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.
He did not expect that now. He was uncertain what to expect; he was not certain he would catch nuance—if, given the servants’ reactions, nuance was even possible—and undercurrents if events moved too quickly. Not the first time. But the second? The third?
If Jarve
n noticed, he gave no sign. The magic itself was extremely expensive; stones such as these existed in the palace, and in strategic locations dictated by the Astari. But they were seldom crafted for the personal use of even the powerful; they could be financially ruinous.
“The pantry,” Hectore said quietly.
Jarven nodded. They glanced at each other; there was appraisal in Jarven’s glance, resignation in Hectore’s. It was Hectore who knocked. He slid into the carriage and bearing of the autocrat. To his surprise, he heard two distinct words.
“Go away.”
If Hectore considered himself a modest man, and a man with few pretensions, he clearly retained some of the ego of his younger self. He was not accustomed to being dismissed; he was certainly not accustomed to being dismissed by a servant, in any building.
He knocked again, the knock louder and stronger.
The door flew open. Had he been standing closer it might have hit him—which would have been beyond social disaster for the unfortunate master cook, although it would also have been slightly embarrassing for Araven.
The man who appeared in the doorframe, face suffused with the pink of fury, was in theory a man Hectore had seen on and off for over a decade. He wore the stained uniform the kitchen required. He was a man of middling years and middling weight, with a tuft of beard that suggested the unkempt; it was never completely shaven, but it was never long enough to interfere with his duties.
And today, it was spattered in blood.
• • •
For one long moment, Hectore was silent.
Blood was not unusual in a kitchen. It was not therefore unexpected when one attempted to speak with the cook in charge of kitchens whose duties had more than tripled for the evening. But this was not his first thought, when meeting the man’s eyes. It came slowly, in the awkward silence.
“Patris Araven.”
“Bertold.” Long years of habit and the differences in their stations prevailed.
“Forgive me. The kitchen is in some disarray at the moment, and we are at full capacity—”
“Beyond it.”
“—In the main hall. The guildmaster’s expectations are quite high, as he’s been at pains to make clear.” It was Bertold’s voice. But the timbre was stronger and more certain. “How may I help you? It is not often that a patris of your import chooses to grace the back halls.”
“I have come with a request,” Hectore replied smoothly. “You perhaps know Jarven ATerafin?”
Bertold’s eyes shot past Hectore’s shoulder; they rounded—and narrowed—in a way that suggested a yes. But it was the wrong affirmative.
“Or perhaps not,” he continued without pause. He leaned in conspiratorially and lowered his voice, although every instinct screamed against it. “Jarven’s peak was before your time. He is an august personage now, dependent on the history of many former glories. But he has been a touch unwell, and his digestion is somewhat delicate.”
“I see.”
“The food that has appeared in the hall is a touch rich for his stomach. We expect the guildmaster to give a long and extended public speech, given the nature of the current difficulties. Something more simple is in order.” He turned to Jarven. “Come, come, old friend. Bertold is one of the best cooks in the city, and easily one of the most accommodating.”
Neither of these statements were, strictly speaking, the truth, but Bertold had always been susceptible to that oldest of merchant ploys: flattery. Flattery between classes was not common, but used strategically it often produced the best results, and Hectore was a practical man. A sentimental, practical man.
Jarven stepped forward, stumbling slightly; Hectore caught him by the arm, offering him the support one offered those of advanced years. At any other time, he might have laughed; he was certain both Lucille and Andrei would find the scene unamusing. Neither would be impressed—as Hectore was—by the sudden frailty that seemed to engulf the older Terafin merchant.
“Hectore,” Jarven said, in a soft, slightly unsteady voice, “I told you this wasn’t necessary.”
Hectore grimaced.
“A man of your stature and significance,” Bertold said quietly, “is entitled to ask for some consideration from the guild’s kitchen, ATerafin. Tell me what your dietary restrictions are, and I will be certain food is prepared. I will see to it personally.” He closed the pantry door at his back and entered the hall.
Jarven’s smile was watery. “You are all so good to me,” he said. “But it is a touch embarrassing to need such kindness. I would rather the guildmaster did not hear of it.”
“He will not hear of it from me,” Bertold assured him.
“Might we speak in your office?” Jarven continued.
“The pantry is my office,” Bertold replied. “But given the day, it is not in a suitable condition for meetings of any import. I’ve given strict orders that I’m not to be interrupted, and most of the members don’t attempt to walk the back halls. There is very little danger of eavesdroppers.”
