook her head. “If I lose this job, I won’t find another that’ll keep food on the table. I might as well be dead.”

He did not tell her not to speak of death; he did not offer the pretense of a humorous excuse. She did not require it. Nor did he ask her not to speak of his presence here. Given her own request, she would not. But he felt, as he left her, that he stepped into the shadows of a future that would see very little light. He thought of the Henden of 410, and glanced at Jarven.

Jarven’s face was a mask. The forced joviality that usually adorned it, at least superficially, was gone. “There may be minor difficulties,” he said.

“Before or after we leave?”

“When we leave. I would ask, in this instance, that you trust me. Let me lead.”

“And run behind to attract the wolves?”

Jarven’s laugh was a brief bark. “It is good to know we understand each other.”

“I find it less delightful than you clearly find it,” Hectore replied. “I am already missing Andrei.”

“Oh?”

“He tends to put a damper on your excesses.”

“True. If Lucille were here,” Jarven added, “we would not now be leaving. She is characterized first and foremost by her sense of exaggerated responsibility.” As he spoke, he drew a letter opener from the tailored folds of his expensive jacket. Or at least Hectore assumed, at first glance, that that was its function; it was far too ornate, far too pretty, to be a weapon. He raised a brow.

Jarven did not appear to notice, which meant nothing. Hectore slid his hand into his own pocket; his fingers grazed one of the three stones he carried there. It was a perfectly legal use of magic, a stone meant to insure the privacy of a conversation should privacy be the desired state. Among merchants, this was not guaranteed. The overheard word often carried a peculiar weight, and many men and women took some pains to place those words with care and ostentation.

He activated the stone now. “What trouble do you expect?”

“Given the servants’ reaction? There is now very little trouble I don’t expect. I don’t mind difficulty; most of my last two decades have been an unsuccessful attempt to stave off boredom.” His smile was sharp as a knife’s edge, and just as warm. He stepped aside and Hectore passed him.

“You don’t often seek to escape through the back halls.”

“Not often, no. If someone is foolish enough to attempt to corner me at any one of our many guild meetings, I find it amusing.”

“In direct proportion to their frustration?”

“In almost exactly that, yes. Lucille feels it lacks dignity; she seldom accompanies me for that reason.”

“Which kills two birds with one stone.”

“You know, Hectore, were you a younger man, I would have taken you as a protégé in a heartbeat.”

“I will try not to find that insulting.”

Jarven chuckled. “This door?”

“The far door, nearer the kitchen. It is oft-traveled, but seldom by fleeing merchants.”

“And the trade entrance?”

“The trade entrance, as you call it, is frequently used by the more enterprising young merchants as a method of entrance.”

“Indeed,” Jarven said, grinning fondly. “I remember making strategic use of it myself in the early, hungry years.”

“Spare me,” Hectore said. “And follow.”

 • • • 

The kitchen was strictly off limits to the membership of the guild for a variety of very good reasons. Hectore both approved of and ignored those reasons, as it suited him; he trusted himself, after all. He didn’t entirely trust Jarven, but no one sane did, and at this particular juncture, it didn’t matter.

The kitchen wasn’t silent; it never was. But Marjorie’s fear was evident in the men and women who, aprons stained by years of just such work, gathered here. The servants of any establishment tended to be both respectful and cautious when dealing with men and women of any significant rank or power; Hectore was seldom welcomed with any friendliness or joy. He was merely overlooked.

He was not being overlooked now. The furtive glances usually saved for his back were turned instantly, warily, upon him; he saw evidence of relief. Whoever they expected, it was not Hectore. But they expected someone. He slid hand into pocket and deactivated the stone, frowning. He recognized perhaps a third of the twelve people assembled here.

“Where is Bertold?”

He could have slapped them collectively with better results. The glance that passed around the servants who had heard the question could be charitably called uneasy. “Jarven.”

Jarven nodded. He saw what Hectore saw. He probably saw more. The easy smile that had adorned his face in the halls had fallen away, but he had not retreated to the harmless expression of the dotard. Hectore did not approve of what remained; it reminded him inexplicably of Duvari, the much-detested Lord of the
Astari
. “Bertold is the cook?”

“He’s in charge of the kitchen, yes,” Hectore replied. To the oldest woman present, he repeated his question. “Where is Bertold?”

“He’s off—he’s off sick,” she replied.

The quality of the lie was so poor in other circumstances Hectore would have taken it as an insult to his intelligence, of which there had been enough this eve. “And he took sick, as you call it, only today?”

Silence.

“I feel that this was not perhaps the strategic retreat we had hoped for,” Jarven said. He sighed. “Ladies, gentlemen. Hectore of Araven wishes to speak—briefly—with Bertold. If Bertold is indisposed, he is nonetheless on the premises. If one of you will carry a message, we will get out of your way and let you get on with your work.”

