These were worse. As Jay had said they would be.
There were only a few safe places in which the voices could not be heard, a few alcoves of sanity and reason, and given the masses that now huddled in each—or stood at their steps, waiting their turn to worship, pray, or breathe—sanity and reason were in terribly short supply. The screams of the dying, and those who were about to die, came at all hours of the day or night. They would stop for hours at a time, as if to tease hope into being just so they could crush it utterly.
It was into that city that Finch now went, as she went every day. The bridge that she took led to the street nearest the bay. It did not lead directly to the Common, although if you followed it for long enough, it led to the Port, and for that reason, it was usually sparsely populated.
It also, however, led to the Sanctum of Moorelas, and if you could—avoiding only the fall of his shadow—huddle at his feet, or around them, the voices dropped off into a blessed silence.
The crowd that huddled closest to Moorelas’ imposing and unchanging statue now were definitely not silent, nor were they remotely peaceful. Men and women exchanged angry words in their attempt to reach what they now considered the Blessing of Moorelas; some of the boys closer to Finch’s age were exchanging blows. Torvan caught her by the shoulder and pulled her squarely into the center of the formation of House Guards; his expression was grim.
People were not yet so insane with terror that they were willing to treat the House Guard the way they treated their neighbors, but it was close. Every single day, it was closer. Finch shut her eyes for just a moment, took a deep, deep breath, and straightened. It was chilly; the wind was strong, even with a wall of human bodies between much of it and her.
But she understood those people.
She could hear screaming. A young voice, young enough to be her own—if she were in the Hells. Someone was weeping in the background; you could hear it whenever the victim drew breath, because that was the only time there was even a bit of a lull.
Finch struggled not to cover her ears with her hands; it never worked, anyway. But it was hard. Closer to the Merchant Authority, the sound was stronger than a human voice in that much pain could possibly be; it bounced off walls, cobblestones, and windows, gaining strength the way wind did between tall buildings.
She was pale when she reached the Authority building, but so was anyone who had made the trek to their place of work; the floors were—for the Authority—all but deserted. The streets? Emptier, given it was the Common. But new people had made their homes on the various street corners—or in front of the closed stalls that merchants had abandoned for the duration—and they spoke of the End of the World in bright and livid language. One of them had the temerity to shout at Torvan and curse The Ten for their arrogance and their something-or-other. He spoke loudly—he had to—but even his loud and grating voice was often drowned out in midsyllable.
Still, it was the only other voice she could easily hear as she made her way up the stairs and onto the floor, moving toward the third floor office in which the merchant arm of House Terafin had taken up permanent residence. Their doors had been closed, but it didn’t dim the noise of the dying at all. Nothing, Finch thought, would.
Elevation did nothing to dampen the screaming. They walked quickly down the hall and then up the stairs and reached the doors that bore the prominent Terafin crest.
Finch’s escort didn’t bother to knock; there was no point. Knocks couldn’t be heard over the screams and the low, low moans. Lucille, who demanded manners, was nevertheless a practical woman.
Finch, however, went in first. Lucille was at her desk, her shoulders slightly slumped—but tense, as if she were pushing against something that was resisting. Her skin was the same pale color that Finch’s probably was, and her lower lids were adorned with almost black semicircles. But she smiled—if tiredly—when she saw Finch. The smile froze in place when she saw Torvan standing behind her.
Torvan remained in the office for forty-five tight-lipped minutes before the screaming stopped. “We have,” he said, when he could hear himself without shouting—and Finch knew he could make himself heard as easily as Lucille could, which meant he didn’t want everything he said to be heard, “an appointment.”
“We do. We can use Jarven’s office,” Lucille added, rising.
“Jarven’s not in?”
“Of course he’s in. He’s downstairs talking to the skittish dolts in the Authority proper to avoid riots on the wrong damn sides of the wicket.”