Jarven smiled again. Hectore was impressed. Had he not walked by Jarven’s side into the back halls, he would have assumed that the man whose weight he now supported had at last been brought low by age. He seemed smaller and vastly more frail than he had ever seemed when Hectore had entered his impressive office; even the smile implied weakness, resignation, and the hesitance that comes with certain loss of power; it implied the trust offered when one had no other options.
“Very well,” Jarven said. His voice was slightly quavering; his expression had gained both lines and care. He spoke softly; so softly that Hectore had to lean in to catch the words.
Bertold, significantly, did not. Hectore nodded encouragingly at Jarven; the gesture was so natural and so automatic it was not pretense. But as Bertold spoke again, the Araven merchant’s eyes were drawn not to his face, but the beard. Blood. Bertold was not the tidiest of men—one could not be, in his line of work. But Hectore could not recall blood of that color on his beard before.
“Patris Araven, if you wish, leave Jarven in my care and return to the main hall. I will see him escorted safely back to the dining hall in short order. This may take some time, and your absence will no doubt be noted.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Hectore replied. “If I fail to return with Jarven, someone will accuse me of doing away with him.”
Bertold’s eyes narrowed.
“It will mostly be said in humor,” Hectore added, his uneasiness growing.
“I insist, Patris Araven.”
Instinct warred with pride. In general, Hectore allowed instinct to win; he was practical. There were always, however, exceptions. “You insist, Bertold?” He let Jarven’s hand fall away from his arm and drew himself up to his full height. Bertold was not a tall man.
“I do. I am responsible for the kitchen. I am responsible for the feeding and care of the guildhall’s guests. I appreciate the time you took to bring this to my attention—but I do not require more from you at the moment. Return to the guildhall. I will see that Jarven returns there as well.”
Hectore smiled. He slid hands into his generous pockets—a gesture considered declasse among the patriciate—and he found the third of the three stones he carried. He activated it by touch alone. “And will you see that he returns alive?”
Bertold froze. He glanced, once, at Jarven and then turned the full force of his attention on Hectore. Hectore was prepared for it; he did not therefore take a step back. But he understood why the servants were in a state of near-panic. Bertold’s eyes had darkened. It could have been a trick of the light; Hectore allowed for the possibility. He did not, however, give it credence.
“Pardon?” Bertold said, his voice softer but more distinct. It traveled the length of Hectore’s spine.
“I believe you heard me.”
“Hectore,” Jarven said, in his pathetic, qu
avery voice. “I believe I will be in good hands. You needn’t raise a fuss on my behalf.”
“It is not on your behalf,” Hectore replied, automatically shifting into a softer register. Damn Jarven. “But if you wish to wait in the kitchen, I will join you there shortly. Clearly Bertold has more he wishes to say to me, and I do not wish to tax you.”
“And you are now aware of the ATerafin’s dietary needs?”
“It was my suggestion that we pay you a visit,” Hectore replied. “I believe I am capable of answering any questions you may have. I will have a few of my own.”
Silence.
“Hectore—”
“A pity,” Bertold said. He straightened his shoulders, adjusting his posture and bearing. “But if we must improvise, we must; it will not change the outcome of the evening for either of you in any significant way.” He smiled. Without glancing at Jarven, his arm shot out to the right, his hand stiff and straight as it passed through the old man’s chest—and into the wall behind him.
Hectore heard the stone crack, which was shocking; it was almost as shocking as the fact that Jarven was no longer between that hand and the wall. Hectore knew—had always known—that Jarven played at age the way a cardsharp played at cards, but he himself barely had time to register Bertold’s movement.
The fact that his hand had broken through the wall, had embedded itself in the stone, made it clear that Bertold was not simply a tyrannical, temperamental master cook. Yet he had once been; Hectore was certain of it.
Bertold’s eyes widened. They widened and they darkened, becoming larger and larger in the hollows of a face that lengthened and stretched, skin and flesh cracking as his jaws opened. They were wider than the whole of his face had been a moment ago.
The sconces in the back halls were not so impeccably cleaned and presented as those in the public galleries, but they cast shadows, and the shadows beneath Bertold’s feet were darker and longer than the shadows beneath Hectore’s. What was left of the temperamental and finicky Bertold Hectore had known for years was almost invisible. Even the familiar apron had torn at the seams, and hung on his burgeoning frame like new rags. In any other circumstance it would have been ridiculous.
Oracle: The House War: Book Six Page 13