More silence.

Jarven exhaled. “Or, if you prefer, you may direct us to Bertold, and we will carry the message ourselves.”

This was not precisely what Hectore had had in mind. It was fast becoming the opposite.

One of the younger men present cleared his throat. He looked straight ahead—at Jarven—avoiding the stares the sound of his voice invoked in the rest of his coworkers. “Bertold is in the pantry.” He hesitated, and then said, “He’s taken strange, sir. He’s . . .”

“When exactly did he take strange, as you put it?”

“This afternoon. Maybe yesterday. He was off. We thought it was his stomach acting up—he’s a bear when it does. But it’s—it’s worse.”

Jarven slid his letter opener back into his jacket. “We’ll speak with him. If you prefer, we will not say that you sent us.”

Relief underlay the silent exhalations that filled the kitchen.

 • • • 

“This is not a good idea,” Hectore said. He did not take the lead he’d surrendered. He did activate the stone a second time, although he considered leaving it; the stones, when active, could be detected if someone was searching for them. In general, one didn’t expect such a search in the kitchens.

“No, of course not. This was well-planned; it was not the action of a day or a week. I dislike,” Jarven added, as if it were necessary, “being a piece on somebody else’s board.”

“I don’t disagree, but there are some boards and some games it is best to retreat from entirely.”

“I did not agree to partake in this game; I am not, therefore, bound by its rules.”

“I’ve seldom seen you bound by any rules; you observe form, of course, as do we all.”

“We will not get information in any other way, and I desire information. My curiosity is piqued. If you wish, remain in the kitchen.”

“I am considering your previous unsolicited advice in an entirely unwelcome light.”

“As you should. If I had realized the severity of the situation, I would have given it before the meeting commenced, and with far less tact. I will offer one warning. Do not interfere.” He straightened his shoulders; his eyes, as he glanced briefly at Hectore, were sharp and bright.

Hectore was Jarven’s junior, but he felt very much older at the moment; Jarven appeared to have shed age. The avuncular old man who liked to babble about tea in his inner sanctum was gone; the man at his core—the man who had risen with such speed and deadly grace to prominence in the rougher merchant circles—remained unhindered in his wake.

Hectore carried a small knife; everyone did. He had not had to use it for years. He doubted that he could, with any great efficiency—but he did not think, seeing Jarven, that the same was true of the Terafin Authority director.

Nor did he assume the item in the jacket was, in fact, the letter opener it had appeared to be. If Jarven did not understand the rules of the game in which the evening had embroiled them, he understood some part of its shape and form.

And a better gamesman had not been seen in the Empire in their generation; Hectore very much doubted that one had been born since. It cost him nothing to admit this; he had tangled with Jarven in their youths, and he had won more than he had lost, but he was aware of how much he had depended—and still depended—on the whim of luck.

Jarven had chosen to enter the game being played. And, really, that shouldn’t have been surprising; Jarven seldom cast himself in the role of strict observer. Hectore did, from time to time; there were games he considered too costly. Jarven could not reliably be counted on to remain an observer.

Nor could Hectore, now. If he characterized himself as a frequently disinterested observer, he had that luxury; becoming a nameless, insignificant victim of another man’s game verged on humiliation. He understood, as he walked in Jarven’s wake, that by choosing to follow, he was entering the game ill-prepared; that would have to change.

How that would change was both problematic and trifling. The city had been imperiled before by forces beyond Hectore’s immediate understanding; were they beyond
anyone’s
understanding, the city would not now stand, as it had stood for centuries. Putting the whole of his life on the table was a risk he had taken a handful of times; he accepted it. On occasion—and entirely beyond the hearing of his wife and his children—he relished the opportunity and the challenge.

But putting
their
lives on the table—putting the servants directly in harm’s way—he did not. He had always had reasonable limits. The man in front of him had not. Oh, Jarven was not particularly mendacious; he was not a man who enjoyed suffering and pain as an expression of his power to cause it. But he was not bound, as many were, by considerations outside of himself. He had chosen to take no wife; he had raised no children. He had eschewed entirely the fraught joy of grandchildren.

He had very little to lose, in the context of Hectore’s life. But in the context of his own? Hectore smiled. It was a sharp smile. Jarven was a spider in the center of a vast and complicated web, and he would not allow the center to be moved without his knowledge. Nothing intimidated him, although he could feign timidity when it suited. Nothing truly frightened him except perhaps irrelevance. His own irrelevance.

Hectore activated a second stone. He seldom did so, and more often than not at Andrei’s subtle direction. Although it was considered a legal use of magic, it was not considered a sign of good faith. It captured words, and when properly prepared, images. Any of these could be of use during tricky or tense negotiations. Any of them could be of use in other ways; men of power with less self-control than ideal could utter all manner of threat.