Torvan found the screaming as unbearable as Finch did, but when the voices at last fell silent, he felt the profound failure of those responsible for keeping people safe. As a House Guard, he was expected to keep this reaction to himself, and as a House Guard, he was second to none. “ATERAFIN,” he said crisply.
Lucille raised a brow and sank into the chair that the absent Jarven usually claimed. “You wanted to speak with me?”
“I do.”
“About?”
“Finch.”
Lucille rose. Torvan was almost surprised. “What about Finch,” she said, her back toward him as she inspected the windows.
He hesitated. Lucille and doubt were so far apart they might have waged war across Imperial borders. But at the moment, they seemed to have reached an armistice, and he felt some of his anger dissipate. “I don’t think she should be here,” he finally said.
“If what we hear—what we hear every damn day—is any indication, there’s no safety. At all.” Her hands reached out for the edges of the curtain and ran across the tassels.
“Agreed. But if there is no guarantee of safety, there is peace. The Isle has not—yet—been subject to the spells of the enemy.”
“Spells of the enemy?” She spit the words out, as if they were so bitter she couldn’t stand to have them in her mouth. “Is that what you call the last words of the dying?” She turned to him, then, and he saw the dark circles beneath her eyes as a frame for their sudden reddening.
“No.”
“And you think she won’t be aware of it, she won’t think about it? Out of sight, out of mind, is that it? You think she’s that kind of person?”
Torvan almost took a step back. It did not, however, help when dealing with Lucille ATerafin. “No. She is, however, human. She is not a fool; she knows the only peace those faceless voices will ever have now is death. And silence becomes that peace.”
Lucille’s shoulders stiffened as she drew breath. But it was not Lucille ATerafin who answered.
“It is not Lucille’s decision,” Jarven ATerafin said. “It is mine.”
Torvan turned to see the older man standing in the doorway; he had not heard the door open.
“Jarven—” Lucille began as she turned to face her superior, but Jarven lifted a hand, his robes draping loosely at his wrist.
“You are not presenting any information that Lucille herself has not already brought forth, and, I might add, you are being much more circumspect in your concern.” He raised a brow as Lucille’s eyes narrowed. “It is not, however, her decision.”
“So you’ve said,” Torvan replied. “May I know why you made this choice?”
“You are not speaking for The Terafin, are you?”
“No. But I am—”
“Chosen, yes, yes. I’m aware of that.” He moved past Torvan and took his chair. “Am I in enough trouble,” he asked Lucille, “that I must do without tea?”
She rolled her eyes and headed toward the door.
“Please,” Jarven said to Torvan, indicating a chair. “I’m not entirely comfortable with armed men towering above me in my own office.”
It was not entirely comfortable to sit while kitted out for duty, but Torvan did manage. He knew Jarven’s reputation, but aside from the occasional surprise that anyone would willingly share space with Lucille ATerafin, he did not otherwise have cause to think about him often.
“You’ve been with the House for several years now,” Jarven said. �
��And you’ve served under the current Terafin for the duration. You are perhaps more aware than I of what she intends for the young unknown, Jewel Markess.”
“She is no longer Markess,” Terafin replied carefully.
“Pardon?”
“She is Jewel ATerafin.”
This momentarily silenced Jarven, a man not known for his inability to find words at need. Lucille had time to arrive and set his tea tray down in front of him with a little more force than necessary before she retreated. She did not, however, slam the door.
“Is this fact known?” Jarven finally asked.
“It is not widely known,” Torvan replied. “But if the name is offered directly by The Terafin, rather than through the right-kin and the general application process, the House Council is not required to—”
“Ratify it, yes. I am aware of that.” He was silent while he stirred his tea. When he looked up, his gaze was sharper. “Is Finch aware of this change in status?”
It was not the question Torvan had expected. He considered it for a moment. It had never occurred to him that Jewel would keep the change a secret, but Jarven’s question made the possibility suddenly seem probable. “I believe I begin to understand your reputation.”
“Reputation can be useful,” Jarven replied. “I note you haven’t answered the question. I am, however, a merciful man. If I were a betting man, I would place a large sum on the fact that she does not, in fact, know. Which would imply that none of her friends do.”
Torvan was silent.
“I have little acquaintance with Jewel Markess; I have observed her only briefly, and only at a distance. All of my knowledge is derived from my association with Finch, who takes no family name. I asked about her family’s name, once,” he added. “It is not a question I will repeat.
“But it cannot have escaped your notice, Chosen, that the guards assigned to Finch are not House Guards; they are Chosen. Finch was not sent here because we required aid or were short of possible employees; she was sent because The Terafin wished her to train in the Merchant Authority, to train, at best guess, under either myself, if I am egotistical, or Lucille, which I sadly think the more likely.
“Teller, also of Jewel’s den, was sent to Barston in the right-kin’s office. A stiffer, more formal man could not be found in the House. Both of these positions are, of course, quite junior—but it is impossible to work in either office without gaining an understanding of the machinations of House Terafin.
“Why do you suppose those would be of value to The Terafin? A gang of orphans and runaways attempting to conform to House standards? The answer must lie, in part, with the leader. The leader who is now ATerafin.
“But that same leader has apparently taken pains to either hide or ignore the name. She has certainly not seen fit to share her good news. Why would that be?” He waved a hand as Torvan opened his mouth, and Torvan sighed inwardly and shut up. “I believe she feels that the change in status would put distance between them. She doesn’t want it. She trusts Finch and Teller—I would say she trusts them all, but I infer this from Finch’s behavior.
“The Terafin is willing to give that trust absolute weight. She could have sent Jewel to work in either the Authority or the right-kin’s office; she did not. She considered both Finch and Teller to be somehow crucial to Jewel. Thus, Finch is here.
“Am I to second guess The Terafin?”
“No, but when she sent Finch to the Authority, no one had any idea what would follow in this wretched month of Henden. She did not intend to place Finch in—” he bit back the word he had been about to offer.
“Yes, it is true,” Jarven replied, almost serene. “She had no idea. But she has not seen fit to recall Finch. Finch arrives every day with her coterie of Chosen; Finch leaves every day with the same. If The Terafin were concerned for the girl’s well-being, if she felt the girl incapable of handling the very stressful situation, she would have pulled her out.”
“No,” Torvan replied sharply. “She would have asked you for your assessment.”
Jarven smiled and nodded once, as if Torvan had done something particularly clever. It was grating; Torvan, unlike Finch, was not a child. “She did, indeed. And I offered it.” He had not drunk his tea, but he rose. “Finch will be Jewel’s eyes and ears in the hundred holdings, albeit the richer ones at the moment.
“She is, as Lucille says, a good girl. She sees, hears, and in the end, reports. Jewel is now ATerafin, and at a very young age; what service she has already rendered the House is known. But The Terafin intends larger things for her; the placement of her den-kin makes this clear.
“I am fond of the girl—of Finch. But she has a spine; she is not skittish without cause. She is cautious, yes. If she is to serve Jewel ATerafin, she cannot afford to be sheltered or treated like a wilting flower. She is not that,” he added. “No, she is not immune to the cries of the tortured and the dying. Neither is Lucille. You would never subject Lucille to this condescension.
“Let Finch remain,” he added. “Let her see what occurs in the Authority in times of near panic. Or possibly times of total panic. It is an experience that will be a foundation for any other involvement she has in the House.” He walked to the door and opened it. “I am still a busy man, and I appreciate your time and your concern. If, after you have considered my words, you still cling to your opinion, we can discuss it.” He paused, then offered Torvan a pained smile. “I am also being somewhat selfish in this. Lucille finds the situation . . . difficult. She is not a woman who is accustomed to doing nothing; nor is she a woman for whom anything is completely impossible often.
“While Finch is here, she focuses her worry on Finch. Yes, she coddles the child too much, but the alternative, for Lucille, is to throw her considerable weight behind a problem that no one—perhaps not even the Exalted—can solve. And that,” he added softly, “would not be to the benefit of the Merchant Authority offices.”
“No luck?” Lucille asked Torvan when the doors had closed at his back.
He glanced at her and then grimaced, shaking his head. “I’ll be back at the end of the day.”
Finch was already seated to one side of Lucille’s desk. She now had her own modest desk, but she was seldom to be found there. He found himself liking Lucille, which was almost shocking. “Keep an eye on her,” he heard himself say. “Jarven was adamant that she remain.”
Lucille nodded. “She’s not well read,” she said in a quiet voice, as if her exhaustion had loosened her tongue. “And when she came through those doors, she couldn’t add two small numbers together. She had no understanding of the basics of finance and trading, and while she has those now, she slides off the complexities.
“But she works. She works hard. Jarven—although he won’t admit it—is very fond of her, and she eases his daily routine. Mostly,” she added sourly, “by giving him someone attentive to talk at. I wasn’t certain about her.”
Lucille wasn’t certain about anyone; she was famed for her uncertainty.
“She comes from nowhere, she has nothing. But it doesn’t slow her down. It also doesn’t make her ambitious,” she added, using the word as if it were the harshest of invective. “But this—”
“She would be suffering no matter where she was,” Torvan replied. He surprised himself with what he said next. “Because had she not somehow made her way to the manse, she would hear it. She would hear it, likely, in the cold, with little to no food, no wood for fire, no fire for light.”
“Jarven got to you, didn’t he?”
Torvan grimaced. “Yes. I didn’t understand the many ways in which he achieved the reputation he has; he is subtle.” This seemed to please Lucille, who was still, however, annoyed with Jarven. People could often be contrary. “But here, she remembers what she would have had—or wouldn’t have had—and she knows, better than you or I, exactly what the holdings suffer now. I think hiding her at the manse—my word, not Jarven’s—might only add to the guilt she feels at her undeserved good fortun
e.
“And she has small shoulders for a burden of that size.”
Lucille hesitated before exhaling loudly, which caused Finch to look up. “That’s the first reasonable thing anyone has said about the situation,” she finally told Torvan. “And coming from a House Guard. Who would have thought?”
Business, Torvan thought, with mild irritation, as usual.
11th of Henden, 410 A. A.
Merchant Authority, Averalaan
Finch worked.
When the silence broke—and it did, it always did—she froze, her hands on a quill, paper beneath it. She didn’t close her eyes; she didn’t cover her ears. The first day she’d heard the screaming, she had leaped up from the desk in panic, and she’d run to the windows. But so had everyone else. Everyone but Jarven ATerafin.
That had been what felt like years ago. It wasn’t. If she really wanted to, she could count the actual number of days. In the days that had followed the first one, when people had begun to realize that the voices were not actually physically close—and certainly not close enough to receive the succor or the rescue they deserved—she had done both: closed her eyes, covered her ears. Dropped her quill or the papers she was stacking or the books she was carrying. She had almost dropped the tea service, but Lucille was there to steady her.
And, to be fair, to remind her just how much the dishes had cost the Authority offices, down to the last copper.
The days had passed, and the screams had grown louder—which Finch would have bet was impossible. Sometimes they were all she could hear. Even in the silence, they echoed. But she no longer attempted to plug her ears, mostly because it did nothing. She didn’t close her eyes because in the darkness behind her lids, the voices were the only things in the world, and that made it worse.
She swallowed, she tensed, and then she kept moving.
There had been what Lucille called a small contingent of armed men patrolling the Common. Finch had gone to see, because they passed by the windows of the office, and she decided that the word small was obviously one that had a different meaning for Lucille than it would have had for the den. “Are they going to stop it?”
House War 03 - House Name Page 48
